My friend recently posted on her blog about wanting a knitting project to end, how she's tired of it already despite loving to knit and having it be a release for her. A friend of hers commented on that post and said that she, too, becomes tired with a project and finds her eyes roving over other patterns and thinking of other projects she'd love to do instead.
And it made me realize (for the umpteenth time) that writing is no different. Many, many times throughout my college years, I've been assigned a writing project but wanted to do something else halfway through. Sometimes, I'm excited about that first project. Either it's an intriguing concept or it's a story that has been simmering on one of my backburners for years.
And yet, no matter how excited I am initially, I am bound to covet a different story while writing the first one. I don't know why this happens. Take my thesis, for example. That novel has been waiting patiently for about four or five years before I finally got to writing the first third of it for the thesis project. It was intriguing, it was exciting, it actually challenged me every day because it was written in a different style (first person, present tense) from a perspective I don't usually write (a male) and it had some severe handicaps (blindness, medieval-type era) that affected what I could mention. And yet, I kept having ideas for another novel, an easier one from a girl's perspective that is closer to YA than literary. My grandmother read the first half of the first chapter and loved it, and has been waiting for the rest of it ever since. I even won a small award on that little bit of story. I'd love to finish it for her before something happens. I'd love to get it published and place the finished book in her hands. And yet, I didn't choose it for my thesis.
And now that I'm considering NaNoWriMo, I have to limit myself on what stories I can work on. I chose to work on that YA story for Grandma during November, after I had managed to move beyond a particular scene and expand the story. I haven't been able to move past that point for at least two years. Yet the moment I finished my thesis, there was dialogue for the other story. But I can't work on it now because I have to save it for November. And what do I want to do? Work on it.
And what do I have in my head in the meantime? A third novel that I started about three or four years ago that everyone loved. It needs some drastic revisions, rewrites, and general plot and characterization overhauls, but it's still there... whispering... taunting... luring... I put that story's folder on Google Docs so I could get to it during down times at work. And how much do you want to bet that when November finally rolls around, I'll want to write in this third novel instead of the YA one.
Oy. Anyone else have this problem?
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Saturday, September 8, 2012
Gearing up for NaNoWriMo
This is the first year I intend to attempt National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo for those who are not in the know.
NaNoWriMo is a personal challenge in which a person writes 50,000 words (about 175 pages) of a novel during the month of November. According to its website (http://www.nanowrimo.org/en/about/whatisnano) the challenge begins on November 1 and ends at 11:59:59 p.m. on November 30. The site states, "Valuing enthusiasm and perserverence over painstaking craft, NaNoWriMo is a novel-writing program for everyone who has thought fleetingly about writing a novel but has been scared away by the time and effort involved. Because of the limited writing window, the ONLY thing that matters in NaNoWriMo is output. It's all about quantity, not quality. This approach forces you to lower your expectations, take risks, and write on the fly."
This means that writers just write a rough draft of a story. They don't have to revise or edit, just write everything out. The goal is to get a story on paper, and then post-November, we begin the revision process. Those who write the 50,000 words successfully can submit the story for "official verification," be placed in the winner's circle, and receive a winner's certificate and web badge.
Writers don't have to sign in to the site in order to participate; they can do it on their own as a personal challenge. And I'm wary about posting the story online in the official forum because it may count as self-publication and, after revision, a publishing company may be averse to "reprinting" it, if accepted.
I heard of this challenge years ago while I was a sophomore in college, or around then. And every year since, though I've had stories in mind, I've never been able to participate. School or work always got in the way. Fifty thousand words is quite an endeavor in itself when one is used to short stories, or when one hasn't ever finished a novel idea. It's more of an endeavor when you squash what should take months into just one month.
I gained a little perspective about this challenge this past year while I wrote my thesis. The story itself is about 160 pages and is the first third of a novel, at least. It is also only 43,155 words. It took me about six months of strenuous, almost debilitating writing. Graduate school does this in general; it punches you down and grinds you under its heel and then builds you into something better. You feel exhausted and depressed because you no longer feel as if you're cut out for that education, and that you're no longer a writer. And somehow in the end it works out.
This particularly happens during the thesis months. But I had amazing support from my thesis director and the other professors on my panel, of which I was able to choose with their permission. My director was incredibly patient with me--she knew that life often takes precedence, especially when it deals with job changes and moving--but pushed just enough to keep me writing and turning in the right amount of work on time.
And I plan to squash all of that into one month without that support. Except for my boyfriend. He loves the idea that I'll be writing a novel again (though he has yet to read my thesis). And I have a few friends who will also attempt the challenge for the first time. Still, I worry that I'll consider the challenge, and maybe begin it, but then drop it a week in. I have to stick to it, this time. Without the workshop environment from school, I'm not as compelled to write a story. It isn't a necessity anymore, just a hobby.
Maybe this challenge, if I stick to it, will turn writing into a necessity again. I have so many stories in my head, it would be nice to get them down on paper before I forget things.
NaNoWriMo is a personal challenge in which a person writes 50,000 words (about 175 pages) of a novel during the month of November. According to its website (http://www.nanowrimo.org/en/about/whatisnano) the challenge begins on November 1 and ends at 11:59:59 p.m. on November 30. The site states, "Valuing enthusiasm and perserverence over painstaking craft, NaNoWriMo is a novel-writing program for everyone who has thought fleetingly about writing a novel but has been scared away by the time and effort involved. Because of the limited writing window, the ONLY thing that matters in NaNoWriMo is output. It's all about quantity, not quality. This approach forces you to lower your expectations, take risks, and write on the fly."
This means that writers just write a rough draft of a story. They don't have to revise or edit, just write everything out. The goal is to get a story on paper, and then post-November, we begin the revision process. Those who write the 50,000 words successfully can submit the story for "official verification," be placed in the winner's circle, and receive a winner's certificate and web badge.
Writers don't have to sign in to the site in order to participate; they can do it on their own as a personal challenge. And I'm wary about posting the story online in the official forum because it may count as self-publication and, after revision, a publishing company may be averse to "reprinting" it, if accepted.
I heard of this challenge years ago while I was a sophomore in college, or around then. And every year since, though I've had stories in mind, I've never been able to participate. School or work always got in the way. Fifty thousand words is quite an endeavor in itself when one is used to short stories, or when one hasn't ever finished a novel idea. It's more of an endeavor when you squash what should take months into just one month.
I gained a little perspective about this challenge this past year while I wrote my thesis. The story itself is about 160 pages and is the first third of a novel, at least. It is also only 43,155 words. It took me about six months of strenuous, almost debilitating writing. Graduate school does this in general; it punches you down and grinds you under its heel and then builds you into something better. You feel exhausted and depressed because you no longer feel as if you're cut out for that education, and that you're no longer a writer. And somehow in the end it works out.
This particularly happens during the thesis months. But I had amazing support from my thesis director and the other professors on my panel, of which I was able to choose with their permission. My director was incredibly patient with me--she knew that life often takes precedence, especially when it deals with job changes and moving--but pushed just enough to keep me writing and turning in the right amount of work on time.
And I plan to squash all of that into one month without that support. Except for my boyfriend. He loves the idea that I'll be writing a novel again (though he has yet to read my thesis). And I have a few friends who will also attempt the challenge for the first time. Still, I worry that I'll consider the challenge, and maybe begin it, but then drop it a week in. I have to stick to it, this time. Without the workshop environment from school, I'm not as compelled to write a story. It isn't a necessity anymore, just a hobby.
Maybe this challenge, if I stick to it, will turn writing into a necessity again. I have so many stories in my head, it would be nice to get them down on paper before I forget things.
Friday, August 31, 2012
The thing about deadlines
We all hate them. At least, that’s how we were trained to
view them. They were something that looms over us, as if always threatening, “You
better get that project turned in by such-and-such a time, or else!” We suffer
debilitating symptoms of stress and fret over our livelihoods because of
deadlines.
But then something changes, and somehow we begin to thrive off them.
But then something changes, and somehow we begin to thrive off them.
At least, that’s what a couple of my grad school teachers said
about me. And it seems to be true. Most of the time, I am more likely to do the
bulk of the work a day or so before it’s due. And that’s not completely caused
by procrastination. I will work on copy edits, for example, over the span of a
full weekend after receiving the work on a Thursday and still pull an
all-nighter in order to turn in everything by Monday morning. If I had chapters
due for a class or workshop, they would be written a day before the
deadline.
It’s not as if I like doing this, either. I would love to
pace myself and work on little bits at a time. But there’s just something about
deadlines that forces me to work. Some imperative compulsion that keeps me
rooted to the computer and better able to reject distractions. The way it
feels earlier in the week, the project is not yet important enough to deny other
things in my life, or I feel as if there’s still more time to work on it. And
then as the day draws closer, I realize that there is no time left and then try not to panic.
Sometimes I wonder if I work well with deadlines because of
my journalism experience. We’re given an assignment that is due that afternoon,
the next day, or at the end of the week. We’re forced to get used to deadlines
and actually work off them. It almost creates a co-dependency with an abstract
concept. When we’re given a project that isn’t due until the end of the month,
we look around as if we’re lost and wonder what we’re going to do with our time
between now and then. It becomes as if we can only do work if we’re under a
deadline. Is that why I thrive under them? Is that why I can’t seem to break
the habit of doing most of the work the day before something is due?
Is that why I haven’t been writing in my stories—because I
don’t have any more deadlines? Or someone to hold me accountable for my work?
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Lack of workshopping environment
First, to my friends. Thank you so much for reading this. Your support, just by glancing through these blogs, means so much.
Today, I met up with Kim and Rosemary for our annual summer EnP run. We started it a couple years ago when I stayed with Kim and her mom during Chatham's summer residency. Because we were all located in the same general vicinity and hadn't seen each other since graduating from SRU, we thought it would be nice to get together again. We sat on the patio of the EnP in the Waterfront, watched the river and talked about writing and our lives since graduating. It was nice enough that we did it again, and then again. This year makes our third year and an official tradition.
We brought up a topic that I also posted about on Facebook. The lack of workshopping or a writing environment. People will argue that anywhere is a writing environment, anywhere we happen to write. But that's not necessarily true.
There is something about being around writers that makes a person want to write. Writing begets writing, I suppose. When we step into a classroom or into a summer workshop, and are greeted by friends who are on the same skill level and who inspire us to write, to make ourselves better. We have teachers who communicate through emails and who are willing to read our work line by line. And it isn't just "Here are your grammatical errors," or "You have a plot gap here." They mold our craft and make us better. Graduate school destroyed me as a writer. It ground me down and then built me back again into something better. It was hard work, emotional turmoil, and yet I stood taller at the end.
And then, a month or so after graduating, we sit at our computers, begin to write, and realize that we have no mentor anymore. No students with which to work. Our friends have lives, their own stories, and it doesn't feel right to bombard them with requests for edits or comments. What are we to do?
Today, I met up with Kim and Rosemary for our annual summer EnP run. We started it a couple years ago when I stayed with Kim and her mom during Chatham's summer residency. Because we were all located in the same general vicinity and hadn't seen each other since graduating from SRU, we thought it would be nice to get together again. We sat on the patio of the EnP in the Waterfront, watched the river and talked about writing and our lives since graduating. It was nice enough that we did it again, and then again. This year makes our third year and an official tradition.
We brought up a topic that I also posted about on Facebook. The lack of workshopping or a writing environment. People will argue that anywhere is a writing environment, anywhere we happen to write. But that's not necessarily true.
There is something about being around writers that makes a person want to write. Writing begets writing, I suppose. When we step into a classroom or into a summer workshop, and are greeted by friends who are on the same skill level and who inspire us to write, to make ourselves better. We have teachers who communicate through emails and who are willing to read our work line by line. And it isn't just "Here are your grammatical errors," or "You have a plot gap here." They mold our craft and make us better. Graduate school destroyed me as a writer. It ground me down and then built me back again into something better. It was hard work, emotional turmoil, and yet I stood taller at the end.
And then, a month or so after graduating, we sit at our computers, begin to write, and realize that we have no mentor anymore. No students with which to work. Our friends have lives, their own stories, and it doesn't feel right to bombard them with requests for edits or comments. What are we to do?
- Message them anyway and hope for the best.
- Join a city workshopping group and hope for the same level of quality, professionalism, and drive, and that they won't steal our work.
- Message professors to see if they can take time out of their insanely busy schedules to continue to help.
- Take the training wheels off, trust our instincts, and work by ourselves.
John Green once said something along the lines of writing being for introverted people who have a story to tell. I've come to find that writing is a very solitary, very lonely practice. Especially when our environment changes. We work through our stories--if we can find the time, energy, and inspiration to write--edit them ourselves, and send them out to lit mags with the hope that they're good enough.
More often than not, they aren't. But sometimes we get that stray acceptance letter that almost seems like a fluke. It bolsters our self-confidence, pushes us to write again and send out more, and makes us feel wanted and appreciated.
That is why my friends, and anyone else who reads this, mean so much to me. They read my words and come back for more. And after a while, I don't know if I'm writing for myself or for them. And yet, I still haven't figured out whether I'll message them and ask for workshopping opportunities, or respect our differing lives and hope for the best.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
I dreamed a dream
The other night, I dreamed a dream that was real life. It was mundane, boring, and each second slowly ticked into the next with such consistent regularity that I was not aware I was dreaming. Normally, I am aware.
It was another of those 30-second dreams that I don't remember upon waking. It returns only in flashes, and even then I have to peer at the memory in order to understand. In the dream, I walked to pick up an object from the ground. I stood over it, held out my hand, and concentrated. I do this in real life sometimes. It is an attempt to force The Force to work, an exercise in telekinesis that always fails but still I try again. In the dream, the object rose into my hand.
For a second, I became confused. The dream was real life. I felt time slip past, every small sensation. Events were organized in a linear fashion with no skipping scenes. I remember looking around me, near a school bus, and wondering if this was a dream, when it would begin to feel like a dream, and if I would wake up.
It brought about an interesting thought afterward. If magic exists in the world and we find ways to harness it, how will we know we aren't dreaming? If Jesus Christ is reborn and walks the world, preaching his song of peace, would Christians (or everyone else) believe and welcome him? Or would they deem him to be a raving lunatic and shut him away for the rest of his life, pouring medicine down his throat and electricity into his brain until his divinity is stamped out? How would he prove himself? By performing a miracle--an act of magic that is irrefutable by science.
And even then, would we believe we are dreaming?
I must ponder this and see if I can incorporate it into a story. Granted, something like this has been done. Freakin' Inception. Perhaps a psychological piece--though this topic of what is a dream and what is real, what is real and what is insanity, has probably been exhausted by now.
Most of my fresh ideas come from dreams, but they still have a basis for inspiration because our subconscious takes what we see and registers it through symbols. This process helps to turn short-term memory into long-term memory. That means that even dreams are not really fresh ideas...
It was another of those 30-second dreams that I don't remember upon waking. It returns only in flashes, and even then I have to peer at the memory in order to understand. In the dream, I walked to pick up an object from the ground. I stood over it, held out my hand, and concentrated. I do this in real life sometimes. It is an attempt to force The Force to work, an exercise in telekinesis that always fails but still I try again. In the dream, the object rose into my hand.
For a second, I became confused. The dream was real life. I felt time slip past, every small sensation. Events were organized in a linear fashion with no skipping scenes. I remember looking around me, near a school bus, and wondering if this was a dream, when it would begin to feel like a dream, and if I would wake up.
It brought about an interesting thought afterward. If magic exists in the world and we find ways to harness it, how will we know we aren't dreaming? If Jesus Christ is reborn and walks the world, preaching his song of peace, would Christians (or everyone else) believe and welcome him? Or would they deem him to be a raving lunatic and shut him away for the rest of his life, pouring medicine down his throat and electricity into his brain until his divinity is stamped out? How would he prove himself? By performing a miracle--an act of magic that is irrefutable by science.
And even then, would we believe we are dreaming?
I must ponder this and see if I can incorporate it into a story. Granted, something like this has been done. Freakin' Inception. Perhaps a psychological piece--though this topic of what is a dream and what is real, what is real and what is insanity, has probably been exhausted by now.
Most of my fresh ideas come from dreams, but they still have a basis for inspiration because our subconscious takes what we see and registers it through symbols. This process helps to turn short-term memory into long-term memory. That means that even dreams are not really fresh ideas...
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
My broken elevator is a long, dark tunnel
I think Neil Gaiman once said that dreams cannot give us a story. Perhaps he meant that dreams cannot present an entire story to us and that we won't remember it all upon waking up and long afterward. I can almost argue this, but he still wins in the end. A few years ago, I experienced a dream that presented a story. It was like watching a movie with a bunch of different subplots and intriguing elements. It was as if I was separate from it all and wondering how it would end, what it would do next, and how it all worked together. I could feel that it was weaving together to form something spectacular. Upon waking, I tried to get up to type it all down, then woke up again and had to rush to the computer to remember everything.
Sometimes when we try to remember dreams and write them down, we discover that we have yet to actually wake up and we lose everything we had been trying to remember. It's as if the act of trying is the very thing that erases the memories as we work through them. I was able to get a lot down, though, and the idea tugs at me to this day. It is the mark of a good story when it sticks with you for years and you feel compelled to finish it. However, there were elements that I couldn't remember properly, like a twisted nursery rhyme that is the key to everything. It took a couple years until I realized that I should give a character the same hassle of a faulty memory. Did he hear one word or another? Did he misinterpret? Of course he did, because he's not perfect. And yet the dream ended before everything came together, so I have to figure out everything that happened in between, all the side characters, and how it all ends. That is probably why Gaiman said that dreams cannot hand us a story; they can give us ideas, but not a full story.
That said, this afternoon I had a dream that was like... the first page or so of a story. Nothing was explained. It was as if I was just living this character's life for about 30 seconds. I was a girl who usually goes out running with a set of headphones and an ipod/mp3 player. I was in a neighborhood park, somewhere around the early evening on a partly cloudy day (the sky looked to be yellowish-orange). In order to get back to my apartment, I had to travel through a pedestrian tunnel that went along the ground through a massive brick wall. An upbeat song started to play that set my body jumping like I wanted to take off running and let the rest of the world fall away, but I couldn't do that because a woman was walking her baby in a stroller ahead of me on the narrow paved pathway. I had to slow down and wait, like I used to do when stuck behind a slow walker in a school hallway. The woman veered to the side and took the baby out of the stroller, and I swerved around them and up the stairwell, pulling at keys that were hooked to one of my belt loops. The woman was a few paces behind me. I unlocked a large arched door, as if I was unlocking the main door to an apartment complex, and inside was a long, dark tunnel. We needed to turn on lights before entering. It was pitch black because the door on the other side was also shut and locked. The woman held the door for me with her free hand. The dream ended as I reached to turn on the lights.
After waking, I thought of Beth's personal challenge. Her story-a-day goal. Then I started to deconstruct the dream. Why was there a tunnel? Was the park private and somehow separated from people who did not live in the neighborhood, as if the sheltered park was a perk for residents only? Were there apartments in the wall that housed the tunnel, or was it just a wall? And why did its doors have to be locked? Why was the tunnel (and thus the wall) so tall, wide, and long? It was easily a quarter of a mile long and the wall itself stretched far past the limits of my periphery vision. So there must have been more tunnels along it, or there was a corner of the wall/enclosure that was just past the treeline. My dream self imagined/remembered what the tunnel looked like with the lights on, which is not too different from a tunnel we drive through in the real world. And where was the dream going? The characters would go in one side and out the other and that was it? For such an uncommon structure, nothing happens? Surely my subconscious had something planned before someone accidentally rang my shrill doorbell and yanked me from sleep so quickly that by body barely had time to register proper movement while I tottered to the intercom.
Then I realized that this is a classic scenario. Not my waking, but the tunnel. This is no different from the setup and exercise of "place a couple characters in an elevator and have it break down, thus forcing the people to interact." My elevator was the tunnel. Much longer, much darker. Would my dream characters be locked in somehow? Is the other door barred or broken and thus won't open? What would prevent the characters from turning around and going back into the park? Would they come upon a scene on the other side that would require remaining in the tunnel for safety? Would the power go out? Is it a survival story or a waiting-for-help story?
Remember, the woman had a baby. That alone presents numerous possibilities. If they need to hide from someone, the baby cannot be trusted to remain quiet; it would reveal their presence. And what about feeding? If the mother took the baby out for a run, she might not have provisions for a few hours. What then? The baby looked to be less than a year old, so is it teething or weened from breast milk? What about food, diapers, entertainment, somewhere to nap? How does the main character, the girl with the ipod, feel about and react to babies? How would the mother react to being stuck in a tunnel with a stranger? How many "mother" instincts would surface, if any? Would she remain calm and placate the baby as best as she could, or would she turn into a cornered mama bear?
So much to think about, and it all leaves me with the question of whether I sit down and sketch the beginning scene, or ponder the overall story to figure out what happens and why.
Sometimes when we try to remember dreams and write them down, we discover that we have yet to actually wake up and we lose everything we had been trying to remember. It's as if the act of trying is the very thing that erases the memories as we work through them. I was able to get a lot down, though, and the idea tugs at me to this day. It is the mark of a good story when it sticks with you for years and you feel compelled to finish it. However, there were elements that I couldn't remember properly, like a twisted nursery rhyme that is the key to everything. It took a couple years until I realized that I should give a character the same hassle of a faulty memory. Did he hear one word or another? Did he misinterpret? Of course he did, because he's not perfect. And yet the dream ended before everything came together, so I have to figure out everything that happened in between, all the side characters, and how it all ends. That is probably why Gaiman said that dreams cannot hand us a story; they can give us ideas, but not a full story.
That said, this afternoon I had a dream that was like... the first page or so of a story. Nothing was explained. It was as if I was just living this character's life for about 30 seconds. I was a girl who usually goes out running with a set of headphones and an ipod/mp3 player. I was in a neighborhood park, somewhere around the early evening on a partly cloudy day (the sky looked to be yellowish-orange). In order to get back to my apartment, I had to travel through a pedestrian tunnel that went along the ground through a massive brick wall. An upbeat song started to play that set my body jumping like I wanted to take off running and let the rest of the world fall away, but I couldn't do that because a woman was walking her baby in a stroller ahead of me on the narrow paved pathway. I had to slow down and wait, like I used to do when stuck behind a slow walker in a school hallway. The woman veered to the side and took the baby out of the stroller, and I swerved around them and up the stairwell, pulling at keys that were hooked to one of my belt loops. The woman was a few paces behind me. I unlocked a large arched door, as if I was unlocking the main door to an apartment complex, and inside was a long, dark tunnel. We needed to turn on lights before entering. It was pitch black because the door on the other side was also shut and locked. The woman held the door for me with her free hand. The dream ended as I reached to turn on the lights.
After waking, I thought of Beth's personal challenge. Her story-a-day goal. Then I started to deconstruct the dream. Why was there a tunnel? Was the park private and somehow separated from people who did not live in the neighborhood, as if the sheltered park was a perk for residents only? Were there apartments in the wall that housed the tunnel, or was it just a wall? And why did its doors have to be locked? Why was the tunnel (and thus the wall) so tall, wide, and long? It was easily a quarter of a mile long and the wall itself stretched far past the limits of my periphery vision. So there must have been more tunnels along it, or there was a corner of the wall/enclosure that was just past the treeline. My dream self imagined/remembered what the tunnel looked like with the lights on, which is not too different from a tunnel we drive through in the real world. And where was the dream going? The characters would go in one side and out the other and that was it? For such an uncommon structure, nothing happens? Surely my subconscious had something planned before someone accidentally rang my shrill doorbell and yanked me from sleep so quickly that by body barely had time to register proper movement while I tottered to the intercom.
Then I realized that this is a classic scenario. Not my waking, but the tunnel. This is no different from the setup and exercise of "place a couple characters in an elevator and have it break down, thus forcing the people to interact." My elevator was the tunnel. Much longer, much darker. Would my dream characters be locked in somehow? Is the other door barred or broken and thus won't open? What would prevent the characters from turning around and going back into the park? Would they come upon a scene on the other side that would require remaining in the tunnel for safety? Would the power go out? Is it a survival story or a waiting-for-help story?
Remember, the woman had a baby. That alone presents numerous possibilities. If they need to hide from someone, the baby cannot be trusted to remain quiet; it would reveal their presence. And what about feeding? If the mother took the baby out for a run, she might not have provisions for a few hours. What then? The baby looked to be less than a year old, so is it teething or weened from breast milk? What about food, diapers, entertainment, somewhere to nap? How does the main character, the girl with the ipod, feel about and react to babies? How would the mother react to being stuck in a tunnel with a stranger? How many "mother" instincts would surface, if any? Would she remain calm and placate the baby as best as she could, or would she turn into a cornered mama bear?
So much to think about, and it all leaves me with the question of whether I sit down and sketch the beginning scene, or ponder the overall story to figure out what happens and why.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Lately, I've felt like someone took the training wheels off
my bike and I'm setting off for the first time without them. This will be the
first year that I won't restart school in the fall, the first year without
professors as impromptu mentors. The first year without workshops or the
environment that pushes me to write. A few days ago, I finished a revision of a
travel narrative (creative nonfiction) that I wrote for a class. I contacted my
professor, with whom I'm on decent terms, and asked if she'd be willing to
workshop the story with me. She's insanely busy and hasn't responded yet. So
today, I researched lit mags deeper, chose four, and submitted the story
anyway. It's time that I trust myself and work on my own. My pedal has made a
complete revolution and I'm still balanced on the bike. Only if each one
rejects me will I totter or fall. But what if one doesn't? What if I encounter
another magazine like Separate Worlds (which recently accepted a fantasy short story; my very first acceptance for fiction) that gives me a chance? Then I remain
upright and my pedals make another revolution.
Yesterday a friend, Beth, posted on FB about a personal challenge she's undertaken. She wants to write a new short story every day. She intends to experiment to see how many she tosses, and how many she keeps for future expansion. It's more like an experiment in worth rather than quality or completeness. She gave herself 1,000 words with which to work, and then invited her friends to do the same. I started thinking about the itch I experience sometimes, the one that makes my fingers want to type or hold a pen to scribble across a page. The one that doesn't care that I don't have an idea; it just wants me to write. I could use an experiment like Beth's. But then I really thought about it and realized that if I have nothing to write, then first lines (which are killers in and of themselves) would not appear. I have a couple concepts I've been meaning to toy with, but they're not enough to begin a story. I need characters and a plot, and they don't seem to accompany the concept.
Then I thought about cheating, which Beth condoned. I have a couple stories that I've toyed with in the past but never fleshed out. Flash fiction attempts, sketches, ideas... And yet, for each one I'd have to be in a particular frame of mind. Predatory and beguiling, scarred and resentful, mysterious and horny. And then some ideas might better fit a larger novel. So, I have a feeling that it will tug at me but, in the end, nothing will come of it because I couldn't let my mind settle on something, couldn't manifest the idea into something greater. And when I set about writing something just for the sake of writing, the endeavor resulted in this post.
Yesterday a friend, Beth, posted on FB about a personal challenge she's undertaken. She wants to write a new short story every day. She intends to experiment to see how many she tosses, and how many she keeps for future expansion. It's more like an experiment in worth rather than quality or completeness. She gave herself 1,000 words with which to work, and then invited her friends to do the same. I started thinking about the itch I experience sometimes, the one that makes my fingers want to type or hold a pen to scribble across a page. The one that doesn't care that I don't have an idea; it just wants me to write. I could use an experiment like Beth's. But then I really thought about it and realized that if I have nothing to write, then first lines (which are killers in and of themselves) would not appear. I have a couple concepts I've been meaning to toy with, but they're not enough to begin a story. I need characters and a plot, and they don't seem to accompany the concept.
Then I thought about cheating, which Beth condoned. I have a couple stories that I've toyed with in the past but never fleshed out. Flash fiction attempts, sketches, ideas... And yet, for each one I'd have to be in a particular frame of mind. Predatory and beguiling, scarred and resentful, mysterious and horny. And then some ideas might better fit a larger novel. So, I have a feeling that it will tug at me but, in the end, nothing will come of it because I couldn't let my mind settle on something, couldn't manifest the idea into something greater. And when I set about writing something just for the sake of writing, the endeavor resulted in this post.
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