How I Do Baffle Myself at Times

Why do I procrastinate when I seem to enjoy the process of writing…once I am immersed in it?

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Right now I am actively procrastinating about writing the last scene or two that I need to add to a novel to complete it. You would think I would be highly motivated by being so near to completion, right? After all, I believe my recent rewrites are making the story much stronger.

Also I could be ready, when I write these last scenes, to resume the hunt for an agent who would want to represent this book for me. Alternatively, I would even be in a good position to to work with a collaborative book development business to move my novel towards publication. Or even just self-publish.

So why am I procrastinating?

Well, I live with the characters I create. They speak to me. I can see them quite clearly. I like them. I enjoy their company. They make me laugh and they make me cry. They become the next closest thing to real (just next to, as I am not, in fact, certifiably insane or delusional…at least not yet).

But I do worry about my characters. And that makes me wonder if worrying about them causes anxiety about completing (and releasing) the work?

Because when the story is finished, the next step is sending them out into the world, via publishing.

Out. Into the world.

Into the hard, cold, busy, disinterested, cruel and heartless world! Where they might be disliked. Or worse, ignored.

At least now I understand why I am dragging my feet. Part of me wants to gather my guys and gals in close and keep them safe with me. They are like my own kids.

But I suspect I will overcome this reluctance, stop procrastinating, and get it done. The fact is, neither our fictional characters or our kids give us much choice. They insist on moving out into the bigger world no matter what we feel about it.

Like it or not, I will pull up my socks, keep a stiff upper lip, and get back to work. Because the kids are impatient.

Storyteller

This day has just flown by and I feel I have accomplished very little. Not one word added to my work in progress. That always feels like a fail.

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Yet in truth, I have been working at my writing. Unless one only intends to tell stories and commit words to paper in their own solitary writing cave, to be seen by no eyes but their own, then there is a phenomenal amount of what I think of a peripheral writing work to do.

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It is such work that has consumed my day. In a nutshell, networking.

I have been networking with another writer who was asking for help finding resources to research literary agents before sending out queries. That took some time.

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I have been spending a lot of time reading and critiquing the writings submitted by five other writers in preparation for a meeting of a local writing group tomorrow evening.

I have been communicating with another group of people who are starting up another writers’ group in the area that may, possibly, be dedicated to those of us who are writing for the MG or YA audience.

In the midst of all this, I have been fretting over my own approach/avoidance dance with researching more agents to query for my first novel.

All of this drains energy and time away from the prime effort to write the next novel!

Never let anyone tell you that writing is an easy career to pursue, or that anyone can write a book. Yet we persist. Something vital, something necessary, something mysterious drives writers to keep on doing what they do. For that I am grateful.

For me, it is love of Story. I need to tell the stories that crowd into my head. I am a Storyteller.

 

 

Best Laid Schemes and Writing

“The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men / Gang aft a-gley.”

Desk with a view near Edinburgh

Robbie Burns was a man wise before his time. Life has a way of teaching us lessons, asked for or not. This past year I have learned a lot about acceptance and chaos. Without the first, the second can drive you mad.

It was a year packed full of important work, decisions made, plans and schemes laid…nearly all of which were sent off track, changed direction abruptly, or were completely upended, despite my best efforts to insist upon forcing the illusion of control upon reality. Needless to say, reality kicked me right on down the road despite my ongoing and loud protests. And my writing took a back seat to it all.

And yet. And yet.

Somehow I did end up just about where I intended to be, even if the process was altogether out of my personal control and none of the details matched up with my brilliantly laid plans. I am in a new place, settling in nicely, and dealing well with the new physical ailment my perverse fairy godmother decided to visit upon me.

The only real drawback to all that loss of control, the only thing that I really mourn for, is that the events and pressures of the past year came between me and my writing. You can clearly see that if you compare the date of this blog entry with the last one!

It feels good to own up to this and state my intentions to the Cosmos to dive back into writing now. I have not lost faith, nor surrendered any of my foolish illusions of control, you see. Now I am going to write. Watch me.

Also, please pray for me or perform a magic ritual or just send positive vibes. We all need all the help we can get.

Sending coffee and/or wine would not hurt either.

Don’t Break a Winning Streak

Subtitled: Whatever works for you!

I’ve been washing a lot of dishes by hand lately. I don’t know why, when I have a dishwasher that I love. It’s efficient, super quiet, and sanitizes my dishes. But there is something satisfying (if dehydrating) about putting my hands in hot, soapy water. It’s therapeutic. It’s meditative.

I worry though, if I do this as a way to procrastinate. A way to avoid sitting down in my chair and staring at a blank page on my computer screen. However, the fact is that I am writing now more than ever. I really don’t think it is procrastinating. Maybe it is the opposite?

Perhaps the time spent cleaning up after cooking and eating a meal is what is feeding my word flow. Maybe the hands in hot, soapy water go beyond therapeutic, beyond meditative, all the way to magical?

Okay, that’s it. I’m slipping into my MLB ballplayer superstitious mode now. If washing dishes by hand does the trick for my creativity, then Imma do dishes by hand indefinitely!

Like the ballplayer, after a winning streak, who must hang his ball cap on the newel post every night, and nowhere else. Or who cannot put razor to face for fear of breaking the streak. Because who in their right mind wants to break a winning streak?

Besides, if I really want to procrastinate, there are much more fun ways to do that. Like my TBR pile.

Naming the Dragons

Have you ever thought about naming your dragons as a first step in learning to dance with them? Could that even work? Well, on the theory that it is wise to Know Thine Enemy, let me make a start on mine. Specifically the dragons that come between my writing and me.

For me, there is the Fear family of dragons. They tend to come perch on the parapets of my Castle of Imagination when I wish to write. Of course you can’t see them. They live in my mind’s eye.

Like Darryl Blank-page, who is a dull gray and doesn’t do much except stare (blankly) and occasionally belch a little puff of ineffective smoke. He is of the genus Scribus Blocktorium.

Or Gilda All-That-Glitters, who is shiny, but sly, promising wonders. She bats her eyelashes and purrs sparkles, trying to entice me to chase after her. But at what cost, requiring what changes and what threats to my introverted creative life? “Come to me,” she whispers. “Interviews, book signings, platform building, forget about writing time.” She is of the genus Successiva Traptorium.

And her big brother, Frank No-Way-at-All, who is a dark purple with green spots. He regularly blasts out flames of discouragement that are hard to dodge, full of rejections and inner critic voices and scorn. He is of the genus Failureus Perpetuem.

Okay, dragons, I see you. I name you. And I think I will go now and work on polishing my shield and my dancing shoes. Wait right here. I’ll be back.

There Is a Method to My Madness

My life method, when I want to learn a new skill, is to find books to teach me. It’s how I learned to cook, joyfully. It’s how I learned to knit, sew and quilt.

Up to now I have been mostly a ‘pantser’ in my writing method, which means that I do waste a lot of time. I have finished my first novel and the second has been simmering in the background. Now I feel it beginning to come to a boil. But I don’t want this novel to take as long to write as the first one. So it’s back to my life method.

I bought a book, a good one, on how to outline. It’s on my e-reader. I put off starting it while I read two excellent YA novels. (Read widely. Learn from other writers. Good to do. But still, it is procrastinating a bit.)

Today I sat down and began to read it. Here’s the irony. There is something about focusing on the craft that makes my imagination start to work overtime. So when I read books on the craft of writing, suddenly my characters, or new ones I haven’t imagined yet, started to hold conversations in my head.

That’s exactly what happened as I began to read my new book on outlining. Well, what is a writer to do? I put down the e-reader and head to the keyboard. I have to get this stuff down before it flies away again. No idea how, where, when I will work it in, but dang, this is an interesting conversation!

So while I approach mastering the skill of writing with an outline, I will also keep on dumping snippets of dialogue, ideas, even images, into a document I simply call Notes on “Working Title.”

What is your writing method? Share what you like in the comments, please!

When the Words Won’t Come – Part Two

Having given you sufficient time to recover from being forced to listen to the voices of my inner critics, as promised, here are some more of their pithy comments:

The dirty dishes need to be washed.

Subtext. Add some subtext. IF you can.

And you forgot to put the beans to soak for the soup tonight.

Who are you kidding? You’re no writer.

Don’t forget to put the laundry in the dryer.

You really can’t go forward with this story until you rewrite chapter one. At least three times.

Look, look! There’s a Baltimore Oriole at the feeder!

More research, now. And check Twitter while you’re online.

You know you’re never going to figure out the perfect way to Show, Don’t Tell.

The dog is whining to go out. The houseplants need water.

Anyone out there with a good, no-fail Banishing incantation? Please?

When the Words Won’t Come

Wise people say the key to a writing career is to just show up. Every day. To sit yourself down in the chair, in front of the screen or paper, until there is nothing left to do but move that pen, work those fingers.

Here I sit, dutifully, in my chair. Hands poised over the keyboard. Ready. Time to write. Go. Just do it.

I hear the voices starting to chime in. If only the voices were those of my characters talking to each other and letting me eavesdrop. Fantastic when that happens, but sometimes what I hear is a cacophony of derision. My Greek Chorus of inner critics. Their litany goes something like this.

Oh, just get up and go do something useful.

You’d be better off reading a good book. (There’s truth in this, but not when I’m trying to get my own words out.)

You know you’ll never have an original thought.

You can’t think outside the box when you can’t even see the box.

You have absolutely no imagination, nada, zilch, zero.

You know all those wonderful turns of phrases you read in the best of writers’ works? You know those surprising and perfect, rare adverbs they use? You’ll never do that.

Oh, there’s the phone. Aren’t you going to answer it?

Dialogue? You call that dialogue? Don’t make me laugh. INFO DUMP.

You really need some coffee. Or some chocolate. Why not get up and get both?

And the inner critic doesn’t stop here, but I will, because those voices are so depressing. So go out, find a sunny spot and breathe in some beauty as an antidote. I’ll finish this all too accurate list in another post. Watch for When the Words Won’t Come – Part Two 

All About Stories

For me, life is all about stories. I want to hear them. I want to read them. I want to tell and write them. We all carry stories around with us. I am eternally curious (observant, snoopy, inquiring) about the stories belonging to other people. I love to find them out, hear them out, but I don’t gossip. And I was bred to be a polite creature, so I do respect boundaries.

But oh how I love it when others volunteer their stories. Their histories, their loves, their opinions, their reactions to what the world is dishing out. Their incredible pets and how smart they are. How they fall asleep over their e-readers. Hey, that could be me.

So, you can imagine how tough it was for me to stay sensitive to, and respect, the varying needs for quiet working time that my fellow writers had when we spent three full days living and writing together on the North Shore of Lake Superior. Well, we wrote when we could drag our eyes away from the incredible lake.

Curiosity about my fellow writers was only partly a work avoidance urge. Because we did work, long and hard. I got a lot done, huzza for me! And I did let others work, too. There’s a special energy that flows when you know those around you are also in the throes of writing. It’s motivating. It gets healthy competitive juices flowing. You don’t want to be the only one to report little or no progress!

When work time was over I enjoyed getting acquainted with these fascinating women (all writers are fascinating by nature, I believe.) I got to hear some of their personal histories, in bits, and about their kids or pets, their hobbies, their day jobs. About their favorite books, favorite movies, favorite beers, favorite places, favorite foods. We bonded over smoked fish and selected cheeses.

Over drinks one night we played the game Name Your Favorite Five. We started with favorite film and T.V. heroes. Favorite female film and T.V. stars and heroines. Then favorite heroes from books we’ve read. Favorite books, of course. We all had trouble sticking to the limit of five. We could have gone on and on, but time was short and our glasses empty. Work called.

The best stories of all came out when we agreed to read to each other one evening from our Works in Progress, first five pages, and share feedback. Those were the stories that really mattered. The ones that sprang from heart, imagination and tongues. It was humbling and incredibly invigorating. I felt honored to hear and be heard.

My recommendation: find yourself a group of fascinating writers with whom you can spend quality listening time. You’ll write better.