Inspiration #8

Every Sunday, I choose a passage of wisdom from someone who knows better and much more than I do about writing, life, the universe and/or everything.

Share and enjoy!

And once again, I’m using material from the most amazing Neil Gaiman. He posted this recently on his blog, and it’s simply too good to resist.

It’s a weird thing, writing.

Sometimes you can look out across what you’re writing, and it’s like looking out over a landscape on a glorious, clear summer’s day. You can see every leaf on every tree, and hear the birdsong, and you know where you’ll be going on your walk.

And that’s wonderful.

Sometimes it’s like driving through fog. You can’t really see where you’re going. You have just enough of the road in front of you to know that you’re probably still on the road, and if you drive slowly and keep your headlamps lowered you’ll still get where you were going.

And that’s hard while you’re doing it, but satisfying at the end of a day like that, where you look down and you got 1500 words that didn’t exist in that order down on paper, half of what you’d get on a good day, and you drove slowly, but you drove.

And sometimes you come out of the fog into clarity, and you can see just what you’re doing and where you’re going, and you couldn’t see or know any of that five minutes before.

And that’s magic.

Inspiration #6

Every Sunday, I choose a passage of wisdom from someone who knows better and much more than I do about writing, life, the universe and/or everything.

Share and enjoy!

I found this bit of wisdom on Neil Gaiman’s blog. Since I talk so much about first drafts, I thought we could use a bit of insight into the second draft process.

The second draft is where the fun is. In a first draft, you get to explode. The objective (at least for me) is to get it down on paper, somehow. Battle through the laziness and the not-enough-time and the this-is-rubbish and everything else, and just get it written. Whatever it takes. The second draft is where you go and gather together the fragments of the explosion and figure out what it is you did, and make it look like that was what you always meant to do.

So you write it. Then you put it aside. Not for months, but perhaps for a week or so. Even a few days. Do other things. Then set aside some uninterrupted time to read, and pull it out, and pretend you have never read it before — clear it out of your head, and sit and read it. (I’d suggest you do this on a print-out, so you can scribble on it as you go. )

When you get to the end you should have a much better idea of what it was about than you did when you started. (I knew The Graveyard Book would be about a boy who lived in a graveyard when I started it. I didn’t know that it would be about how we make our families, though: that’s a theme that made itself apparent while the book was being written.)

And then, on the second and subsequent drafts, you do four things. 1) You fix the things that didn’t work as best you can (if you don’t like the climactic Rock City scene in American Gods, trust me, the first draft was so much worse). 2) You reinforce the themes, whether they were there from the beginning or whether they grew like Topsy on the way. You take out the stuff that undercuts those themes. 3) You worry about the title. 4) At some point in the revision process you will probably need to remind yourself that you could keep polishing it infinitely, that perfection is not an attribute of humankind, and really, shouldn’t you get on with the next thing now?

-Neil Gaiman May 11, 2008 

Developing Writing Practice #1: Write or Not

Day Twenty Four: 42,563 of 50,000 words

You’ve got to be willing to waste any time you want to spend being creative.

At least at first.

It’s because we suck at actually valuing the time spent being creative as a society overall. We love the idea of perfect writing, but the time spent on writing it? Who has that? Don’t you need to do laundry? Don’t you need to work out? How about finding a new job!

So creative time is essentially selfish. It’s “wasted”. We’re not making our houses cleaner, our credentials better, our wallets thicker, our loved ones more appreciated. And until that manuscript is off to the editor and we have an advance in our pockets, it’s never going to be easy to explain to our parents why we’re working so hard on “nothing.”

So I say again: in order to be able to find time to write, we must be willing to find time to waste. Otherwise, the more immediately gratifying aspects of the real-world will seduce us away, even if it’s just leveling up in the latest facebook game.

But wasted time can be wasted however you choose without guilt. It was going to be wasted anyway, right? Might as well try writing that book.

Over time, I’ve developed what I call Write-or-Not time. It came from years of writing practice I learned from Writing Down the Bones, and an idea from the book Willpower. In it, they cite a successful author (I’ll check the name) who would sit down for a set amount of time every day, and for that time he could do two things: write, or not write. Nothing else.

I like this idea.

I started using it, and it works. I have kept a steady writing practice for the last six months.

I go to one of several coffee shops in the evening, sometimes on my way home from work. I get a drink and maybe some food, and I can either write or not. It’s how I’ve developed the mental muscle power to do what I’m doing, and it’ll keep me meeting my goals.

If you’re stuck, floundering, wondering why you can’t find time to write? It might be worth a try for you. At the least, it might lead you to your own way of doing things.

My first writing tool to give you is this.

Value your writing time by “wasting” it.

Start practicing write-or-not time. Get everyone used to the fact you’re doing it, too – turn off your phone.

Step one: Get out of the house.

Lots of people work fine at home, but when you’re already reluctant and feeling blocked, just making coffee could lead to cleaning the kitchen and making dinner, and before you know it it’s bedtime and writing didn’t happen today. Oops.

So get out of the house.

Go to a coffee shop or tea parlor or bar. Order a drink. To stay.

Now, you’re stuck there. You must stay at least as long as it takes to finish your drink. If you’re somewhere with free refills, you’re there longer. You’ve also invested money in your writing time now, so you’re going to be more inclined to make it count.

(If you’re really stuck and there’s a piece of cheesecake calling your name from the bake case, you can get it. Even if you’re on a diet. AFTER you’ve written for an hour – this isn’t a time to be above bribery.)

Now, at this point you’re going to get out your writing tools. If you’re extra resistant or out of shape, I recommend a notebook and pen. The internet is everywhere, and Facebook? Twitter? Too tempting. You need basics.

(It’s also worth noting that rockstar writer Neil Gaiman writes all his first drafts by hand. How can he be wrong?)

Get out your notebook and pen. (I like fountain pens with colorful ink because it satisfies my inner child. I write just to make pretty colors happen.)

Set a timer. I recommend an hour, but anything over 20 minutes is acceptable. Less than 20 and you’re being too easy on yourself. And you DID buy a drink right? That should take more than 20 minutes to finish.

(And don’t you want that cheesecake?)

Now, until that timer goes off, you can write, or you can sit there.*

Your choice. If you’re like me and allergic to boredom, you’ll start writing within fifteen minutes.

Congratulations! You’ve finished your first step to valuing your writing time.

If you’ve done nothing by the end of the hour, that’s ok. You’ve still sent a powerful message to yourself – it’s okay to use up time to pursue your dreams.

Your writing time is important. Important enough that you can waste it.

Besides, you’ll be back tomorrow.

*It helps to set aside any lofty writing goals just now; simply be willing to put down whatever words come to mind. Once you’ve developed you writing muscles, you can pick that Great American Novel up again.

Unoriginal ranting and mid-month blues

Day Fifteen: 28,227 of 50,000

We’re at that middle bit.

If you’re the kind of person who only gets halfway through writing books before stopping, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

It’s the dreaded half-way point. The part where the beginning and all the groundwork is done, the real essence of the story is trying to reveal itself, and the story has what I can only describe as a midlife crises. My characters do a dutiful job of working within the confines of their archetype for the first while (sometimes they decide they’re vampire hunters, but we still learn to get along), the real story I’m writing starts to become more apparent and the old plot line gets left behind, the scaffolding staying in the rough draft like remnants of some old mining town where the mine never produced ore. For a few days I get this feeling that the story is really hitting it’s stride, that there is a story here after all and I haven’t been kidding myself that I can come up with material enough to get through the month.

Then, we get to that middle bit.

Suddenly, my characters become overly emotional. They question whether or not their lives have been what we’ve agreed they are, they want to run off and date hot young blondes and drive them around in red convertibles even though it’s winter and I live in Utah where convertibles are practical maybe two months out of the year anyhow.

They still want to drive a convertible. With a new friend – anyone but the people I’ve stuck them in this story with. They all hate each other, or they get along too well and I as the dutiful author must chase them up trees and throw rocks at them. The calm cool, writer in me who has Perspective and thinks that this is a sign there is a good amount of conflict and realistic characters, so I’m doing a good job and to keep the pressure on. Who, when life is difficult, hasn’t wanted to throw it all away and be someone else?

The me who knows I still have half a book (at least) to write throws a bit of a mid-novel crisis herself. I get pissy with anyone near me, I throw little tantrums in my head, and I tell myself I have no good ideas. I want to just make the conflict happen. I want to know where this story is going. I want my characters to BEHAVE, dammit.

Oh good. Another angst-riddled writer raging against the machine. How original – just what this world needs.

It reminds me of this brilliant bit of inspiration – something I read often to keep me going. I mean, if Neil Gaiman feels like this sometimes, I must be doing it right. In fact, you might as well go read what he has to say, because it’s exactly what I’ve just been complaining about, and he’s a much more accomplished writer than I.

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