Category Archives: My Thoughts

What If?

Usually it goes something like this:

What if I’m a terrible writer. Or (gasp) a truly average writer?

What if all the kind words people offer about my stories are nothing more than polite lies accompanied by fake smiles because they want to avoid hurting my feelings?

What if my dogged pursuit of traditional publishing is a fool’s errand? What if there are exactly zero literary agents interested in the kind of stories I write? What if the only thing I learn from querying is how poorly I handle rejection?

What if I self-publish and the book just sits there on the virtual shelf, impervious to my attempts to find an audience for it?

What if the book’s cover is all wrong? What if the marketing blurb sends people away with a shrug? What if people think it’s too expensive? Or too cheap?

What if readers hate the book and slap it with 1-star reviews? What if they find it bland and purposeless and don’t review it at all?

What if I run out of story ideas? What if all my stories just plain suck?

Or it could go something like this:

What if I’m actually a decent writer? Or maybe even a really good one?

What if I start to believe the nice things people say about my stories?

What if I learn to trust my writing voice on the first draft, and my re-writing voice on the second and third and fourth?

What if I accept the possibility that I just haven’t been lucky enough to find the right literary agent, and reject the idea that my work isn’t good enough for traditional publishing?

What if the 1-star reviews don’t matter? What if I own the idea that I’m writing for the people who do get it and that this is more than enough?

What if readers fall in love with the characters, the plot, the words? What if my stories matter?

What if I’m a better writer than I think I am? What if I get better with every story?

What if I could trust the “what ifs” in the second half of this blog post more than those in the first, and still be thinking about them long after I’ve clicked out of cyberspace and returned to my writing reality?

I wonder what that would be like.

#amwaiting

When the language gods sat down at their very expensive polished maple conference table to decide which term to use for the art of putting words together to tell stories, “writing” wasn’t their first choice. “Bloodletting” actually had the most up-votes and was likely to get the nod. But then one of the lesser gods – the one everyone mistakenly called Vern – felt compelled to mention how similar “writing” was to “waiting,” which they’d already determined would mean “excruciatingly long pauses where nothing appeared to be happening.”

While he was publically showing his support for the already-popular idea of eliminating “writing” from contention, he was secretly hoping his observation might be clever enough to gain him a little status among his peers. But when the other gods noticed this similarity, they immediately changed their votes. They’d find another use for “bloodletting.” “Writing” was perfect, because, as the god known as Carl V. Clamphammer said, “Writing and waiting are intimately intertwined.” The other gods cheered and nodded and deemed it a done deal and Vern was hailed as a genius.

All this is true. Except the part about Vern being hailed as a genius. Ask any of the gods today and they’ll universally respond, “Who’s Vern?”

By this point, you’re probably wondering if I’m ever going to get to the point of the blogpost. Oh, I will. Eventually.

But first, let’s talk about bloodletting.

Okay. Fine. I’ll save that for another post.

This one is on…wait for it…

[Taps fingers on table.]

[Stares at clock on wall.]

[Goes online to try to understand Tumblr and find out where the missing “e” went.]

Writing and waiting. Carl V. had it right. If you’re a writer, you’re a waiter. (And yes, you might also be a waiter, but that’s not important, so ignore that six-top and rejoin me here at the point. Oh, and could you bring me some water? With lime, please. Thanks.)

Here are some of the ways a writer waits:

  • You wait for the computer to wake up from sleep.
  • You wait for inspiration.
  • You wait for the children to take a nap so you can wait for inspiration.
  • You wait for the Internet to stop offering you pictures of kittens knitting sweaters for their pet sloths.
  • You wait for feedback from your beta readers.
  • You wait for a response (or non-response) from literary agents.
  • You wait for your editor to get back to you with his notes. [Ed: Thanks for your patience.]
  • You wait for someone to buy your book.
  • You wait for the first five-star review.
  • You wait for the first one-star review.
  • You wait for someone to respond to the one-star review by telling the reviewer he should probably read the book before reviewing it.
  • You wait for writing elves to finish your novel while you sleep.
  • You wait for sleep that never comes because you’re worried that the writing elves might steal your idea and give it to James Patterson.
  • You wait for phone calls. Emails. Texts. Ideas. Words. Brilliance. Coffee. Wine. Hope.

There’s a lot of waiting in writing. But it doesn’t have to be an “excruciatingly long pause where nothing seems to be happening.” See, you can still write while you’re waiting. You can brainstorm the next book. You can come up with marketing ideas. You can argue with the voices in your head. You can crawl out of your bed and put on sweats and running shoes and pretend like one day of exercise will make up for the dozen donuts you ate yesterday while you were writing.

Waiting is a great time for pondering things. But here’s a tip – be sure to have paper and a pen (or a laptop, or a smart phone) nearby while you’re waiting. That plot problem you were struggling with? The answer will inevitably come to you while you’re waiting in line at the corner deli.

But it’s not like you have to fill every waiting moment with stuff. That’s insane. Please feel free to enjoy an “excruciatingly long pause where nothing seems to be happening” if that’s what you need. Sometimes doing nothing is exactly what you should be doing.

Then, when your nothing time is over, you can get back to waiting. I mean writing. I mean waiting. I mean writing. I mean…

Bloodletting might have been a better choice.

Thanks a lot, Vern.

This Isn’t an Abandoned Blog

The lack of recent posts is merely evidence that I’m ALL-CAPS VERY BUSY with editing work. [And all my clients said, “Amen.”] Oh, and also with a little fiction writing of my own. [And all my clients said, “You mean after you finish editing my novel, right?”]

I’ve already said lots of writerly things in this space. Feel free to skim the archives for writing tips and clevery-worded encouragement and a smattering of nonsense.

I’ll be back with a new post when Available Time and Having Something to Say intersect.

Meanwhile, write stuff.

The Fault in Our Stares

If Neil Gaiman walked into this coffee shop, I’d be starstruck. I’m not easily starstruck. As I slog through the latter part of middle age, I just don’t have the energy to drum up enthusiasm for the common celebrity. Confession: I haven’t read Entertainment Weekly in years.

Last summer I visited the set of the new Zach Braff movie (coming to theaters near you this July – and depending on the edit, starring me in one scene as a blurry background extra) and was non-plussed by the famously tanned faces that wandered in and out of the virtual frame. My favorite part of the visit was talking briefly with Zach’s much less famous brother, Adam, who is the co-author of the screenplay. (For the record, I would have been equally interested in talking with the other Braff, Joshua, who wrote the surprisingly compelling coming-of-age novel, The Unthinkable Thoughts of Jacob Green. But he was off living his regular life.)

The only category of the self-congratulatory spectacle known as The Oscars that even remotely interests me is “Original Screenplay.” Yes, Cate Blanchett is a wonder of evolution, but I’d still rather talk story with Spike Jonze than glad-hand with Galadriel.

I like to tell myself that my predilection for pen monkeys* over prima donnas makes me a little less shallow than typical celebrity fawners, but that’s just a poor attempt to pretend I’m not totally smitten by those who pay their dues with the written.

Consider John Green, for example. I mean, look at the guy. Nerd. Normal. Generous. Funny. Successful. He’s the me I didn’t know I always wanted to be. Or maybe should have been.

And J. K. Rowling. I want to spend my summer vacation in her imagination. Then I want to learn a spell to make myself 12 again so I can enjoy delivering the best “How I Spent My Summer Vacation” report in the history of life.

And Marilynne Robinson. I’m a slow writer because I don’t know what to say. She’s a slow writer because she wants to be certain of what she says. I want her patience (right now) and her gentle genius for character.

And of course, Neil. I visited both the House on the Rock and Rock City long before I read American Gods. And I had a passing interest in mythology. It’s like I had all the pieces I needed to write that book except Neil’s brilliant mind. And how did he know I once wished for an ocean at the end of my childhood street? How could anyone know that? I want his way with words.

I want all their writerly gifts. I even want a taste of the celebrity I claim to have no interest in. I want people to line up at my book signings all a-quiver to be in the same room as “that cool guy who wrote that amazing thing I read fifteen times!”

When I stop to think about it, though, I realize what I really want is simply to be a great writer. The kind worthy of such admiration, whether or not it ever comes. But I’m not going to get there by drooling at the feet of my writerly idols.

So if Neil Gaiman walks into this coffee shop, I’ll try not to stare. Instead, I’ll offer a nod of respect, then return my attention to my laptop. I’ll write until I understand why I use phrases like “predilection for pen monkeys,” then I’ll keep writing until I become the best version of the only person who can write like me.

Meanwhile, I’ll brush up on my Neil Gaiman impersonation. I mean, in case of future book signings. Because nothing makes fans go all a-quiver like a smart English accent.

 

*Pen Monkey is a term I discovered on writer/writing guru Chuck Wendig’s blog. He’s way smarter than I am and a far superior writer and blogger. What are you still doing here anyway? Go there. You don’t need me anymore. 

 

Spinning

The earth is spinning on its axis at 1000 miles an hour while it whips around the sun at  67,000 miles per hour.

And I can’t keep up.

I know what you’re thinking. I don’t need to. The earth is going to do its thing regardless of my thing and thanks to the magic of physics, we don’t even have to hang on.

But I’m not here just for the ride. I want to stand on the leading edge and see the sunrise before it knows its colors. I want to stick my toes out as we cross into autumn, feeling the bite of the coming cool just ahead of its arrival. I want to experience the things that haven’t happened yet before anyone can tell me about them.

Not so I can lord it over you and call, “First!” There isn’t time to consider you. Or me. The things that haven’t happened yet appear like a sudden recognition and disappear as quickly as that recognition bends into a memory. It’s not about being first. It’s about wanting to linger a moment longer in the company of the not yet. Because that’s where the unwritten stories live.

And some of those stories are mine.

I spend most of my time wrestling with words after they’ve already enjoyed a few spins. And I’ll keep doing that. This is the hard work of the writer.

But let me stand for a moment where the day and the night and the summer and the winter begin so I can see those stories before they break up in the atmosphere and fall to the earth like satellite shrapnel. Let me catch a glimpse of what the stories are meant to be, how they long to be told.

Then maybe when I climb back down through the clouds, settle into my seat in the coffee shop spaceship filled with fellow travelers who haven’t had a single thought about where the stories come from – maybe then I’ll be able to put the words together in a way that looks a little something like the sunrise before it knows its colors.