by Unknown
Some of it is about labor. For years I misrecognized all those improvised guitar solos as raw, unhoned talent. I figured I could just wander around the fret board and produce the same soaring radiance without actually studying, without endless hours of practice to the detriment of everything else. But the Renaissance had a wonderful word for what we see rock stars do. It’s called sprezzatura: the feigned naturalness and ease which conceals what is actually carefully studied and prepared. The individual notes of this particular solo might be improvised, but that improvisation has grown out of years of work, and more often than not, even its details have been carefully rehearsed, however spontaneous they might look. We value the spontaneous. We respect it. It feels real, like it comes fully fledged from the soul. Spontaneous is cool.
I never got there, because I never did the work. I never achieved the level of technical mastery that would allow me to simply make stuff up. Even if I could hear the sound in my head, my fingers couldn’t execute without hours of rehearsal, and I just didn’t try hard enough to make that happen.
My medium is language.
The blessing and curse of writing is that anyone can do it, or rather anyone who speaks the language seems to be able to do it. But writing is like singing or acting, an art form where the craft (unlike guitar playing, say) disappears in the performance so that people forget that it took work to get there. It’s more sprezzatura, but in this case it reinforces the fiction that anyone who has the raw materials (in this case, language) can pull it off effortlessly.
They can’t, of course. We know that or else we wouldn’t be on a site like this. But we all want shortcuts. We want to pound out the book in a few weeks, dazzle our friends and nail down a mega-contract with a major publisher (prefer-ably with screen rights) when we ought to be practicing the literary equivalent of chord progressions and blues scales. We’re so enamored with the seemingly spontaneous out-pouring of talent that we allow ourselves to forget that work has to be done, dues have to be paid.
No news there. But here’s the thing. As with any kind of technical mastery, you get to a point where it really does become natural: second nature, almost, even instinctive. Not everyone will like what I write (that’s a different issue), but I can now crank out a couple of thousand words in a sitting, and be confident that—with a little polishing—the quality will be far superior to what I used to write, superior even (and here’s a confession) to the stuff I used to send out to agents and publishers, certain I was about to be "discovered." I can do it now. The Nobel committee isn’t calling me day and night, but I feel good about what I write and can focus on the big idea stuff, confident that I can work the sentence-level execution satisfactorily. That’s not a boast any more than it would be for a man who apprenticed as a carpenter for ten years to say he could make a chest of drawers. These are skills that can be mastered. As with most things, talent might make you shine, but success comes largely from work, much of it tedious, time consuming, unglamorous, and marked by small failures.
I’m not sure when it started to come together for me or why, but I suspect it was mainly just time: time spent reading and writing. At bottom, that’s what it’s all about and it’s what I offer as the best and simplest advice to any writer, self-evident though it surely is: Read and write. A lot.
I have never taken a writing class of any kind, though I have taught some and know their potential value. But for years (actually decades) I’ve worked with language, sometimes through conscious study, sometimes through trial and error, by speaking and writing, and by voracious reading of everything I could get hold of, consuming whole, dwelling on single phrases, mining them for implication and resonance: paying my dues. Now it’s what I do and who I am. Language is my instrument. I have learned painfully slowly, but, while I still have a lot to learn, the sounds in my head come out of my fingers as they never did on the guitar.
Writing Organically
David B. Coe
In the course of speaking about my books, I often tell people that I write "organically." And I’m not the only one; I have friends who use the same term when speaking of their own work. But what does this really mean?
Look up "organic" in the dictionary, and among the several definitions listed there you get the following: "Forming an integral element of a whole; fundamental" and "having systematic coordination of parts" and "having the characteristics of an organism; developing in the manner of a living plant or animal." When speaking of my writing, I actually use the word to describe a process that combines all three of these definitions. At this point I realize that I’m muddying the waters more than clarifying them, but bear with me.
I outline when I write, thus providing some framework for my narrative and the evolution of my characters as I proceed through a book. But I don’t outline so much that I actually know exactly what’s going to happen at every point in the novel. Far from it. I’ll write down maybe a paragraph for each chapter. Three or four sentences. "Character 1 goes to this place. S/he finds such and such. This other character shows up. They get a bite to eat." That sort of thing (although hopefully more interesting. . . .) The rest of the plotting, character development, etc. happens as I write. And yes, it happens organically.
I know, I know. I still haven’t said what this means. This is where it all gets a bit mystical. When I’m writing, my storylines and the rest just sort of happen. I can explain this any number of ways: my characters assert themselves and carry the plot in directions of their choosing; the narrative presents itself to me and I basically transcribe it into book form; subliminally I know what’s going to happen at every point in the book, but I don’t realize that I know this until I actually write it. As it happens though, none of these explanations is exactly right; and at the same time every one of them is true to some degree.
I know where my books are going from the very beginning—the day I write page one I already know how the book is going to end. But I have little idea of how I’m going to get from point A to point Z. Every day that I write, I discover just a little bit more about the story I’m telling and the people I’m writing about. For example, this past week I needed to write a scene in which a group of Mettai sorcerers use their magic in a battle, and though this magic helps win the conflict, it also has terrible unforeseen consequences. I knew all of that going in. But I didn’t know what magic they would use, how this would work against the enemy, or what the unintended consequences would be. I actually tried to think it through before I wrote the scene and couldn’t. So I just started writing. Soon my characters told me which magic they’d use and why. From there I realized what would happen at the end of the scene. And this ending fit in perfectly with something I’d set up in the narrative literally two books ago.
Remember those definitions? "Forming an integral element of a whole; fundamental;" "having systematic coordination of parts;" and "having the characteristics of an organism; developing in the manner of a living plant or animal." They’re all there. The solution to the battle scene problem came to me not because I tried to impose an answer on the narrative, but rather because I let it flow out of what had come before. Had I tried to force something, chances are it wouldn’t have worked. Instead, I listened to my characters, or, if you prefer, I allowed the narrative to unfold as it was supposed to, or, I knew what had to happen and just had to be patient with myself until I "remembered." Whatever. To my mind, the best way to explain it is to say that it grew out of what I’d already done and laid the foundation for what needs to come next. That’s why it worked so well and connected seamlessly with elements of the story that had been established long before.
That’s organic writing. I begin with the fundamental elements of storytelling: a setting for my story, characters, and a basic narrative of the events that take us from point A to point Z. Then, rather than deciding from the outset how each of these elements is going to develop during the course of the story, I mix them together, in this case by beginning to write without a crystal clear sense of where
it’s all going. My characters interact with each other, with the world I’ve created, with the conflicts and dramas that I’ve thrown in their path. In other words, the various parts of my story develop symbiotically, feeding off one another, enhancing each other. The story becomes something more than the sum of its parts. It awakens, grows, and even appears to take on a mind of its own. As an author, I can never entirely cede control of my story to this creature I’ve created, but neither can I make it do everything I want it to.
Pick your metaphor here: if I’m building a house, I have to follow the blueprint and stay within the external walls. But if the flow works better with a room moved here, or a wall eliminated there, so be it. Or . . .
If I’m gardening, I don’t want to let the cantaloupes overflow their plot and take over where the beans or tomatoes have been planted. But I can let them roam a bit, give them room to climb up a fence here or wind around a pole there. Or . . .
If I’m raising a child, I can’t allow her to live her life without any limits, without any guidance. But I have to give her the freedom to explore who she is, how she wishes to express her individuality, what she wants to make of her life.
So it is with writing a book. Develop the fundamental elements, bring them together and allow them to interact, and give them the freedom to grow and evolve on their own. When I speak of writing organically, that’s what I mean.
§§§
Misty Massey
It used to make my mother crazy knowing that I write without anything but the most basic of outlines. I would write my term papers first and then make my outline. That alone is probably responsible for a third of my poor mother’s silver hairs.
Sometimes I envy the people who can create an unshiftable outline and follow it—it sounds like such an easy way to do things. But after all these years, I know it’s not my way. I know how I’m starting, and where I want to end up, but all the gooey bits in the middle happen when they happen. I’m writing in a fashion that’s honest to who I am.
Write What You Love
A.J. Hartley
Thus far in my career I’ve followed the three pieces of advice I always offer to other writers, and all three are really just individual parts of one obvious point. One of them is "Don’t Second Guess the Market." That doesn’t mean be oblivious to what people are reading—particularly in your genre—but don’t set out to write the next [insert current blockbuster title here]. If the vampire-infested bandwagon hasn’t been over-run by werewolves by the time your book is ready you’ll find yourself competing for the jaded attention of agents and editors with a hundred other manuscripts about the same kind of thing. Originality, the distinctiveness of your voice, sense of story and so forth is unlikely to survive the factory process of imitating something which is already successful.
My second rule of thumb: Don’t Write Solely to Impress. I see a lot of younger writers bending over backwards to make the Pulitzer or Booker Prize short list, slaving over a Serious Fiction project which secretly bores them to tears. People often tell you to write what you know—a useful bit of advice, properly handled—but they might better tell you to write what you read. If you like nothing better than to curl up with the new Zadie Smith or Jhumpa Lahiri, then—by all means—try to write that kind of book. But if you read supernatural romance by the crateful, maybe you should be writing that. That way you already know the genre, what other writers are doing within it and—more to the point—you are following your passion. If that passion is literary fiction, great, but don’t go down that route just because you think it has more cultural value. (For the record, I think cultural value is in the eye of the beholder and I absolutely reject the idea that genre fiction is less serious than literary fiction. But I digress . . .)
All of which sets up my third rule (which is really the other two rolled into one): Write what you love. Because though I can’t speak for every writer, I’m confident that that’s what gets most of us into this lark. There are, after all, far surer and—frankly—easier ways to earn a few bucks. We write because we have to. It’s a part of who we are.
Now I’m acutely aware that most of us don’t have the luxury of lots of spare time, especially those of us who have "day jobs," so I’m going to drop kick the old lie that writers have to write every day. Nonsense. You write when you can and—more importantly—when you have something to say. Sure, a lot of times I don’t know that I have something to say till I start to write, but setting yourself unrealistic writing goals is like deciding that you’re going to go to the gym every day and lose twenty pounds a month. Shoot for things you can’t sustain and you’re more likely to fall off the wagon entirely (this being the writing wagon, not the afore mentioned vampire-infested bandwagon). Look at your schedule and set yourself small goals you think you can actually do: maybe a couple of thousand words per week at first, till—as with exercise—you build the habit and skills to do more. In this I think you’ll find that writing the book you want to write (rather than something to please your teacher or pump up your bank balance) makes the process a lot easier.
Writing Is A Solitary Business
Faith Hunter
Most people think that writing is what we do at the PC or laptop or with pad and pen. That we live inside our heads and are only working when actively pounding away at the keyboard or scritching madly on the pad. The writers among us know that simply is not true. Our minds get caught up in the lives of our characters and suddenly we find ourselves writing at odd times—driving, eating supper, walking the dogs, paddling a particularly good river (okay that one is mostly just me), and worst of all, while having a conversation that is important to our mates though not so much to us. Or maybe that one is just me, too?
I try not to get too personal on MagicalWords.net, but I need to confess something. It’s supposed to be good for the soul, yes? When I’m writing I ignore the hubby. A lot. It’s not so hard for him when I’m pounding away on the PC, because it’s obvious that I am engrossed in someone else. He doesn’t even mind that the someone else is often younger, prettier, and more buff then he. And he gave up trying to figure out who I pattern my character’s love interests on when he realized that most of them were based on no one at all or a childhood crush or someone I passed on the street or saw on TV, and then totally changed so they are unrecognizable to most folk.
He doesn’t mind that I am writing when I’m physically writing. But he does get ticked off—sometimes really ticked off—when we are talking about golf (which I don’t play) or a new river he wants to run (which I haven’t seen, haven’t researched, and have no opinion about yet) and I drift off. I totally lose track of what we are talking about, where we were in the conversation, and he gives me this . . . look. Do you know the one I mean? Not quite mad, not quite hurt, not quite disappointed, but sort of . . . painfully exasperated, maybe. I always rush to apologize and turn my total attention to him, but the damage has been done. I was writing and got lost within my own world. The world I was building with him disappeared and I . . . I forgot him. It is a crisis of relationship that many writers face with the their loved ones.
There was a time, for a while after the hubby first fell in love with golf, when we had two totally different conversations every evening on our walks. He was talking about golf, this wonderful shot or this amazing putt, and I was talking about writing, a conversation with an agent, a really great scene, or a difficult plot point I’d worked out. The conversations had no give-and-take, but we both accepted it because it was our lives we were sharing, not really info. But it’s different when I drift off and leave him alone in the room. If I am not careful, that can hurt.
My relationships all suffer when I am actively creating—that internal creativity that we do that takes place under the surface of the skin in the deeps of our minds, but sometimes swims to the surface and catches us in its jaws and pulls us down with it. My mom sees it too. Other writers laugh when it happens, when we’re having tea or lunch and one of us drifts away. We understand
that that no one—no celebrity or politician or anyone—is more interesting than the people in our brains. We understand. But we do have to be very careful not to hurt the people we love when we are writing.
Just saying . . .
§§§
Misty Massey
Last Saturday when I was out at the faire, Paradiis and Farashah were discussing a particularly challenging dance, and they asked me a question. One I never heard, since at the time I was staring off into the sky. Farashah touched me to get my attention. "Misty, where were you?"
"I was writing," I said.
C.E. Murphy
I’m going to have to ask Ted if I do this. I know I do it if I’ve come to him for help with a plot point or something, because when he hits on The Idea I need, I apparently get this very specific distant expression and often drift into silence while I contemplate the revelation. In those circumstances he’s always very pleased with himself, because if I do that it means he’s given me the piece I need to make the story work, or he’s given me enough that I can see it from there.
But I honestly don’t think I drift off into my writing worlds when I’m not working. Granted, "working" is a nebulous term for writers, and plenty of train rides are spent "working" in terms of staring out the window and thinking vague thoughts about the book. But I don’t think I drift during conversations and the like. I’ll have to ask Ted. :-)
David B. Coe
I certainly do it when I’m driving, hiking, lying in bed waiting to fall asleep, doing mundane stuff like grocery shopping or cutting the lawn. I don’t do it when I’m out taking photos—I’m pretty absorbed when I have my camera in hand. I try not to do it in conversations, particularly with my wife and kids, but I know that it happens occasionally. Nancy laughs at me . . . most of the time. The girls get mad at me. To be honest, I get mad at myself, because I know how much it can hurt. But it’s hard to stop, and even if it wasn’t hard, I’m not sure I’d want to stop. Inspiration is unpredictable. It can come and go, and when it’s there, right in front of me, I have to follow it, because I’ve set it aside in the past, attempting to be polite, and I’ve lost whatever idea it was that had come to me. As much as I hate to hurt those I love in this small way, I hate losing ideas even more.
