Ink Dance

by Ross, Deborah J.

  Some experienced writers seem to have a strong inner critical sense, an ability to evaluate their own work by their own standards. It’s a little like coming full circle from when we wrote only to please ourselves, only having slogged through the threshold criteria of professional publication. As I’ve grown as a writer, there have been more times when I know I’ve produced something good, but I always have blind spots. I get enamored of the most awful drek because I see what I intended, not what actually ends up on the page. Turning out flawed drafts does not mean I’m a poor writer . . . but leaving the work that way is a sure ticket to never improving!

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  Would You Write Anyway?

  I’ve heard various versions of the question of whether you would continue to write if you knew absolutely-for-sure that your work would never be published. Self-publishing has made the question irrelevant. It’s far easier to put together an ebook, a website, a blog, than it is to write a book in the first place.

  The question is worth consideration, nonetheless, because it gets at some fundamental issues. For whom are we writing? How important is it to be told how wonderful our work is? Are we writing because we love story-telling or because we have a message we want to communicate (in which case, an audience is essential to our feeling of satisfaction)? Is our writing a way of generating income? (Don’t scoff; I’ve met middling-successful writers who admit as much.)

  I derive a great deal of pleasure when I know what I’ve just written is good (that thrill of reading it over and going, OMG I wrote this and it’s wonderful!) and sometimes I don’t care whether anyone else thinks so. It’s enough that I’m pleased with what I’ve produced. But I would not be able to write as well as I sometimes can if I had not had critical feedback from others—lots and lots of it over the years. These others have been editors, fans, fellow workshoppers, trusted readers, other writers, reviewers whom I’ve never met but nonetheless offered insightful and sometimes extremely painful commentary. I owe them all more than I can say. I haven’t written in a vacuum.

  Mostly, I love feedback, or rather, I love most feedback. We’ll forget the idiot reviews by people who obviously have not even read the book. Or who have some other axe to grind, but that’s another topic. The short version is, if the material (usually but not always related to queer issues) irritates you, don’t blame the quality of the writing. Tackle your demons head-on.

  I’ve gotten fan letters that bring tears to my eyes, to know that my work has touched them that deeply and made such a difference in their lives. Reaching so many readers, people I’d never have the chance to meet in person, is one of the special gifts of being published.

  If you were to ask me if I’d keep writing now if all my work would stay in a drawer, the answer would be yes. It doesn’t have to be the case for everyone. I’m just one of those writers who finds the act of creation, both the exercise of hard-won skill and the stories themselves, so deeply satisfying that I’m willing to keep doing it even without the joys of connecting to readers (not to mention seeing my name in print and holding a book, thinking I wrote this!)

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  Zen Yoga Writing Practice

  A confession: I like to read at bedtime. All the sleep hygiene experts say not to, that beds should be used only for sleeping and one other activity. What do they know? I find something deeply comforting about curling up with a good—but not too exciting—book. Perhaps it evokes memories of my mother reading aloud to me, or it’s just “me time.”

  A few years ago, I started including in my nightly reading a page or two of something that stretches my mind. I don’t mean that in the intellectual sense, for I definitely want to be quieting my thoughts, not forcing myself to think critically. I choose books that get inside my brains and stretch them gently in unexpected directions, like mental yoga before settling into my comfort reading.

  I love Natalie Goldberg’s Long Quiet Highway. Goldberg is a writing teacher, essayist, and novelist who is also a long-time student of Zen Buddhism. I was introduced to her work years ago with her Writing Down the Bones, and had always thought of her as a teacher in the style of Julia Cameron: “Morning pages,” keep the pen moving, let your thoughts flow, that sort of advice. Long Quiet Highway is autobiographical rather than instructive. I was deeply moved by how she put together mundane, specific details in ways that brought tears to my eyes. More than that, she got me thinking—or rather, feeling/sensing—more deeply about the role of writing in my own life. Yes, it’s a pleasure and an obsession; yes, it’s my occupation, how I earn my living.

  Mountain Pose: Could it also be the lens through which I view the world? Sure, no problem; every new experience is grist for the mill. That’s the easy answer, just as the plot skeleton is the easy description of a story. As a writer, I know that storyness is much deeper than plot. Can I use that same insight to listen more deeply, look beyond appearances, appreciate the interwoven complexity of my community and environment?

  Dancing Shiva Pose: How about writing as a spiritual practice? Um, isn’t that a bit pretentious . . . or is it? Is there something moving through me, speaking through me, when I write from my heart? Can I shove my ego as well as my intellect out of the way? Speaking of intellect, and ego, and mind . . .

  Pigeon Pose: Could writing help me become better acquainted with my own mind? The way my thoughts sometimes behave like grasshoppers on steroids? The phrases and connections and story elements I use repeatedly, without intention? The cycles of feeling I’ve written something fabulous, only to plummet to the certainty it’s all drek, that I can never get anything right?

  Corpse Pose: Is writing a way of stilling my thoughts and becoming fully present—through words, are you kidding? Ah, those moments when it feels like I’m not making up these words, they’re coming from somewhere else, I’m just a lens, a focal point through which light passes.

  I have no easy answers, but I will be watching myself—my self—more closely as I write. And who knows, I might even achieve a new literary Downward-Facing Dog.

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  Nothing Creative Is Ever Wasted

  Marion Zimmer Bradley used to say that the first million words were practice. It’s both a daunting prospect and a relief. Daunting: You mean I have to write ten 100,000 word books before I get anything right? A relief: I have lots and lots of time in which to develop as an author. So what do we do with those ten books (or those hundred 10K short stories)?

  Occasionally we prevail over the proclamation and we get it right. We sell a story and see it in print. Every blue moon it’s someone’s first story. OMG, as my kids would say. I don’t know about how your mind works, but I immediately start expecting the same from myself. I forget that a career entails slow, steady improvement in skill, the gradual accumulation of experience, and lots of mistakes. If I’m not getting rejection letters, I’m not taking the risks I need to become better.

  At any rate, by the time I sold my first novel, I’d accumulated a trunk full of writing—novels, shorts, fragments. Most of them were unsalable, not just because of the amateurish caliber of the prose but because the ideas themselves were “half-baked,” poorly conceived and developed. As I learned to revise, I was able to take some of these stories, excavate the heart of them—whatever originally turned me on about them—and completely or substantially rewrite them. (Northlight was an example.) By far the larger portion remain relegated to that trunk.

  This is important, as important as it is to not sit around doing nothing while waiting to hear back from an editor. (You should be hard at work on your next book!) The stories stayed in the trunk because by the time I had the critical skills to see what was wrong with them, my creative skills had grown as well. The new story ideas, plots, landscapes, and characters I was coming up with were far and away better than what I’d done even a year ago. I chalked the old ones up as Marion’s practice wordage and moved on to something that was the best I could do now.

/>   I’ve seen writers cling to that first unsold (and unsellable) novel, pouring all their time and energy into sequel after sequel. I also know writers who began with multi-volume series that were too complex and demanding for their skill level, and then set them aside to hone their writing craft on more skill-appropriate projects.

  So what’s this about nothing creative being wasted? First of all, there’s Marion’s practice principle. Then there are stories that you’re not ready to write yet but they’re grand and nifty stories, worth coming back to. Then there are stories that are never going to work, but have bits and pieces that still speak to you. I think of them as a sort of pirate’s chest, a jumble of plastic beads and fake rubies, Spanish doubloons and splinters of Yggdrasil. I’ll rifle through the chest, setting aside the things with rhinestones, looking for flakes of true gold. I’ll strip away the settings of plastic and tin and hold in my hands a tiny seed. Sometimes it’s not ready to sprout, but sometimes it’s exactly what I need to plant in the carefully tilled loam that is my writing career today.

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  ’Tis the Season to Get Crazy

  The winter holiday season seems to be an engraved invitation to depression and desperation, all under the guise of jollity, and we writers are far from immune.

  First of all, it’s winter. Anyone with even a hint of a whisper of SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) has been feeling progressively more “blue” as the length and brightness of daylight wanes. In most parts of the US and Europe, it’s cold. It’s damp. It’s gray. Too often, you’re stuck inside so you’re not getting as much exercise as you would in a milder season. True, there are benefits to being cooped up with nothing better to do than to pour yourself into the novel-in-progress. However, more times than not, you’re stuck inside with piles of indigestible food and intoxicating drink, neither of which are conducive to good writing. (For those of us who are not Hemingway, anyway, and even then you could argue, as Damon Knight did, that alcohol never improved anyone’s writing.)

  Second of all, winter is apt to be a lean season, financially speaking, for writers. It’s a long time between royalty checks and editors take vacations just like everyone else. This occurs at the same time as the annual frenzy of exhortations to buy-buy-BUY, as if love for someone must be measured by the price of gifts. For too many of us, the combination of gloom and slowdown and expectation of spending is more than enough to plummet us into feelings of inadequacy and paralysis. (Not to mention fears of becoming a bag lady or gent within the next two weeks.)

  For those of us whose families did not support or approve of our writing, the holidays amount to putting fertilizer on those struggles. It’s painful to face yet another family gathering in which the inevitable question is when are we going to get a “real” job, or the studied ignoring of our deepest dreams. I don’t mean to say that the winter holidays do not enrich our lives with time spent with loved ones, and a spirit of goodwill and renewal. I love lighting candles in the long dark nights; I love singing songs, even those belonging to other faiths. I was fortunate to have a supportive family (and children who are proud of my literary achievements). But I also know far too many fine writers who don’t get that acknowledgment.

  This season, let’s band together to counter the gloomies and the nay-sayers. If you know a writer who’s having a hard time, pick up the phone or send a note of encouragement. Leave a supportive message on their Facebook page. If you’re local, suggest a time-out from the holiday madness for writerly shop-talk over a cup of tea. Send virtual flowers—or real ones, if any grow in your garden at this season. If your gift-giving includes the spending of money, consider the newest book from your favorite author, a magazine subscription, an audiobook or ebook, a membership to a local con. Don’t forget the things that only we writers can offer: how about the gift of Tuckerizing a friend’s favorite pet in your next story? Or a certificate for reading aloud (funny voices optional) from your own work? Or use your networking savvy to get a book plate autographed by the recipient’s favorite writer?

  However your holidays unfold, remember to be kind to one another. The sun will return. I promise.

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  Pacing . . .

  No, not walking back and forth in an agitated manner . . .

  Not controlling the speed of action and rise of tension in your story . . .

  The insight that came to me over morning oatmeal had to do with pacing myself. That is, balancing the outflow of words (ideas, scenes . . .) and “refilling the well.”

  When I first struggled to write at a professional level, I had a small child (as in 9 months). (For those of you without children, this usually means no time for sleep, let alone writing.) I learned to use very small amounts of time and to do a lot of “pre-writing,” that is, mapping out the scene I was working on, rehearsing every detail in my mind, questioning whether what I imagined was really the best it could be and worked with the rest of the story, that sort of thing, so that when I finally got that precious 15 minutes or half an hour to sit down at the typewriter, I’d go like mad. I used to joke that I couldn’t afford writer’s block; the truth is that I’d already written the next few pages. All I had to do was transcribe them.

  Now that baby and the next one are all grown up (and wonderful young women they are, too) and my days are largely unstructured. The challenge then becomes how do I keep those ideas flowing at a pace that matches what I can put on paper (or in phosphors). I’m learning to tell when I’ve done enough by internal signals (“Rest, go do something else,” urges my back-brain), rather than when I’ve run out of time. Very often, I’ll get started on some other activity (making dinner, walking the dog, housework, yoga practice) and more ideas will pop into my head. I’m still of two minds as to whether it’s better to drop what I’m doing (unhappy doggie notwithstanding) and get back to work or to simply let the “idea-well” fill again.

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  Community and Solitude

  Recently, a couple of things got me thinking about this delicate balance between my need for deep inner-silence/listening-silence, uninterrupted focused writing time, playing-with-others, and the nourishment of a larger community. I think that most of us move back and forth along a continuum of how much alone time versus with-others time we need. Of course, some people are temperamentally more social than others; some of us move through our days and lives with more outward energy than others.

  For writers, the balancing act poses special challenges. We spend so much of our working time interacting only with the story inside our heads and whatever medium we’re using to get the words out. This isn’t reflective, listening-silence time, but it is alone time. So when we emerge from a work session, particularly a long, emotionally draining session, we tend to grab for either frantically-social time (making up time with spouse or kids included) or else dodo-brain escape time (in which who knows or cares if there are other people around, we’re in spin-down zone-out mode).

  It’s as if we’ve drained one particular creative energy tank so dry that we’re utterly unbalanced. I get the image of a donkey laden with two water barrels, listing far to one side and wandering off the track. It’s hard enough under normal circumstances to pause and ask what we really need, what our inner selves thirst for. When we’re in that peculiar state of being wrought-up and wrung-out, it’s even harder.

  I do better when I pay attention to what nourishes me, especially those parts of me, those areas of my life, that get put on hold all too often. I need to—I love to write!—but I also need time to get quiet inside. Time to listen deeply to Spirit, inner and outer. And I do even better when some of this time is in community.

  I also need time in which I feel connected to others. To my immediate family, to my dear friends, to my colleagues, to kindred-spirits. I need face-to-face time. I need touch. I need to feel a part of a greater whole, and that I and we are making the world a better place. If I spend all my time here, I end up feel
ing just as drained as if I spent none. The trick is keeping it all in fluid balance.

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  Cross Training for Writers

  Many times over the years, I have been impressed with the “other” talents of writers I admire. We are not only novelists and crafters of short fiction, we are dancers, singers, teachers, composers, musicians, farmers, cake decorators, painters, martial artists, animal trainers, and athletes. One shared characteristic of these activities is that they are all forms of creativity. Not only that, they force us to use our minds (and our bodies) in different ways than writing does.

  Writing is hard work and it’s easy to get burned out. When we’re tired and our minds have gone numb, we’re tempted to think the remedy is to “zone out.” Passive activities (like watching television) create the illusion of rest and refreshment, but all too often leave us feeling even more drained than before. I propose that what benefits us most is not “down” time but “differently-creative” time.

  Years ago, I noticed that at the end of my day-job week, all I wanted to do was curl up, usually in front of television. However, if I could get myself to go dancing or to a concert, or even dinner with friends, I would finish the evening energized and enthusiastic about diving back into my current story the next morning. It was as if I’d started the weekend a day early, instead of dragging myself out of bed midway through Saturday and picking listlessly at last week’s tepid efforts. I think the same process holds true regardless of whether or not we work a 9-to-5 day job.