Literary Hypochondria
By Jeanne Kisacky | November 30, 2014 |
It is daunting to be an unpublished writer amidst the stellar cast of this blog site’s regular contributors. It is even more so when in their actual presence. At the UnConference in Salem I recently had the pleasure of meeting a number of the regular blog contributors, and of hearing their insight, wisdom, and practical guidance for writing good fiction. Each of the sessions was valuable, each had a takeaway, each was enjoyable, and each was top notch. And yet, processing the sum total of all that input proved a challenge I was not quite ready for. By the middle of the conference, the sneaking thought in the back of my mind that had been plaguing me for months was becoming less sneaky. Should I give up trying to be a writer? Would I be better if I stopped?
The first days of the conference were exhilarating. I went to numerous sessions and I left each one jazzed about the new strategies for curing my ailing manuscript. I stole time in the evenings to apply the recommended literary treatments. I reworked the first page, to give it story questions and draw the reader in. I looked for the story underlying the plot as a means of better focusing the scenes. I strengthened the inciting incident in my protagonist’s past, which kept him from getting what he desired in the present. I made sure each page had microtension. I analyzed my deepest fears to find the place where my voice would come from and tried to focus that onto the page.
By the third day of this inundation I went to sleep believing that all I had to do was continue to apply the proper dosage of the various literary ‘treatments’ and my story would soon be glowing in healthiness. My manuscript would be cured. I woke up in the middle of that night and knew, with the absolute terrified certainty that only comes with three a.m., that in fact I wasn’t curing my manuscript. I was treating it, yes, but in a manner that looked only at individual symptoms and not at the bigger picture.
I had become a literary hypochondriac. Any mention of a writing problem, or of a telltale symptom of a larger writing flaw, and I was sure my manuscript had it. I was grasping at every piece of writing advice as the possible cure for an unidentified and undiagnosed ailment.
The problem was not the manuscript. It was also not the sessions, the presenters, or their messages. I was the problem. I had lost my literary way. I didn’t know where I wanted to go with the story. The result–I looked at my manuscript like it held even more literary offenses than Mark Twain recounted in James Fenimore Cooper.
Why is this important to the Writer Unboxed readership? I believe that the danger of literary hypochondria exists for all new and aspiring writers, perhaps more so now than at any other time. With the changing world of publishing and self-publishing, offering saleable products or services to aspiring writers is a large and growing industry. There is a treasure trove of advice for writers on writing available in books, in blogs, in cafes, and in conferences. That treasure trove can be the key to success or it can turn into a quagmire for anyone without a clear sense of what they are writing about or why.
At 3:30 am that troubled morning in Salem, I picked up a book of short stories that had been on my must-read list for a long time–George Saunders’ Tenth of December. I simply hoped that reading a couple stories would help me get my mind off my troubles so that I could fall asleep. Instead, his stories blew me away; they sucked me into an alternate world, sometimes in only a couple pages, and left me raw and scared and shaking and transported, and by God, HAPPY.
Here was the answer, here was what had been missing from my work and how I looked at my work. All stories have characters who struggle through adversity to a new understanding of the world. But the strongest stories, those that have stood out for me, have always been about something more than what happens to characters. They were also about abstract but important deeper themes that made what happened to the characters relevant and powerful. George Saunders’ work was not just about characters in conflict, it was about the texture of fear, the simplicity of altruism, the banality of evil, the self-perpetuation of poverty, the seductiveness of self-delusion. It was a commentary on modern existence as much as it was a collection of gritty stories about people in desperate situations.
Then I had my revelation. All the writerly advice I was getting from books, blogs, articles, and UnConference sessions was a confusing babble if I didn’t have a clear idea of what my writing was about and of why writing mattered to me, and to a potential reader.
I could do that with my work. I could give my characters words and actions that not only impelled them from scene to scene, but were revelatory of issues that have plagued humanity in its struggle to become better for centuries–issues such as poverty, crime, idealism, injustice, freedom. I saw what my story might become, if I could pull that off, and I began to hope again.
But despair was not through with me yet. My work in progress was a fantasy, a genre not exactly known for its literary aspirations or its illumination of the human condition. And more worrisome–what I was hoping to do with my writing would bring my stories dangerously close to pedantry–making them into morality plays rather than tales. Who would read that?
I dragged myself out of bed, got ready for the last day of the Unconference–Donald Maass’s workshop–and found my answer. As he has done in many of his blogs, Maass advocated “Twenty-First Century Fiction” as marked by the blending of commercial and literary fiction writing into a new style–one that has the best elements of both. Action and nuance. Plot and message. The lightbulb finally went off. I could write my adventure stories and still have room for them to be about deeper issues.
Since then, I’ve found my guiding spirit again, and have a clear plan for the book. That clear plan came from assimilating the messages from all of the various sessions, but then fusing them into a strategy that worked for me.
I’m not suggesting that the answers or the strategy will be the same for everyone. I’m suggesting that the only way to navigate through the process of becoming a better writer, and not to get lost in the ocean of writing advice, is to answer the questions for yourself.
What is your writing goal?
What kind of book do you want to write?
Photo Credit: “night sky” by Petr28 at deviantart.com.
Jeanne Kisacky trained to be an architect before going back to her first love–writing. She studied the history of architecture, has written and published nonfiction, and has taught college courses. She is the author of Rise of the Modern Hospital: An Architectural History of Health and Healing, 1870-1940.
Jeanne,
Your post could not have been more timely. Yesterday, I ordered every self-help book that has ever been recommended by sites I read and writers I respect. I went to bed feeling defeated because I have decided that my writing is good, but not good enough. I too see every suggestion for the general writing public as my own personal flaw. Unfortunately, in the wee hours, I did not have an epiphany. Is there a twelve-step program for literary hypochondria? :0)
Rose–definitely I’d be in for a twelve-step program but the first step is admitting the problem, so you’re already on the road to recovery with me. Read all the books, but take what helps, what keeps you afloat, and don’t to get caught in the undertow. I think Vaughn’s post, which mentions going through suggestions for improving the writing one at a time, sequentially, is helpful. It could break down the diagnosis symptom by symptom and keep from being overwhelming. Think about what you want the story to be, read writers you love (to get outside of yourself) and your epiphany will come.
thank you Jeanne. It has also taken me weeks to absorb what I learned in Salem and find my own writing groove. I back in the saddle and it sounds like you are too!
Neroli–glad you’ve processed the information deluge and are getting your writing back on track! It was a joy to be at the Unconference, but it’s still going to take a long time to ‘unpack’ all the ideas and strategies I brought home with me.
Jeanne, it was a pleasure to meet you IRL in Salem. I, too, was somewhat overwhelmed by the sheer volume of useful stuff I learned at the conference. And I, too, found myself itching to use what I learned to whip my WIP into shape. But, like, you, I faced more fundamental challenges (not the same ones as you did). Keeping our writing goals at the forefront and knowing why we write must supersede those great tips and techniques we learn at writer’s conference. Still, I found the WU UnCon to be an amazing experience and I am still trying to process what I learned. All the best to you with your WIP.
Chris–it was a pleasure to meet you IRL too! I think finding a balance between tips and techniques and deeper goals for a story is the answer. You have to have both–a clear idea of the larger writing goal, and a good grasp of how each step gets the story to that goal. Keep at it, if writing were easy, it wouldn’t feel so good when things finally start to work themselves out.
Ohh, Jeanne! Once again you write a post that resonates with me. If you have literary hypochondria, I must had literary measles with every wip. At first I feel sick, then a bit better as treatment progresses, then suffer a relapse until finally the acceptance that the book is the best I can possibly make it right now.
Kathleen–hey we missed you at the Conference! I get your measles reference, there is nothing like being all achy and itchy in the middle of the story and know that the end is still a long time away. I applaud your pragmatism in knowing that there is a point where the story is as good as it can get, for now.
Jeanne,
You hit the nail on its head. After UnCon I came away both energized, but hesitant to fix the mess I spent writing for the past seven years. There are sections that are fine, but there’s a sagging middle that needs to be sucked in. Can it be fixed, but would it change everything else in the story? It’s a question that I’m not ready to tackle at the moment because the story is too convoluted, and there are darlings I don’t necessarily want to kill. That led to doubting whether I was a writer or not.
Then something happened…two weeks ago, I discovered a story from three years ago I had outlined in Scrivener. The only thing that was salvageable were the names of the characters and their professions (writers). What followed was a lot of “What if?” questions. These led to a story that’s now taking shape into a story that’s exploring issues of identity, reputation, and historical misdeeds. It’s a story I like and *I* want to know what happens next. So maybe I am a writer after all.
However, I’ll add a warning to all aspiring novelists: passion for your story is a main ingredient, but you need more than that. The story needs logic; your characters need a reason to appear on the page, and your story needs to have reason of why you’re telling it. Examine your themes; ask the tough questions that need to be asked. If you’re consistently answering, “I don’t know” and stumbling to find the mojo to move the story forward, maybe *that* story isn’t meant to be told.
Rebecca–You are definitely a writer. I think that those of us who tried to apply all the new techniques, strategies, approaches, and information to a work that was already well advanced (and perhaps had been kicking around in our heads and on paper for a long time) may have had a harder time. I’m glad it’s coming together for you on the new project.
I also completely agree, to get to the questions that I was facing–of the larger story goal and mood–you need to have a lot of the other writerly apparatus in place: that includes the logic of the story, and fleshed out characters, details, setting. I agree, if you can’t answer basic questions about those details, then trying to finesse the tone of the work is not going to work. Since I’ve been working on the same piece for way too long, I have most of the details pretty well fleshed out. What I was lacking was a driving motive for the story, a theme that would make it more a rambling sequence of scenes that ended in a wedding. It had to have a larger destination for me, even if there is a wedding in the end.
I was glad to have met you in IRL, however briefly, and look forward to the next one!
A few years ago, I worked with a local editor on a very green version of my manuscript. We could not see eye-to-eye. He had a vision for my story which I knew wasn’t my own. But the problem was, my own vision wasn’t clear enough in my head, and the frustration became so bad we had to part ways. Thankfully, I was finally able to sort through it all and figure out the voice, the tone, the underlying theme — all the things that made it mine. It’s immensely helpful to be mentored by someone who knows more than you, but if the story doesn’t come from within, it’s not yours.
Carmel–your words “my own vision wasn’t clear enough in my head”–that’s exactly it. That was what I was feeling in my work. I could like pieces of it, but it wasn’t adding up to a coherent whole. External critiques given when there’s that level of uncertainty can be devastating, I’m glad you found your vision!
Hey Jeanne –
Beautiful, insightful, moving post. Gives me great confidence that you’ve got nothing to worry about, outside of your hypochondria. You’re a gifted writer!
As far as UnCon, I think you were washed into the overwhelm seawall before I was. I didn’t lift a finger to apply what I was learning while there. This was a conscious decision. In fact, I didn’t even bring a computer. I made a vow to myself that I would just enjoy the conference, and let the whole of it just wash over me. Which it did. Like a riptide. But being an experienced Great Lakes swimmer, I did not try to swim against the current. I allowed myself to drift, without struggling. And I enjoyed the ride.
But then I got home, and opened my work-in-progress. And felt like I’d been washed far from shore. It felt frighteningly far. My version of writerly hypochondria was to forget that I know how to swim, to let myself be overwhelmed by the distance rather than to take it one stroke at a time. One of the gifts I received at UnCon was a bit of advice from Don, and I will carry with me always. He told me that I have the tools, and he reminded me that they can be applied one at a time. He said (paraphrasing): “Go through the manuscript focused on a single thing. It’ll go quickly that way. So what if you have to go through it a dozen times. And during each exercise, you’ll be absorbing the lesson of that tool so that by the end utilizing that lesson will start to come naturally.” That little tidbit has been my writerly personal floatation device.
I hear you about knowing your intent. I think Lisa Cron’s sessions spoke to me about this. And it’s funny, but I’ve been rooting around in my series of four-going-on-six manuscripts for meaning for years. I think I’d been psyching myself out with my own weird concept of “literary themes.” Since UnCon, I’ve scaled it back. I’ve just been trying to (Lisa’s phrase) “drill down” on the specific issues that inform that meaning. I’d been laboring under the misconception that such themes needed to be grandiose. And maybe the ones I’m finding will be, for someone, but for now I’m seeking simpler but truthful. I’m just looking for connection with my own emotional “story pins” (Don’s concept). And hopefully, those same pins resonate with another human (I don’t like to think of readers in a collective sense—it helps me to think of ‘reader’ in a singular, one-on-one sense).
Like you, what saved me from my riptide experience more than anything was getting back to reading – particularly a favorite author’s work. I’ve been reading Robin Hobb’s back catalog, and I dove back in. She’s like literary comfort food to me, but I now find my eyes are open to how her work relates to the lessons I’m learning. And that, in itself, is becoming a comfort. All I ever wanted to do as a writer was to recreate the immersion experience my favorite epic fantasy stories have created for me. It’s nice to look beneath the surface of the type of stories I love, and find the underpinning lessons of my favorite WU craft teachers. It tells me I’m on the right course. I like to believe that I found WU for a reason, that what I’m gaining here is what I needed as a writer. Sounds a bit woo-woo, or even fatalistic, but I feel like I swam into the current that swept me here for a reason. And the thought buoys me, and reminds me to “just keep swimming.”
Sorry, long comment, but I have one final note, Jeanne. I’ve already posted a snippet of The Telegraph’s review of Robin Hobb’s most recent epic, Fool’s Assassin. But when you talk about Don’s 21st Century Fiction concept in its application to fantasy, I think Hobb has accomplished this brilliantly. The book reads very much like literary fiction, and was a bestseller, in the US and UK. The final couple of paragraphs of this review offer me comfort and hope in regards to our chosen genre. If you get a minute, have a look. Here’s a link: https://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/books/bookreviews/11048552/Fools-Assassin-by-Robin-Hobb-review-high-art.html
Vaughn–you are the wisest of the group. I think showing up without a computer was brilliant! It let you enjoy the information and the people, without getting lost in the details.
I also like your reminder of Don’s advice–to go through the work a number of times, each time looking for and working on one aspect. I have yet to read Robin Hobb’s works–they are on my must-read list, but alas right now that list is growing far more quickly than I would like. I will check out the review, but it sounds like I need to move the Farseer series up on the list. It might be good to have a model to follow.
It was a joy to see you again in person, and I’m looking forward to reading your work!
Jeanne,
First off, it was such a pleasure to meet you IRL in Salem!
I went to the conference with no expectations of getting any writing done while there, and I didn’t. I went to as many sessions as I could and let all the information percolate in my brain while I enjoyed the camaraderie of so many in my writerly tribe.
I came home ready to work, but then something strange happened. I could not sit still. Part of it was that I was in the middle of a scene I’d been dreading and knew I had to make it much worse than I’d originally intended. Part of it was that I fiercely missed all my new friends. Part of it was that I came home and was immediately thrust back into Nutcracker insanity.
Probably the biggest part of it was that I knew what I had to do, but worried if I could pull it off. Since I am basing my novel on the story of my great-grandparents, I knew I’d eventually have to contend with family members who will not approve of the changes I had to make for the sake of the story.
It’s hard to write when you imagine people reading over your shoulder while you work!
Literary hypochondria indeed. But I’m on the mend now.
P.S. You are most certainly a writer!
Kim–you and Vaughn should have sent a memo around telling all of us to leave the computers at home. It is hard to face difficult scenes at any time, but when life is so hectic and there is so little space to get in the proper frame of mind, it’s even harder. I can’t imagine the burden of worrying what family members would say about a family history. I think that’s why my family history will not be written any time soon. It was a pleasure meeting you in person!
Jeanne–
I think reading your post today is a good idea for any writer, published or unpublished. Your story describes in a personal and convincing way how the many sources of help in our time can produce a tower of Babel for the writer. For me, one particular caution comes from your post, and one discovery.
The caution is not necessarily one you meant to emphasize: “there is a treasure trove of advice for writers available in books, blogs, in cafes and in conferences.” Without a doubt, this is true: many wise people are offering their services to writers. But the “treasure trove” also applies to many others whose sole motive is to exploit the burgeoning opportunities to make money off aspiring writers. This means the writer-as-potential-customer must practice caution and a certain wariness before shelling out for assistance. None of this applies to Writer Unboxed or those professionals associated with it. WU could and should be thought of as a reliable vetting process for those who need writing guidance, editing services, etc. It’s a huge plus to know about and participate in the WU community.
The special discovery comes from your description of your “long night of the soul” at the Un-conference. After a couple days in the whirlwind of activity, you felt overwhelmed, consumed by doubts as a writer. But the thing that broke this creative logjam was picking up a book of short stories by George Saunders. The stories engaged you, inspired and taught you, all alone at night.
That’s the simple discovery, the lesson we all know but can easily forget: there is only one first teacher among many–the fictions we most admire and love to read. They are the best manuals of all, the best how-to guides.
But the key is to learn how to read as a writer, not as a “civilian” who reads strictly for pleasure. The writer reads the books she loves over and over. She marks them up, types out key passages, comes to a detailed understanding of how those books work their magic. It’s not how many books you read, but how well you read the ones that capture you. The guides to plotting, character development, dialogue and the rest can definitely accelerate and sharpen this learning process. But there can be no substitute for George Saunders, and all the other fine creative writers waiting to teach us how it’s done.
Barry–what you said about having to be careful about where we turn to for advice in this day and age when advice is an industry is absolutely true. I coordinate the ads on Writer Unboxed and have to say that it makes me aware of just how broad the spectrum of potential ‘services’ and ‘wares’ can be.
I also completely agree with you that the best writing ‘school’ is to read the best writing. It is the heart and soul of what we want to do, and it is something that I have not made enough time for lately. And I think it’s important to do more than read a work and move on, but to re-read, to analyze, and to figure out what makes the writing work for us more enlightening than any one else’s ‘self-‘ help.
Love the term “writing hypochondria” Jeanne, I think I am a recovering writing hypochondriac. Craft advice for me can be confusing, because so much of it is contradictory.
There was a point where I became so overwhelmed under the spell of all the writecraft out there that I lost my writerly mojo. I cursed myself into feeling so intimidated that I couldn’t write a single word. Ironically, it took me stumbling across a piece of writerly advice to break my self-inflicted writerly advice intimidation spell. I’ve pasted the counterspell er… I mean writerly advice (that was a game-changing charm for me), below:
“Start telling the stories that only you can tell, because there’ll always be better writers than you and there’ll always be smarter writers than you. There will always be people who are much better at doing this or doing that – but you are the only you.
Tarantino – you can criticize everything that Quentin does – but nobody writes Tarantino stuff like Tarantino. He is the best Tarantino writer there is, and that was actually the thing that people responded to – they’re going ‘this is an individual writing with his own point of view’.
There are better writers than me out there, there are smarter writers, there are people who can plot better – there are all those kinds of things, but there’s nobody who can write a Neil Gaiman story like I can.” – Neil Gaiman
Here’s to melding our soul and craft into becoming the best of writers, the writers that only we can be.
Bernadette-I love the counterspell: “Start telling the stories that only you can tell” because that was the heart of my trouble. In hearing advice, you are also hearing other people, and what you really need to hear is your own voice, and through that your characters’.
I’m glad you made it through the despair and back into your own writerly mojo!
Hey Jeanne!
It was a pleasure meeting you, though we did not get to hang together much. But I think I have a picture! :)
Due to a rough passage in my life, I didn’t go there with a wip at the ready; merely ideas and thoughts of stories I wanted to explore. Like Vaughn, I wanted more to relax in the atmosphere of the UnCon, let the info wash over me and sink in (I did take copious notes, though). I needed to get away and wanted a vacation with a writerly emphasis. Whew. Got so much more than that. But unlike V, I took my computer. ;) Lucky me, because I started a pretty good story while there.
I understand about the literary hypochondria, and I think that’s what drives many debut writers to release prematurely. I, for instance, feel totally out of my league at times, simply for the reason I’ve not rubbed elbows with an academic crowd in awhile. Been in the world of Academia, so to speak. And it shows! LOL.
But, as long as I understand what my goals are and how to achieve them, I put the self-nay-saying behind me. We all put our pants on one leg at a time as far as I’m concerned.
I thoroughly enjoyed this article, and fear your hypochondria is misplaced. :D Take care!
Mike–it was a joy to meet you, too. Although next Un Con I’m not taking the computer and I’m going to hang out far more. I think those of you who did that may have gotten the fullest experience.
If the piece you read that night at bedtime stories was the new work you were working on, I think you are right that you are onto something. Here’s to no more self-nay-saying.
Wow, Jeanne,
What a wonderful post. And you had me the whole way, as a writer can. I laughed in recognition when you were going through the fire hose intake at UnCon, grieved with you at 3 AM, felt hope when read the stories and realized your purpose, worried for you when you dipped and danced when you found your way back onto the path.
Now don’t go telling us you’re don’t have a great story in you or that you lack the craft to put it on the page. I will be there in spirit in the cities when you read from the finished work, and in person when you read in my area. That evening we’ll have a drink after, where we’ll cheer, howl and draw a big whew!
(And then you’ll go write another.)
Great meeting you in Connecticut. [If a similar post shows up here, I apologize — kind of, because this is all worth repeating–but that first one didn’t make the UnBoxed page.]
Tom–I think I love you, or at least the cheer that you bring with your kind words. Thank you for getting into my story. I will hope to see you one of the days in the future when one of us will be reading words to a crowd (might be me coming to hear you as well as the other way around). Although I have to admit the best crowd to read to is this community which hears without judging and supports without requiring recompense.
Jeanne-
It’s totally normal to feel overwhelmed, lost, no mojo left, no idea whatsoever what to do. Advice can exacerbate that effect too, especially when it’s rich and extensive as at the Un-Con.
But that’s what tools and techniques are for. Whether you’re stuck on a scene or feeling that you’ve lost sight of your novel’s point, there are batteries and cables for a jump start. For me it’s asking the right questions and sure enough, it sounds like for you the “21st Century Fiction” workshop provided that jolt.
You should know that multi-published, award winning novelists and best sellers also go through this. I’m working right now with such an author, a dark fantasist of renown who is facing one of the most personal stories imaginable…and started out feeling paralyzed by the possibilities.
A couple of key questions, though, was all it took to get the story unstuck. Honestly, it’s simpler than it may seem. Breathe. Slow down. Start with basics. Take one step at a time. Use the tools you’ve stocked in your workshop and, with time, it’s all doable.
It was so great to meet everyone in Salem, and to hear what’s happened since then. I love the real-time feed we’ve been getting on so many Boxer’s process! Thanks for your post today.
Donald–breathing, conscious, reflective breathing that produces a centering awareness of self and purpose (rather than just filling the lungs) is definitely something I don’t do enough of. I also agree with what you told Vaughn about going sequentially through the work, until all the strategies all layered through the work, but don’t get overwhelming. Thanks for your comment, your questions, and the reminder that we all struggle to find our way to clarity.
I can totally relate, especially to the waking up in the middle of the night, being plagued by self-doubts. Seems like you’ve done a lot of soul-searching and are now on your way. I don’t know of any artist, writer or otherwise, who isn’t consumed at times about what they are doing and what they are trying to say through their work. Good luck with your story and thank you for sharing.
Diana–There is definitely something about 3 am that lends itself to soul-searching. I wonder how many other writers have trouble sleeping in the wee hours. Thanks for your comment.
Jeanne, maybe we need to issue a warming for the next UnCon. “If you feel overwhelmed and incapable at some point in the week, this is a normal experience.” (I didn’t suffer through it this time precisely because I have in the past. I think I’ve gotten better at calibrating my expectations.)
Do you suppose that literary hypochondriasis afflicts those of us with a more academic background, or who work in careers where it’s critical to work from precedent or best practices? I suspect people with an entrepreneurial background don’t allow themselves to be paralyzed by the infinite array of experts and educational opportunities. They find one strategy that works and then it’s full speed ahead until an obstacle forces an adjustment.
I really admire the model Barbara O’Neal gave in her most recent approach, which sounds like the entrepreneurial model mixed in with targeted learning. I’ve sort of stumbled into that model since the UnCon. I’m going through *one* craft book and making notes on what I need to do to improve my novella. It’s covering the critical material we heard at the UnCon but because it’s self-contained and systematic, it feels doable. I can see how much better this piece is going to be, and the excitement over the prospect exceeds my fear of the work involved. At this point, anyway. :)
Jan–I think those late night poker sessions might have been the best available therapy for feeling overwhelmed. At least from what I heard about them. What we needed was an early morning version of that stress relief.
You might be onto something regarding the different approach of academics and entrepreneurs. I know that one of the traps of academia is feeling like you have to know the whole field before you are expert enough to comment. And yet, given the pace of knowledge growth and publication, it is no longer possible to know an entire field. This causes distress. I like your idea of the entrepreneurial model, and Barbara is a stellar example to follow. I think what you are doing–one book at a time, will let you layer the skills into your own voice. I’ll look forward to hearing how the work is going with the new strategy.
“…the only way to navigate through the process of becoming a better writer, and not to get lost in the ocean of writing advice, is to answer the questions for yourself.”
There it is! The truth we all need to embrace. We get lost because we turn away from the light of wisdom within—the reason we came to the page in the first place.
It’s so easy to allow the accomplishments and techniques of others to overpower our natural instincts. (Been there so many times, I can no longer count.) But I think it’s a natural response to our desire to write the best damn story we can. We hunger so much for what we know is possible we lose sight of what we are doing instinctively that’s great!
I used to think that “getting out of my own way” was hard. But after the UnCon, I no longer feel that way. As Vaughn stated via Donald Maass, it’s one step at a time. When we simplify our focus by targeting one element at a time, we can remain in touch with “our story”. And the journey continues.
Thanks so much for sharing, Jeanne. May the light within continue to illuminate your story’s path.
Jocosa–May the light continue to illuminate all of our stories’ paths! I think that there is a balance between seeking external input and seeking inner focus. The door opens to the hypochondria when the external wins; when the internal wins, the danger is different, but still there. So yes, step by step, let in the voices that help in the moment, but use the internal guiding light to determine what works.
Hey, Jeanne!
My turn to get to your piece late in the day, lol. I wanted to say how much I like your concept of “literary hypochondria” — such a natural dilemma so well phrased, and one I see in so many writers these days when advice is on every doorknob.
What I particularly like is your choice to reassert your own goal, direction, pathway, in order to make sense of what you’re doing, gathering all the input from the conference around that core.
This is the armature of the sculptor, the spine that the originating intelligence puts into place. It’s what reveals the wider thematic elements at work (which, as you say, is all that makes it interesting — not the characters’ simple interactions).
When I read this, I looked back to the comment you left on my own piece last week, and found just what I was looking for. You wrote about how you had been quiet at the conference, speaking less than you might normally do:
“I have wondered why I should become more reclusive than normal while gregariousness was the norm. If I look inwards, I would see that though I have never wanted to be a joiner, I have always wanted to belong. If I look outwards, I observe that in the current world, silence can set someone apart far more effectively than the spoken word.”
I wonder if you didn’t find your way to your discoveries partly by quieting down in order to search for what you needed. Let’s hear it for the sound of silence. :)
-p.
On Twitter: @Porter_Anderson
Porter–late is always better than never. Thank you for your kind words regarding my inner angst. I wish I could think of it as forging the armature of a sculpture in progress, but at this point, I’ve been working on this same piece for so long it’s like trying to insert bones into a completed (and highly unstable) form. But at least now I’m working on the bones, not the shifting flesh. I’m hoping the surgery goes well, but if not, I will start a new armature for a new sculpture.
You were quite a sly fox to resurrect the discussion of silence and its role in letting creativity find its own voice. I did manage to turn off my inner angst, but it wasn’t completely in ‘silence’ because I turned to George Saunders’ work, and his voice is quite resonant. Maybe what you are advocating is not so much silence (and the choice not to share) so much as a return to choosing what to share, and when. Believe me, you would not have wanted to hear this story at 3:29 am that night. I guess the question is whether interaction should include all the processing and working through, or whether it should involve only post-resolution clarity. Sometimes the process is as illuminating as the clarity, but it depends on what is being discussed.
Well, I feel for you in the stage you’re at with it, Jeanne, sounds very tricky, though I think your understanding of what you want to do is solid.
I think that in the idea of silence, what I appreciate in your tack is that you listened — in that case to Saunders’ fine and, yes, resonant voice — instead of talking. It’s incredibly hard not to just talk and talk and talk about the struggle or the success or whatever is going on at one moment or another. Instead of talking (and you’d have found me up at that unholy hour, actually, lol), you got very still and listened. That’s quite difficult, and a lot to be proud of.
-p.
On Twitter: @Porter_Anderson
Hi Jeanne,
I know I saw you at the UnCon, but I don’t think we ever got a chance to talk! Maybe we were both too busy processing an overload of valuable information. I’d been planning to make an appearance at the Friday night cocktail party, shy person though I am, but was so energized and overwhelmed by Don’s all day workshop, coming on the heels of so many other wonderful and inspiring classes, that I retired to my room, the better to internalize all I’d learned!
It’s taken me several weeks and a lot of soul-searching, but I’m once again back on track. I write every day, even if it’s drivel. Out of that drivel something valuable is bound to pop out.
You said the light bulb went off during Don’s Friday class, but you didn’t say precisely when. I’m curious. Was it some particular thing, or the totality of it all.
Here’s wishing you full speed ahead with your WIP!
Deb
Deb–the Uncon was like a wedding–all your friends are in the same room and you get to see each of them for maybe 30 seconds. Not enough time with any one person, but overall it felt like a social blitz. I’m glad you have found your way through all the information, and are writing. There is no drivel, there is first draft, which sucks but will get refined into something valuable.
Regarding my lightbulb–it wasn’t any one specific moment at Donald’s Friday class that resonated with me, so much as I started realizing some of the commercial elements he was suggesting were already in my work. Many of the commercial elements that weren’t in the work already were actually straightforward fixes. Then by the end of the class, when he started describing strategies to make a commercial work more literary, I realized my project was already pretty literary, (I can’t shake my academic past) and all it needed was refining to shape it into the deeper theme I was after.
Jeanne ….;_; I feel ya. Recently, even after making a fantastic elevator pitch for my book and having a great writing critique group, I have suffered from writing hypochondria. I almost want to put my book aside and stop working on the second draft. It’s an epic fantasy, it has messages, it has morals, and the revision is practically a re-write, and it’s stressing me out…
But, your post! I see a spot of silver in the big, dark cloud. Maybe there is a shelf for my novel to live on that is not in my house. Maybe it can work, somehow, some way…
I just have to do some self-exploration.
It is with this time that I set off now to do some journalling…and then, hopefully, to work on Chapter 8.
P.S. I love your sharing of the UnConference, and applaud you for writing this great article – even as you battled nervousness being near the fantastic, experienced Writer Unboxed team.
C.S.–I love the phrase “maybe there is a shelf for my novel to live on that is not in my house.” That sums up the ultimate goal, but getting there can be murky. I’m glad that the post gave you the justification to write in your journal–sometimes that clears the block. And if you can give a good elevator pitch then you are far ahead of the game already!
Love that term Literary Hypochondria! Made me laugh. Yes, I’ve been afflicted a time or two.
Ha! I have been so there! Thank you for giving my malaise a name: Literary Hypochondriac!