My Writing Process (with pictures)

19 May 2013 9 Comments

by PartlyPixie in Becasue You Asked, Getting it done, NaNoWriMo Tips, The Novel, Writing Tools Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Over time, I've often been asked a lot to talk about my writing process – the nuts and bolts of what I do when I sit down to write. And so far, I've resisted doing so, partly because I don't really know if I have a writing process, and partly because its a very self-conscious thing to do, to pay attention as you write and figure out what is it exactly that I do?

So I have been watching, very coyly and indirectly, so as not to frighten myself into doing strange things like starting to smoke a pipe or drink absinthe merely to seem more writerly. And I've been able to piece some of it together.

But I have to clarify that this is not how I *always* write, it's how I write when I feel like writing this way – particularly when I need to feel more professional. In truth, it's probably how I write only 30-50% of the time. I've logged more words and writing hours in the last year flopped on the sofa with a cat next to me and marathons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer in the background than I have at a desk.

So if you want the CliffsNotes version of how I write, here it is:

Choose caffeinated beverage and preferred seating area. Commence writing.

There. If this is enough for you, feel free to go about your day.

Anyone looking more for the full monty, let's keep going.

And by no means should anyone try to replicate my way of doing things. This is what works for me, and everyone is different.

I normally stop on my way home from work at a coffee shop to get in a few hours of uninterrupted writing time before obligations of home (cat, laundry, friends, Netflix) can drag me in and distract me, and I've made a point of posting pictures (like the ones here) of where I'm writing over at the Facebook page if anyone wants to follow along.

Today, I don't particularly feel like getting dressed in real clothing, so I'm working at The Desk at home (more on The Desk another day). I chose a pot of hazelnut black tea, and gathered my tools, which are always nearby in my bag – I select purses for being iPad-and-notebook friendly.

When not at home, I choose a cafe with wi-fi and plenty of comfy seating. I prefer places where people go to study, places with 50¢ refills and quiet music on in the background. Though sometimes, I opt for a moody bar and whisky, if the writing demands it.

I usually start with checking in with the outside world – Facebook, twitter, a cursory glance at my email, sending a text or two I needed to send, maybe returning a quick phone call, just to clear off my to-do list, or to get used to the idea of sitting and working. I'll use this time to play a small game of some kind if I'm feeling reluctant or if my mind is busy from the day. Sometimes I stare at people or out the window. I fidgit, and I daydream, I listen to a song I've been humming all day.

I like to put in my headphones whether I'm at home or out, even if I don't play anything on them. Few things say “don't bother me” in the same way. I generally listen to music to set the mood of my writing. Sometimes I listen to ambient noise of brain wave stuff, or I'll have nothing at all and pretend to work while I take notes on the juicy conversation at the next table.

After maybe twenty minutes, I begin. The caffeine and routine have worked into my system enough and I'm ready. Even if I'm not ready, I get to work. The time I spend working – whether it's a few hours or thirty minutes – is mine, and I do what I want as long as it's toward the ultimate goal of having written, or having expanded my little writing empire online.

Some days I like to start with fountain pens and notebooks. I like to write by hand when I feel an extra reluctance, or when I need to ease into a scene, write lists of things to think about or do, or just to feel the weight of a pen in my hand. Some things need to be hand written first, and others need the clarity of typing them out, the secure feel of consistent font.

Most of the time, I write on my iPad. Ever since I got it last march, it's my favorite thing ever. I keep a notebook at my elbow for quick notes and brain drains while I work, and I write whatever is going to be written that day. Sometimes, like today, it's a blog entry. Other days, I have a flash of insight and want to get to work immediately on a scene or a new idea.

Sometimes it all snaps together like Legos. Sometimes it's like building with old wooden blocks that are warped and rounded at the edges, and I know it's rickety and needs a lot more work. But I have made the shape I want, and at the very least I can build it again out of sturdier stuff.

Sometimes I write snippets from several different scenes, scattered across several files. Sometimes I write one long, contiguous piece, and sometimes I rewrite something that still doesn't feel right to me.

But no matter how it goes, if I've sat down to write, writing gets done. There is no other option.

Generally, I get around 2,000 words done. Sometimes more, rarely less.

Unless I'm trying to reach a monthly goal like last year, I don't worry about how much I do. Some scenes need to be written slowly and with care, they need my full attention on them like a friend in crisis. Other scenes are easy and fall out in large chunks of words and scarcely need more from me than to be the one to write them down.

I allow some distractions while I work. I respond to texts and messages within reason. If someone I know comes in, I'll stop to chat. I'll update Facebook, or tweet. I let myself research until I find what I need to continue with the story (and since my current novel involves a lot of history and phrases from other languages, I do a lot of quick googles in the middle of a thought). If possible, I do research on my iPhone to ensure I don't fall into a information hole. But if I do get sucked in, it happens. I just pull myself out and write more.

I do my best to not stress about these kinds of things, the interruptions and blips, and to trust myself. I'm a writer, I am writing, and as long as that keeps happening, I don't worry much over the small things like how much or little I can use from my day's work. It's all building the shape of what I want, each day getting closer.

Best fortune cookie ever.

There is one thing I never let myself do: I don't look up writing advice in my writing time. Its better to have a big sloppy rough draft done than have wasted another hour or day reading about how to do it. If I need encouragement, I'll look for it later. Writing time is for writing. Period.

If I get stuck, I switch tasks, or stare out the window more, or just muscle through it and write bad, awful, terrible prose.

Some days I leave cranky and irritated with how it went, other days I feel empowered and ready to take on the next step. Sometimes it's like I'm lost in a fog with no compass and an inner ear problem, other times I can see the sprawl of my plot like a view from space.

But my day is always better if I've had time to write.

This is all how the process goes – when there is a process. I strive to never be chained to one way of doing things, but to be fluid with life – there isn't always a coffee shop or desk nearby when I need one.

I've been known to write some of my best stuff curled on irowboat's sofa while he played Arkham City or Tomb Raider next to me. I've been known to whip out my pen at parties, and to seek out corners in bars to get some notes down.

It all boils down to this gem of advice:

If you've come all this way with me, awesome and congratulations.

Now go write something with your own process, and don't give mine another thought.

 

Distance, where I’ve been, and getting personal

03 May 2013 5 Comments

by PartlyPixie in The Novel, unsticking Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Shadows at the tide pools.

Forgive me for rambling, I'm rusty at this.

I've been away. Away from the blog, away from home, from myself, even from writing.

I needed a vacation.

Irowboat's birthday is in April, and we decided to celebrate with a road trip in my new car to California – traveling to San Francisco and down the coast to Los Angeles, finally ending in San Diego for a few nights before heading home. It was a chance to see friends (including a visit with the fabulous people of The Office of Letters and Light), to eat marvelous food, stare at gorgeous coastlines, and to research some locations for The Novel.

We had an amazing time. There were long walks, speakeasies, The Golden Gate Bridge, winding roads with no cell phone reception, tide pools, ghosts in hotels, caves used by smugglers and pirates of yesteryear, beaches at sunset, books by Douglas Adams on the car stereo, time with each other. And, of course, amazing friends, new, old, and in-between.

There was a day spent glued to television and twitter when bombs went off in Boston, the surreal contrast of our Great Vacation against the horror and fear of the news.

There was an impromptu stop at Monterey Bay Aquarium, hunts for clam chowder on the coast, adventure.

I barely wrote a word.

It gave me distance, this trip. It gave me time in air thick with history and wonder, time in the places my characters know and love and remember. Time away from myself and who I'm used to being.

That distance gave me the chance for all this writing, all this dreaming to change me, and I've returned different. I'm new, born into myself from the new reality of writing, wanting to write, afraid and excited by all I have to learn.

I can't help but think back to last year at this time. I was frightened, troubled that I might not make it. My insecurities lashed at me like tide on sharp rocks, catching me up in waves I thought might drown me. I knew I would never be the same – I could feel it as I wrote myself real. I've been feeling the changes in me, feeling the strain between who I was and who I am yet to be.

This trip, this distance from my everyday, has broken the bond with the past. I'm floating free. I don't know how to do anything anymore, not like I used to. I don't remember how to blog or to write, I have piles of emails to reply to and comments to answer and things I want to write and share here and elsewhere. And a novel to do.

I don't know where to begin. Not even a little. So I begin here, with you.

What is clear to me is that I'm ready to more myself. Here, elsewhere, anywhere. I can feel it, the desire to hold things back. I've given in too often, and fallen silent instead of saying what I wanted to say. But the time for that is over.

Now it's time to get more real, and more serious. Time to do What I Never Thought I Would.

I'm ready for this, whatever this is. I'm ready.

 

Winter, Compost, and Writing

06 Mar 2013 7 Comments

by PartlyPixie in Philosophical, unsticking Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

Writing practice, March 6, 2013

“Today it smelled like recess.

Like the first hope of spring, when the layers of snow peeled back to reveal autumn's debris, the ruined plastic rakes with splintered handles, the tipped buckets half-full of leaves, the inevitable beloved stuffed animal, lost and flattened and mouldering. Like walking to school in sneakers instead if soured boots, mittens left in our pockets, giddy from the lack of weight on our small bodies.

Today it smelled like recess. Like green grass poking through the webbing of last year's leaves and clippings, like tulips peeking from muddy earth, like hackey sack and too-early soccer games and mud-spattered jeans. It smelled like frosty air blowing down from snow covered mountains, the promise that winter was not over, not yet.

But for a day, we ran along the blacktop and smelled the air and kicked at snowmen melted like the wicked witch, stick arms splayed up to the heavens. And if we squinted our eyes, we could almost imagine green things on the trees, flowers to pick, kickball games, and the hope of the long days of summer far in the distance.

Today, it smelled like that. Like hope and renewal, like green, fresh things pushing up from the old compost of yesteryear, like the buried things uncovered…”

 

All writing falls eventually into a winter; a silent time of reflection and deep white drifts of nothingness covering our minds. It is a time to relax, to contemplate, to compost.

In the phenomenal book Writing Down the Bones, Natalie Goldberg describes writing practice as composting our lives, churning memory and senses and thoughts over and over until they become the fertil soil of imagination. And from there, we find the richness in ourselves we seek. And then, we write with that richness of being.

I'm a believer in composting, in following the seasons of ourselves and our writing.

We do not write outside the existence of our lives. We write in the rhythm of living; seeking to dive in and transform the desperate handful of moments we have in the world into something outside of us, something that touches others in the small ways, comforting ways that make the world a richer place to live in.

We need to write—we need to write from deep within, to process and turn through the decayed selves we once were, the memories and smells and emotions and deeper truths to be found within, we need to spring, ever hopeful and green from the remnants of ourselves.

And to use what we have learned, to be who we are, and tell the stories that naturally grow from that fertile ground of our own hearts, and to own those stories without judgement, without reservation or fear or censorship.

Because our stories are the natural consequence of our lives, of our obsessions and pasts and hair color and names and hobbies and sorrows and scars and joys. They are part of us, raw and real and alive. It is important to accept our selves, to churn through our minds in search for what matters, what is ready to be said.

When the silence of winter comes over us, it is time to listen. It is time to churn through our words and memory, to fall deep into truth with ourselves.

And then write what springs green and new from our hearts, as soon as the frost is gone.

Photo credit: irowboat

 

Focusing on the Outcome

26 Feb 2013 3 Comments

by PartlyPixie in unsticking Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

I want to be a writer.

Specifically, I want to write and publish books. Books about vampires and fairies and an organization I created called the Wish Granter's Union.

I want people to read what I write, to be inspired by my characters as I have been by other characters. I want to share what I know about life, about history, about people and love and all the other questions I may have an answer to, or at least a new way of asking the question.

And I suspect that you want something similar if you are here. We all want to touch the world in some way, in our own way be it selling things we want to share with the world, making art or music, or of course, writing.

And we need to remember that.

Which is why I have decided not to apply for Clarion West.

This last Saturday I spent eight hours in a martial arts seminar with one if the most incredible teachers alive.

We were practicing evading our opponent in slow motion, and looking for openings between their movements for our attack. We were to move aside or counter their motion, then find which tartet we wanted to hit for the desired effect, in this case putting the opponent on the ground.

I could evade well enough, but every time I started to hone in on my next move, I would get caught up in the method of it (exactly how do I need to grab his knee to make him fall backward again?) and I'd get hit. Start over, I get hit again.

My teacher had to remind me of somehting we've learned before.

“Focus on the desired outcome, not the method.”

We started again. My opponent hit the ground. I don't know what I did exactly, but it doesn't matter. I got what I wanted.

We must focus on the outcome.

It is so easy as writers to get distracted with the waving arms or our opponents. We spend time reading about craft, researching markets, trying to get into classes or magazines, fighting writers block, spending time arguing over the best method for characterization, whether or not to outline before writing (please stop it).

But we can do something different. We can focus on the outcome and trust ourselves to take the necessary actions to get there.

Because when fighting an opponent, we can hit their arm as hard as we want and it won't knock them out. If we want to knock them out, we must brush aside the arm and find a more viable target.

We must find our desired outcome.

Focusing on the outcome is how I wrote fifty thousand words every month for a year, regardless of the time constraints and the moping and internal struggle I went through, I always knew that all I needed to do was move toward 50,000 words. And I had to knock aside a lot of punches aimed my way, believe me.

But I knew what had to be done, and I did it.

And all of this is why I'm not applying for Clarion.

It is an outcome; a goal I could shoot for and a wonderful opportunity for someone who has the desire and need for close instruction, needing the encouragement and environment to learn to write every day.

But it isn't my desired outcome. It is a sideways step, a side mission tacked onto the path I walk. And unnecessary.

I want to write books. I want to publish. That was what last year was about too, about getting the habit of writing and the practice in of writing, continuing, finishing, repeat.

I'm ready, I think, to fly on my own. I'm ready to aim for the ultimate goal, the big one I've been dreaming of since I was very young. I have put in my time learning to write, now it's time to learn to make that writing readable and publishable.

It all comes done to trust. Trust in myself to know what needs to be done to get where I want to go, no matter what obstacles need to be knocked out of the way.

Which brings me to another maxim from Saturday's seminar.

“There is no success in giving up.”

 

Silence, Resistance, and Arguing with Myself

17 Feb 2013 4 Comments

by PartlyPixie in Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

I know I've been gone for some time. So long that irowboat took pity on me and wrote a lovely little post just to let everyone know I still alive, if not exactly prolific. Or able to spread butter on bread.

I have drafts and half written posts here on my iPad. More of the in my head. But they and other things I want to write remain as they are, either in the limbo of half-written or left as little thought bubbles in the odd hours of the night.

Before I get those posts that are ready up, I wanted to share this dilemma I'm facing in all it's neurotic glory. I tend to keep these kinds of struggles to myself because they are generally temporary and because we have other things to talk about here. But I need to get this part off my chest.

Because I'm not writing – not the way I need to be.

I don't believe in writers block, and even if I did this isn't it. I'm overflowing with ideas.

And yet, I've gone silent.

Silence in writers can be a good thing. It can be a period of reflection, growth, a respite, or just a small glitch that will work itself out.

But like depression, silence that goes on for too long means it's not just a glitch in the program, and it's time to take a good long look at what needs to change.

So now, let's all imagine the little squiggly lines and Vaseline-smeared lens effect of a television flashback, and go back to nearly one month ago. I'd just written my previous post, and was ready to decide what comes next for me.

And I decided to apply for Clarion West.

If you're not familiar with the Clarion workshops, they are intensive 6-weekly ordeals in which only 18 people are chosen per year, and the process seems to go something like: write a short story and have it torn apart, take a break and tear another person's story apart, listen to the instructors, rinse, repeat. All while staying in college dorms and networking and all that kind of stuff.

The instructors are all accomplished writers. This year, my idol and one do my favorite writers Neil Gaiman will be teaching. The workshop is also in Seattle, and if I get in I would have to get there and back, plus miss 6 weeks of work and pony up the $3,600 tuition cost.

To apply, I need to submit either 2 short stories totaling less than 30 pages (this is the recommended method), or a novel excerpt with a three page synopsis. This shoud not be difficult to come up with.

And ever since I decided to apply, I have been able to write a damn thing. Not even a blog post.

I come up with plenty of story ideas, none of which will fit into a 30-page limit. So I give up and turn to my old rough drafts and search for a excerpt and find one I think I can make work.

But it seems like if I really want to get in, I should write a short story. Two.

So I go back to that, and come up with another few thousand words. It seems to be going well.

And then Resistance sets in. Magically, I have suddenly gone out to do grocery shopping, or decided to clean my house, or have lapsed into a 4-hour coma and wake up on my desk with my forehead all wrinkly like a Klingon from my sweater-covered arms.

Resistance is as common as silence, and generally is something to ignore and push past. But once again, if it goes on too long, I think it comes time to reevaluate my situation.

What if I'm reisisting because I don't want to go?

It's a stupid dilemma to have. The chances that I may be one of the fortunate 18 is small, even if I do my best work. Nothing bad can come of writing and polishing 2 short stories or fixing up 30 pages of a novel. Why not just apply and see where the chips fall? Why not just go for it, and trust in the fates to do what is best for me?

First, the Fates have a fucked up sense of humor, and are not to be trusted. The end.

But the advice is sound, why not just do the best I can do, writing the things that I write (the temptation to write what I suspect they are looking for is high – but that's another post), and get on with things.

It all comes down to goals. Specific goals. If I want to merely apply to Clarion, just to see if what I usually write has a shot, I could have done that yesterday, or even last year. I can easily find 30 pages of pretty damn good writing to clean up and send, but that would only fulfill the goal of applying.

If the goal is to get in to Clarion, then nothing but my best will do. I'll have cheated myself otherwise if I don't do the recommended 2 short stories of my best writing to date, polishing and shining them until they are the pinnacle if what I have to offer. And then if/when I don't get in, at least I know that I did myself justice.

My ultimate goal, though, is to be a writer, to publish and write books people like enough to buy and come back for more, maybe even enough that I could quit my day job.

I suspect I don't need Clarion for that. It might help, sure – help with craft and networking and unknown other things. It seems like a side-step, though. The next step to publishing a book is editing and submitting, looking for an agent, getting rejected and trying again. That seems to be how every writer I love and respect has done it.

I don't know exactly what Clarion would do for me. In the accounts of those I have read, they say the most valuable lesson was just sitting down and writing.

I think I've got that one down. After writing 650,000 words in a year, it's now an ingrained habit to at least get out a few hundred words each day, or even to make a few notes. Writing on demand is not a problem.

But no matter what may or may not happen for me at Clarion, one thing is for sure.

Ever since I decided to apply, I have barely written.

That moment a month ago when I put it down as what I wanted was the dawn of stress and struggle and daily arguments with myself over what to do and how to do it. The only relief I can find is when I can for five or ten minutes convince myself I don't actually have to go, or even apply. Then, I feel better.

And because I feel better, I start to write again.

Until I realize maybe what I'm writing Something Promising. Maybe for Clarion…

Aaaaaand I stop writing.

I'm a believe in listening to one's own heart. And I think my Resistance and my heart are on the same page with this.

I don't want to go to Clarion. Even though I haven't even applied yet, even though I probably won't have to worry about whether or not to go because I won't get in, even though the workshop is a dream chance, the kind of thing people risk everything to do and if I do get in I'd be stupid to give up.

I don't want it.

So I'll apply. Because I can; I'll send in an except even though they recommend I don't. I'll pay the application fee and email in my words and move on.

And when I don't make it, I'll breathe a sigh of relief and plan what I'd rather do with $3,600.

Thanks, friends. I'm glad we had this talk.

 

 

 

 

 

Month Twelve Reflections: Write Through It, with lists and bad holiday advice

19 Dec 2012 5 Comments

by PartlyPixie in 12 Month Reflections, December, I might not be in my right mind here Tags: , , , , , , , ,

This last month seemed like it should be the easy one, the victorious lazy stumble across the finish line after the marathon has been run.

But I do not know if writing is ever like that, the happy slow jog to the end. I think writing is always something we must remember to keep buoyant, like a raft in the middle of the ocean with a little hole in the bottom. We can stay in that raft a very long time, as long as we remember to bail out the water of life that fills the bottom of the boat, overflows over our boot tops, and makes our feet heavy.

December in particular. There is family to brace ourselves for, presents to figure out, work to keep working on, holiday travel plans, finals in school, parties to attend and hangovers to rue. Even nature gets in on the conspiracy, as the seasons officially turn we are cold where there is cold, wet where there is wet, and heat in places that are backwards (yes, Australia, I am looking at you).

Here, there is a steady mix of snow showers and 20° temperatures, the noses and cheeks shoppers are rosy from the chill as they rush around the outdoor malls, the holiday cheer lost in wondering why anyone would build outdoor malls in a climate known for such extremes. And yet, they shop. They shop despite the other obstacles and the cold or the commute.

Because they have a priority, and they have a deadline, and even if all their Christmas/Kwanza/Ramadan/Hanukah presents come in Amazon boxes, they will get it done.

And so must we as writers, get it done – we must write with the determination of a grandmother with endless funds and a bevy of grandkids to spoil. Even if it is a poem scribbled on the back of receipts, of a quip of dialogue noted on food court napkins, we must remember that writing has a place too. Beyond the holiday lights and the new year fireworks, we will have stories waiting for us, edits to do, competitions to try for, dreams to hunt.

Not even December can take away our little boat, as long as we keep bailing the water out.

This year has not been without its setbacks. I have written through a third degree burn on my hand, two bad colds, a car accident and the injuries incurred, difficulties at work, the death of irowboat's dear cat Felix, a fabulous trip to San Francisco, turning thirty, martial arts classes, multiple assaults of mental paralysis and the grim knowing that I am and will always be a failure. This is the short list.

Just gives me more to write about

And just this month: more stress at work, the terrible news of the shooting in Newton Connecticut, and finding someone had backed up over my car.

But no matter what, there is writing to do. Between arguments with insurance agencies, sadness about my poor old not-pretty-but-I-love-it car, grief over the little lives lost across this country, and disappointment that I am not better caught up with the rest of my life by now.

I must write.

There is only 25,000 words left until I cross that finish line, and I want to have it done by Christmas morning. And I can do it.

If I keep writing through it, let the difficulties play like low background music as I type away.

I have learned this year that nothing, nothing at all, gets to derail us for long. Take a moment, or five, and then work hard and fast and move through the pain or difficulty or frustration. Let all of it fuel the writing, let it fuel ourselves.

Oh, and don't stress so much about shopping for just the right thing. Gifts can be forgotten in a year, but stories last beyond our lifetimes. Write instead and buy everyone an ugly scarf.*

*I accept no liability for the ramifications of following this advice. But I would appreciate any stories that result from trying it.

 

Month Twelve Reflections: Write What You Write

11 Dec 2012 6 Comments

by PartlyPixie in 12 Month Reflections, December, unsticking, Writing Tools Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

We hear about how zombies are over and how fairy tales are in, we hear about agents and we worry about if we can one day sell the thing we have scarcely typed five paragraphs of.

We ought never end a sentence with the word of. Or to. Or with.

We think we should write science fiction because smart people do that, or we should give up on literary fiction because vampires are where the money is (even though some writing magazine just told us the vampire craze is dead – haha dead, get it?), and what if that isn't where the money is and everyone is still stuck on serial killers and zombies after all?

But young adult is where the real market is, right? We should take a class on that, we should join a writing forum, we should have a writing group, except writing groups are bad for originality, or is that reading?

We should not read while we write because it will influence us, or was that we should read as much as we can while we write so we stay fresh?

We should never write cliches, we should only write things that have not been done, we should give up and write whatever, we should cut our teeth on fan fic and not worry about all that pesky character development. Maybe we should skip the publisher for that novel we haven't written yet and go straight to kickstarter, and maybe if we just read the latest magazine article on “5 Sure-Fire Ways to END Writer's Block NOW!” we can finally get started…

Stop

Just stop for a minute.

We are all here because we are writers, we want to be writers, or artists, or creatives. We have a need to express things that are within us, sometimes buried deep from years of shoulds and should nots, or just beneath the surface and waiting to be discovered.

Sometimes they lay like seashells in the sand and beg us to pick them up and hold them, smooth and cold like porcelain, to our ears, and listen.

We will never get to what is inside by reaching for what is outside. We will never be fulfilled as writers, never find that peace we write to seek, if we listen only to the bustle of the world going by, and not the seashell in our hands.

We must write what we write. We must come to the page, the canvas, the world as we are, and no one else. We must dive into our obsessions and burn through them, write into them, explore every unflattering angle and beautiful crevice of the things we cannot stop thinking about.

Whether it is cliche or obscure, if we do it honestly, we will offer the world what we are here to offer. And when we let go and admit to who we really are, the art is a little freer to make, the blocks not so blocked, the time not so long before we can feel the idea giving way and letting us slide into the heart of things.

And if the waves come and take a seashell away, wipe out what brilliant idea we had, it is easier to find another one just as brilliant, just as fine, because we know what to look for.

It does not always come easy.

When I began this year, I thought I was a science fiction writer. I had dabbled with all sorts of things, from some hard boiled crime to short stories dealing with Christian mythology, and of course, my beloved science fiction I thought I was meant to do.

I thought I knew what I wrote.

But what poured out was not expected: vampires, immortals, fairy tales and black magic, a tower that only stands because of the blood poured at it's feet, enchanted swords, underground owl men who tell your fortune in the bones of their pellets, exiled fairies, greek myths and conspiracies, and even more vampires.

I clung on for dear life as I wrote on and on, things I never dreamed I could imagine, anyone could imagine.

I can see the struggle in my early drafts, the fighting with myself, trying to steer the story to normal, all thrown out when the word count was too low, and I had to face myself as I am. I started many months with the hopes that maybe this time I would find sanity, the previous bloodbath of a novel was a fluke, but I was wrong.

I know better now, and I am a better writer. I look forward to what darkness lays before me, what evil deeds will await, what fairy tale I can twist.

I write what I write, it's just easier that way.

Write what you write, live as you live, let the rules that work for you find you.

And spend that money you save on writing magazines on a good pen, or some chocolate, or wine. Whatever makes you happy.

 

Magic, do as you will

11 Nov 2012 4 Comments

by PartlyPixie in I might not be in my right mind here, NaNoWriMo, Slightly off Kilter Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

I wanted this to be another inspirational blog post. I did. I wanted to sit down and write something that would lift up the spirits of all my fellow NaNoWriMo participants.

But I also am having difficulty myself, and I don't want to do the disservice of making this all look easy.

It isn't. Writing this much is a lot of work. It takes dedication and sleep deprivation and giving up activities, and it takes a certain kind of magic in us that sparks creativity.

I'm feeling exhausted, that bone-deep-hit-the-bottom-of-my-creative-well kind of exhaustion. I feel like a magician who has lost his way, doomed to a fate of never finding the right story every again.

Yesterday, I passed 20,000 words on my first novel of the month. I'm putting it aside for now. It's time to start the next novel, the second for November.

And I am drawing that oh-so-terrible blank; my magic isn't working.

I've written 10 novels, eleven since last November. I am afraid that I have no ideas left, no creativity in me. I'm run dry, aren't I? How can I not be?

I'm frightened that I'm a wizard with no more magic tricks, no more stories left to tell.

What I need is to come back to myself for a moment, to reach within and find the next idea, to stop worrying about if I will make it or if I'm writing something good. I need to return to myself and be the writer I am, the person who never says die and who doesn't care what happens as long as the words come.

In the book (and movie) The Last Unicorn, the magician Schmendrick is a man who was so bad at being a wizard, his instructor cursed him to immortality until he could finally perform real magic. He walks the earth for hundreds of years, until finally something so important is at stake, that he gives himself up and says,

“Magic, do as you will.”

And it works, not in any way he could have imagined or controlled, but it works. Just like writing works and just like NaNoWriMo works. I just need to give myself over to it, and to let go of what I expect.

Okay. Time to begin again. Magic, do as you will…

 

NaNoWriMo Tips: stage directions and other lessons from script writing

02 Nov 2012 12 Comments

by PartlyPixie in NaNoWriMo, NaNoWriMo Tips Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

(Why are you reading blogs? Go write! )

If anyone knows where this came from, let me know.

When I was younger, I spent a lot of my time (13 years) involved with all things theater. Acting in, writing, and directing plays all taught me a lot about storytelling, and about writing.

Playwriting and screenwriting is writing distilled down to an impressive science; instead of a whole block of text to connect with our audience, all there is is dialogue and action. Everything about a script is meant to give as much information possible in as little space needed, and while that seems like the opposite of NaNoWriMo, the last thing we want to waste is time fumbling with what we have already written, searching for what we already said.

I've noticed this year that a lot of the habits I developed as a playwright (yes the wright is where I got my NaNo username) have helped me immensely in my noveling, helping me to pad my word count, keep characters straight, and probably to smooth out the editing process in the future.

Here are some of them:

  • Leave yourself stage notes. You know that scene where we achingly work so hard at crafting the signs of subtle frustration in our main character? Chances are that on re-reading, we will have been too subtle and we won't remember what was going on. Take a cue from scripts, and leave yourself notes like (Mark is angry) and (she's holding the dagger), so as directors we can keep track of the action and not let it get muddled in our word-spewing haze.
  • Tell, don't show. I know, this is like breaking the first commandment, but there are times when we just don't want to deal with a scene, or we suddenly have lost track of what we are writing. When a play is a little confusing, one character usually sits and explains it all to help the audience out. To get past something we don't want to spend time on, nothing works like a quick bit of telling. Let a character have a flashback, dream sequence, monologue, or step out as a narrator and just blurt out a big bunch of story.; anything just to get the plot moving again.
  • Name extra characters simply. Not all characters need real names. While naming main characters can be one of the more enjoyable parts of noveling, naming an entire cast is exhausting and impossible to keep track of. Unless a name is required, most plays and movies will have extra players named their function, like “party guy” or “suitor seven.” This saves precious time trying to remember what we named someone, and also adds to our word count a little. And as a bonus, when we go back to edit, we know exactly who everyone is instead of running into something like the banquet scenes in Game of Thrones (I actually used action figures with post-its to get through reading those).
  • Cast of characters. At the top of each script is a section describing each main character: age, description, disposition. A lot of up keep a character bible of some kind, but I prefer this quick sketch just to keep referring to in case I can't remember if my main character is a ginger or brunette, or what accent someone speaks with. We can add small details as we go, but it isn't as rigid or as cumbersome as a full biography (though if you're really stuck for words, biographies are fair game for extra word count).
  • Create a morgue. My script writing teacher always told us to never throw out dialogue. Instead, he gave us a notebook with a headstone on the cover, and instead of throwing out stuff, we glued it in there for later resurrection. Every time you write something you don't like, just cut and paste it onto another document, or just move it to the bottom of the screen under a MORGUE heading. And count them. Keep all of the words you write, even if you change stories or write something you do not use. This isn't writing 50,000 words of coherent plot, this about writing 50,000 words. Put the cut ones in the morgue, and maybe they will get to live again one day.

I hope some or all of these help. Please do not hesitate to message me with any problems, sticky situations, or panic attacks. I want everyone to finish NaNoWriMo, and I'll do whatever I can to get us all there.

 

That's it for today. We have novels to get to!

 

 

 

Ten Down, Three to Go! With other thoughts.

01 Nov 2012 2 Comments

by PartlyPixie in NaNoWriMo Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

October was a wild ride, and this ending feels hard won. There was the loss of irowboat's cat Felix, the win of the NaNoWriMo post, the daily life in-betweens of it all, and working in the words wherever they fit. The anticipation of November has hung on us all heavily, and today it is here.

I spent Halloween dressed as a writer, with a patched-elbowed sweater, hair tied up messily, and the telltale squint of one who has been putting words in strings for hours. I held the bowl of candy for trick-or-treaters with whichever hand didn't have my coffee mug, and I believe I wished more kids a Merry Christmas than Happy Halloween.

In the bleary and achingly wee hours, I finished my tenth novel. 500,000 words. And celebrated with three hours of sleep; the deepest I have had in a long time.

And now it is time to start again. This time, the first of two novels for the month: one for NaNoWriMo, one to satisfy my goal for the year.

It is hard to believe that I have come nearly full circle now, that I am less than a month away from when I first got the idea for this project. It seems like only a few months ago that I sat here where I am now, and I looked up and proclaimed to my visiting friend, who sat writing beside me, that I wanted to write a novel a month for a year.

Irowboat gives me awesome shirts.

Now I can write.

He, of course, told me it was a terrible idea. Maybe he forgot that I live to break rules and to chase down terrible ideas.

It was my 1-UP, a new life.

And my beginning happened then, in that instant. I have not been the same since. I wish I knew where it was all going to lead, what adventure I'm in the middle of finding.

But I'm still in the middle of my story. And if there is anything I have found out for sure, it is that we never know what story we are writing until we are at the end.

Only three more novels to go. Three novels, and one night writing dangerously, thanks to the amazing and heartwarming donations I received. I cannot thank you all enough.

Keep your eyes out for more NaNoWriMo tips. Coming to a blog near you.

Now, hand me some more coffee. I have a novel to start!

 

Photo credit: irowboat

 

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