A couple months ago I was daydreaming and thought the idea would make a good story. I developed the story by asking myself, "How did these characters get in this situation?" Then I wrote, not caring if it were good or bad. I just wrote to get the words out. I'm about 100 pages into it, and it feels wrong. I can't make the connections. The more I develop the book, the outcome is so far removed from the original idea. It's clear, in my mind, what I need to do. I need to keep the original idea for later, and finish the new story.
What happened with this story echos real life. Starting out with best intentions, only to have something go wrong, and end up trying to fix it. Nothing is beyond fixing. In the end, I think the newly fixed outcome will be better than the original intended outcome. At least, that's the thought that keeps me going.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Monday, April 11, 2011
I'm writing...now what?
I've been feeling a little accomplished lately, so I decided it was time to squish my high spirits. Actually, I decided it was time to research next steps. The squishing of my spirits was a unfortunate yet inevitable side effect. I wanted to get published. So, I read articles from writing organizations and writers to see what their advice to me was.
Each article detailed the long and arduous road of getting published. It told of a struggle that lasted years. It detailed the hundreds of rejections. It told of project after project that would never know an audience. Writing is not for the faint of heart and I was starting to become faint.
The writers also had conflicting pieces of advice. Just do it. Don't just do it- practice then do it. Write what comes naturally. Think outside of your comfort zone. Use natural language. Use thought provoking language. By the end of the night, I thought my head would explode.
In the end, none of it mattered. I spent a day reading what someone else's ideas on writing were. I had hoped for inspiration by people I admired. There were very few articles that achieved that end. So, I ended up back at the beginning, which isn't necessarily a bad thing. In the end, I know what I know and that is that I'm a writer. Whatever profession I hold, I'm a writer. My identity as a writer goes beyond a paycheck, beyond what's on my business card. Writing is what I do. Right now it's what I do for fun. Hopefully it will become something that will be shared with others. I just need to keep doing it.
Each article detailed the long and arduous road of getting published. It told of a struggle that lasted years. It detailed the hundreds of rejections. It told of project after project that would never know an audience. Writing is not for the faint of heart and I was starting to become faint.
The writers also had conflicting pieces of advice. Just do it. Don't just do it- practice then do it. Write what comes naturally. Think outside of your comfort zone. Use natural language. Use thought provoking language. By the end of the night, I thought my head would explode.
In the end, none of it mattered. I spent a day reading what someone else's ideas on writing were. I had hoped for inspiration by people I admired. There were very few articles that achieved that end. So, I ended up back at the beginning, which isn't necessarily a bad thing. In the end, I know what I know and that is that I'm a writer. Whatever profession I hold, I'm a writer. My identity as a writer goes beyond a paycheck, beyond what's on my business card. Writing is what I do. Right now it's what I do for fun. Hopefully it will become something that will be shared with others. I just need to keep doing it.
Friday, April 8, 2011
symmetry
My co-worker's mother passed away earlier this month. She was in her late eighties, and had been ill for quite some time, so it was not unexpected. I tried to write a few times this week about other things, but I am sad for my friend, and remembering my own mother's terminal illness, and my fingers are not interested in typing other stories just yet.
He returned to work a few days ago, and we had lunch together his first day back in the office. My co-worker is a born raconteur, and had spoken about his mother, a fierce first-generation Italian-American. I never met her, but liked her a great deal based upon his stories.
He told me how she had been lucid almost until the end, determined to go on her own terms, without regrets. She dictated her guest list and visiting hours personally those few final days, and participated eagerly in planning her memorial service, including the menu. While discussing menu options a few days before her death, she casually mentioned how much she liked the cookies from a bakery on the east side. An errant thought for the dessert table, and then she moved on to insist that no chicken be served.
Her son remembered, though, and drove two hours to this bakery to get her the cookies, which cost $18 a pound. The day he brought her the cookies was the day she was finally unable to eat solid food. Undeterred, she put the box next to her bed so she could smell and admire them, doling the cookies out to favored guests.
One of the last things she told him before she died was how the smell of the cookies brought back a childhood memory, long forgotten. On rare occasions, her father would take her on the long drive to this same bakery, and purchase the same cookies. He sketched the story so beautifully that I could see it in my mind; the little dark-haired girl, in her dress and mary janes, so excited to spend the day alone with her daddy on the long drive to the bakery; their special time together. My co-worker's cookies were more than a gesture of thoughtfulness for his dying mother; for that moment, he gave her her father back.
He returned to work a few days ago, and we had lunch together his first day back in the office. My co-worker is a born raconteur, and had spoken about his mother, a fierce first-generation Italian-American. I never met her, but liked her a great deal based upon his stories.
He told me how she had been lucid almost until the end, determined to go on her own terms, without regrets. She dictated her guest list and visiting hours personally those few final days, and participated eagerly in planning her memorial service, including the menu. While discussing menu options a few days before her death, she casually mentioned how much she liked the cookies from a bakery on the east side. An errant thought for the dessert table, and then she moved on to insist that no chicken be served.
Her son remembered, though, and drove two hours to this bakery to get her the cookies, which cost $18 a pound. The day he brought her the cookies was the day she was finally unable to eat solid food. Undeterred, she put the box next to her bed so she could smell and admire them, doling the cookies out to favored guests.
One of the last things she told him before she died was how the smell of the cookies brought back a childhood memory, long forgotten. On rare occasions, her father would take her on the long drive to this same bakery, and purchase the same cookies. He sketched the story so beautifully that I could see it in my mind; the little dark-haired girl, in her dress and mary janes, so excited to spend the day alone with her daddy on the long drive to the bakery; their special time together. My co-worker's cookies were more than a gesture of thoughtfulness for his dying mother; for that moment, he gave her her father back.
Monday, April 4, 2011
The Inner Critic
Somewhere on this journey, I have transformed. When we started this reverse book club, my goal was just to write. It didn't have to be good. It just had to get done. I was out of practice and needed to get into a routine. Writing was something that was important to me, and I let other people's priorities and schedules push it aside. So the goal was to just do it. Write. I didn't self-edit. I didn't think "this isn't good enough". Surely these were signs that I wasn't a "real writer". Somewhere along the way, I started self-editing. I hone and re-hone and hone yet again the things I create. The self-criticism feels good. Being engaged in the process feels good. Writing, and subsequently editing feels good.
My sister encouraged me to watch a clip of Elizabeth Gilbert speak at the TED Conference. She spoke about the pressure to create something good. Sometimes the pressure of doing something well can prevent one from doing something at all. She encouraged her listeners to let go of that pressure. Your job is to create. She speaks of the muse or the genius as being an external thing. Its job it to inspire. Thinking about writing, or creating art, in this way helps take the pressure off so she can get back to the task at hand. I encourage you to check out the speech: http://www.ted.com/talks/lang/eng/elizabeth_gilbert_on_genius.html
If life is about balance, it would follow that writing is about balance. Striking the balance between getting your work out of your head and into a tangible thing, and honing the creation into something better. Create something without editing it to death: that's the challenge.
My sister encouraged me to watch a clip of Elizabeth Gilbert speak at the TED Conference. She spoke about the pressure to create something good. Sometimes the pressure of doing something well can prevent one from doing something at all. She encouraged her listeners to let go of that pressure. Your job is to create. She speaks of the muse or the genius as being an external thing. Its job it to inspire. Thinking about writing, or creating art, in this way helps take the pressure off so she can get back to the task at hand. I encourage you to check out the speech: http://www.ted.com/talks/lang/eng/elizabeth_gilbert_on_genius.html
If life is about balance, it would follow that writing is about balance. Striking the balance between getting your work out of your head and into a tangible thing, and honing the creation into something better. Create something without editing it to death: that's the challenge.
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