Writer at Large

Yes, it’s that time of year again—the insanity that strikes right before the even greater chaos and mayhem that are the traditional winter holidays: National Novel Writing Month. 50,000 words in 30 days. Who in their right mind does this?

Since there are many out there who would be more than willing testify under oath that I am often not in a “right mind”, I guess this includes me. So, a preview of this year . . .

Here’s where I am so far:

• a main character
• a vague sort of concept for the story
• a world setting
• something of a storytelling timeline structure
• a few ideas for a handful of supporting and other minor characters
• some half-formed metaphors that underlay the story
• the lack of a solid plot
• the lack of a key antagonist

At this moment, I’m very concerned that there isn’t enough here to sustain through 50,000 words. If I can fill in some of the gaps quickly, though, I think it just might work.

As usual, if you care to, you can monitor my progress here. Weekly updates will be posted as always.

There seems to be a general public perception that writing—or almost any artistic endeavor for that matter—is not work.

I’ve often wondered why this is. Is it because the odds of being “successful” at it seems so remote? It is because people who are not artists do not understand the efforts and skills involved in producing a piece of quality work? Does it stem from a sense of personal jealousy from people unwilling to take the same risks themselves? Or it is because, at some level, it involves a certain level of “make believe”, so it cannot be real work?

For any given detractor, the real answer (or answers) probably might be any one of these, a combination of any of them, or even some reasoning entirely different.

I have found, generally, that almost any attempt at explanation, at describing the process and effort required to produce a creative piece of work (and notice the word choice there—work), tends to be met with skepticism or disdain, rarely with admiration. The attitude often changes if we can produce some sort of proof that we have actually been published or otherwise recognized for our efforts, but there seems to be little regard or consideration while we are in the process of creation. During that time, it feels as though we are treated as a dilettante, a grownup playing at childish things that we should have long put away.

Working at one’s art requires time, commitment, and energy—any or all of which can often be in short supply while we try to keep the mortgage/rent paid, food on the table, our families clothed, and our employers reasonably content. Even those of us fortunate enough to have among our circles of acquaintances other artists who understand, the wider chorus of voices around us provide little support for our creative endeavors. Most often, some kind of lip service is offered up, but in the end it rarely takes the form of anything tangible or material.

What is the answer, I wonder? How do we get our society to respect and truly support its artists? By this, I mean the ones struggle to make it happen, not the ones who walk the red carpets at the Academy Awards (and other) ceremonies who are publically and financially well-rewarded for their efforts. (I do not mean to imply that they are not worthy as well, but I have wondered how many artwork exhibits or small press publishers might be funded by the cost of the clothing worn to those events alone.)

Is it that what the public wants is glitz and glamour? That the hard-working writer who dutifully and expertly writes their page or two a day, gets published in a few thousand copies, is simply not interesting enough because they lack a good publicity agent? That if you’re not on Oprah or publically placed in rehab or involved in some vaguely notorious scandal, you’re not worthy of the title of “successful artist”?

It’s a strange and baffling world out there . . . Maybe it is really is as they say: Truth is stranger than fiction.

Let me begin by expressing my gratitude where rightfully due: to Laureen for (strongly) recommending this book, and to Holly for loaning me a copy until I could get home to purchase my own.

I’ve needed a good, swift kick in the proverbial pants, writing-wise, of late. My inner editor has been screaming loud and long. And, when she hasn’t been screaming, she’s taken to whispering vague (but still demoralizing) bits of criticism in my mind’s ear. (One of these days I really need to figure out whether my muse and inner editor are related, hero and arch-villain, or two disparate personalities within the same being. But that’s a discovery to pursue at a later time.)

This little book was exactly what I needed, when I needed it. (Yeah, yeah, I can see you nodding smugly over there…) I was so moved by what I found within its pages that, while reading it during a recent plane flight, I actually dug my notebook out of my onboard luggage and completed the first three exercises and nearly all of the fourth.

Let me say this about the book so far. The chapters are short, the writing personable and personal—and to the point, and the lessons based on experience are dead-on. This one definitely looks like a keeper, and one that I will likely return to whenever the muse and editor are deadlocked.

In recent conversations with other writers, I hear concerns that, as they’re working on a new piece for the first time, what they’re writing isn’t good enough, they aren’t sure they have the characterizations right—various worries like that. My stock answer is usually, “That’s what second drafts are for.”

About the same time, I overheard other some conversations between students about how much effort writing is, that two pages—or four or six or eight or ten or however many—is a lot to have to write. (Personally, I think I would barely break a sweat having to write a two-page paper, other than from the effort of keeping it down to two pages in length, but that’s a whole other topic.)

Both of these together got me thinking about how far we’ve come—for good or bad—over the years in terms of the tools we have to get words onto paper. Back in the days before affordable word processors (staying within the timeframe of the last century or so), writers worked on typewriters—lucky or wealthy ones used electric ones, but that really only provided the chief advantages of speed and reduced effort to press key to paper. Correcting errors—and writing those off-handedly referenced second drafts—required actually retyping of the actual pages. Editing, insertion, and deletions of large chunks of text was something writers saved until the last moment, because it could mean typing many, many pages to bring the page numbering back into alignment. Writing was work.

I can remember typing up passages and then realizing that I wanted to add something in between and typing a separate page numbered XXa and inserting it into the stack so it would be there when I retyped the entire thing for the final draft. I can also remember reading over pages of my purported “final draft”, only to discover misspelled or missing words. Many teachers wanted clean, pristine pages and would not accept papers with handwritten corrections or smears of correction fluid. So, once more, a fresh sheet was inserted to be retyped—often so new errors could be created.

The amount of effort required to write an effort was significant. It was more than just the willingness (or insanity?) to sit before a typewriter and compose pages for hours on end, but also backspace, erase, pencil in, overtype, pause in the middle of thoughts to insert a new sheet a paper, and add new ribbons of ink (which would usually occur late on a Sunday when you discovered you had used your last one and nearly all of the stores that might the one for your typewriter was probably closed). It also meant accepting that those same pages might be retyped several times before being considered “final” and published. Sending it out for possible publication also meant that it might have to be re-typed again, but I think at that point there was sufficient financial incentive to embrace the task.

We’ve come a long way since then. And, almost unequivocally, I’m grateful.

After helping out my good friend properly motivate her muse to complete the book she had already pre-sold, she turned the tables and challenged me to actually complete a book over the next two months (finishing on October 25th as to give me a week to recuperate before NaNoWriMo 2010.

My muse immediately began belligerently defending her ability to accomplish such a feat. Since then, however, she has gone into denial. Too many ideas, she claims. Not enough time right now, she whines. None of the concepts are really good enough, she protests.

Uh huh.

Today is supposed to be Day One of this grand challenge. If it happens, you can watch it unfold here.

I guess modern artists have always known—or certainly been told by others—that the game is rigged against them. For most of us, our chief desire is to reach an audience that appreciates our work and wishes for us to produce more of it. The path to acquiring and keeping that audience can be a difficult one indeed.

Artists require feedback to know whether they have achieved their goals, reached their audience in the ways that they had intended. This can often be as great a challenge as the creation of the work itself.

I hear from many artists that they are hesitant to submit their work for professional consideration because they fear rejection. I find this a perfectly understandable reaction, for who wants to learn that the creation they have labored on for weeks or months—or even years—has been judged unsuitable for publication?

Most publishers offer their rejection in the form of a vague, legally-acceptable form letter that provides the artist with little useful information as to reason (or reasons) that their work was deemed unsuitable for publication. Was it the writing quality? Narrative style? Uninteresting characters? The purchasing editor was having a bad day?

I understand the rationale that most publishers receive more unsolicited submissions than they can reasonably respond to in a more personal and detailed manner. This has been the accepted practice for decades, but does little service to the artist.

So it comes down to persistence, with the artist repeatedly submitting their work, sometimes with modification and sometimes not, until their work is either finally accept or the artist gives up on that particular piece of work—sometimes permanently.

So, if you can, and your artist friends ask for your opinion of their work, please make at least a small effort to do so. Even terse, brutally honest is better than none at all. More often than not, it just inspires us to try harder.

I once had an instructor at the community college I attended tell me that I was very good at “synthesis”—bringing different things together into a cohesive whole. I find the same to be true of my writing: I believe my best work—certainly my best character interactions—come from the ideas and suggestions of others.

I recognize that most of my characters, particularly many of the main ones, tend to be internally focused. (What a surprise…) Their weaknesses and conflicts are usually confronted more within their minds and thoughts than through their actions and dialogue. For most readers, a little of that can go a very long way.

I am fortunate to associate with people who carry other perspectives, who can imagine characters who are more “out there” in terms of personality and character flaws. Through them, I believe my stories have become more interesting and provided opportunities for character interaction and insight that I do not think I would have achieved alone.

While my Myers-Briggs personality type might be adept at providing all of the information one might desire about the “box”, I consider myself privileged to have friends who are capable and eager to look outside it.