No (Perfect) Time to Write

I was talking with a colleague recently and found myself saying, “I used to set my schedule based on the ‘perfect time’ to do [whatever]. Now I realize there is no perfect time, especially to write.”

Seeking the perfect time to write usually means we don’t feel like writing. The underlying fear is that if we don’t feel like it, we won’t write well and we’ll have wasted time and effort by trying. But writing is still 95% perspiration and 5% inspiration, and as with exercise, the feeling of accomplishment comes at the end of the workout, not the beginning.

If we agree that we need to make time to write, we can treat our work as we would any high-priority item. That means we don’t treating writing like an item on a to-do list but as a regular discipline. Here are some tips to move in that direction:

• Develop a schedule. If your project has a deadline, you’ve got the end point so fill in the steps between.
• Consider your personality. Some writers like generating prose first thing, when they’re not in “edit” mode, and editing late in the day, when their patience with bad writing has ebbed.
• Consider your project. What are your goals for it? If you don’t track your goals, you’re not likely to accomplish them.
• Consider your vocation as a writer. What are your goals for you? As before, if you don’t track your goals, you’re not likely to accomplish them.
• Inventory and prioritize your projects so that if one loses momentum, you can switch gears.
• Vary your genres to flex different writing muscles, develop a broader body of work and discover other writing talents.
• When your schedule stops working, consider adjusting the day, time or length of time spent writing.
• Consider the time you spend writing as an investment in your work and yourself.

Another implication of the fear of not having time to write isn’t time but volition, the strength of will to keep going. Writers throughout the ages have found incentives such as these:

• Leave off writing at a place where you know what happens or what to do next in your piece, but don’t write it. This was among Ernest Hemingway’s habits.
• Edit and/or revise the prior day’s work to prime the writing pump for today.
• Keep a word count for each writing session to track your progress.
• Periodically print a hardcopy of what you’ve written so that you can edit it on paper, and include the edits when you go back to the project.
• Cultivate a relationship with your writing by noting the progress in your prose before and after editing.
• Talk regularly with an inspirational friend and/or writing colleague.
• Don't listen to the negative internal chatter that says you don’t have time to write; you’ll only talk yourself out of it.
• Use downtime to plan. Think about what you’ll do next when you next sit down to write.
• Take time to enjoy your work.
• Celebrate victories, even when they’re smaller than your overall goal. You can’t complete a project unless you complete the individual steps to get there.
• Give yourself time off. You need and deserve it.

The great thing about developing a writing schedule that fits with the rest of your life is that it doesn’t have to fit the whole rest of your life.

Do you have a writing query to share, email Word for Words.

The End From the Beginning

We have a tradition on my mother’s central Italian side of the family that says whatever happens in the first twelve days of the New Year is what will happen in each ensuing month. I was quick to point out the fallacy in this superstition, which is that whatever happens the first day of January would need to apply to the remaining month. Yet, the concept of a matter’s end being present in its beginning got me thinking that the end of a story is often derived by or foreshadowed at its start.

Since it’s near the end of the year—and this has been one long year—my mind takes the path of least literary resistance to use, as an example, the first Harry Potter book, where early in the saga we read of Ginny Weasley’s crush on Harry. Six books later the end of the matter is confirmed; yet, the seeds of its fruition were planted at the start.

As writers, we unwind our stories, from flash to full-length novels, creating a trail we ask readers to follow. We ask them to believe what we say of our characters’ past, present and future through backstory, scene and foreshadow as our plots unfold. We want readers to believe us and to forget us as they immerse themselves in a world of our creation, even in the offer of hope for a desired outcome that initially seems impossible.

We do, in a sense, what the prophet Isaiah said that God does. We create a purpose for our stories and a plan to achieve that purpose, and we ask readers to place their confidence in our ability to lead them. It’s not just the foreknowledge of our story’s events that we want people to trust. No. We often write, as William Zinsser said, to learn, to discover our stories and the people in them. Yet, we aim to exert mastery over our creation. We want readers to rely on us as we speak, to the point where they forget that it's we who speak.

Is this arrogance, this apparent reach for the divine? If we aim for omniscience, omnipresence or omnipotence, then yes. But for the writer who aims merely to create a plan and be true to it, to have a purpose and carry it out, to offer the best words in their most suitable form, it’s a creative act, and in this is dignity.

“I declare the end from the beginning, and from long ago what is not yet done, saying: ‘My plan will take place, and I will do all My will.’” Isaiah 46:10

Blessings and peace to you and yours now and throughout the New Year.

Kernel of Truth: When Real Life Experience Informs Fiction

Remember when you said of a story, “Wow, that sounds like it really happened”?

In this instance, we’re not talking about verisimilitude — the appearance or semblance of truth — but about an entire story that feels, on an emotional level, like it could have taken place because some aspect of it actually did. One key to writing fiction that has a real experience, or experiences, at its heart is knowing to what extent real events should inform fiction. 

As we writers go through our lives, we often find that personal experiences foment ideas that form the basis of our fiction. But beware of sticking too closely to experience. Why? Because, as Robert Olen Butler warns in his seminal From where You Dream: The Process of Writing Fiction, “literal memory is your enemy”.

Why is this? Because memory constrains you to the facts of your experience or to the facts as you recall them. Either way, you’re constrained. The reasoning? As Butler cautions, “What you remember comes out as journalism. What you forget goes into the compost of the imagination.”

It’s this rich soil of imagination that organically germinates the seeds of fiction. The richness of imagination also enables the writer to conceive a story that is more than a little inspired by life. For the most part, this approach can work wonderfully, until the moment when it doesn’t.

At this point, the writer can try to rationalize away the bump in the road by telling herself that’s the way it really happened. This may be true, but it doesn’t mean the event should play out the same way in your fiction.

One way to tell when a section of your story isn’t served by its real life counterpart is precisely when you find yourself defending that point in the piece in just this way. Such moments might stand out more than we writers realize, but we often don’t notice them because we’re too enamored with the reminiscence of the real life event to see that the moment will bring readers out of the fictional world we’ve so carefully constructed instead of moving them effortlessly (or apparently so) through it.

If, or rather when, you come up against such a moment, ask yourself these questions. Why is the reader brought out of the story at this precise point? Which fiction element, or elements, of characterization, pacing, plot progression, setting, prose, etc., is not served by the real event? What would serve the work, the story and its people, better?

Be honest with yourself in answering these questions, and if your fictional work is based in more than one point on reality, be prepared to ask the question more than once. The result will be worth the effort. Great fiction often carries a kernel of truth, but usually more in emotional truth than in the facts.

For more on Robert Olen Butler’s From where YouDream: The Process of Writing Fiction.

Wisdom of the Ages: Growing Your Character’s Knowledge Over Time

We’ve talked about the importance of a character's voice matching her age, but we also need to make sure the character’s wisdom matches it, too, an especially tricky feat for characters who are young in age and/or maturity.

Whether you're writing for adults or younger readers, your story may include a younger character who matures over the course of your piece. While maturity can result from the passing of time, the gaining of experience or both, we need to make sure that what the character realizes about his or her life - and how he or she expresses that knowledge - matches the individual's stage of life.

One reason it can difficult to tell that we've run ahead of the character's maturity level in writing her thoughts and dialogue is that wisdom reads well, regardless of age. So when we read a particularly wise bit of insight that's also been written well, we tend to feel that we've accomplished our goal. In one sense, this may be true, because the character has made progress and because our prose has also. However, we have to make sure that we haven't given the character either more insight than he or she should have at that age, and that we haven't framed the insight in way that goes beyond the character's intended age.

Some characters, though young, are wise beyond their years. What we want, however, is to make sure we develop the character at a believable rate. If you're wondering whether you have given one of your characters, especially one that is younger, more insight than is believable within the context of her life and your story, ask yourself these questions:

- Has enough happened in this person's life for her to realistically have this piece of wisdom?
- Does the prose accurately reflect the character's personality and stage of life?

There's nothing wrong with having a smart character. We just need to make sure the person's wisdom, and how she expresses it, match where the character is in her life.

Making the Most of the Ridgefield Writers Conference

Preparing for and attending a writers’ conference require time and energy. These tips for before, during and after the Ridgefield Writers Conference should help you make the most of the event and create a foundation for what comes after.

Before the Conference:
Faculty: Research your faculty workshop leader, and prepare a list of questions about your work and the craft of writing in advance. Also research other faculty, in case you want to talk with them or work with them in the future.
Panels and Keynote: Research the panelists and keynote speaker, and bring your questions to the Q&A sessions. If time runs out, you may be able ask questions afterward.
Website: Study the conference website, especially the Writers Resources section, for helpful information. Keep checking the site for updates.
Workshops: Carefully review all the information from your workshop leader, to learn as much as possible about the art and craft of your chosen genre.
Registration: Arrive early to get a feel for the event and to meet your fellow writers, the faculty and the coordinators. Also carefully review the information in your registration packet.

During the Conference:
Networking: Get to know your fellow writers, the workshop faculty and conference coordinators. Exchange business cards and contact information with others so that you can keep in touch. Compare notes with other writers about what you’re learning.
Book and Resource Tables: Visit the faculty book table to take home fine examples of work by these experienced writers. Also visit the resource table to collect as much information as you can.
Readings: Sign up and read your work at the attendee reading time on Saturday afternoon; it will give you practice reading your work before a friendly audience.
Panels and Keynote: Meet the panelists and keynote speaker, and don’t be afraid to ask questions.
Workshop: Keep any reading lists your workshop leader provides, and read and retain all the workshop handouts. Where you need clarity about feedback or other workshop information, be sure to ask questions. Before you leave the conference, aim to have some idea of the next steps to take in your writing life. If you’re not sure, come to the What’s Next in the Writing Life breakout session on Saturday afternoon.

After the Conference:
Collaboration: Consider collaborating with a fellow writer. Also consider working with a faculty workshop leader (yours or someone else) after the conference.
Networking: Keep in touch with your fellow writers and others you meet during the conference.
Feedback: Give the workshop feedback you receive from your faculty leader and fellow writers time to gel after the conference. Your workshop leader provides a worthwhile overview and details on how to improve your work, as do your compatriots, especially if a particular critique arises more than once. Your fellow writers also bring another key perspective to the table — that of the audience.
Next Steps: Consider making a list of next steps for after the conference, and ask your faculty workshop leader for guidance on this. Ask the conference coordinators about the best resources to meet your writing needs. Considering creating your own writing community, and seek opportunities to stay involved and active in your writing life. Check the conference website for final information.

Parting Note
If attending a writers’ conference sounds as if it involves more than just inspiration, it does. But consider this: “Creativity has much to do with experience, observation and imagination, and if any one of those key elements is missing, it doesn’t work.” Bob Dylan, Chronicles Volume One


For more on the conference, visit Ridgefield Writers Conference.

Writing — For the Mere Joy of It

What do you love about writing?

Is it time for yourself, discovery, reading or hearing your words? Maybe it’s the chance to listen to your inner self or to think your thoughts instead of having them think you.

Whether you enjoy one of these aspects of writing or another of its qualities, writing can, for many reasons, become a drudge. If that’s how you’re feeling, take time to think back to what writing was before the “you shoulds” came crowding in.

As an editor, I’m among the guiltiest of the “you should” pushers — for publication, discipline, diligence, development, revision — you get the picture. Thankfully, I’m also a writer and can call to mind, for myself and others, the joy of just taking time to write.

So for today and for the coming Labor Day weekend I’m advocating for the mere experience of writing, the tea or coffee or glass of wine on the porch or in the park with pen, paper and the solitude of peace. I’m also advocating for taking the usual structures and strictures and throwing them out to write just of the sake of it.

If we view writing as a form of relationship — with self, others, Creator or creation, the world at large or in a grain of sand — then, as is true of any other relationship, writing can suffer from chafe, the fiction of constant wearing. But what if writing can return to the kind of relationship where just being is enough? Wouldn’t that, in itself, be something?

Do you have a writing query or comment to share? Email WordforWords.

Know and Control Your Characters' Self-Awareness

Among the joys of writing is “flow”, when we’re so immersed in creating the story’s world that we forget we’re writing. But we can’t afford to check out on how much our characters, especially main characters, know at each stage of their individual arc.

First, what types of things do characters know? To some extent, they know themselves, what’s happening around them, their motivations and other characters. One element of creating a character arc is the character’s (typically) increasing awareness of these elements and their consequences. Sometimes characters are ignorant of these aspects of their world. However, there’s all the difference between intentionally keeping a character in the dark and achieving ignorance because we failed to realize that by now the character should know more than he does.

So how does a writer control, at each stage in the story, how aware a character is of these elements? First, we must be aware of what our characters already know. Then we must decide whether they should know more. To check your characters' self-awareness at each stage of development, ask yourself these questions:

• What are the main stages of development in the character’s arc? What might the character not know but need to realize by each point?
• If the character doesn’t know something, such as his motivation for betraying someone else, is it due to a flaw that fits the character, or because you’ve forgotten to develop the character’s awareness at that point?

To add texture to characters and story, also note the consequences of what the character does and doesn’t know. It can be daunting to do this exercise for each character. So start with your main character. The very effort with one character often enables you to be mindful of him or her and of other characters from that point on.

What should your main character know by now that he or she doesn’t?

Do you have a writing question to share? Email WordforWords.

The Joy of Discovery (Part 2) — You Can't Communicate Without Stories

Part 1 of this post gave an example of the importance of stories, based on an ESL class that was reading about author Amy Tan. When the class was queried about what they would ask Tan if they could, one student said, “I would ask which experiences led her to write her stories. After all, we can’t

communicate without stories.” This shed new light on why we encourage writers, “Show, don’t tell.” Today, we want to emphasize the joy of discovery part of this equation.

Previously, we noted that readers don’t want to be spoon-fed a plot or characters; the audience wants the joy of discovering the story en route because journey is as important to readers as destination. However, the joy—of discovery and of the journey—is not just for readers but also for writers.

When you, the writer, tell yourself a story and then read it, you learn from your work what the story is and isn’t, who the characters are and are not. You may reread what you’ve written and decide it isn’t what you meant to say, that your main character, for example, wouldn’t do what you’ve just written for him or her, or perhaps not quite as you’ve depicted the scene.

Even so, the gist of what you wanted to achieve is likely there waiting in the wings to be revealed. But this realization often won't come until you make the effort to write the scene you initially imagined. The insight you gain from what works and what doesn't, and why, then becomes part of your wisdom as a writer.

What have you recently discovered about your story or character that came as a result of the joy of discovery?

Do you have a writing question to share? Email WordforWords.