Musings on the Writing Life

Everyone is telling me that I'm at a unique stage in my life.  Some people say its the most exciting, many people say its the most stressful, others say that its a period of change.  All are correct in their own way.  Preparing for a wedding IS a big deal.  It is stressful, there is a lot to do, and a lot of things are changing.  I'm adjusting alright, I suppose.  Its hard to tell until after its over.

I have to admit that my writing has gone to the bottom of the priority list.  Between church, family (which has now expanded to include my fiance's family), church, wedding planning, and friends, I have had little time to work on my own writing.


Much of my creative writing education in college stressed, whether explicitly or implicitly, that in order to be a good writer, you have to make your writing the #1 priority in your life.  I'd have to say that right now, its a #10 priority, if that.  I have a ton of other things that I value more than getting my novel done.  Is that wrong?  For some people, it is.  They would say that my writing will be sacrificed, that in order to excel, I need to be drowning in writing.  Reading, editing, writing, workshopping, etc.  I need to be able to put my job aside, my friends aside, and concentrate on my writing.

I admit that many prestigious authors have lived this way of life and they have reaped the benefits.  But who is there to rejoice with them when they succeed?  If we put our family and friends second to our writing, in the end, who is going to be there to help us when we fall or cheer us on when we're nearing the finish line?  To me, there is no replacement for family.  And in my opinion, a self-centered act of writing (not selfish, just self-centered) should not be more important than the ones you love.


Perhaps I will never be successful in my writing.  Perhaps I will never be a great author remembered throughout time for intelligent, well-written stories.  I'm okay with that.  Some people aren't.  The balance is difficult, but I can see no other way to live my life.

Disclaimer

There is the phrase that goes, "Be careful what you do around an author.  You may just show up in their book someday."  or..."Don't ever date a writer. They'll turn you into literature."  Something like that.  I'm sure there are bumper stickers out there or something.

The phrases are true.  I'm sorry, but what else are we to glean from?  Our imagination can only go so far.  And even then, imagination is only creation based off of things that we've experienced.  For characters, any character we create contains bits and pieces of people we've observed or know.  It is not necessarily an insult or an honor to be portrayed in this way; I almost guarantee at least 80% of the time for the average writer the use of your character traits is entirely subconscious.

I wrote this for a writing exercise in college, and the paragraph still means a lot to me.  The exercise was to write a disclaimer for something, so I wrote a disclaimer for books or writing.

I have to warn you.  Most people think that when people write stories, they are fake, fiction, figments of zealous imagination.  But I’m telling you, and perhaps ruining the grand secret: our stories are most often based on truth.  Well, yes, we have to change that one thing, toss in new names, and flip that one pathway around, just to disguise the fact that we aren’t really all that creative but just intrigued by life and its intricacies.  But the hard part may be, for some of us, that our life really isn’t that interesting, so we take these nuggets of truth, little instances and moments, small handfuls of human existence, and try to contain it inside the confines of the written word.  So, what I guess truth in this story is that there is no such thing as pure fiction.  

I don't want to debunk fiction or to make it any less of a creative art.  Its just that I write because I love life.  Everything is so intricate and complex, yet increasingly simple at the same time.  The world is a paradox unto itself, and holds so many mysteries.  I like to create and to make up worlds that don't exist and people that don't exist but somehow are just as real to me as the chair that I am sitting on.  And yes, that was entirely cliché, but hey...I like well-timed clichés now and again.

Have fun gleaning information from people's lives (with respect and discretion, of course).  Ron Carlson used an entire lecture devoted to teaching us how to write examples from real life but disguise them so that the people involved won't be able to tell.  Asking permission is always great, but sometimes you just can't do that.  So change everything, every detail.  If it was set in the summer, put it into the winter.  If it involves a boy named Robby, rename him Edward.  If she has three kids, give her one.  Change all the details.

I think, if one has to define it, creativity is taking pieces of what God has created and fiddling around with them.

Some Personal Theory

So, you want to write a book (a story) that means something.  You want those deep, thought-provoking themes to reveal to the reader something about their own lives and hopefully encourage them to change for the better.

Then you get to writing class, and they tell you can't write toward theme because you will have a bad story.  They say you have to let the story to the leading and let the characters speak for themselves.

You are stubborn and try to write toward theme anyway.  You fail.  You realize that you have to listen to your teacher.

You try writing for yourself, but you are a theme person.  That is just how you are as a writer.  And you are trying as hard as you can to silence the part of your writerly self that wants to inject theme into every emotional conversation between two characters.  Symbolism!  Metaphor!  They are all dying to smear their faces on the page.  You do your best to hold them off, but bits of them creep in and get into the writing anyway.

Now, you're faced with your horribly written draft that is half a weak story that got shoved around by metaphors and themes and ideas and absolutes and ideals and half a poor soap box speech that has these weird characters with their own ideas (that probably and somehow conflict with the person that created them) getting in the way.

What do you do?

My first idea: Embed your ideals into the plot points.  Sure, let your characters do their own thing and hold the theme down.  But during the drafting part, you have to go through your draft and see what themes are popping out from the characters themselves.  If you don't like them, well, you're the author.  Get rid of them.  But the ones you do like, work with them.  They are there already.  But make sure that you make realizations or ideals presented or something like that a plot point.  They have to be integral to the plot.  If you could take them out and the plot would not have to change a bit, that won't work.  Your theme has to be so integral to the plot that it is a part of the characters lives.

Thats just an idea.  I don't have any experience really to back it up.  Ron Carlson, whom I studied story writing under for a year, would probably laugh at this blog post.  Either for my stupidity or for my simplification of something that he has been trying to teach me all along.

Day 373

In 373 days or 53 weeks and 2 days, I was able to write 59,992 words in some semi-understandable pattern to create sentences, put those sentences next to each other to make paragraphs, and those paragraphs to make a story.  From March 21, 2010 to March 29, 2011, I labored to write the first draft of my first novel after college.   But I can officially say that I completed the first draft of my novel.

To some, this may seem like an egotistical post, boasting about my accomplishment.  Please know that I am in no way am I proud of what I have written.  Its a mess.  Its not well-written, and I have a lot of work today.  What I am proud of is the dedication that went into completing the project, even if it did take me much longer than it probably should have at roughly 1,000 words a week (which isn't much).

After completing the draft, I stopped and realized that I did not need to write "one more page" so that I would have a place to pick up later.  I anticipated feeling more excited, but at 1am, I was tired and excitement didn't seem the natural response at the moment.  I felt much like I did after I got engaged.  I felt a warm sense of contentment, not a bubbly excitement.  Instead of a scream, it was a sighing moment.

Now, on to the edits!  Going to try and keep an eye on the bigger picture while I edit, but that is so much easier said than done.  Onward, ho!

Experience Wins

This post may contain 50% rant, so please understand it in that context.

I am the youngest employee at my work.  Therefore, I lack a vital thing that everyone else has and I cannot attain.  Experience.   And even though I pride myself in having some brains to put two and two together, experience seems to trump everything.  Even if I think of something, someone else can say, "Well, I've done it before this way..." and my idea is no longer valid because someone else's past experience consistently yields better results than under-developed ideas.

I've never planned a wedding before.  Therefore, I lack the vital thing that everyone else has and I cannot attain. Experience.  And even though I pride myself in having organizational skills, experience seems to trump everything.  Even if I think of something, another woman can say, "Well, it's always done this way..." and my idea is no longer valid because someone else's past experiences yield more traditional results than my under-developed ideas.

Okay, the tone may be a bit much, but I guess I'm a little discouraged.  What is the point of going to school if experience is really the only thing that makes or breaks it?  It seems like my schooling only gave me tools to seem like I have something to offer to the company, when really companies want people who are experienced.  My knowledge only makes me an efficient gopher.

On the other hand, my wedding is slightly different.  While I have very much relied on the past experiences of others and others' recommendations, there are some things I just feel like I don't want to do.  But others are telling me that that is not how it is done.  Do I defer to their ideas because they know and how can I know?  I haven't done this before.

I am a very stubborn person.  Even now, I put on my little kid pouty face when someone tries to do something for me that I know I can do myself and say, "No. I do!"  Yes, childish, but I think that if I think I can do it, let me try until I know I can't.  I don't like to read directions.  I fumble around first so I can figure it out.  This often leads to mistakes and picking up after the mistakes but ultimately understanding.  Companies don't like that.  Weddings don't like that.  There is no room for trial and error.

I'm also a little frustrated because why I understand the value of experience, there is no way for me to get it without waiting.  And I hate waiting.  (Sorry, more childlike impatience going on.)  I have to sit and wait in my gopher hole before I can watch enough people exhibit the wealth of their knowledge and experience for me to have experienced enough to step into the light.  Is that how it works?

At this point in my life, being the "youth" that I am, I am at the start of my adult life and wondering where the adult part kicks in.  As far as I'm concerned, there should be a phase for "young adult" when you are an adult but not quite.  I guess years take the fun away from everything anyway, so its a trade off.  Fun or experience?

Okay, never mind.  I take the whole thing back.  I want the fun.  ;)

Sickness & House Moms

I have been taken captive by the influenza virus.  I am not a normal captive to this hideous tyrant who demands control of every part of your body that can ache, but this year I fell victim.  Sick for four days, going on five.  I slept for 15 hours the first day I was sick.  Only today have I felt well enough to even pull my laptop downstairs and sit on the couch (lying down, because sitting up takes too much energy) and write this.

Figuring that this is the last time I will be deathly ill and still under the cares of my attentive mother, I relished in the ability to have water delivered to my bedside, meals made for me, and movies put into the DVD player for me (complete with the remote handed to me while I lounged with my 101 degree fever).  I will be probably be very sad the first time I'm sick at home alone, my husband having gone to work for the day, and I'm having to drag myself to the kitchen to force myself to cook something to eat because otherwise I'll just lie in bed all day.

And I keep saying this, but it is true: I had forgotten how boring being sick was.  Perhaps it was the nature of this flu, which the doctor says is one of the worse strains she's seen over the seasons.  Between the muscle aches, the joint aches, the nasal congestion, drowning in my own phlegm (too much information?), the head aches, and the sweating fevers, I had little space between the fatigue and the lack of brain function to do much of anything except stare at the television.  Reading has become something like writing to me: part work and part enjoyment.  Therefore, reading would require too much energy while I was sick.  So, there I was, watching movie after movie because I had nothing else to occupy my time until I got better.

Quite depressing.  All this time...five days of it...wasted because I have no energy to do anything.  I was and am quite frustrated that all this time has passed and I accomplished nothing except to stay in my pajamas for probably the longest continuous time in my life.  I guess, that is a feat for some.

Meanwhile, I've been watching my mother do her thing around the house.  Its interesting watching a house mom.  Little decisions can consume their entire day.  Suddenly feeling bothered by the dust on the floor can cause a flurry of cleaning, putting every thing else that was on the to-do list somewhere else.  Desires like cooking that chicken or finding that dress are now job tasks, not wishes.  They are things that have to get done, otherwise the paycheck doesn't come.  Not really, but they have more magnitude.  You wonder what they do from the hours of 8am to 3pm when their children are in school.  Sure, my mom also has her business, but most of that I see her doing in the evening.  So what DOES she do?

I guess when I become a house mom, I'll understand, since that is the plan.  I want to stay at home with my children.  I guess the job becomes a little more looney when the children start moving out and growing up.  I guess what I was observing these past 5 days was an empty-nester syndrome attaching itself to a once-busy house mom who used to have at least one toddler toddling around the house.  That would mean at least one eye was busy watching the kid.  Now, there are no toddlers, only teenagers and young adults, leaving the eyes with nothing to watch in the corner of them and only worries.

Being sick and quite bored, perhaps I am babbling on about nothing that is true since I've never been there before or perhaps the medicines are getting to my head.  Either way, its been interesting, and while I don't mind being able to sleep in, I will very much like to stop being held physically captive by all of this fatigue.  I can't wait to get something done.

Being Clay

I've been engaged almost three months, and this period of time has yielded a lot of struggle and learning.  I feel like the clay in the Potter's hands, being molded and pushed and smashed and turned.  It's been a frustrating sort of pain.  You know that you are going to come out better, bolder, smarter, but you feel your insides turn at the thought of going through another round on that potter's wheel.  It hurts.  And even though the goal of a "better me" and a "better marriage" and a "better relationship" dangles above like a carrot, you can't help but focus on the pain at present and wish you could just skip to the end.

My sister took a pottery class in college.  She told us around the dinner table the first time she saw her professor work the clay on the spinning wheel.  She said the clay looked like water in his hands.  He moved it up and down, using his hands to mold and move the clay into various shapes.  He would knead the clay, stretching it and then putting it back into a lump and then stretching it again.  My sister is more show than tell, so she moved her hands, mimicking his movements and telling us how she remembered thinking, "I can do that."  It looked so easy, of course.

Her professor impressed on his students that just the right amount of water is needed.  Too much and the clay slides off the wheel when it spins.  Too little and it won't move when you press your hands to it.  He said the moisture of the clay is important to a good pot.

My sister then proceeded to her own wheel and naturally, she did not move the clay as easily as he did.  Some of her peers had flying balls of mush spinning off their wheels, but her clay was a rock.  She sprinkled more water, and it still didn't move.  How had her professor made it look so easy?  She pushed and pressed and punched and her clay remained a rock.

This turned into a discussion of how our Potter feels when He tries to mold us.  I can imagine that I'm much like the clay without enough water.  I'm stubborn and prideful, and those things make me immobile.  Not to mention I don't like change.  God patiently tries to mold me with His hands, and I resist, screaming, "No!  I don't want to change!"  I imagine others are like the ones with too much water.  They just spin off the wheel and run away.

These past few months have been full of spending time on the Potter's wheel.  Premarital counseling has opened up a lot of opportunities for change and growth, and while in my head I understand that I need to reform myself, I find that I am resistant to climbing out of my cozy little hole.  And I can't admit that I even dug myself this hole.

As I've spent time in this period of my life, I've begun to see insight into character.  We can't understand character unless we get to know someone other than ourselves.  Understand is a heavy word.  Its not just understanding; its understanding.  Sorry, poor English means having to use italics to make a point.  Let's put it this way.  One way the verb "to understand" is defined is "to be thoroughly familiar with; apprehend clearly the character, nature, or subtleties of".  That is a definition with of "to understand" with an object.  Without an object, "to understand" is defined as "to perceive what is meant; grasp the information conveyed, to accept tolerantly or sympathetically".   

To understand my husband-to-be is to be both thoroughly familiar with him and his character and to also know him so well that I can interpret what he says, grasp the meaning he tries to convey in the words he says.    I've been dating this man for 6+ years and this is still difficult.  More difficult now as we try to blend our lives together. 

Everyone tells everyone else that communication is the key to a relationship.  True, of course.  However, I do not think it is as much the communication that is as difficult but the development of understanding.  Understanding has a lot of things built into it: sympathy, empathy at times, humility, and an ability to put one's self into a third person perspective.  

As I've attempted (and failed) to understand my fiancé, I've begun to see how character is intricately more difficult than any other thing in a story.  To accurately convey a person in the confines of words, allowing for this complexity and reality.  Its something next to impossible to truly achieve.  People try.  And a lot of writers get quite close.  To truly accomplish it is something extra-ordinary.  

As I've spent time on my Potter's wheel, I begin to see the intricacy of His creation, my own stubborn flaws, and opportunity to hold a richness of life that I have yet to tap into.  

Storytelling

There is something beautiful about the craft of storytelling.  Using history, back-story, instances, moments to create a montage that says something to our hearts.  Whatever form it may take, be it in a book or a movie or a speech, storytelling speaks to all of us.

I was watching Randall Wallace's speech for the National Prayer Breakfast today and wondered, while he was amusing and his speech was humorous, what all of these little vignettes were for.  Then as he spoke, you start to see all of his pieces come together and what their purpose was.

In realizations like that, I always think of author and professor Ron Carlson, who I had the extreme privileged of studying under for over a year in college as an undergraduate.  He would always teach that when writing, you pull from the inventory you created.  In a room, describe what is on the fridge or the bulletin board or the desk or the love seat.  Put items in the room, and you will find them to be useful later.

It was the same thing here.  Randall Wallace told bits and pieces of his life, his past, his childhood and pulled them together by association to create depth and meaning to his story about the one prayer that helped to inspire Braveheart.

Watch this beautiful speech.  It holds positive qualities not only in the art of storytelling but also in the desires of mankind.  May God bless America.