Shrinking Violets
Confession: For me, the scariest part of a writer’s conference is the cocktail party. There’s no structure. No speaker. No handouts. Instead, hundreds of people who are used to spending long hours at a keyboard in coffee-stained jammies are let loose into a hotel ball room and left to fend for themselves. There are a few, you can spot them right away, who relish these things. But for many of us, it’s a struggle. Here are some practical tips for tackling those introverted road blocks.
Step 1: Prepare in Advance
Step 2: Practice Your Small Talk
Read MoreThis is the fourth Writer Unboxed post I have started in as many days. I now have all these partial posts, each of at least 800 words, sitting on my desktop and determinedly not being the post I need them to be.
That seems to be happening to me a lot lately. If you follow me on Twitter or FB, you probably heard my cyber-bellow of frustration and gnashing of teeth when I had to cut 7,000 words from my manuscript. The manuscript that is due in less than two months and is only partially baked—and that’s being kind.
What you did not hear was my silent primal scream that lasted two whole days when I woke up to the fact that I was writing the wrong damn book and had to delete the FIRST TWO HUNDRED PAGES OF THE MANUSCRIPT.
(Have I mentioned it’s due in less than two months?)
So it comes as no surprise really, that I keep making false starts with my WU post. It’s the mode I appear to be stuck in.
I even know why. It’s Fear. Not only is fear the great mind killer (thank you Frank Herbert!) it is the great word killer, and creativity killer, and all-sorts-of-things killer.
I keep asking myself how I, a seasoned writer with fifteen books under my belt, could have taken such a wrong turn, how I could have gotten so utterly sidelined. And again, the answer is Fear.
My first clue was the painful slogging part. Yes, writing can be difficult—like figuring out an especially tricky puzzle can be difficult. But this time it was if I had to hike 100 miles to a distant quarry, dig each word out of the rock with my bare hands, then cart it back over the 100 miles (of rugged terrain, mind you) and wedge/hoist it into the manuscript. And sure, there are stretches of writing in each book that feel like that—but never, for me, the entire process.
My second clue should have been that nothing felt organic to the characters or their situations. That wonderful, alchemical process of turning ideas into living, breathing characters on the page simply wasn’t happening. It was a series of constant, conscious decisions as opposed to ever finally beginning to flow out of the characters themselves.
It’s easy (and oh-so-satisfying) to gash my teeth and rail at the writing gods, wondering why this had to happen. And why it had to happen NOW—with this deadline bearing down on me like a freight train. But of course, neither the timing nor the why of it is a coincidence.
Fear sauntered into the room, made itself comfortable, and refused to budge.
Read MoreI’m often asked why I write books for kids and teens instead of grown up books, and my answer is always this: I write for kids and teens because the books we read when we’re young begin to shape and define not only our reading tastes, but our very selves. Rarely do the books we read as adults become a part of our emotional DNA in quite the same way.
As many writers quickly learn, once we become a writer it can be much more difficult to simply read for pleasure. I am too aware of the craft, too attuned to what makes a book ‘work’, too well-acquainted with my own internal editor, to fully lose myself in a book. So when that does happen, it is a big, big deal; something to be celebrated but also—because I’m a writer—studied.
When I deeply love a book as an adult it’s usually because it has managed to rock my world in such a way that I know it has permanently changed how I look at and approach the craft of writing itself.
It occurred to me that these books become a part of my writerly DNA just as surely as the books of my youth became a part of my emotional DNA. Much like the books of my childhood, these stories open me up to the world of possibilities—not just in stories, but in craft. They show me what amazing things can be done within the scope of story. They give me a moment of true astonishment where I often think, “Oh, we’re allowed to do that?” and my writing world tilts on its axis.
As writers, it can be hugely eye opening to sit down and really look at which books have formed our writerly DNA.
Read MoreI have just come off one of the most amazing months of my entire life. April involved traveling nearly the entire month, including a two week book tour,
teaching workshops and giving a keynote at a regional SCBWI conference, and attending the librarian paradise that is the Texas Library Association’s annual convention. It also involved one of my books being nominated for a RITA award, and another of my books even landed (briefly!) on the NYT list.
I have met hundreds of enthusiastic readers and librarians and booksellers and students and teachers, and my life has been enriched beyond measure by these connections.
The one thing I have not done is write a single word in over six weeks.
I know that some writers write on the road, but I am not hardwired that way. Being an extreme introvert means that as much as I adore meeting and connecting with all those lovely people, I also need recharging time. My brain is not able to produce words when it hits that level of exhaustion every day. Schlepping through airports does not feed my muse. Honestly, the idea of writing while I’m on the road feels like being asked to sing an aria while surfing an avalanche of rocks downhill.
Or maybe it’s simply my ADD kicking in and with so much stimulation on so many fronts (New city! New hotel room! New bookstore! Different high school!) my brain simply can’t get quiet enough.
Read MoreI can’t help but wonder if whoever designed the Ferris wheel (that would be Ferris, I’m assuming) was after a cheap, momentary thrill or if he was inspired by Fortune’s Wheel of the tarot, intentionally trying to create a carnival ride that would encapsulate life’s ups and downs.
For the truth is, we all have them—or will have them if you’re one of the fortunate few who have yet to experience any downward travels. And Fortune’s Wheel is starkly evident in the publishing world. No one is exempt. And truthfully, a person should consider themselves lucky if they don’t get Towered a time or two along the way.
We are all of us on this hairy, exhilarating ride, but, we are all on different points on the wheel. Some are going up, others coming down, and still others hanging in the air for that long, glorious moment when they are on top of the world.
Of course, people are more likely to talk about their ride UP, that thrilling ascent as they are on the rise, cresting when they reach the top and hover—sometimes for minutes, sometimes for seemingly ever.
But eventually the wheel turns. The problem is, most people keep that particular part of their ride private, not wanting to share that long hard descent with anyone. We don’t like to talk about that fall, whether it is a gentle, controlled descent or a rapid, breath-taking plummet.
The important thing to remember is that the wheel may not turn where we can see it.
Read MoreEvery two year old gets it—often better than the adults around her. In fact, once a toddler discovers the true power of No, they use it with abandon, muttering it, shouting it, playing with it, experimenting with it. It’s actually a thrilling step in our evolution as a person—that moment when we realize we have power over our selves, our surroundings, and our choices, even if those choices are simply whether we will eat mashed carrots or mashed peas.
What the two year old understands on some primal level is that the very act of saying no begins to define who she is. It’s not about rejecting life or experiences—is there anyone more embracing of life than a two year old?—but rather, it is about understanding on some fundamental level that our choices define us. Our choices create necessary, healthy boundaries. Boundaries that allow us to begin to self actualize and differentiate ourselves from our parents and the adults around us.
The problem is, as adults it is easy to forget that saying no isn’t just about turning people down or disappointing them or feeling like we aren’t giving enough—although that is certainly a big part of saying no. Even as adults, what we say no to defines us, creates boundaries, and, most importantly, gives us the energy to say yes to something else, something that is more important to us and our work here on this earth, whether that work be raising a family, tilling a field, running a business, or writing a book.
For some people, their creative areas align nicely with what society expects of its adult members: a knack for business, a head for numbers, a unique talent for reframing the nature of how we think of the universe and the laws of physics. But for those of us whose creativity does not have a business or scientific application, it can be harder to cordon off the time we need. After all, as a society, we don’t particularly value creativity. Or if we do, we see it as a commodity
But even as adults, we need to remember the power of saying No. We need to say it as loudly as that two year old.
We need to plant our feet firmly in the ground, look the person in the eye, and say No, I’m sorry. I can’t. FULL STOP. We do not need to argue or justify or explain. We are allowed to say no.
I’m not suggesting we should remove ourselves completely from the societal sphere of volunteer work and participation (although on days when I am swinging heavily introvert, it is a pleasant fantasy) but we should be very conscious of our choices—of our yeses—and use them wisely.
Read MoreI talk a lot about digging deeper in the writing process and putting more of our true selves on the page. It occurred to me about halfway through my second post on the subject that at some point I was going to have to address how to protect oneself in light of all that truth talking and self exposing. But I was okay with that because I’d just embarked on my own journey to discover that very thing! I was absolutely certain that I’d be back here in a few months with Seven Tips for Self Protection, or Five Key Ways For Writers to Protect Their Emotional Selves. No lie—the working title for this post for the last few months has been Shields Up! because I was certain I would come back here with answers on how to shield oneself.
Well, Dear Reader, I was wrong. Sadly and horribly wrong.
The truth, I have discovered, is much more complex than that.
As writers, we are utterly exposed the moment we put pen to paper. Which is probably why even considering writing can be an act of tremendous courage.
All of that is bad enough, but when we’re diving deeper and deeper to make our stories more authentically our own, when we commit to trying for a creative home run rather than just getting to first base, it is inevitable that we will have more invested in our books—more heart, more soul, more blood, sweat, tears and lamentations.
And if you think that it’s scary to intentionally put more and more of yourself on the page, to become more and more vulnerable, you’re right.
For some, it will never be a problem—they were born with a core sense of self and confidence that makes others weep with envy. But for the rest of us, those for whom this is a struggle, those for whom this is a Great Barrier of Fear, here’s the kicker: part of the journey of creation is about learning how to get comfortable getting naked. It’s about how we learn to step out of and away from everyone else’s expectations and assumptions and be our own selves, proudly and comfortably, warts, quirks, foibles, and all.
Maybe, maybe that’s even the reason some of us are drawn to creative pursuits in the first place—because that journey will force us to grow for our art in ways we would be hard pressed to grow without it.
So when you are that exposed on the page, that fully committed to your work and your vision, how do you protect yourself from the inevitable negative reviews and reader reactions? Let alone keep from feeling as if you are walking around naked while everyone else is garbed in heavy layers of thick rhino hide or steel plate.
The answer?
Read MoreOne of the things I fear most with all the publishing and promotional advice zipping around the cybersphere is that some people—quiet people who have something really important or compelling to say—will look at all that is ‘required’ of them to get published or to promote their books and they will become so discouraged they never even give themselves a chance.
The thing is, I know that many quiet people have amazing stories to tell, their very quietness contributing to their heightened sense of observation, or their rich inner life feeding their understanding of human nature or providing fertile ground for some really dramatic stories—stories that may be exactly the sort I am starving for.
I’m afraid these people will take one look at the suggestion that one must have 10,000 followers on Twitter or 5,000 Facebook friends and throw up their hands in despair and assume there is no way that they can create enough noise to break through that barrier—that there is no way their stories can break through that barrier.
I reject a world where the only stories that get heard are those told by loud, flashy people or those who have a sales or entrepreneurial skill set and are willing to use it set at full volume in order to get their books in front of readers. Sometimes the very skills that allow a person to tell the stories we most need to hear are the same skills that preclude them from ever being able to do those things.
So I would like to remind all those quiet, introverted writers out there that there is not only one path to successful publication and that not all quiet people will finish last. The quiet road may be harder or take longer, but rest assured, there is a road.
Read MoreThat collective groan and gnashing of teeth you heard Wednesday was the sound of authors reacting to Amazon’s new Author Ranking System—oh joy!—yet one more tool for us to compare ourselves to others. And for any of us trying to separate our selves from our writing? Well, you can just forget about that.
So this seemed like a good time to talk about writers and disappointment. For while writing is one of the most rewarding pursuits in the world, publishing can be a long, slow, painful slog toward the pit of despair, and you can quickly find yourself in the soul sucking land of Major Disappointment. And guess what? This disappointment applies equally to pre-published, traditionally published, and indie published authors alike, so I guess that’s the upside: egalitarianism!
The thing is, we writers are so very good at telling stories—even (or especially) to ourselves. We knew that we were going to be different. We were not going to need 10,000 hours or ten years. We were absolutely positively certain our career was going to be one big meteoric trajectory.
We knew that we would immediately hear back from all fifty agents we queried, and when our manuscript went out for the first time, a hot bidding war would ensue. Oh, we knew we weren’t going to hit the #1 spot on the NY Times list first time out, but we also knew that we would never languish in the midlist, or have our book go OP after only thirteen months.
And not only was Hollywood going to come knocking, but Spielberg or J J Abrams would be making the call personally.
Also? We’d be the very first person to win the Newberry and the Prinz and the National Book Award, all for the very same book! (Talk about genre bending!)
But then, with a great big confidence-shattering crunch, we find ourselves back on Planet Reality, blinking in surprise as the dust of our rosy dreams floats ash-like all around us.
Read MoreI just got back from attending the RWA National Conference in Anaheim. Every time I had to walk across the lobby, I would brace myself in preparation for the voices of two thousand women as they enthusiastically talked about books and writing, publishing and life. The din was intense, but not nearly as intense as the waves of power rolling around in the room as these same women’s voices proclaimed their power. They opened their mouths and uttered I want, I tried, I have, I will, I want, I hope—daring to speak their dreams aloud.
One night, after hearing so many editors say it was voice that grabbed them every single time, my roommate and I randomly picked up forty different books and read the first page, curious to see what grabbed us and what didn’t. The editor was right; it was voice that caught our attention. But the sad truth was that only four out of all those first pages made us sit up and go, Hello! Can’t wait to read you! (And that was forty published books!) The rest seemed generally flat. (To us. Clearly different voices work for different people, so your voice preferences may vary.)
The next morning as I passed through the lobby once again, I was struck anew by all the women talking—by how different they all were, how unique their personalities and stories. And I realized I would love to sit down with just about any woman in that room and hear their story. Not the shiny PR version of their lives, but the true story of their struggles and hardships, fears and joys. But in my experience, so little of this actually makes it into books or manuscripts.
It is my belief that we become writers because at some point in our lives we felt voiceless and powerless. For many of us, writing isn’t only about telling stories or getting published, it is a long hard journey toward reclaiming our voiceless selves, those parts of us dismissed or belittled by others. Those parts of us shut down by circumstances or familial restraints or our own fears.
So finding our voice is about having the strength and courage to proclaim that what we have to say matters, that what we feel is relevant, that what fascinates us is worthy of fascination.
When we first feel the urge to tell our stories, it is often because the voiceless part simply can’t stay silent any longer.
Read MoreTherese butting in for a second to officially welcome Robin LaFevers to Writer Unboxed as a regular contributor. So glad you’re with us, Robin!
In the comments of my guest post last month, a number of people wanted to know what techniques allowed me to dig deep and find the crunchier stories I had to tell, so I thought I’d tackle that subject for my First Official Post here at Writer Unboxed.
However, as I’ve thought about it over the last few weeks, something became clear to me: there is not a single technique or even a handful of them, but rather a long, multi-year process full of steps and stages.
Going deeper involves exposing oneself, but by degrees rather than all at once. A sense of peeling back a little skin, one layer at a time, seeing how much it stings, acclimating, then doing the whole thing over again and revealing a little more. Like those sunburns you used to get as a kid or of a snake, shedding his skin.
In order to do that, we have to be willing to explore our self—what are our issues? No really. The ones we don’t like to face or talk about. The ones that make us squirm, or we’re reluctant to admit even to our therapist. I hate to be the one to tell you, but those are where some of our most powerful writing will spring from. It’s not only a matter of following your weird, but looking even deeper than that to why you are weird in the first place. What need or hole is that weirdness/quirkiness/avant garde-ness filling? Yeah, you have to look there. Then you have to find a way to get some of that rawness into the story itself.
We need to fail. Gloriously. Aim high, swing big, and then let yourself fall flat on your face. (It’s okay, no one will see!) Experiencing failure is simply part of the process. Our characters don’t change or grow unless they are forced to by the events of the story, and neither will we. Rejections, bad reviews, lackluster sales, painful critique feedback, are all necessary lumps on the road to our objective. Then we need to be humble enough to hear what that feedback is telling us. Sometimes the feedback won’t be the obvious kind—a rejection or editorial letter—but rather simply not making progress on our journey. Keep your eyes peeled for that kind of subtle hint the Universe likes to taunt us with.
Almost every successful writer I know gave up writing altogether at one point and walked away. It’s an important part of the process because giving up often provides the window for a breakthrough. Also? If you’re not pushing yourself hard enough that you sometimes feel like giving up, then maybe you’re not pushing yourself hard enough.
We need to accept that oftentimes the reason we started writing is probably not going to be the reason we continue writing. For some, doing something as daring as writing stories or becoming an author is a hard thing to admit to. We are shocked by our own audacity. So our creative self tells our more rational self the necessary lies that will get us moving in the right direction: I can […]
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