On Writing
I don’t claim to be a writing expert, whatever that is. I’m just someone who writes. I’m also someone who enjoys observing creative processes, then collecting these observations and codifying them and passing them on to others in what I hope is a helpful manner.
I've currently written only a handful of novels... four or five (plus my OBFN* of course). Prior to that I wrote primarily non-fiction—a couple hundred articles and a couple of non-fiction books. However, I’ve also had a front row seat during the creation of many other works of fiction due to (a) knowing other writers, and (b) the fact that my wife is a long-time children’s author. I’ve been fortunate to observe the initial drafting, revising, editorial exchanges, re-writing, editing, copy-editing, design, marketing, publicity, and sales of over thirty novels—all published by Big Five houses—as well as observing the creative dynamic between author, agent, and editor during this process.
Regardless of the above, fiction is art, not science. It is subjective. There is no single right way—or wrong way—to write a novel. (If someone tells you there is, run. While holding onto your wallet.) All I can do is point out some things that have worked for me, as well as give some observations on techniques that have worked for others. It’s up to you to decide if they’re a good fit for you and your creative workflow. In the end, anything that results in a manuscript you are happy with—and that hopefully will also resonate with others—is successful. I’m just trying to increase the odds of that happening by giving some options for consideration.
This page contains select pieces I’ve written on the topics of writing, editing, and publishing—either from articles I’ve written for other sites or from my blog, etc.
*Obligatory Bad First Novel (more about this later)
Put The Writing First (originally published in Lit Pick)
I’m a children’s author, as is my wife. (She’s a kidlit veteran while I’m the new kid—I’ve spent the last several years primarily writing non-fiction: a couple of non-fic books and maybe 200 magazine articles for national publications.) My first YA novel, Road Rash, was published by Knopf/Random House and named to the 2015 ALA/YALSA Best Fiction for Young Readers list, as well as the 2015 Bank Street College Best Children’s Books of the Year list. When Road Rash came out, my wife and I got this crazy idea to do a big road-trip-style national book tour.
We can discuss book touring in a later article, but what I really want to talk about today is something we noticed during many of our presentations. (We presented at over 100 venues during the 16 week tour, covering most of the U.S.) We would usually do a Q&A as part of the event, and typically a lot of the audience were aspiring authors. Which is awesome. And a lot of times they’d want to talk about publishing. Which is also awesome—we love discussing the field and where we think it might be going. But I noticed a fair amount of them had questions about the “secrets” to publishing (their term, not mine). So I’d ask about their book and they’d say, “Well, it’s going to be an edgy paranormal with a kick-butt protagonist and…blah, blah, blah.” Or maybe, “I’m thinking about writing a teen romance where the main character secretly has this power which lets her…blah, blah, blah.”
Begin to see a pattern here? Yeah, there was no finished manuscript. Or even a first draft. Or even the first 20,000 words. But they were all about discussing how to “solidify their platform” as they “build their brand” so they can “effectively market their product to the industry”. And I suppose there’s nothing wrong with giving a little thought to those topics at some point. But hopefully not before actually putting words on paper. So when we got those kinds of questions from those kinds of writers, I’d say, “Okay, if you really want to get published, here’s the first step…” And they’d all sort of lean in.
“Have a great manuscript,” I’d say. Which—I’ll be the first to admit—is way easier said than done. But it’s still worth shooting for, whether your goal is traditional publication, self-publication, or posting your stories online. And by manuscript, I mean finished manuscript, which means reaching the end, then turning around and re-writing/revising/polishing as many times as it takes to make it as strong as possible. Perhaps addressing a different aspect each time, from overall plot to character development to continuity, down to making each paragraph as strong as possible, tightening any brilliant-but-not-really-necessary verbiage along the way. (I’m as guilty of over-writing during the first draft as anyone.)
Then—after it’s been polished down to the sentence level—you should consider having beta readers go through it—ideally people who are familiar with your chosen genre. (Might not be as helpful to have someone review your epic SF novel if they only read historical romance, right?) Then go back and address any commonalities in your beta responses. (If one reader doesn’t like something, it may or may not be noteworthy. But if multiple early readers don’t like—or are unclear about—a specific part of the book, you may have an issue worth addressing.) Then, when you believe it’s as good as it can be, you should think about submitting it to agents or editors (or shopping for a qualified freelance editor if you’re going the self-pub route).
But up until you’re holding a strong, completed, polished manuscript in your hands, the main job is creating that professional manuscript, and for that you need to be wearing your ‘creator’ hat, not your ‘marketer’ hat. It’s a cliché but there’s truth behind it—you don’t get a second chance to make a first impression. I think at some point all writers have sent off a manuscript before it was really ready (and I’m raising my hand here too), and we almost always regret it. As I write this I’ve recently finished a new YA manuscript. Then I made a punch list with several things I wanted to address, from plot points to character consistency to details like the over-use of certain adjectives. And I went through that manuscript so many times I can almost recite the whole 350 pages from memory. I’m finally happy with it, and frankly I’m dying to get it to my agent so she can send it out and see who’s as interested in it as I am. But I’m biding my time just a little longer because I have one more trusted beta still going over it, and then I’m going to consider their feedback and see if I can make any more improvements. And then—and only then—will I send it out. Because doesn’t your story—the one you’ve worked on, worried about, and sweated over for months or years—deserve the best shot possible?
So do yourself a favor and put the writing first.
Happy writing!
We can discuss book touring in a later article, but what I really want to talk about today is something we noticed during many of our presentations. (We presented at over 100 venues during the 16 week tour, covering most of the U.S.) We would usually do a Q&A as part of the event, and typically a lot of the audience were aspiring authors. Which is awesome. And a lot of times they’d want to talk about publishing. Which is also awesome—we love discussing the field and where we think it might be going. But I noticed a fair amount of them had questions about the “secrets” to publishing (their term, not mine). So I’d ask about their book and they’d say, “Well, it’s going to be an edgy paranormal with a kick-butt protagonist and…blah, blah, blah.” Or maybe, “I’m thinking about writing a teen romance where the main character secretly has this power which lets her…blah, blah, blah.”
Begin to see a pattern here? Yeah, there was no finished manuscript. Or even a first draft. Or even the first 20,000 words. But they were all about discussing how to “solidify their platform” as they “build their brand” so they can “effectively market their product to the industry”. And I suppose there’s nothing wrong with giving a little thought to those topics at some point. But hopefully not before actually putting words on paper. So when we got those kinds of questions from those kinds of writers, I’d say, “Okay, if you really want to get published, here’s the first step…” And they’d all sort of lean in.
“Have a great manuscript,” I’d say. Which—I’ll be the first to admit—is way easier said than done. But it’s still worth shooting for, whether your goal is traditional publication, self-publication, or posting your stories online. And by manuscript, I mean finished manuscript, which means reaching the end, then turning around and re-writing/revising/polishing as many times as it takes to make it as strong as possible. Perhaps addressing a different aspect each time, from overall plot to character development to continuity, down to making each paragraph as strong as possible, tightening any brilliant-but-not-really-necessary verbiage along the way. (I’m as guilty of over-writing during the first draft as anyone.)
Then—after it’s been polished down to the sentence level—you should consider having beta readers go through it—ideally people who are familiar with your chosen genre. (Might not be as helpful to have someone review your epic SF novel if they only read historical romance, right?) Then go back and address any commonalities in your beta responses. (If one reader doesn’t like something, it may or may not be noteworthy. But if multiple early readers don’t like—or are unclear about—a specific part of the book, you may have an issue worth addressing.) Then, when you believe it’s as good as it can be, you should think about submitting it to agents or editors (or shopping for a qualified freelance editor if you’re going the self-pub route).
But up until you’re holding a strong, completed, polished manuscript in your hands, the main job is creating that professional manuscript, and for that you need to be wearing your ‘creator’ hat, not your ‘marketer’ hat. It’s a cliché but there’s truth behind it—you don’t get a second chance to make a first impression. I think at some point all writers have sent off a manuscript before it was really ready (and I’m raising my hand here too), and we almost always regret it. As I write this I’ve recently finished a new YA manuscript. Then I made a punch list with several things I wanted to address, from plot points to character consistency to details like the over-use of certain adjectives. And I went through that manuscript so many times I can almost recite the whole 350 pages from memory. I’m finally happy with it, and frankly I’m dying to get it to my agent so she can send it out and see who’s as interested in it as I am. But I’m biding my time just a little longer because I have one more trusted beta still going over it, and then I’m going to consider their feedback and see if I can make any more improvements. And then—and only then—will I send it out. Because doesn’t your story—the one you’ve worked on, worried about, and sweated over for months or years—deserve the best shot possible?
So do yourself a favor and put the writing first.
Happy writing!
Getting to Aha! (originally published in Adventures in YA Publishing)
Even though I like the term ‘Writing Craft’—because craft is such a huge part of writing, and because newer writers are better off thinking of it as a craft to be practiced rather than some sort of mystical talent—it may not be the perfect descriptor for what I want to discuss. But ‘Writing Secrets’ sounds like it should come with free steak knives. And ‘A Brief Overview of Engaging the Parts of your Mind which May Lead to Enhanced Creativity’ hurts to say, let alone write.
In my opinion, there are two major aspects to the writing process. (Please add an imaginary “in my opinion” in front of every statement in the rest of this post.) The “what to write” and the “how to write it”. I think of these as the macro and the micro of the writing experience, and it’s primarily the macro under consideration here… although it really applies to both plotting and implementation. (This isn’t a diatribe on plotting vs. pantsing, by the way. Those arbitrary points exist at either end of a continuum, while most of us typically exist somewhere between them, sliding back and forth as necessary during the course of a project.) So, some ideas for your consideration…
1. The real writing happens away from the computer. I’m talking about the aha! stuff. The stuff that comes flooding into our brain, seemingly from the ozone, exciting us and solving our problems and making us think this damn book just might work after all. There’s still the significant issue of effectively conveying these ideas on the page (the ‘craft’ part), but having raw material that fires you up provides a massive advantage when you do sit down to write. And of course, that level of inspiration/motivation also helps solve another fundamental problem—getting our ass in the chair and keeping it there. It’s sometimes hard for us to sit down when there’s nothing we’re dying to say at the moment, but just try keeping a writer from her computer when she’s truly inspired.
2. Those inspired ideas come from your subconscious. I’m not given to extreme mysticism, and there’s plenty of science behind it if that matters to you, but the bottom line is that the subconscious is a machine that’s constantly programming itself: taking in, re-arranging, processing, and then (if you talk nicely) delivering something worthwhile. The important thing here is that while you might not be able to directly control the subconscious…
3. You can at least help steer the programming. There’s been a lot said about trying to get your muse to pay attention: turn down the lights, put on some soft music, pour a couple glasses of wine, and hope he/she/it decides to show up. (And if that regularly works for you, then by all means—go with it!) But if not, try this two-step plan to help bring the big guns to bear:
Step 1: Think about your project. A lot.
Step 2: Don’t think about it. A lot.
4. Think. By ‘thinking about your project’, I don’t mean sitting at the computer trying to force yourself to squeeze out some great (or good, or even serviceable) ideas. I mean mulling it over in your brain, away from the keyboard. Ideally in the more typically right-brained fashion.
Daydream. Feel, vs. think. Go for the visual, vs. the textual… try to imagine it as a scene in a film. (I find that if I can see it, I can more easily write it. It’s when I can’t clearly ‘see the scene’ that writing becomes a struggle.) The reason you want it to be as visceral as possible is that the subconscious responds to this much stronger than to rational, Boolean thought. (Have you ever gone to the movies and watched a horror film that scared the crap out of you? On the face of it, this makes absolutely no sense. I mean, you know you’re sitting in a theater, watching something that was created on a sound stage, using actors and special effects, etc. Yet your pulse pounds and you can feel the fear—with all the attendant physiological symptoms—building within you. This is because your subconscious doesn’t know it’s observing a construct. It simply responds to the programming it’s taking in. It cannot delineate between fact and fiction, hence the need to try and place your project in a right-brained, sensory-oriented context. It won’t just ‘seem’ like reality. To your subconscious, it will be reality.) Then…
5. Don’t think. In a perfect world, we’d all think long and deep about our writing projects, then immediately drift off to sleep, letting the subconscious process all the various story elements until it arranges them in a way it finds satisfying. And in fact, it’s a great idea to set aside a little time to visualize your project right before you nod off at night. But what if your most opportune time to do this is on the train in the morning, going to work? (You’re going to have a hard time convincing the boss that your morning desk-nap is part of some sort of productive process. Don’t ask me how I know…) The answer here is to consciously stop thinking about it when the available time is up, and make a decisive switch to another subject. Then, when another block of time opens up (lunch?), you can go back to daydreaming about your story. The specifics aren’t as important as the overall concept of feeding the subconscious, then giving it some ‘alone time’ to digest.
6. Think again. Here’s the part (after following the above think/don’t think process) that most often yields the good stuff for me. I think of it as ‘constructive distraction’, as it involves engaging in some sort of simple activity that requires just enough attention (from the conscious mind) to allow the subconscious to kind of peek through and start spouting off a little, like an unruly kid pulling a prank when the parent is looking the other way. For me, running works exceptionally well in this regard. (But not on a twisty mountain trail, where you have to watch your every move lest you twist an ankle.) Driving also works well. (But not in busy city traffic… see a pattern here?) Doing the dishes. Walking the dog. Taking a shower. Mowing the grass. Sweeping the driveway. You get the idea—choose whatever version of ‘verbing the noun’ puts you in that semi-hypnotic, meditative state where your thoughts can flow freely.
Then, as you’re engaged in the mundane activity, you gently steer your inner film projector toward the story, letting it play whatever version of whatever scene it wants, with as little direction from you (the conscious you) as possible. Just watch and wait—like a kid at the movies—and you may be pleasantly surprised at what pops onto the screen.
Again, it can’t be forced—you have to let it occur naturally. It may sound a little like the ‘trying to seduce the muse with wine and cheese’ scene described earlier, but it’s more than just waiting on random chance. When I follow this process (and I hate to think of it as something so clinical as a ‘process’… it feels completely organic to me) I have some sort of success fairly often—at least half the time, I’d say. Not always, and almost never if I feel rushed. But if I’m willing to prime the pump and then just wait for it, without any expectations, I’m frequently rewarded with a little aha! moment.
They’re not always earthshaking revelations, but often enough to get me past a little sticking point, which is all we can really ask for. (Although I can vividly recall once being ten miles into a twelve mile run with absolutely zero success. I’d pretty much given up on it when, out of the blue, I suddenly blurted out, “Holy smokes, Sam is gay!” And the whole story instantly made a lot more sense.)
And finally…
7. Engage the mouth. I know, right? Conventional wisdom says to engage the brain first. But maybe it’s worth trying the other way around. When I’m on a long car trip with my wife (also a writer) we usually ‘talk plot’—brainstorming about any writing issues either of us might be having at the moment. Typically one of us describes the issue, then we bounce around plot ideas which might help. And a lot of times one of these ideas provides a path to success, usually refined over several back-and-forths. But I’ve also noticed that sometimes, the one laying out the initial issue will then turn around—often before they even finish describing the problem—and say, “Or, maybe I could just…”
And poof—there’s the solution.
I have a hunch that verbalizing your ideas engages a different part of the brain than just thinking about them. Regardless, this is definitely worth exploring. The other person doesn’t have to be another writer, just someone who’s willing to listen and offer suggestions. And then your job is to listen and consider without criticism, even if the suggestions don’t seem like a good fit at first. (Even the goofiest of suggestions can spark something good.) Put your editor hat away. Remember, the goal is to create a flowing, back-and-forth dialog about the story—without a lot of left-brained self-editing going on—in an attempt to harness some of that extra horsepower lurking under the hood.
Is there scientific validity to these concepts? That determination is more of a job for the neuroscientists and psychologists than for fiction writers. But it doesn’t really matter if it works for you, right? And right now, I’m stuck on chapter 32 of my current project… and the lawn needs mowing. Aha!
In my opinion, there are two major aspects to the writing process. (Please add an imaginary “in my opinion” in front of every statement in the rest of this post.) The “what to write” and the “how to write it”. I think of these as the macro and the micro of the writing experience, and it’s primarily the macro under consideration here… although it really applies to both plotting and implementation. (This isn’t a diatribe on plotting vs. pantsing, by the way. Those arbitrary points exist at either end of a continuum, while most of us typically exist somewhere between them, sliding back and forth as necessary during the course of a project.) So, some ideas for your consideration…
1. The real writing happens away from the computer. I’m talking about the aha! stuff. The stuff that comes flooding into our brain, seemingly from the ozone, exciting us and solving our problems and making us think this damn book just might work after all. There’s still the significant issue of effectively conveying these ideas on the page (the ‘craft’ part), but having raw material that fires you up provides a massive advantage when you do sit down to write. And of course, that level of inspiration/motivation also helps solve another fundamental problem—getting our ass in the chair and keeping it there. It’s sometimes hard for us to sit down when there’s nothing we’re dying to say at the moment, but just try keeping a writer from her computer when she’s truly inspired.
2. Those inspired ideas come from your subconscious. I’m not given to extreme mysticism, and there’s plenty of science behind it if that matters to you, but the bottom line is that the subconscious is a machine that’s constantly programming itself: taking in, re-arranging, processing, and then (if you talk nicely) delivering something worthwhile. The important thing here is that while you might not be able to directly control the subconscious…
3. You can at least help steer the programming. There’s been a lot said about trying to get your muse to pay attention: turn down the lights, put on some soft music, pour a couple glasses of wine, and hope he/she/it decides to show up. (And if that regularly works for you, then by all means—go with it!) But if not, try this two-step plan to help bring the big guns to bear:
Step 1: Think about your project. A lot.
Step 2: Don’t think about it. A lot.
4. Think. By ‘thinking about your project’, I don’t mean sitting at the computer trying to force yourself to squeeze out some great (or good, or even serviceable) ideas. I mean mulling it over in your brain, away from the keyboard. Ideally in the more typically right-brained fashion.
Daydream. Feel, vs. think. Go for the visual, vs. the textual… try to imagine it as a scene in a film. (I find that if I can see it, I can more easily write it. It’s when I can’t clearly ‘see the scene’ that writing becomes a struggle.) The reason you want it to be as visceral as possible is that the subconscious responds to this much stronger than to rational, Boolean thought. (Have you ever gone to the movies and watched a horror film that scared the crap out of you? On the face of it, this makes absolutely no sense. I mean, you know you’re sitting in a theater, watching something that was created on a sound stage, using actors and special effects, etc. Yet your pulse pounds and you can feel the fear—with all the attendant physiological symptoms—building within you. This is because your subconscious doesn’t know it’s observing a construct. It simply responds to the programming it’s taking in. It cannot delineate between fact and fiction, hence the need to try and place your project in a right-brained, sensory-oriented context. It won’t just ‘seem’ like reality. To your subconscious, it will be reality.) Then…
5. Don’t think. In a perfect world, we’d all think long and deep about our writing projects, then immediately drift off to sleep, letting the subconscious process all the various story elements until it arranges them in a way it finds satisfying. And in fact, it’s a great idea to set aside a little time to visualize your project right before you nod off at night. But what if your most opportune time to do this is on the train in the morning, going to work? (You’re going to have a hard time convincing the boss that your morning desk-nap is part of some sort of productive process. Don’t ask me how I know…) The answer here is to consciously stop thinking about it when the available time is up, and make a decisive switch to another subject. Then, when another block of time opens up (lunch?), you can go back to daydreaming about your story. The specifics aren’t as important as the overall concept of feeding the subconscious, then giving it some ‘alone time’ to digest.
6. Think again. Here’s the part (after following the above think/don’t think process) that most often yields the good stuff for me. I think of it as ‘constructive distraction’, as it involves engaging in some sort of simple activity that requires just enough attention (from the conscious mind) to allow the subconscious to kind of peek through and start spouting off a little, like an unruly kid pulling a prank when the parent is looking the other way. For me, running works exceptionally well in this regard. (But not on a twisty mountain trail, where you have to watch your every move lest you twist an ankle.) Driving also works well. (But not in busy city traffic… see a pattern here?) Doing the dishes. Walking the dog. Taking a shower. Mowing the grass. Sweeping the driveway. You get the idea—choose whatever version of ‘verbing the noun’ puts you in that semi-hypnotic, meditative state where your thoughts can flow freely.
Then, as you’re engaged in the mundane activity, you gently steer your inner film projector toward the story, letting it play whatever version of whatever scene it wants, with as little direction from you (the conscious you) as possible. Just watch and wait—like a kid at the movies—and you may be pleasantly surprised at what pops onto the screen.
Again, it can’t be forced—you have to let it occur naturally. It may sound a little like the ‘trying to seduce the muse with wine and cheese’ scene described earlier, but it’s more than just waiting on random chance. When I follow this process (and I hate to think of it as something so clinical as a ‘process’… it feels completely organic to me) I have some sort of success fairly often—at least half the time, I’d say. Not always, and almost never if I feel rushed. But if I’m willing to prime the pump and then just wait for it, without any expectations, I’m frequently rewarded with a little aha! moment.
They’re not always earthshaking revelations, but often enough to get me past a little sticking point, which is all we can really ask for. (Although I can vividly recall once being ten miles into a twelve mile run with absolutely zero success. I’d pretty much given up on it when, out of the blue, I suddenly blurted out, “Holy smokes, Sam is gay!” And the whole story instantly made a lot more sense.)
And finally…
7. Engage the mouth. I know, right? Conventional wisdom says to engage the brain first. But maybe it’s worth trying the other way around. When I’m on a long car trip with my wife (also a writer) we usually ‘talk plot’—brainstorming about any writing issues either of us might be having at the moment. Typically one of us describes the issue, then we bounce around plot ideas which might help. And a lot of times one of these ideas provides a path to success, usually refined over several back-and-forths. But I’ve also noticed that sometimes, the one laying out the initial issue will then turn around—often before they even finish describing the problem—and say, “Or, maybe I could just…”
And poof—there’s the solution.
I have a hunch that verbalizing your ideas engages a different part of the brain than just thinking about them. Regardless, this is definitely worth exploring. The other person doesn’t have to be another writer, just someone who’s willing to listen and offer suggestions. And then your job is to listen and consider without criticism, even if the suggestions don’t seem like a good fit at first. (Even the goofiest of suggestions can spark something good.) Put your editor hat away. Remember, the goal is to create a flowing, back-and-forth dialog about the story—without a lot of left-brained self-editing going on—in an attempt to harness some of that extra horsepower lurking under the hood.
Is there scientific validity to these concepts? That determination is more of a job for the neuroscientists and psychologists than for fiction writers. But it doesn’t really matter if it works for you, right? And right now, I’m stuck on chapter 32 of my current project… and the lawn needs mowing. Aha!
Talking to Myself (originally published in Teen Reads)
If there’s a unifying concept behind the writing of ROAD RASH, it’s contained somewhere in the simple phrase “follow your passion”.
But not in the usual way. More in a fractal way, repeating in ever-reduced scale from the macro to the micro… from the overarching theme (never specifically delineated—most people I know are pained by hammers to the head), to the broad narrative, to specific plot points, to an utterance by a character at a pivotal moment in the book.
But really, nowhere was this concept more important than in the decision to actually write the book itself. Until fairly recently, I’ve mainly been a non-fiction writer… lots of magazine articles, a couple of how-to-ish books, etc. (Okay, and an SF story that I snuck in under the wire before the late, lamented Aboriginal Science Fiction finally closed.) But otherwise, primarily non-fic.
And I thought I’d settled on what my next project would be—another non-fiction book. One that “made sense” on the face of it: there was a potential market for this type of book, I was familiar with the subject matter and I felt it wouldn’t require anything dramatically new from me. So I started off in that left-brained, Boolean way that usually works well for these kinds of projects… I did the research, assembled materials and made notes, put together an outline and started drafting a proposal. At some point these things can start to feel an awful lot like doing homework, and that’s exactly what happened in this case—it began to resemble a never-ending term paper. But I kept grinding away until my subconscious finally threw a fit. “Let’s do the thought experiment thingy,” my subconscious demanded. “Right damn now.”
The ‘thought experiment’ is a little game I (we) play when I (we) want to get down to what I (we) really want.
Okay—let’s do it. I sat back on the couch and closed my eyes, trying to ease into that escape-from-the-world headspace. If I could be writing whatever I wanted—with zero thought to anything beyond the actual writing itself—what would it be…?
What you’re working on right now is fine, this professorial voice said into my right ear (of course, with its pipeline to the left brain). There’s a market for it, it’s in your wheelhouse and you’ve already started.
Then suddenly, in my left ear, I heard… Dude! Don’t listen to that used-car-selling, market-wise SOB. If it’s really only about the writing, you want to be writing about me!
Who?
Me. You know—that 17-year-old know-nothing/know-it-all/over-confident/insecure young guy who loves music so much he’d almost rather play drums than anything else?
Uh…
C’mon. You know you want to…
He was right, of course. He always is. The amazing thing is that I actually listened this time. And by ‘listened,’ I mean I canned the work-in-progress, put the folder full of notes and clippings away, opened a minty fresh Word doc and let the dude tell me his story…
Okay, so I was running behind. Again.
I hauled the last of my cases to the ancient freight elevator, slapped the button, and collapsed against the wall. Nothing. No light, no hum of machinery, no opening doors, and no hope of not humping my gear up three flights of stairs.
Why does this crap only happen when you’re late…?
We were off to the races. And you know what? Writing this band-on-the-road adventure was big fun. Maybe more fun than I’d ever had writing before, even. Yeah, it felt great (and mildly subversive) to use the expected sex/drugs/rock‘n‘roll paradigm as a way to take the soft bigotry behind all those drummer jokes I’ve heard my entire musical life and shove it back whence it came. (And really, why does virtually every book/movie/TV show about musicians feature the [typically blond, gorgeous and female] lead singer, or the [typically bad-boy, leather-clad, brilliant-but-haunted] lead guitarist? C’mon people—how about a little love for the guys back there driving the whole damn bus?)
But beyond all that, there really was something to that ‘follow your passion’ thing. Just writing what I really wanted to be writing was payment enough. (I would have done it for free. Seriously. No need to mention this to my publisher.) For me, when the writing’s going well it’s like reading a book you’re really into—you think about it during the day and you can’t wait to get back to the story simply because you want to see what happens next.
And what happened next was that Zach told me his story. Of what it’s like to do your best and still get canned, for reasons having nothing to do with your ability. To work for such a screaming jerk that you’d rather nuke your chances of ever working there again than spend another minute under his thumb. To have your so-called best friend bail on you, with that most vile of excuses--it’s nothing personal. To be an outcast. To have your ideas discounted because you’re the newbie, or the youngest guy, or maybe because you’re "just the drummer." To choose "hard right over easy wrong." To not be threatened by a girl because she’s smarter than you. To follow your passion—for your music as well as for that girl—and see where it takes you… and maybe see where you can take it.
So Zach told me his story. And now I’m telling the world.
Follow your passion…
But not in the usual way. More in a fractal way, repeating in ever-reduced scale from the macro to the micro… from the overarching theme (never specifically delineated—most people I know are pained by hammers to the head), to the broad narrative, to specific plot points, to an utterance by a character at a pivotal moment in the book.
But really, nowhere was this concept more important than in the decision to actually write the book itself. Until fairly recently, I’ve mainly been a non-fiction writer… lots of magazine articles, a couple of how-to-ish books, etc. (Okay, and an SF story that I snuck in under the wire before the late, lamented Aboriginal Science Fiction finally closed.) But otherwise, primarily non-fic.
And I thought I’d settled on what my next project would be—another non-fiction book. One that “made sense” on the face of it: there was a potential market for this type of book, I was familiar with the subject matter and I felt it wouldn’t require anything dramatically new from me. So I started off in that left-brained, Boolean way that usually works well for these kinds of projects… I did the research, assembled materials and made notes, put together an outline and started drafting a proposal. At some point these things can start to feel an awful lot like doing homework, and that’s exactly what happened in this case—it began to resemble a never-ending term paper. But I kept grinding away until my subconscious finally threw a fit. “Let’s do the thought experiment thingy,” my subconscious demanded. “Right damn now.”
The ‘thought experiment’ is a little game I (we) play when I (we) want to get down to what I (we) really want.
Okay—let’s do it. I sat back on the couch and closed my eyes, trying to ease into that escape-from-the-world headspace. If I could be writing whatever I wanted—with zero thought to anything beyond the actual writing itself—what would it be…?
What you’re working on right now is fine, this professorial voice said into my right ear (of course, with its pipeline to the left brain). There’s a market for it, it’s in your wheelhouse and you’ve already started.
Then suddenly, in my left ear, I heard… Dude! Don’t listen to that used-car-selling, market-wise SOB. If it’s really only about the writing, you want to be writing about me!
Who?
Me. You know—that 17-year-old know-nothing/know-it-all/over-confident/insecure young guy who loves music so much he’d almost rather play drums than anything else?
Uh…
C’mon. You know you want to…
He was right, of course. He always is. The amazing thing is that I actually listened this time. And by ‘listened,’ I mean I canned the work-in-progress, put the folder full of notes and clippings away, opened a minty fresh Word doc and let the dude tell me his story…
Okay, so I was running behind. Again.
I hauled the last of my cases to the ancient freight elevator, slapped the button, and collapsed against the wall. Nothing. No light, no hum of machinery, no opening doors, and no hope of not humping my gear up three flights of stairs.
Why does this crap only happen when you’re late…?
We were off to the races. And you know what? Writing this band-on-the-road adventure was big fun. Maybe more fun than I’d ever had writing before, even. Yeah, it felt great (and mildly subversive) to use the expected sex/drugs/rock‘n‘roll paradigm as a way to take the soft bigotry behind all those drummer jokes I’ve heard my entire musical life and shove it back whence it came. (And really, why does virtually every book/movie/TV show about musicians feature the [typically blond, gorgeous and female] lead singer, or the [typically bad-boy, leather-clad, brilliant-but-haunted] lead guitarist? C’mon people—how about a little love for the guys back there driving the whole damn bus?)
But beyond all that, there really was something to that ‘follow your passion’ thing. Just writing what I really wanted to be writing was payment enough. (I would have done it for free. Seriously. No need to mention this to my publisher.) For me, when the writing’s going well it’s like reading a book you’re really into—you think about it during the day and you can’t wait to get back to the story simply because you want to see what happens next.
And what happened next was that Zach told me his story. Of what it’s like to do your best and still get canned, for reasons having nothing to do with your ability. To work for such a screaming jerk that you’d rather nuke your chances of ever working there again than spend another minute under his thumb. To have your so-called best friend bail on you, with that most vile of excuses--it’s nothing personal. To be an outcast. To have your ideas discounted because you’re the newbie, or the youngest guy, or maybe because you’re "just the drummer." To choose "hard right over easy wrong." To not be threatened by a girl because she’s smarter than you. To follow your passion—for your music as well as for that girl—and see where it takes you… and maybe see where you can take it.
So Zach told me his story. And now I’m telling the world.
Follow your passion…
How Do You Get Inspired to Write? (originally published in Goodreads)
For me, it’s all about catch-and-release jellyfishing…
But first, it might be easier to say what I don’t do… I don’t sit around and think about plot ideas. At least not initially. (This is subjective as hell, but I generally feel that character should drive plot, not the other way around. But in reality this is along a continuum, not an either/or choice.)
So what do I do?
If I had to describe this very fuzzy, right-brained process in a rational, left-brain fashion, I’d say that some version of the following might apply:
1. I get the desire to portray a certain vibe or feeling or emotion.
2. From that vibe comes some high-level ideas… more on the order of setting (if physical) or thematic (if philosophical) than specific plot points.
3. I chew on those and try to imagine what sort of person (or persons) might do an interesting job of exploring these themes in this setting.
4. Then I start thinking about what story elements might be an interesting way for this character to experience the emotions and conflicts inherent in those themes. (Not necessarily a whole book’s worth… just some interesting initial scenes to get things moving, and hopefully a possible endpoint.)
So maybe: vibe… setting… theme… character… plot.
Not that this is always (or even usually) a linear process. I might bounce from vibe to character to plot and back to vibe, and my brain might work on various aspects in parallel. The point is, it’s an organic, somewhat random process. Especially at first, where I see myself like SpongeBob, just ambling along with my jellyfish net, seeing what I might catch. We get ideas and feelings all the time, but we’re looking for the ones that seem to resonate with us on some level.
Let’s try to create an example…
Let’s say that somewhere during my day I stumble across the feeling I get when I recall the smell of my 4th grade classroom, and the flood of emotions that comes with that. And for some reason my brain says “Hey, wait a minute!” and this feeling seems to carry some weight with me. So I mull on that and try to figure out why, and what I come up with is that this memory recalls a mixture of security (maybe I liked my 4th grade teacher and felt comfortable with her), fear (maybe I moved during the summer before 4th grade and the new environment was stressful), and romantic attraction (let’s say I had a big crush on someone during 4th grade). Then I get the feeling that I want the viewpoint character to be, say, fifteen instead of nine. But I really like the vibe of the 4th grade classroom smell and what it evokes in the boy (somewhere I’ve decided the POV character is a boy). Maybe because in his current situation he DOESN’T have security or romance, just fear. Why? What’s he afraid of? And how can he address this and get (or get back) the feeling of belonging… of being unafraid... and maybe even of being in love?
As I’ve mentioned before, these sorts of “what if?” internal discussions seem to happen best for me when I’m running or driving or sweeping the garage or some other low-concentration task. Almost never when I’m sitting at the computer. So I don’t sit at the computer. Not until I have a kernel of an idea, maybe something like what I’ve described above. Then I feel like I can sit down and start writing, because I have a few guiding lights: the vibe, the character, a rough setting, and maybe the themes I want to explore. And from that, as I write, comes the specifics of the story… the plot.
So the short answer is: I go through my day, catching and examining jellyfish, and almost always releasing them unharmed. (Who knows? Maybe another writer can find them and use them.) And occasionally I’ll catch one and decide to keep it for a while, and see if we get along. And if we do, then maybe… just maybe… we have the beginnings of a story.
That's how I get inspired. What about you?
But first, it might be easier to say what I don’t do… I don’t sit around and think about plot ideas. At least not initially. (This is subjective as hell, but I generally feel that character should drive plot, not the other way around. But in reality this is along a continuum, not an either/or choice.)
So what do I do?
If I had to describe this very fuzzy, right-brained process in a rational, left-brain fashion, I’d say that some version of the following might apply:
1. I get the desire to portray a certain vibe or feeling or emotion.
2. From that vibe comes some high-level ideas… more on the order of setting (if physical) or thematic (if philosophical) than specific plot points.
3. I chew on those and try to imagine what sort of person (or persons) might do an interesting job of exploring these themes in this setting.
4. Then I start thinking about what story elements might be an interesting way for this character to experience the emotions and conflicts inherent in those themes. (Not necessarily a whole book’s worth… just some interesting initial scenes to get things moving, and hopefully a possible endpoint.)
So maybe: vibe… setting… theme… character… plot.
Not that this is always (or even usually) a linear process. I might bounce from vibe to character to plot and back to vibe, and my brain might work on various aspects in parallel. The point is, it’s an organic, somewhat random process. Especially at first, where I see myself like SpongeBob, just ambling along with my jellyfish net, seeing what I might catch. We get ideas and feelings all the time, but we’re looking for the ones that seem to resonate with us on some level.
Let’s try to create an example…
Let’s say that somewhere during my day I stumble across the feeling I get when I recall the smell of my 4th grade classroom, and the flood of emotions that comes with that. And for some reason my brain says “Hey, wait a minute!” and this feeling seems to carry some weight with me. So I mull on that and try to figure out why, and what I come up with is that this memory recalls a mixture of security (maybe I liked my 4th grade teacher and felt comfortable with her), fear (maybe I moved during the summer before 4th grade and the new environment was stressful), and romantic attraction (let’s say I had a big crush on someone during 4th grade). Then I get the feeling that I want the viewpoint character to be, say, fifteen instead of nine. But I really like the vibe of the 4th grade classroom smell and what it evokes in the boy (somewhere I’ve decided the POV character is a boy). Maybe because in his current situation he DOESN’T have security or romance, just fear. Why? What’s he afraid of? And how can he address this and get (or get back) the feeling of belonging… of being unafraid... and maybe even of being in love?
As I’ve mentioned before, these sorts of “what if?” internal discussions seem to happen best for me when I’m running or driving or sweeping the garage or some other low-concentration task. Almost never when I’m sitting at the computer. So I don’t sit at the computer. Not until I have a kernel of an idea, maybe something like what I’ve described above. Then I feel like I can sit down and start writing, because I have a few guiding lights: the vibe, the character, a rough setting, and maybe the themes I want to explore. And from that, as I write, comes the specifics of the story… the plot.
So the short answer is: I go through my day, catching and examining jellyfish, and almost always releasing them unharmed. (Who knows? Maybe another writer can find them and use them.) And occasionally I’ll catch one and decide to keep it for a while, and see if we get along. And if we do, then maybe… just maybe… we have the beginnings of a story.
That's how I get inspired. What about you?
