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Why
It’s a common response to the big “why” question. I hear it all the time. I’ve used it myself once or twice. “I write because I have to.” But unless someone is pressing your fingers to the keyboard, it’s simply untrue. Even for those of you who are facing a looming deadline. You don’t have to meet that deadline. Really, you don’t. Yeah, you’ll ruin your editor’s day, and you could theoretically lose your publishing deal, but no one is forcing you to give up binge-watching “Jennifer Jones” in order to finish chapter sixteen – the one where that thing happens you haven’t yet thought of that makes the whole novel work. No one is forcing you…
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Chasing, Maybe
When I first started writing, I attempted to emulate my favorite authors (though Arthur C. Clarke and Ernest Hemingway would have struggled to find even the slightest resemblance). This is the way it goes for many writers. We begin our journey to uniqueness by trying to be someone else. Isn’t it the same way with musicians? [Cue “Smoke on the Water.”] It’s only after hundreds of thousands of words, most of which we prefer to forget, that we finally begin to find our one-of-a-kind writing voice.* And then what do we do? We use that compellingly unique voice to tell the stories we think will sell. Not right away. First there’s a season when we write the…
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Exercising the Why
Let’s say you’re in a coffee shop. I think we can all agree that’s a reasonable assumption. A four-year-old girl walks up to you. She’s a precocious curly-headed moppet with curious blue eyes and a surprisingly accurate sixth sense about strangers. She knows you’re the non-dangerous type, despite the army of wrinkle-lines marching across your face while you sort through a particularly tricky plot point. “What are you doing?” she asks. Because that’s what a precocious curly-headed moppet with curious blue eyes does. She asks questions. She hasn’t learned filters yet. Thank God. Because you need her to ask these questions. “Writing,” you answer. “What are you writing?” “A novel.” She…
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Summoning the Muse
A muse is a lot like that friend you had back in junior high. You know the one. She wore stripes and polka dots and plaid simultaneously and welcomed open-mouthed stares as obvious evidence of jealousy. She yelled “penis” at lunch, causing you to snort milk out your nose. She taught you the real value of compound words: more colorful swearing. She introduced you to punk music, country line dancing and cloudbursting – all on the same day. She smoked cigarettes, but only when doing so might get you in trouble. She was the friend your parents gave polite smiles to, but weren’t so sure about. And she was totally…