The Evening and the Morning in 𝛕®∪m₽’s America

I fought in [a] war for this country, saw friends die, got PTSD. For what? For this? To be afraid of what the future holds for my wife and daughters? For our healthcare and retirement plans? For our beautiful planet that we humans seem hellbent on destroying in the name of a few cents off at the gas pump? For our republic which nearly lasted 250 years? This is my reward? Ashamed does not begin to describe how I feel.

(Source)

The week before the election I listened to The Evening and the Morning, a doorstopper of a novel set in medieval England. The YouTube algorithm had gifted me with a very interesting writing tip from Ken Follett and I wanted to see this plotting principle of his in action. (Spoilers to follow. You have been warned!)

Follett’s rule of thumb is this: your plot should be turning every four to six pages. Some sort of obstacle or revelation. The turn could be catastrophic or it could be something “small,” but it won’t be insignificant because it has somehow altered the character’s situation and how we view it.

And whoooo boy, the first turning in The Evening and the Morning is a swift hard punch to the gut. Our hero, Edgar, starts the novel embarking upon one kind of life, but by the end of that first chapter he’s on a totally different course owing to factors beyond his control.

The primary villain in The Evening and the Morning is a bishop named Wynstan. He’s a stereotypical baddie, cruel and conniving, using everyone he interacts with like pawns on a chessboard. This “man of God” is guilty of fornication, theft, forgery, arson, and worse. HE MURDERS HIS OWN BROTHER, for crying out loud.

And he gets away with all of it.

…Is this sounding familiar?

Wynstan’s corruption is SO egregious that a naively optimistic reader (ahem) keeps thinking, “WOW. Just when you think this guy can’t get any more flagrantly evil! This time surely he’ll be made to answer for his sins!”

But the comeuppance never happens. Wynstan gets away with EVERYTHING.

That’s how it looks right now. “Don the Con” has zero empathy, zero capacity for self reflection, and certainly no concept of public service. The rational 48% of the American electorate has repeatedly asked, what more does he have to do before the M⩓G⩓ crowd admits they’ve been scammed by a megalomaniacal felon?

But that’s not how cult psychology works. At this point I feel like the man could devour a baby on live television and retain a majority of his followers. This time, when cult members follow their leader off a cliff, the rest of the world might very well be swept along—into a fascist hellscape.

How are we to conduct ourselves inside this bog of eternal stench? How can we best employ our creativity in response to forces beyond our control?

When we read compelling fiction, it may seem that we have dropped through an escape hatch out of ordinary life, but in actuality we are cultivating our emotional intelligence, giving ourselves space to consider how we would feel and act in a hypothetical situation. What would I do if I were Edgar, Ragna, or Aldred discovering Wynstan’s latest act of sabotage? Would that be the crime that finally broke me?

In Follett’s novel, Aldred the abbot builds his center of learning and Edgar and Ragna finally get to live happily after. And where’s Wynstan?

Living in a leper colony, brain and body rotting with syphilis.

Don the Con is here to expose our hypocrisies (because, come on, no Black American is EVER going to wonder “whatever happened to common decency?”). He is here to teach us how to stand up to bullies, and to show us what happens when we defund public education. Clearly these lessons will take longer than eight or twelve years to learn. Bullies don’t always get what they deserve, but their power always comes with a time limit, even if it’s decades longer than it should be. Evening to morning, this plot will go on turning.

So let’s keep going. Keep making, keep dreaming, keep being kind to one another in the midst of all that is cruel and absurd. No matter how they distort the facts, this is our country and our world too.

A few more links:

Octavia Butler’s short story “The Evening and the Morning and the Night” [have you read Parable of the Sower yet?]

Heather Demetrios, Steady As She Goes

George Saunders, A Slightly Altered Course (Here at Story Club)

The most comforting hot breakfast cereal

Love in an Age of Madness, an (admittedly overwrought) 2016-election reaction piece

P.S. The International Rescue Committee is the humanitarian aid organization to which I contribute on a monthly basis. Here’s a link so you can click through and donate if you feel so inclined.

An ode to the humble index card

Organizing my notes for what would become A Bright Clean Mind at the Writers' Room of Boston in early 2017. Photo by Daniel Johnson.

Every student in my sixth-grade Language Arts class had to write a research paper on the same topic:

TERMITES.

I don’t know that any of us were thrilled about that—I certainly wasn’t!—but thirty years later I still get the warm fuzzies for Mrs. Kilcher for instilling my nerdly love of the 3x5” index card. Write one fact about termites on each card, arrange the cards into a logical sequence, and your paper has all but written itself.

As a chaotic creative type—at least that’s how I’ve felt on the inside, even back then—the simplicity of this tool and method has always made me feel serenely “on top of things,” especially when my tech has let me down. When my iBook crashed the spring of my sophomore year of college and I lost my almost-finished final paper for Traditional Irish Music [“that’s so NYU!”], I was able to reconstruct it quickly with the index cards I’d used to write it the first time. (In those pre-WiFi days we used flash drives to back up our papers. Guess I was too intent on finishing the thing in time—LOLsob.)

Chapter-by-chapter cards for Life Without Envy

Then and now, the humble index card is my first and best safeguard against overwhelm. Their sturdiness and uniformity calm me where my scrap-note grab-bag and Post-its fail (after all, they don’t stick so well after the first time). They are limitlessly rearrange-able. For the past twenty-plus years, fiction or nonfiction, I’ve used index cards to order my material in preparation for drafting: one idea or chapter subject/one card for nonfiction, one scene/one card for fiction, then arrange so that each proceeds inevitably to the next. In A Swim in a Pond in the Rain, Uncle George talks time and again about the importance of causality—

I’ve worked with so many wildly talented young writers over the years that I feel qualified to say that there are two things that separate writers who go on to publish from those who don’t.

First, a willingness to revise.

Second, the extent to which the writer has learned to make causality. Making causality doesn’t seem sexy or particularly literary. It’s a workmanlike thing, to make A cause B, the stuff of vaudeville, of Hollywood. But it’s the hardest thing to learn. It doesn’t come naturally, not to most of us. But that’s really all a story is: a series of things that happen in sequence, in which we can discern a pattern of causality.

For most of us, the problem is not in making things happen (“A dog barked,” “The house exploded,” “Darren kicked the tire of his car” are all easy enough to type) but in making one thing seem to cause the next.

This is important, because causation is what creates the appearance of meaning.

“The queen died, and then the king died” (E. M. Forster’s famous formulation) describes two unrelated events occurring in sequence. It doesn’t mean anything. “The queen died, and the king died of grief” puts those events into relation; we understand that one caused the other. The sequence, now infused with causality, means: “That king really loved his queen.”

Causality is to the writer what melody is to the songwriter: a superpower that the audience feels as the crux of the matter; the thing the audience actually shows up for; the hardest thing to do; that which distinguishes the competent practitioner from the extraordinary one.

—and in the process of rejigging my time-travel plot I used index cards to trace causality, like so:

Last week, fired up by all those juicy conversations with Heather and Zach, I finally felt like I had gathered enough jigsaw pieces to finish reconfiguring the plot. I (temporarily) turned my back on (not one but) two bloated Scrivener files as well as an (incomplete) spreadsheet, in which I’d attempted to track my thematic threads scene by scene. (Talk about a recipe for overwhelm.)

First I meditated for twenty minutes (it always helps).

Then I arranged the cards I’d written out so far, pulling out only three sheets from two binders’ worth of handwritten notes to refer to as I began filling in the gaps with new cards. 

Nice big classroom tables at my new workspace!

In the above photo the pink and blue cards represent mirrored emotional beats between my protagonist (Pat) and his sister (May) across the climactic section, but otherwise there have been too many color codes over the past several years for any pretense of consistency here. (Ideally, yes, you could use different colors to gauge your pacing and so forth.) I had to make two layouts because there are two timelines that needed to be “braided” together (my agent’s excellent suggestion), first the A-B-C-D layout and then the layout you see here, the 1-2-3-4, which I created by stapling small stacks of scene cards into sections and then alternating A and B (for parts 1 and 2) and C and D (parts 3 and 4). (Someday I will get into the nitty gritty of this process, if there is enough interest!)

It felt AMAZING to lay it all out for the first time, start to finish, after almost two years. I was riding high that night, let me tell you. NOW I HAVE A CLEAR STEP-BY-STEP PATH TO A NEW ROUGH DRAFT!

Here’s the thing though: I’m still missing a couple major details. Something awful is going to happen to May, for instance, and I’m still not sure how it’s going to come about. But the causal thread—leading us to that point and beyond it—is now solid enough that I could put an index card as a sort of “temporary brick” in place, and continue building. Given the much quicker flow of ideas in the short time since I finished this layout, I have every confidence that a humble 3x5” index card will hold the space for that murky plot point to figure itself out while I’m working on the rest of it.

Fun fact (and thanks again, Mrs. Kilcher): termites are even older than the dinosaurs!

More on index cards:

Gail Carriger, Using Index Cards to Play With Author Brain

David Gerrold/Rachel Scheller at Writer’s Digest, Create Structure in Your Fiction Using Index Cards

John August, 10 Hints for Index Cards

Susan Orlean, Another Essential Writing Tool You Should Own in Large Quantities

P.S. The International Rescue Committee is the humanitarian aid organization to which I contribute on a monthly basis. Here’s a link so you can click through and donate if you feel so inclined.

Four hundred pages and a thousand miles of yarn*: or, how to beat the sunk-cost fallacy

Our greatest duty as artists and as humans is to pay attention to our failures, to break them down, study the tapes, conduct the postmortem, pore over the findings; to learn from our mistakes.

—Michael Chabon

Just frog it already!

—the wise friend of many a knitter

Out of all the cognitive biases identified thus far—188!?!!—the sunk-cost fallacy has got to be one of the most pervasive. To make sure we’re all on the same page, here’s the standard definition (using a veganism-and-creativity presentation slide from 2021):

In other words, humans tend not to own up to mistakes and misconceptions simply because we’ve spent SO MUCH TIME making and believing in them. It can be embarrassing, even painful, to admit that the premise of a novel we’ve been writing for years is fundamentally flawed, or that we’ve spent money we don’t have on a graduate program that definitely isn’t the career path we want after all, or that the relationship into which we’ve poured all our emotional resources is never going to be the loving and growth-oriented union we’d hoped and longed for. When we hang on too long, the original mistake can compound itself many times over. Nor does the sunk-cost phenomenon play well with the standard pep talk on perseverance; we’ve all known at least one writer or artist overworking material they ought to set aside because they hold a (not-unfounded) conviction that professionals don’t trash work that isn’t working, they fix it. And in this productivity-obsessed culture, you’ve pretty much got to be a Zen monk to avoid framing the situation as a waste of time and resources.

…Okay, I am not nor will I ever be a Zen monk. But I think I’ve figured out what to say to myself to make it easier to admit that something’s not working and take action accordingly.

Sunk-Cost Dilemma A:

In my “‘writer’s block’ revisited” post last fall, I told you I submitted 360 pages of a novel I had no idea how to finish. And there were lots more pages that didn’t make it into that document, well over 400 total I’d say (it’s hard to tell when you’re working in Scrivener). With all my other novels I’d been able to write my way into the answers, but that wasn’t happening this time. To put it in quilting terms, I realized there was nothing for it but to cut up the thing for scraps and try for a different (simpler) design than the one I’d envisioned. I’m now pretty close to the end of this replotting process, and when I found myself in the midst of another sunk-cost dilemma last month, I decided it was time to write this post.

Sunk-Cost Dilemma B:

Waaaaay back in the spring of 2013, soon after moving to Boston, I purchased a sweater’s worth of sport-weight linen-rayon yarn in a life-affirming shade of green. Over the years I tried to knit myself a cardigan, but I always abandoned it (vintage stitch pattern + math to fit = eternal UFO. I should know myself by now!) Then in the midst of my craft decluttering, knowing I have a much higher/faster finish rate on gift projects, I figured that was the quickest way to stash down. Green is Heather’s favorite color too, and I’d found a sweater pattern on Ravelry I thought she’d love, so I downloaded the pdf, knit and laundered some gauge swatches, did some math, and cast on, hoping to finish it before my mid-October trip to Minnesota. 

Well, I’m writing this post just after flying home from those ultra-cozy four-and-a-half days with Heather and Zach at a lakeside cabin under perfect blue skies and a canopy of orange and gold. And this is the current state of the sweater:

*A thousand miles of yarn is the most ridiculous hyperbole I’ve indulged in all year, it’s more like 770 yards (not even half a mile, HAH!)

I could have finished it in time. I chose not to. What went wrong? I knit multiple gauge swatches and measured them before and after laundering. I DID THE MATH! But I flubbed it somehow. This yarn grows A LOT widthwise, so a relatively snug bust measurement of 51” (the designer recommends 15-20” of ease) would have blocked out to approximately 68.”

Thirty inches of ease. Way. Too. Big.

Ordinarily when it becomes clear that I have made a mistake in my knitting or sewing, my anti-perfectionist script begins to play in my head: Follow your perfectionism to its logical endpoint and you will never finish a thing. Not a dishcloth or a granny square, not one sentence, nevermind a complete paragraph. You will be THE CREATOR OF NOTHING!!!

And this is all true, of course. I tried to tell myself it would be okay, that I could put in a crocheted “seam” up the sides to tuck in some of the excess width, or that if it doesn’t fit her (“come on, it definitely won’t fit her!”) it will fit someone else who will wear it and love it.

But I’m not knitting this sweater for some other person. I am knitting it for my friend, who will look and feel good in a garment that is “slouchy” but not to such an extent that it feels like a(n albeit pretty-green) trash bag with three slits cut in it for her head and arms. If it doesn’t feel good to finish something that isn’t quite right, it definitely won’t feel good to give it.

Over morning coffee with Heather and Zach, I started knitting a smaller size. She oohed over the color (I knew it!) and we talked about sunk cost. Here are Heather’s two primary pieces of advice: 

1. to practice self compassion when reflecting upon supposedly-wasted time;

2. to look at EVERYTHING we write (or make) as skill building, meaning that the words we toss are just as necessary as the words that show up in a published work.

Our conversation reminded me of something Téa Obreht said in conversation with my friend Deirdre at the International Literature Festival Dublin this past May:

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Dross is inevitable when we live in a state of creative possibility. False starts, dead ends, and poop-outs aren’t evidence of our failures, they’re an ***occupational certainty.*** No writer has published every single word they have written. Every fiber artist has had to pick apart (frog, seam-rip, whatever) stitches that won’t get them the result they want, just as every home cook or baker has had to dump a failed experiment in the trash at least once.

Knowing if and when to quit (or pivot) is a call-and-response between intuition and logic. Heather’s two guidelines are the most essential, but I also feel like that’s easy for me to say since my considerable writing and knitting experience (25+ years and 19 years, respectively) allows me to come to a quicker decision than I could have done at, say, age 25. If self compassion feels out of reach (so far) and “everything is skill building” doesn’t automagically override your obsession with the One Perfect Outcome, here are a few more things to try:

• Put the project in time out, and for longer than you think it needs.

• When you circle back to your sunk-cost dilemma, ask yourself these questions: What’s the un/happiest outcome if I persevere? The un/happiest outcome if I quit? What are the one or two likeliest scenarios of all these, according to my inner guidance system? Are there other options I haven’t considered yet?

• Now for the most clarifying questions of all: Is this project making me miserable right now? Has it ever made me feel radiantly, ludicrously happy? If yes and yes, return to step 1. 

If you find yourself flinging your project (figuratively or literally) across the room again and again, over a period of years, well then—you just might have your answer. Keep in mind, too, that an indefinite time out still siphons a small amount of creative energy from your active WIPs.

I could have admitted the sweater was too big about five inches sooner. I worried about it all that time before I finally stopped. Owning up to the sunk cost meant not being able to give Heather her present in person, and that part was tougher than the necessity of frogging a full month’s worth of knitting. I was surprised at how I felt about the actual starting over. I felt good about it. I was looking forward to it, because knitting half of this sweater was a lot of fun. I listened to three wonderful novels—Travis Baldree’s Legends & Lattes and Bookshops & Bonedust and Maria Dahvana Headley’s The Mere Wife—feeling oh so content all the way through. Casting on a second time for the same sweater means I’m 2x’ing my enjoyment of this collection of stitch patterns and (hopefully) listening to twice as many excellent audiobooks. I’m practicing self compassion and choosing to value process over product. I can reframe my glorious-mess-of-a-time-travel-novel similarly:

Cutting up (or altogether chucking) these pages is the first step towards a stack of pages that WILL work.

Tossing this plot gives me plenty more time to live among these characters, for whom I feel such profound affection.

After this reframing, it is obvious to me that starting over is a joy and a privilege. I’ve learned so much from this process that I can (and will!) someday write a book about it.

Whether or not you decide to throw in the towel, look for the boons inside this period of frustration and uncertainty. This is how we get better at the work we love to do.

P.S. The International Rescue Committee is the humanitarian aid organization to which I contribute on a monthly basis. Here’s a link so you can click through and donate if you feel so inclined.

5 strategies for moving through “writer’s block”

It is not neurotic to sit at a desk all day devising an imaginary world. It is not even neurotic to sit all day at a desk trying to devise an imaginary world but not succeeding in doing so. What is neurotic is to hate oneself for doing or not doing either of these activities.

—Victoria Nelson

[This post is a follow-up to The art of the coddiwomple (or, “writer’s block” revisited).]

Drafting is joyful again, though it isn’t enough to feel relieved and grateful. I’ve been asking myself, What has helped? And why has it helped? How do you channel your creative energy while you’re waiting on that breakthrough? I’ve teased out several distinct practices and ways of being, which I have semi-consciously employed in tandem. Only one or two of these suggestions may resonate for you, so let’s just say the point is to keep close this one pure nugget of truth: 

It may look to all the world like you are “stuck,” but you are actually in DISCOVERY MODE.

Stay curious and reflective and you’ll come up with more than a few solid strategies of your own.

I’ve settled upon my own definition of discipline.

Counterintuitive as it may sound, thinking of myself first and foremost as a “soft animal body” (thank you, Mary Oliver!) has done a world of good for my creative discipline. When I talk to friends about Kate and Nancy’s excellent parenting of my nieces and nephew, I characterize their approaches as love and discipline in perfect balance, and that’s something we can employ in our relationships with ourselves too.

For example, I have often called myself “clumsy” out loud when I’ve dropped or knocked into something. The other night, when my boyfriend dropped something and reacted the same way, I said: “What if we promise we are not going to call ourselves clumsy anymore, no matter what?” He readily agreed.

The next morning, I bumped my elbow into a carton of blueberries, a handful of which went scattering across the kitchen floor. “Aha!” I cried. “I am not allowed to call myself clumsy!” Instead, we arranged the fallen blueberries into an arrow pointing toward the dog, who promptly gobbled them up. We got a good laugh out of it, and though I can’t quantify this, I feel sure I poured that positive feeling into my workweek, which has been extra productive and joyful. (Note to self: research the research on reparenting and creativity!)

What discipline is: 

1. Setting an intention to do a certain type of work (drafting, revising, admin, etc.) at a certain time of day, for a certain length of time (or until I feel jangly-brained, which happens after two to four hours of drafting), with distractions minimized; and following through on that intention to the best of my ability.

2. Setting reasonable boundaries with regard to my working conditions (see what I wrote in my last post about the DC Writers’ Room).

3. Preparing for productive work sessions by either packing lunch and snacks for the day (which entails meal prep and grocery shopping) or deciding on a solid takeout option (read: good value and keeps me full for hours, like a Chipotle sofritas burrito) ahead of time.

Also discipline: A willingness to recognize when the work I planned to do isn’t actually the most effective or fulfilling work to be doing that day after all, and pivoting accordingly. Reaffirming the value of scratching.

What discipline is NOT:

1. Inward name-calling or other forms of self-beratement. (No more “lazy” either!)

2. Setting up an unnecessarily complicated productivity system that I will inevitably not adhere to for more than a day, leading us back to habit #1.

3. Trying to adhere to a 9-5 Monday-Friday work schedule because that is what is understood and respected in this culture.

4. Revising a manuscript from 10am to 11pm (or later) with very infrequent bathroom and meal breaks. (It may look like I am “working hard,” but it is certainly not healthy.) In general, being “so in flow” that I forget I have to pee.

All this amounts to setting healthier boundaries with oneself. Remember Victoria Nelson’s adage that creative discipline arises naturally out of one’s deepest preferences? Many of the most profoundly contented moments of my life occur at a desk in a shared space where silence is the rule, with a pile of notes and a thermos of Earl Grey. Those are my preferences. Notice what your preferences are and then do your best to live by them.

More than ever before, I am continually on the lookout for a reason to laugh.

I want to improve my comedic writing skills, and I want to get better at not taking things personally and taking myself less seriously in general. But the pursuit of these worthy goals isn’t what’s making a difference.

I believe this meme originated with Merry Blacksmith, but please feel free to correct me.

I figured out pretty early on that as a creative person, it is critical to surround yourself with folks who’ll only say “You’re so silly!” or “Man, are you WEIRD!” in a tone of astonished admiration. Admittedly these folks are rare birds, as clearly implied by the Apple Dictionary thesaurus:

Having friends who truly appreciate one’s quirks is necessary for the maintenance of one’s self esteem. Yet it hadn’t occurred to me that being in a relationship with someone who actually enjoys me randomly speaking in cartoon voices, and with whom nonsense song lyrics and groan-worthy puns are a secondary love language, could have such an amplifying effect on my creativity. No coincidence that the middle-grade novel I’m drafting right now is the funniest thing I’ve written (and that includes Petty Magic). Of course, part of this newfound facility with jokes and wordplay is the result of the foundational work of character development, but where do hilarious three-dimensional characters come from?

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?”

“Well, dear, that would all depend on whether the scenario owes more to Kafka or Rick Moranis…”

Or let me put it to you this way: how conducive are etiquette and convention to creativity? 

It doesn’t matter if it’s comedy in a more structured form or indulging one’s absurdist tendencies in private—it seems obvious, doesn’t it, that “silly people” are more likely to think thoughts no one else has ever thought before? (Okay, so we won’t ever know for sure—suffice to say it is possible.) Think of the jester of medieval legend, who was the only one allowed to point out the absurdities of the court. In this sense, to be “foolish” is to be wise.

So go ahead and rejig the lyrics to a cheesy ’80s power ballad on the fly. Sing at the top of your lungs. Giggle uncontrollably. Repeat. 

And see what happens next.

I have re-immersed myself in children’s lit.

Last Christmas I gave my niece a copy of Phoebe Wahl’s Little Witch Hazel, and we love it more every time we read it together. The summer chapter is the most thematically relevant for (most) grown-ups, but my favorite is the winter chapter, in which Hazel spends all day helping her neighbors (tending to wounds, caring for newborn bunnies, and so forth) in the shadow of an impending blizzard. I revel in the moment when Otis swoops down to gather a lost and tired Hazel up out of the snowy darkness, and I get to hoot like an owl.

When Heather visited last year I shared the book with her, and of course she saw right away how nourishing this book is for one’s inner children. In a recent newsletter she wrote, 

“As a child—okay, even now—I wanted to live at the base of a tree, with a rounded hobbit door. I'd wear felt slippers and sleep under quilts and live by candlelight, eating berries from my neighbors, the deer. Braided rugs under my feet, cups of hot cocoa, a roaring fireplace despite the fact that I live in a tree.” 

Heather surprised me with this Little Witch Hazel print for my birthday! (Photo by Jason.)

The material comforts and aesthetic pleasures of such a fantasy life are actually about cultivating a sense of safety and belonging, whether the reader is four, a hundred and four, or anywhere in between. Cozy children’s lit puts us in the best possible head- and heart-space for creative renewal.

As for middle grade, I’ve listened to many old favorites on the Libby app, like Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, The Egypt Game, and The Wonderful Wizard of Oz (the version narrated by Brooke Shields). I finally “read” Howl’s Moving Castle—I did not enjoy it as much as I expected to, although I will certainly be reading more Diana Wynne Jones—and I can also recommend the audio versions of Karen Cushman’s The Midwife’s Apprentice and Catherine Gilbert Murdock’s Da Vinci’s Cat (her Newbery-honored The Book of Boy is one of my all-time favorite middle-grade novels).

In general, when you’re feeling creatively pinched it’s one of the wisest things you can do to immerse yourself in categories and genres you wouldn’t normally read. Little Free Libraries are the perfect resource for serendipitized book selections! (More on LFL in a future post on systematically “redistributing” my home library.)

I have analyzed the narrative structure of novels (and films) I remember fondly.

I’d been wanting to reread my favorite Neil Gaiman novel, and it turns out the plot of Neverwhere corresponds quite neatly to the 15-beat Save the Cat! formula apart from the transposition of beats #11 and #12 (“All is Lost” and “Dark Night of the Soul”). This makes sense given that Save the Cat! is largely (if arguably) a distillation of industry conventions, and that Gaiman conceived of Neverwhere as a television mini-series and novelized it in the midst of the scriptwriting process. Richard’s misadventure in Neverwhere maps even more neatly onto the Heroine’s Journey, since his descent into the underworld is a literal one, and he makes it through his ordeal with help from a cast of newfound trickster-frenemies who eventually become true friends. (There’s more, but in case you haven’t read this novel yet I don’t want to spoil it for you.)

I enjoyed this exercise so much that I want to make this an official (if occasional) practice. Once Rebecca Roanhorse’s Black Sun trilogy is complete (June of this year!!), I plan to analyze the overarching plot strands Book-Architecture-style, though realistically I may not finish this exercise before 2025. (Please leave a comment if this is something you’d find helpful to have in PDF format inside my resource library!)

Depending on the novel (or film) you choose, a closer reading can open up many more fruitful avenues of learning. I gained a whole new level of enjoyment (and more to the point: writerly insight) in reading this feminist essay by Belle Waring on the hidden narrator of Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, for instance, and from a fascinating film studies dissertation analyzing the 12-beat story structure Frank Capra used in several of his best-known films. (Thank you, Brian Geoffrey Rose!) 

I practice “selfish creativity.”

“Going pro” means that nothing you write is purely for your own satisfaction. Even lines from my private writing tend to worm their way into my novels. (Yes, I want to see how many times I can drop a “worm” in this blog post.) Have I ever promised myself I’d write a story “just for me” without thinking at least fleetingly about eventually publishing it? 

…Nope.

With all my talk of creative cross-pollination [here’s a YouTube link from 2021], I’ve been dancing around this concept for a long time now. “Selfish creativity” refers to a creative practice that IS solely for your own delight and satisfaction. It’s not something you’re secretly hoping to make a living at someday, or something you feel like you “should” be “into,” like baking focaccia because everybody else is (apparently) doing it. It’s something you do because it makes you feel radiantly happy to be alive.

(The first thing that popped into your head when you read that last sentence? That’s probably it.)

Since I was a little girl I’ve wanted to sleep under a quilt I sewed for myself. For a long time, I made quilts and gave them away. Often the same with my knitting. I’ve been talking in therapy about my tendency to overgive, so designing (and finishing!) things for my own home and person has become a therapeutic exercise as well.

Working on this project (the pattern is “Minnie Stars” from Quiltfolk) in the midst of “writer’s block” has allowed me to feel much more serene about the situation than I would have otherwise. Because how could I berate myself for not being creative enough when something so colorful and comforting was taking shape under my own two hands?

It’s taking forever to quilt it by hand, and I’m okay with that. I’ve bound it so I can use it on the bed now, and will finish the handiwork next summer (…perhaps? I’ve got a bunch more projects waiting!)

Do you know how good it feels to fall asleep all warm and snuggly on a cold winter’s night, under something you made?

Maybe quilting’s not your thing—it could be something else. But find and do the thing that gives you the shimmers, and watch how it changes your writing practice (not to mention your inner monologue).

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I’m going to save a discussion of private writing specifically for moving through “block,” and how best to approach writing about your writing, for a subsequent post, because I know not everyone has the time to settle in for 4,000+ words.

Let me know if you have tried, or intend to try, any of these strategies—and how it’s worked out for you! 🪱

The art of the coddiwomple (or, “writer’s block” revisited)

Properly interpreted, a block is the best thing that can happen to a writer.

—Victoria Nelson

Recently my boyfriend suggested we spend part of a Saturday afternoon at a Friends of the Library book sale. Let me loose in a large roomful of secondhand books and will I meander happily, contenting myself with whatever treasures I stumble upon, like a normal person? Of course not. I convince myself that there is ONE book in this room that, the MOMENT I crack the spine, will make me feel as though the author thrust it out into the world ESPECIALLY for ME. 

After awhile, I found myself in the self-help section. Of course I did.

I spotted a book on writer’s block. That was the title, actually: On Writer’s Block: A New Approach to Creativity. Early-to-mid ’90s, to judge by the cover. Victoria Nelson.

I opened to a page at random:

I have never felt so seen by a book in my entire life. 

In late October 2022, I sent my agent a 360-page partial manuscript. (Yes, partial. It was supposed to be the first third. LOLsob.) In early December my agent emailed me her notes, pointing out (with her customary diplomacy) that this new work lacked a taut narrative through-line. It had no through line, in fact. I’d written some of the best prose of my career thus far, AND YET the pages I had given her amounted to a free-wheeling grab-bag o’ chaos.

I have spent this past year working out how to fix my plot. I’ve remembered my beginner’s mind, gobbling up craft books, essays, and workshop videos on narrative structure. I’ve read for research. I’ve taken several breaks to begin developing other novel ideas. I wrote fragments of scenes I felt certain belonged in the new draft. But for the first time in a very long time, flow was elusive. In A Bright Clean Mind I wrote about the powerful rush of ideas I received right after I chose to become an ethical vegan in the spring of 2011, and though I still believe that what we eat can exacerbate our anxiety, I now know it can’t be as simple as that. Because after twelve years of “easy” purely-plant-fueled click-click-click novel-writing, I had to admit that I was “blocked” again.

The situation is unprecedented. In the old days (2002--2011), my “block” would manifest in a very particular pattern of multiple false starts in between viable novel projects, which I called “trough periods,” and I never wrote more than fifty or eighty pages of a novel I would later abandon. This time I am hundreds of pages into the novel in question, the time-travel screwball dramedy that’s been in the works for over fifteen years. Leaving a novel idea on my mental back burner was my tried-and-true M.O. for a long, long time. After a few months’ “marination,” for example, the whole plot of Mary Modern slotted itself into place in a single instant, double love triangle, twist, and all. If I didn’t know what was going to happen next I would write my way into the answer, but that hasn’t happened this time. Earlier this year I read a ghost story set at the Winchester Mystery House, and I LOLsobbed at the description of the “staircase to nowhere.” Some days that’s exactly what working on this book has felt like.

Connie Willis, who is one of my favorite writers, said in a 2021 interview, “Early on, I thought, someday soon I’ll figure this out and then writing will be a breeze, but that’s never happened. Every story and novel has a whole different set of things you need to learn how to do. It’s like you’re starting from scratch every time.” I thought I knew how to plot a novel, but to be precise about it, I knew how to plot Mary Modern, and Petty Magic, and so on. With the time-travel novel, I am (almost) starting from zero.

Most advice I hear or read about “writer’s block” identifies fear as the root cause. This is either so obvious as to be completely unhelpful, or in my case, only like 3.5% accurate. I’ve written about so-called “block” on the blog before, but I tailored that advice (still valid, I think) for beginners. Comparing myself to other writers hasn’t been an issue for me for a long time now, and I can catch myself whenever I’m on the verge of trying too hard. The concerns and underlying conditions are (for the most part) quite different when you’re twenty-five years in.

So here is a distillation of the lessons of the past year—a run-down of the practices, attitude adjustments, and pertinent reminders that have actually helped—with some beautifully-worded assistance from my new friend Victoria Nelson, whose book, in a kinder world, would still be in print.

Self-flagellation never (EVER!!!) leads to the desired outcome.

[M]aking art isn’t in every case an act superior to not making art. That belief comes out of the same production-quota mentality that most writers adopt at any moment in their lives when they are not actually producing something.

Why do we conflate discipline and punishment? The usual perpetrators—Puritans and capitalists—but you’ve already heard that rant, so I’ll just say it’s a tendency that warrants continual observation. Nelson writes that discipline arises naturally out of honoring one’s deepest preferences, which is an elegant way to reframe such an unjustly tarnished concept. 

Some authors write three to five (or more) novels per year and say they never experience block. They’re probably telling the truth. But the sort of writing they do draws upon a rather different skill set.

You will be so busy calling yourself unprofessional that you will not be able to hear the lower-pitched inner voice that is attempting to explain the real problem.

Once I become aware of my inner-monologuing about being a professional and professionals doing the work no matter what and why can’t I GET! IT! DONE! when I have literally no other responsibilities, I label this self-directed trash-talk as problematizing, then ask myself: what is the flawed premise underneath this pointless gnashing of teeth? Here is what I needed to remember:

1. Met or exceeded, a daily wordcount protects us—we believe it protects us—against all those old insecurities, the I’ll never be good enough and the who the hell do I think I am. A wordcount legitimizes—again, seems to legitimize—not just our efforts, but our very conception of self. Writers write, right? I used to share Bukowski’s poem “air and light and time and space” with my workshop students, but now I have to wonder if the message isn’t halfway toxic. Not every reason is an excuse, and an intuitive writer can instantly tell one from the other. Raising three kids on welfare is actually a TERRIFIC excuse, ya know?! For the hypothetical aspiring-writer/mom living on public assistance, that is the season she’s in.

2. As embarrassing as it is to have to admit this, there is a part of me that is still smarting at my jerk flatmate back in 2008 making a shitty comment about my hanging around the house all day. (When I offered to show him my books, he declined.) I moved out of that apartment as soon as was feasible, and yet that aggressively unimaginative individual is still living rent free in some dank little broom closet in my brain.

Someone who is not a writer will probably not understand that the work of writing often does not involve the act of writing. Notice that I did not choose the word “sometimes”—I chose “OFTEN” because that has been my experience from day one. I’ve joked that writers are always working and never working, and I still think that’s pretty accurate. I just need to remember that in this context, “never working” means “writing is usually enjoyable,” although it’s not a problem when it’s not, and “always working” means “I get many of my best ideas while I’m doing the dishes.” Therefore, doing the dishes counts towards work-time logged. (Not that I’m keeping a spreadsheet.)

So like I said, the Rx for me here is to recognize—not “fix,” just notice—my cultural programming around what does and doesn’t look like work from the outside.

Even when things are going swimmingly, the desired outcome ALWAYS takes longer than you expect, so either adjust your expectations accordingly or chuck them altogether.

Your long-term productivity will increase in direct proportion to the care and acceptance you lavish on your short-term silences.

In a 2014 interview Connie Willis said, “My two-volume novel BLACKOUT/ALL CLEAR took eight years to write, DOOMSDAY BOOK took five, TO SAY NOTHING OF THE DOG four. But that doesn’t tell the whole story. Every story basically takes your whole career to write, both in the skills you acquire and where the stuff comes from that the stories are about.” Skills take years to sharpen. Research can take a long time too. I like “short-term silence” formatted like so—“short*-term silence”—because a “short” period of time could be a week, a year, or a decade. It’s all relative, right? The only long-term silence is death. 

Also, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: YOU ARE NOT A ROBOT.

To underscore another point I’ve already made:

“Scratching” counts as work.

This is the choreographer Twyla Tharp’s term for exploratory activity—some light research into whatever topic has stimulated your curiosity today, or reading in an unfamiliar genre, listening to music, or looking at other people’s art—that you engage in either before you’ve settled on your next project, or when you feel stuck. More broadly defined, scratching is anything you do in lieu of giving into despair. (Am I being facetious? Ask me again tomorrow.) 

For more on the concept of scratching, check out another blog post from my friend Heather. Also, the 2014 Connie Willis interview (here’s the link again) includes a scratching case study.

Treat yourself as a whole human being. You probably have needs that supersede your desire to feel productive.

The key to the dilemma lies not in any failure of will power—blocked writers tend to have more than their fair share of will—but in the relationship we have cultivated with our unconscious selves. This is the unpleasant moment when we learn that this invisible but inalienable inner kingdom runs on its own priorities—priorities that are not always or even often the same as those we hold consciously.

I found a new therapist at the beginning of this year, and my general outlook is so much clearer and brighter for our our twice-monthly sessions. She asks questions that draw dotted lines between my present habits and longstanding emotional patterns, leaving me space to develop the insights for myself. For instance, when she characterized my childhood creative practices as a “life vest”—“Who would you have been without your drawing and writing? What would have been your experience of life?”—it occurred to me that I couldn’t have called myself a happy child, and that I might very well have been diagnosed with depression. (As it was, I had some fairly weird psychosomatic symptoms—foot pain, back pain, fingernails falling out, etc., no vitamin deficiencies or anything like that—and because of those symptoms and persistent insomnia, my parents took me to see a series of mental health professionals.) My daily sketches and what-ifs were an effective coping strategy in the fallout from my parents’ vicious divorce, but it was also A LOT of pressure to put on my creativity—a pressure I might still be experiencing here in the present.

The truth is that this is no passive condition; it is an aggressive reaction, a loud shout from the unconscious calling attention to the fact that something is out of adjustment. The block itself is not the problem; it is a signal to adjust the way we approach our work.

I’m not necessarily implying YOU need therapy to “work through” your “block,” but it’s worth looking into. (Also, if you already have a therapist but responded with a sense of longing to what I wrote about mine, it might be time to look for a new one.)

Consider that something else wants to come through.*

(*This is not a poop joke, although joking about poop will probably help with your “blockage.”)

I know a bunch of people in the self-help space have posed the following question, but my favorite source is Campbell Walker (a.k.a. Struthless): “In what respects might this challenging situation be ‘the best thing that ever happened to you’?” I am aware this could be a very callous thing to ask in certain contexts, but “writer’s block” isn’t one of them.

If I had to choose one item on this list that is pretty much one-size-fits-all, this is it. (Also, yes, find a good therapist.) I asked myself, “If I put the time-travel novel in long-term time-out, what other book(s) could I write instead?” My attitude here wasn’t “well, all right, I might as well think about writing something else.” It was

I made space in my head for the unexpected. And what do you know? I got one dynamite idea after another.

Here is a reproduction of a diagram I’ve been adding to periodically as yummy new book concepts occur to me:

Okay, so I am probably not going to write all of these books (“ruthless realism,” remember!) It doesn’t matter. They are all viable book ideas, and I could get started on at least three of them right now. (And in fact, I have! I know this “block” is specific to the time-travel novel because when I switch to another project I find myself back in flow-state within minutes, although the other novel I’m working on right now has a relatively simple plot.)

Funny thing: if we assess my 2023 productivity using the volume of new-project material as our sole metric, I’ve actually been very prolific. With the number of viable book ideas I’ve come up with this year along with the ones I already had simmering on my mental back burners, I have enough to work on for the next fifteen to twenty years. (And I got ANOTHER idea, craft book #4, right after I uploaded the diagram photo!)

(But what if you throw up your hands and yell “HELL YEAH, UNIVERSE!”…and nothing happens?)

…[T]he active internal state Keats called ‘delicious diligent indolence,’ the silence that falls in the house of art while an idea is developing out of sight, down in the basement.

Let’s talk more about scratching. Heather and I passed a very happy few days in Grand Marais in the spring of 2022, where we browsed around an art gallery stocking this greeting card from a local letterpress: 

Coddiwomple is a marvelous word, isn’t it? I can’t remember if either of us said, “Ooh, look! It’s the Fool!”, but we were definitely thinking it. The Fool is card number zero, the very start of the 22-card journey of the Major Arcana. This is a good card for the enthusiastic beginner, but its message is even more relevant for a person of experience who may need to find their way back into a possibility mindset. How can you travel purposefully if you don’t know where you’re going? If you’re responding to this paradox with a flutter of impatience, your brain may want—no, require—a good deal more space to wander. Put aside all thoughts of plots and schedules and pursue a “side quest” (bake every last cookie recipe out of your grandma’s kitchen file? build a sculpture with materials recovered from the county dump?), or read for pleasure (I suggest The Thirteen Clocks by James Thurber), or write a dirty limerick and text it to everyone in your contacts likely to reply with the laugh-cry emoji. (Or a skull, if you’re a zoomer.) Do something you’ve never done before and see what happens.

(Also, I would be a terrible friend if I did not take this opportunity to mention that Heather has a Tarot for Writers course!)

Take a snack break with some proof pudding.

What most chronically blocked writers lack is the gut faith in themselves that allows these needed intervals of silence to occur.

This is one of the central tenets of the Provisional Confidence course I put out back in 2020: because even if you’re just starting out, you can always look back to some earlier piece of writing and recognize how you have grown in the intervening months or years. (Dig out an essay you wrote as a high-school freshman. If you are a high-school freshman, go back to something you wrote in elementary school.)

Time to explain why I characterized this current round of “block” as 3.5% based in fear: because there have been moments when I’ve thought, Maybe this novel is too ambitious. Maybe I’m not up to the task. Truth is, I wasn’t—and perhaps I’m still not. But the Camille of 2024 or 2025 (or 2030) will be. I know this pinchy spot has a conclusion-point because my experience of those 25+ years promises as much. I am always learning, and therefore I am usually improving. And when all else fails, I remember that nothing lasts.

Take solace in your creative friendships.

The most effective method of self validation is to surround yourself with people who are consistently loving and encouraging—especially when love is candor, like the time Aravinda handed back the first two chapters of my practice novel saying “This is good, and you can do better.” Heather and Erin and McCormick and Henry and Chantal and Deirdre and Seanan have all given me pep talks over the past year. They’ve shared their ups and downs with me too. As my friend Joelle laughed on a catch-up call a few months back: “If you’ve got ‘writer’s block,’ then there’s hope for us all!”

Back when I was still only thinking about writing this time-travel screwball comedy—fall 2015—Joelle invited me to prepare something for a multimedia science-fiction event she and her partner Jim were hosting at a local brewery. Losing my nerve, I said, “Is it all right if I just read from Mary Modern?”

Her response was exactly what I needed to hear: “Nah, I’d rather you read from the time-travel story you were telling me about.” She lovingly pushed me into drafting the first six or seven (very rough) pages, which were warmly received at the reading. It’s these moments I can circle back to whenever I feel like I’ve forgotten how to do this.

Circle back to craft basics and en-JOY reinforcing that foundation.

I have several author friends who teach at the university level, and I greatly admire their ability to extemporize on craft. When I chose a not-so-competitive school for my master’s program, I retained the bandwidth for researching and drafting Mary Modern inside of a school year, but completing that manuscript came at the cost of academic rigor. Looking back, I see how frequently I’ve been flying by the seat of my pants, making decisions without thinking too much about the underlying why. And because I still want to teach on a regular basis someday, I must be able to analyze and chart out my initially-subliminal reasoning for the benefit of my students.

So I decided this pinchy interval was the perfect opportunity to build a sturdier knowledge-base. I’ve spent the past year listening to the excellent (and admirably concise!) Writing Excuses podcast, and I am grateful beyond measure to Heather for recommending A Swim in a Pond in the Rain by George Saunders (a.k.a. Uncle George). I’ve revisited Gail Carriger’s wonderful guide to the Heroine’s Journey, and I have read other craft books by Ursula K. Le Guin and John Gardner and Samuel Delany. I also can’t say enough good things about Stuart Horwitz’s Book Architecture method.

Notice how your needs and priorities are shifting, and make whatever adjustments are appropriate.

You determine your limits by testing them gently but repeatedly, then respecting them—no matter how unlike anybody else’s they are.

The three-plus years I was a member of the Writers’ Room of Boston (late 2013 to mid-2017) were far and away the most productive of my career. Then I moved to Providence, and I got a lot done at the Athenaeum too. I miss both those spaces, and the lovely people I met in each one.

I moved to D.C. in September 2020, and between COVID and living solo for the first time, it never occurred to me to write outside my home. Between late 2020 and mid-2022, I wrote more than 360 pages of the time travel novel. Sounds like I was productive, right?

…HOWEVER.

I live on the ground floor of a very small apartment building. I like to write in the front room—where almost all the houseplants live, since it’s the only sunny room in the place—and I like to keep the blinds up and the windows open as long as it’s warm enough. I like where I live and I enjoy working at home, but sometimes there are interruptions: my across-the-hall neighbor getting locked out, my landlady wanting to talk about maintenance work, the next-door neighbor blasting the radio, a substitute mail carrier asking to be let in, some random canvasser trying to get my attention through the window. They don’t occur every day, but it has happened frequently enough that I realized part of my brain’s been holding back from the work out of an ultimately-futile sense of vigilance. Working in a more private location in the apartment doesn’t relieve the anxiety. I have tried working at the library, but the fear of interruption persists.

So I finally realized I needed a space like the WROB, and joined the D.C. Writers Room in Tenleytown. The office is clean and well organized, and monthly dues are very reasonable given that it is run as a business rather than a co-operative. The DCWR doesn’t have the lived-in, absentminded-professor vibe or community spirit of the WROB, but that’s not what I need, is it? I’ve been reveling in the delicious sense of purpose I feel as I settle into my desk-for-the-day with my notes and a hot cup of tea.

I’m kind of embarrassed that it took me so many months to see that I needed a dedicated writing-space outside the house. That said:

It isn’t a problem if what worked before isn’t working anymore—it’s an invitation to observe and experiment in order to find out what works best for you NOW.

[P]atience, patience in all things, is the most valuable quality a writer can have.

A writer’s working style is idiosyncratic (which is why, as Victoria Nelson points out, emulating the routines of famous authors doesn’t often yield the results we’re hoping for). Process and practices evolve with time and experience, and it is part of the writer’s job to monitor these changes and tweak her approach accordingly. It will take time to monitor these observations, and more time to implement the tweaks. As I laughed to my therapist: “It feels like I’m ‘rebuilding my search indexes.’” [That message appears when I launch Scrivener.]

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I recommend Victoria Nelson’s book for every writer (Abebooks link here), but especially those who, like me, find a great deal of (surprisingly practical) insight in Jungian psychology. I love how Nelson’s treatment of conflicting parts of self dovetails with the Internal Family Systems model (which is how I found my current therapist; if you’re not yet familiar, I like Alanis Morissette’s podcast interview with Dick Schwartz for an introduction.) I wish I had found this book before writing Life Without Envy, because the second-to-last chapter on success is as wise as the rest of the book. (Quick side note: I am super excited to use a Solid State gift card from my friend Jason to purchase Nelson’s book The Secret Life of Puppets, because if I appreciate a living author’s work, I buy it new whenever possible. Gotta represent!)

I still don’t believe in writer’s block, which might sound ludicrous given that I have just written or transcribed roughly 4,000 words on the subject. What I do believe in is the reality of whatever is causing the appearance of block. In my case, it’s mostly been a matter of needing more time to teach myself how to write this novel, of reinforcing a sense of trust that I will know how to write it someday. Victoria Nelson calls this particular variety “the silence of incubation.” The pre-birth metaphor feels especially apt by contrast, because a novel is not a baby. It is nonsense to say, “I’ve been working on this for nine months [or however long you’ve got it in your head a novel “should” take to write], therefore it should be DONE!” If this particular incubation period has lasted longer than fifteen years, well…no sense repeatedly banging my forehead against the brick wall of reality.

Speaking of brick walls: when I wrote, “I can catch myself whenever I’m on the verge of trying too hard,” did you wonder about that? I did too. I know it must look like I’ve been trying too hard with this novel. To clarify, it’s the difference between the overwhelming joy I feel when I am connecting to my characters and the trying to convince myself I feel that joy. If this weren’t a full-body YES!-YES!-YES! type of project even on those blindfolded-in-a-bog-of-molasses days, I’d have (rightfully) given up on it long ago.

As writers we do not want to accept that our life in art is not, and will never be, a steady linear progression into the sunlight—that it is actually a series of advances and retreats, stops and starts, unfoldings and closings up.

So that’s my situation. The underlying reason(s) for your (apparent) block could be something else. You’ve heard this before, no doubt, but the way through it necessitates a mixture of gentleness and curiosity, a complete and unconditional acceptance of the present situation (which is what you are ideally doing in any given moment anyway). SURRENDER ANYTHING TO DO WITH A TIMELINE (I’m so sorry, but this applies especially if you are under contract), and devise a simple yet specific list of self-supportive practices and helpful thoughts to think whenever you catch yourself engaging in self recrimination. (Since this post turned out much longer than planned, I’ll save my sample list for next time.) And for goodness’ sake, just put it away for awhile and work on something light, something that feels easy, something you can play with.

My Patchwork Writing Process

I've been writing novels for more than twenty years now—CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT?—but there is always more to learn about the craft, and more to observe of one's natural inclinations. This is how and why I do what I do. Here are some ways I might fine-tune a particular step in my process—for greater "efficiency," yes, but also for greater enjoyment.

As I listened to the audio modules inside my dear friend Heather Demetrios's new on-demand course, You Have a Process, it occurred to me that while I've spent plenty of time charting out my idea-generation process—on YouTube and inside The Bright Idea Kit—I haven't reflected too much on the actual drafting, which is far and away the most intimidating part from most aspiring writers' point of view. If you'd asked about my first-drafting style before going through You Have a Process, this is what I'd've told you:

I bring piles of handwritten notes to the Scrivener document. I don't write in chronological order. Usually I'll write fifty pages or so and then I'll outline the entire book. At the end of a writing session, I try to have a kernel of a scene to start with the next day—something I'm excited to dictate into Scrivener as I'm watching it play out in my head. Maybe eighty percent of the time I slip into flow within minutes, the other 20% being tooth-pulling days, but I don't get down on myself. Doing yoga, going for a walk, taking a shower, cooking dinner, or working on an easy knitting or sewing project helps with a mild case of creative constipation (because I don't experience "block," per se—not anymore). Whatever isn't quite coming together, the solution generally slides in at an oblique angle (i.e., it has nothing to do with whatever is in front of me, but it shows up because mentally I've cleared the space for it.)

This is all true, but it's not as specific (and therefore as helpful for other writers) as it could be.

From the beginning I understood that many (if not a majority of) writers draft their stories in chronological order, and it didn't seem like a problem that I never felt inclined to write that way. In my initial drafting phase, I sit down to write whichever scenes I feel like. I'm only 30% of the way through my first draft of the time-travel novel, but I've already written a pivotal conversation that happens in the last chapter. At some point as I was listening to my friend's warm and reassuring voice coming out of my bedside speaker, I had the most delicious little a-ha moment:

I draft a novel in much the same way I cut and assemble a piece of patchwork!

It's been a long time since I've blogged about my crafting—I have a baby-quilt show-and-tell post from 2019 still languishing in my drafts—though I have shared more on Instagram in this video on creative cross-pollination and this one on "avocational ambition." (Those are YouTube links, in case you don't have an Instagram account.)

Baby quilt for my cousin Jenni, 2019.

The most basic definition of patchwork is cutting large pieces of fabric (usually quilting cotton) into smaller—sometimes very small—pieces, rearranging and then stitching them into a visually pleasing design. Sometimes it's traditional and perfectly geometric and other times (as in "crazy" or crumb quilting) you're making it up as you go. It's not a perfect analogy, but for me it's an illuminating one: because in both disciplines I generate purposeful fragments—discrete moments of connection or observation or insight, without thinking too much about context or finishing—and after months of working in this fashion, I can arrange those many pieces into a sensible order and add the necessary "sashing" so that each scene continues "seamlessly" (har, har) into the next.

My first curved piecing (2018).

Slowly coming together...

Arranging and adding the sashing.

To mix our metaphors here, what I'm calling "sashing" is what many writing teachers would refer to as "connective tissue." In a particular chapter, I might have 60% of scene A, only a half-finished dialogue from scene B, and a scene C that is more or less complete. Because I have my outline by this stage—my self-drafted pattern, in needlework parlance—I mostly know what more is needed in scene A, how to get the characters to the point that they are having the conversation in scene B, and how to segue into scene C. There are still question marks here and there, particularly where the science (or "science") is concerned, or more historical research is required, but as I proceed from here I have every confidence that I will eventually gather the information I need to fill those lacunae.

In essence, I compose my first draft in two stages: there is the initial draft-whatever-I-please, cutting-up-calico-into-itty-bitty-pieces phase, and then there is the arrangement and assembly/filling-in phase. Both are enjoyable, but the second phase is more consistently so because I already have a large bank of material to work with. It's easier to compose a line that sings—a sentence I can feel proud of—if it's closing out a scene I half-drafted three months earlier.

Amazing, isn't it, how long it's taken me to notice just how process-oriented and low-pressure my natural method of drafting truly is! (And of course now I'm thinking about how I can demonstrate using actual writing samples—that'll eventually be a video inside the Bright Idea Kit. I'll include photos from my crumb-quilting, which is an even tidier analogy!)

[EDIT, November 2023: my Teachable courses are no longer available (I gotta cough up to keep them live, and I don’t have the bandwidth for marketing right now), but I will make it available inside my Resource Library; subscribe to email updates to snag the password.]

Hot water bottle cover for my friend Joelle.

Creative Writing 101: Free Resources

My best writing advice sounds much like every other author's:

Read a lot—across multiple genres—and reflect on why and how the story "works" (or doesn't!) How, specifically, has the author managed to fashion characters you truly care about and root for? How do they establish a narrative pace that has momentum without feeling rushed? How have they furnished a world that feels fresh and vivid? What elements have they used in developing a plot that offers both surprise and a satisfying sense of inevitability?

Notice how your personal taste is developing, and consider how your reading choices will inevitably influence your own writing—indeed, be deliberate about this! Keep a private notebook. Cultivate your emotional intelligence and self awareness, because your personal growth work will allow you to develop themes that truly resonate and characters who are (in a sense) just as real as nonfictional people.

Be discerning. Even a wise and experienced writing instructor may offer advice that does not apply to your chosen genre/subgenre or style, or is not in alignment with your creative vision. That said, you must cultivate enough humility to know when you're intelligently breaking the rules and when you're just being arrogant. Do not convince yourself of your own genius. You will never "arrive" at a place beyond all error and frustration. Even the most critically successful authors are continually seeking to refine their craft. You're going to feel ecstatic when you write something that seems utterly brilliant and unprecedented, but put the draft away and reread it after the high's worn off, and you'll see how much work you've yet to do. Don't waste energy feeling foolish though—because this is the process. Some days writing and revising will feel hard, and that's okay. Look for ways to take more pleasure in it.

One more note before we get to the resource links:

You don't need an M.F.A. Though depending on the type of program and financial aid available, you may find it worthwhile. I'm glad I decided to do an M.A. in Writing at NUI Galway because 1, I only had to take out $15k in student loans (which I was able to pay back with the sale of my first novel); 2, it gave me the time and space to hone my craft and complete my manuscript (faster than if I'd stayed at my NYC day job); 3, it exposed me to powerful literary influences (Kate O'Brien in particular); and 4, I met some of my dearest writing pals and 16+ years later we're still cheering each other on. Keep in mind, though, that this was MY experience. I can't promise you'll have a worthwhile experience even if you're accepted into the same program.

The following resources are a mix of craft talk and philosophy that I find insightful. Perspective, style, and approach vary quite a bit. Please leave questions or recommendations in the comments for the benefit of other aspiring writers, and I'll periodically update this list with your suggestions. 🤓

Podcasts

The good folks at the Writing Excuses podcast devoted an entire season to learning the craft from square one.

N.K. Jemisin’s master class in world building | The Ezra Klein Show

YouTube

Ingrid's Notes: How to Teach Yourself Creative Writing, The #1 Piece of Writing Advice I Ever Received, How to Discover Your Heart Theme, 11 Beats of Story Structure, What is Profluence?, and more

Brandon Sanderson: Ten Things I Wish I'd Known as a Teen Author, Five Tips for Writing Your First Novel, and plenty of full-length lectures

Alexa Donne, HARSH WRITING ADVICE! (mostly for newer writers) [snarky but spot on], The WORST Amateur Writing Mistakes, and more

Blog Posts, Articles, PDFs, and Transcripts

The Marginalian (formerly known as Brain Pickings), Timeless Advice on Writing: The Collected Wisdom of Great Writers; James Baldwin on the Creative Process and the Artist’s Responsibility to Society

Heather Demetrios, How to Write a Bingeable Chapter, Sports Psychology for Writers, and everything else on her blog

Matthew Salesses, On Worldbuilding and the Question of Resistance

Nalo Hopkinson and Connie Willis, Science and Spirituality in Science Fiction (transcript of an authors' event at MIT, March 6, 2000)

The Literary Ladies Guide: Octavia Butler's Rules for Writers; Writing Advice from Classic Authors (blog category)

The Best Writing Advice from Colson Whitehead's 60 Minutes Interview on Lit Hub

The Snowflake Method for Designing a Novel (I haven't used this method, but the suggested structure-building exercises are very sensible)

Multimedia

The Writer's Workshop @ TEDEd

Books (ask for these titles at your local library)

Craft in the Real World by Matthew Salesses (doesn't matter if you're not currently participating in a writing workshop)

Writing the Other by Nisi Shawl and Cynthia Ward

The Heroine's Journey by Gail Carriger

Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg

Creativity and Flow by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi

Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott (I don't love this book as much as I did when I first read it twenty years ago—parts of it haven't aged well—but I still believe it's a must read)

When you're ready: paid workshops that are totally worth the investment

I have taken classes hosted by these organizations and have learned a lot from all of them. Scholarships are sometimes available. If nothing on the current course schedule interests you, sign up for their mailing lists for future workshop announcements.

Writing the Other

Clarion West

[My friend Henry Lien teaches fantastic workshops for both these organizations. Here's his current schedule. Sign up for his newsletter here.]

I also highly recommend my friend Heather Demetrios's classes (Writing Bingeable Characters, etc.) and one-on-one coaching packages. Her self-guided introductory writing course, Unlock Your Novel: A Workbook For Getting Unstuck at Any Drafting Stage, is only $25.

I trust this list will keep you happily occupied for a good while! Check out my archive page for even more resources, and be sure to leave a comment with your own suggestions. ⬇️

The Power of Private Writing is LIVE!

This free workshop is for email subscribers, so sign on up if you haven't already and you'll get the links in your welcome email! 🙌

How to Work With Me (if You Can't Afford to Work With Me)

Inspired by Rachael Rice's question,

“Can we imagine the impact of our work beyond those who can afford it?”,

I offer a clear progression as to how any aspiring writer (or other creative person) can benefit from my experience:

1. Watch the Life Without Envy mini-workshop and read the essays I've posted on Medium (links are on my Archive page.)

2. If that content resonates for you, sign up for my mailing list so you'll get access to my free resource library. Watch the The Power of Private Writing and do the prompts. Also be sure to check out the Life Without Envy mini-workbook inside the resource library—the success-to-satisfaction paradigm shift is particularly important.

3. Ask for Life Without Envy and A Bright Clean Mind at your local library. (Depending on the library, some librarians are able to order books that patrons have requested for the collection.)

4. By now, you probably have at least a few questions percolating. Ask as many of them as you like, and I'll make one or more videos especially for you as part of my office-hours series. [EDIT, January 2024: I am still on YouTube/social media hiatus, but your question will be waiting for me when I come back!]

5. Watch the video(s) I've made to answer your question(s), and ask any follow-up questions you may have.

At any point in this progression, you can DM me on Instagram or Twitter or send me an email to introduce yourself; I will be very happy to connect with you, I just ask that you respect my time and psychic energy by refraining from asking me to read your manuscript (which is something I don't even do for paid coaching clients before we've established a rapport) or writing emails that require a long private reply (like many folks these days, my email inbox is a source of anxiety for me, so relatively quick messages are the way to go).

As a white woman from a middle-class background who has sometimes been "broke" but will never be "poor," I also ask that my fellow white writers take some time, in general, to reflect on what they truly can and cannot "afford." I want to practice generosity in sharing my experience with everyone, but I am also trying to avoid being taken advantage of (which has happened more than once, alas, and usually with people who could have afforded to compensate me for my time and insight).

Over the next few years, I'm looking to develop a free group mentoring program for aspiring writers from marginalized communities, and if that sounds like something you'd love to be a part of, then get started now! And if you feel so inspired, I'd love it if you shared my free resources with any friends or colleagues who would find them useful. Thank you, and I hope we'll be in touch soon. 🙏💕

Emotional Hygiene Resources for Writers (and Everyone!)

If the title of this blog post caught your attention, then you probably already understand that your emotional wellbeing is the bedrock of your creative practice. Not only are you not capable of your best work while you're in "hot-mess" mode, your unexamined, unmanaged emotions may very well be creating a more stressful environment for your loved ones, friends, and colleagues. I've been the daughter, sister, friend, and girlfriend foisting her toxic storm of feelings onto her loved ones, and it's high time I shared what I've learned about emotional hygiene since Life Without Envy came out in 2016.

More recently (in May 2019) I made a video as part of a Life Without Envy web workshop on YouTube, and the recommendations in that video are still good. I've gone deeper into my private writing practice since then, though, and I have one daily prompt to share that will hopefully be as big a game-changer for you as it has been for me (it's at the end of this post).

Quick disclaimer: I am not a mental health professional, merely a fellow artist committed to taking responsibility for her emotional wellbeing and developing her emotional intelligence.

More on YouTube

Guy Winch’s TEDx talk, Why we all need to practice emotional first aid

Dr. Abdul Saad's Self-Transformation Series [I really appreciate his pleasantly neutral presence and delivery—it makes the concepts he's sharing much easier to grasp]

Clean vs. Dirty Pain and other videos from Therapy in a Nutshell [this channel is very helpful, just beware there's occasional religiosity]

How to Feel Peace Even with Challenges, Leslie Huddart

What can I give?, Taking responsibility for our own happiness, and other videos from Ralph de la Rosa

My favorite yoga teachers on YouTube: Koya Webb (highly recommend Yoga for Anxiety and Stress Relief), Kino MacGregor, Yoga with Adriene, Erica Rascon

Read on the web

An excerpt from Eckhart Tolle’s The Power of Now

7 Ways to Practice Emotional First Aid [also Guy Winch]

Byron Katie [There are free downloadable worksheets on her site, though you don't necessarily need to fill them out; for me the key takeaway is to ask after every judgmental or otherwise negative thought you have, "Is that true?" Because it's usually not.]

Heather Demetrios, Halting Your Thought Traffic and Hold Your Seat [+ her whole blog!]

Books

[Full disclosure: I'm using Bookshop.org affiliate links.]

Eckhart Tolle, The Power of Now and A New Earth

Guy Winch, Emotional First Aid [I recorded an excerpt here]

Joe Dispenza's Breaking the Habit of Being Yourself

Pema Chödrön's Comfortable With Uncertainty

Trevor Blake's Three Simple Steps

Dr. Eric Maisel's Coaching the Artist Within and Mastering Creative Anxiety

Lauren Sapala's The INFJ Revolution [I'm an INFP and I still felt like Lauren was reading my soul!]

And the daily practice that has helped me most:

Since last spring, the first thing I do each day (after going to the bathroom and brewing coffee) is to write down how I'm feeling and why—and if I don't know why, I keep writing until I have some semblance of an answer. And if I find myself feeling grumpy or frustrated during the day, I pause whatever I'm doing, go back to my journal, and ask the two questions again:

• What am I feeling right now?

• Why am I feeling it?

I didn't really learn this from anyone, it just occurred to me one day that it would be beneficial to articulate my emotions in real time, and I noticed soon afterward that I was much less reactive. I'm also much more patient with myself and others—there have been several occasions over these past eight months when I paused and thought, Before, I would have snapped. Owing to a few unfortunate episodes in my early childhood (flagged "TMI" in the context of this post), my "pain body" is activated when I feel invisible in social situations, so (for me, at least) it's the "self witnessing," "self validating" aspect of the exercise that has resulted in this shift. I articulate my emotions without attaching a sense of "rightness" to them, remaining as lovingly neutral as it is possible for me to be in that particular moment.

I hope at least one of these resources offers you some relief from the COVID pressure cooker (in addition to all the "usual" stresses of life). I'll add to this list whenever I encounter more helpful content. If you have any favorite books or links to share, I would be grateful if you left a comment. [And a big shout-out to Rachel for inspiring this post!]

Sign up for more where this came from

My new opt-in goodie is a concise 35-minute private writing workshop video + workbook. (How is "private writing" different from journaling? Watch this.) If you found this post helpful and want more, sign up for my list and you'll receive the link in your welcome email.

Wunderkind Syndrome

 

Wunderkind Syndrome: Or, How to Stop Wanting to Be More Amazing Than Everybody Else

There is here no measuring with time, no year matters, and ten years are nothing. Being an artist means, not reckoning and counting, but ripening like the tree which does not force its sap and stands confident in the storms of spring without the fear that after them may come no summer.

— Rainer Maria Rilke. During my freshman year at NYU I took the subway uptown to the Guggenheim. When I came upon Picasso’s Le Moulin de la Galette—painted just after the great artist’s nineteenth birthday—I stood before it in a fog of self reproach. I was nineteen, and what did I have to show for myself?In that moment I succumbed to “Wunderkind Syndrome”: the frantic desire to produce an amazing work of art as soon as possible—preferably before the age of twenty, twenty five at the latest—so that everyone will hail your genius before any of your contemporaries can edge you out. Furthermore, if you’re not applying yourself to this ambition with obsessive focus then you obviously don’t want it badly enough, and if you don’t want it enough to sacrifice sleep, social life, and basic personal hygiene, then you musn’t be a true artist.Ridiculous, right? I’m chuckling as I type this. Why do we want so badly to prove our brilliance at a more tender age than everyone else? Why, in our secret (or not-so-secret) hearts, do we want to be perceived as better than everyone else?Perhaps the first reason is, of course, that our culture is obsessed with youth (and generally at the expense of substance). We feel this panic to produce something while the world still casts us in an attractive light.The second factor to consider is the scarcity mentality, which has haunted our species from the African savannah all the way to the Walmart Black Friday stampede. There are only so many accolades to go around—only so much gallery space, only so many slots on the “big five” publishers’ seasonal lists—and we grow desperate to claim our share as soon as we possibly can.But the ultimate reason has nothing to do with cutting throats or getting trampled. We all want to be loved and accepted for who we are, and because our art feels like the truest expression of that identity, it’s all too tempting to conflate output with intrinsic worth. This misperception is most powerful during that brutal passage through adolescence. I must beam this work of my heart out into the world so that I will be seen—heard—understood. If we must make ourselves vulnerable in this way, then we might as well be rewarded for our bravery.When I first began writing fiction with an eye toward publication, in 2001, a nineteen year old with a book deal was a rare bird. These days, thanks to the rocketing popularity of young adult fiction and the ease of digital publishing, you can find teenaged authors seemingly everywhere you look. Amanda Hocking, whose phenomenal self-publishing success led to a million-dollar deal with, ahem, my own publisher, has mentioned in interviews that she wanted to publish by the age of 26 because that’s how old Stephen King was when he came out with his first novel, Carrie. When I read an ARC of Hocking’s own debut novel, I made a game of underlining the adverbs, which appeared in ludicrous profusion on nearly every page. Apologies for the snark here, but she could have taken a few more years to hone her craft.Still, I know exactly where Amanda Hocking was coming from. Just before my twenty-second birthday, I finished the last scene of a 600-page manuscript, hit the print button and mailed that teetering pile of paper off to a literary agent. I look back on the girl I was then, and try not to smile too condescendingly. I did get my first book deal at twenty five, but I put those three intervening years to good use: writing all night, sleeping ’til noon, forging lasting friendships with my grad school classmates, and going to classes knowing only that I had a hell of a lot to learn. In essence, I was working on a much more practical form of character development: I stopped believing the world owed me something and focused on telling an engaging and meaningful story.In Show Your Work, Austin Kleon cites John Richardson’s biography of Picasso. According to Richardson, Picasso was notorious for sucking the energy out of anyone who paid him a visit: somebody with stars in his eyes would show up hoping to be inspired by the great artist, only to leave hours later feeling completely exhausted and depressed. Picasso, meanwhile, retreated to his studio and painted all night with renewed vigor. This is why many of Picasso’s contemporaries wanted nothing to do with him personally.The asshole-genius is a false binary—you can see something you painted as a teenager in one of the world’s finest art museums without turning into a psychic vampire!—but we may still find ourselves striving for notoriety at any cost if we lose sight of these two basic truths:

1. Getting a fancy book, film, or record deal does NOT make you a better artist.2. Getting a fancy book, film, or record deal does NOT make you a better person.

In his 2008 TED talk Benjamin Zander, longtime conductor of the Boston Philharmonic Orchestra, says, “I have a definition of success. For me, it’s very simple: it’s not about wealth and fame and power. It’s about how many shining eyes I have around me.” Zander is now in his seventies, and the viewer gets the distinct impression as he bounds down the steps to engage with his audience that he is sharing the wisdom he has accumulated over seven decades of conscious living. He has nothing to prove; he’s only offering the best that is in him, a trove of abundance that goes on accumulating with every passing year.How absurd, then, to think that one’s insight and ability have a sell-by date, when they ought to have a “do not sell before” date! Art isn’t a sporting event; it isn’t a race. No one is standing before you holding up their wrist to tap at their watch. Besides, there’s always going to be someone out there who’s achieved your goal at a younger age, who’s garnered more commercial success or critical accolades and awards. Wunderkind Syndrome will siphon off your creative energy if you give in to it.In the end, of course, no one gives a crap how young or old you are. If you’ve written a good book or snapped a stunning photograph, your work will circulate in the world on its own merits.* * *Edit: Nora Mathews pointed me to this 2008 New Yorker article by Malcolm Gladwell on genius and precocity.* * *This post became a chapter in Life Without Envy: Ego Management for Creative People. 

The Book of My Heart

I have a guest post on Nova's blog this week! It's for her "book of your heart" series. I wrote about my yet-to-be-published children's novel, The Boy from Tomorrow. Check it out.

I really love this post by Camille DeAngelis (@cometparty) about the book of her heart - & why it was worth writing: http://t.co/McuiedUdMG

— Stephanie Burgis (@stephanieburgis) June 9, 2014

A DIY Writing Retreat

 How to create your own weeklong writing retreat:1.  Decide where you want to be. If you are anything like me, you'll find that nature is essential. Fresh air, birdsong, and meandering country lanes are all very conducive to creativity, because you'll have given yourself some extra space to think.  2.  Find a self-catering establishment within your budget. (I recommend Green Lodge, where I stayed in West Cork. And I saved 10% by booking ahead!)3.  Get your basic needs taken care of right away (i.e., do your food shopping for the whole week) so you can focus on the work.  4.  Don't be hard on yourself when "the work" turns out to be something other than what you planned. Just go with it. Trust the process. (I had planned to work my way through a substantial revision of my new novel, but I wound up working on short pieces instead. I finished that revision a week after I got home, still nearly a month and a half in advance of my deadline!)  5.  Stop and notice the world around you. Fill up. Enjoy.  

Tips for Better Fiction, part 2

(Tips for Better Fiction, part 1.) 

Say it without explaining it.

Whether your story is set in another galaxy or the next town over, build the world for us through dialogue and description. As they say, “Show, don't tell!” This goes for your characters too—if Johnny is a mischievous little boy, show him drawing a mustache with blue marker on a framed portrait of his great-aunt Mildred, or picking holes in his sister's stockings on the drying-rack. This requires much more imagination than simply writing “Johnny was a troublemaker,” and your reader will appreciate that.

Find the joy in discipline.

As children we're implicitly taught to see “discipline” as a four-letter word, and yet we couldn't get anything done without it! You don't have to write every day (I don't know any writer who does, although I'd say most of us do take notes on a daily basis), but if you can stick to a somewhat regular writing routine (and stay offline while doing it!), you're that much closer to actually finishing something. Whenever you put in some quality writing time, take a moment to feel good about what you've accomplished.

Let it marinate.

It's amazing how much work you wind up doing on a subconscious level. With several novel projects I've felt very strongly that their time just hadn't come yet, so I put them on the “back burner.” When I've come back to them months or years later, I've found these projects fully “marinated” and ready to go. Treat your story like a hearty vegetable stew: give the ingredients a chance to mingle for maximum satisfaction!

Use your intuition.

Give that vast unconscious mind of yours more credit: underneath all that doubt, you know what you're doing. The trick is to get out of your own way.

Ask yourself, "Who cares?"

Why does this story matter? How is it different from what's already out there? Make your story richly worth your reader's while.

Enjoy the process!

Don't be in a rush to finish your project. This may surprise you, but I've found the greatest enjoyment in the actual writing of my books, as opposed to seeing them on the new fiction table at Barnes & Noble or doing book signings or other publicity. There's no feeling on Earth like hitting that creative flow state, so relish it while it lasts!

Know when to let go.

Sometimes you wind up writing something just for the practice, and that's totally okay.

Find a community.

Take a class, join a writing group, go to readings, make friends with another writer (who appreciates your style, and vice versa) and give each other feedback and support. Sometimes building worlds inside your head can be exhilarating, and other times it is rather lonely—finding a balance between solitary and social will allow you a sustainable and much more satisfying writing practice.

Remember: you don't have anything to prove.

We are all born storytellers, and because each of us has a unique way of looking at the world, we each have the potential to come up with a story no one else could tell. You don't become a writer only when you've seen your work in print; you're a writer the moment you commit to the story you need to tell. 

For more tips and frank talk on the writing life, check out my blog entries tagged “useful writing posts.” I'd love to hear your suggestions for future entries! 

How to Value Creative Work

Recently I asked my friend Elizabeth what she thought about unpaid writing gigs that hold the potential for greater exposure. She looked at me in that wonderfully incredulous, no-nonsense way of hers.

"You do NOT write for free."

"No exceptions," she said.

Of course, I was free to do as I liked, but if I wanted to be taken seriously as a professional artist, I would need to say "thanks but no thanks" unless there were some sort of trade involved. I could write an essay in exchange for a massage, say, or a three-month supply of Fair Trade vegan chocolate. But to write for nothing, no exchange of energy, would be to disrespect my own talents, skills, and (ahem, expensive) education.

But what about start-up websites that may not have any advertising revenue yet with which to pay me? "You can leave those opportunities to people who just write for fun," Elizabeth replied. Part of me was resisting this advice, but I knew she was right.

Around the time we were having this conversation, my friend Kirsty (whom I met at Hawthornden last year, and will soon see at the Edinburgh launch of her debut story collection—for which I'll be doing another Q&A-contest, by the way!) reposted the following screenshot of two Craigslist ads, the second a response to the first: 

Absolutely silly.

"You wouldn't go up to a chiropractor at a cocktail party and say, 'can you just make this quick adjustment for me?'" Elizabeth went on. "And if you did, the chiropractor would say, 'I can take care of that. Just call my office and make an appointment. I charge $150 an hour.'"

Why is it, then, that artists are so often expected to work for free? Is there a pervasive cultural perception that because "anyone" can "make art," that only a very few should make a living at it while the rest of us remain happy to "dabble"?

So tired of this complete lack of professional self-confidence. Seriously. SO tired of it. I just want to kill it with a fork. #stabbity— Sarah/Katherine (@pennyvixen) March 27, 2014

I have been sitting with Elizabeth's advice for the past week or two. I have thought over the times when I have made school appearances, asking and receiving less than I was worth in return for my time, energy, and knowledge, because at the time I felt that speaking for free was simply a gesture of goodwill from a writer who had "made it" with a Random House book deal. I offered a free writing workshop (eight two-hour sessions) a couple of years ago because I wanted teaching experience and figured it would be a great way to make my own opportunity. I don't regret any of those decisions, but I do feel that the time has come when I can no longer say, "sure, I'll come speak to your students for free." I have been very, very nice—so nice and so generous that I have not actually behaved like a professional. I'd committed to two (albeit quick) unpaid writing projects before I had that conversation with Elizabeth, but in future, if there isn't at least a modest honorarium involved (hey, I know school budgets are tight), I simply cannot do it. (I'm excepting the Skillshare because a free exchange of knowledge is the raison d'être—at least in our version of a skillshare. And in that case, I received even more than I gave.)

Whatever the reason artists are so often expected to labor for nothing beyond a quick thanks a lot, the fact is, we writers and musicians and artists need to put a price on the work we're doing. St. Martin's didn't pay me for Bones & All with a pat on the head, now, that's for sure! In any given exchange in the professional arena, one of us has to value my time and talent—and if it isn't me then it certainly won't be you.

What do you think? Am I empowering or limiting myself by writing solely for pay? 

Tips for Better Fiction, part 1

I whipped up this handout for my writing class at the Somerville Skillshare. Part 2 coming next week (or maybe the week after.) 

Be a voracious (and indiscriminate) reader.

Begin by reading everything you can get your hands on, not just the genre you're interested in writing. As you read, pay careful attention to what does or doesn't “work” for you. Let the book and its author teach you how (or how not to) tell a story—for example, to learn about plotting, read a lot of mystery and suspense novels even if you're not interested in writing mystery yourself. Whether or not it's a “good” book, and whether or not you enjoyed it, you are learning your craft.

Play...

Ask yourself, “What if...?” and see where your imagination takes you. To paraphrase Roald Dahl, those who believe in magic will always find it—but that said, don't be too earnest or serious about this process. The magic happens when you're too busy having fun to notice it sneaking up on you.

...And enjoy the balance between play and work.

A writer is always working, and never working. You get to live inside this neat little paradox!

Observe.

If you can stop and notice the vivid details all around you, your descriptive writing will grow crisper and more evocative in kind. (For instance, lately I have noticed a person outside the State House wearing a teddy bear costume and playing a keytar. There's no way I'd settle on “street musician” when he or she has given me that much to work with.) Which leads me to my next point:

Keep your pen and journal (or at least a piece of scratch paper) with you at all times.

You never know when you'll see something strange or overhear a priceless piece of dialogue you can build a story around. Even if you're just going to the bathroom, something cool might spontaneously occur to you while you're in there!

Experiment with work habits, styles, and techniques to figure out what works best for you.

It's always fun to read about what works for writers you admire, but there's no sense adopting someone else's process or “rituals” hoping for the same success. Also keep in mind that your habits and pet rituals will probably evolve over time, or vary from one project to the next.

Cultivate a sense of urgency.

Fall in love with your story, especially if it's a novel. Give your project the very best that's in you. Don't worry, there'll be more where that came from! And on that note:

Take time to “refill the well.”

When you're “stuck” or just in between projects, get away from your desk and reconnect with whatever gets you excited about life. Go to an art museum, see a play, read up on a topic that intrigues you, or meet up for coffee with a friend you haven't seen in awhile. I guarantee you that somewhere, sometime—as long as you're not looking for it!—your next great idea will tap you on the shoulder.

Invest in your characters.

If your protagonist isn't as real to you as your own best friend, he won't feel real to your reader either. Like a real-life friend, your protagonist should have a personality abundant in both virtues and flaws—but even if he's deeply flawed, make sure we still care about him. 

For more tips and frank talk on the writing life, check out my blog entries tagged “useful writing posts." I'd love to hear your suggestions for future entries! 

Three Days in Providence

Last week Elizabeth and I tucked ourselves away and, fridge stocked, settled into making some serious headway on our novels. I'm only just starting mine, but Elizabeth was finishing hers--a HUGE accomplishment. (I am so proud of her!)

1. identify the essential.2. eliminate the rest.-- dana theloverfly ☥ (@theloverfly) August 8, 2013

But first, a trip to the beach with Henry and Daisy. So glad we did, because it turned out to be the only sunny day of my visit!One is happier and more productive when one is eating (and drinking) healthy delicious things. (Remember what Virginia said?) In the morning Elizabeth made us the most gorgeous fresh juices.It's funny, you'd think that since I already had a complete outline and 10,000 words (from the spring of 2011) under my belt, I would be feeling totally confident and ready to work. Ha! The truth is, you feel these doubts whether you're embarking on your first novel or your sixth--although if it's a subsequent novel you can at least make the logical argument to yourself that "you've done it before, so you can do it again."

From the Sequester. Taken by Camille. Do note the high tech writing equipment including pink beach... http://t.co/uARzW68eGy-- squam (@squamlove) August 9, 2013

And of course, it makes all the difference to have a friend and fellow writer working in the next room; you aren't going to fritter away any time on the internet when you know SHE is working! I highly, highly recommend setting yourself up in a "sequester" situation with a writing partner. Even if you can't go away (to a B&B, or housesitting, or wherever), you can still turn off your cellphone, stock the fridge, unplug the WiFi and get down to business.

Writing in bed, rain pattering, delicious cool breeze through the windows. This retreat with @squamlove has been so nourishing & productive!-- Camille DeAngelis (@comet_party) August 9, 2013

FAQ: Choosing a POV

QUESTION: How do you decide on which point of view to use in a story?Choosing a point of view is as basic a decision as choosing the sex of your protagonist—perhaps even more so! In my experience, there is one right answer, at which you will arrive relatively early on in the process; and in the meantime, you might enjoy writing a single scene from multiple points of view and comparing their effectiveness.Ask yourself, which point of view best serves the shape of this story? If there are several primary characters and we need to get into the minds of each of them, a traditional first-person narrative isn't going to work. If, on the other hand, the voice of your hero or heroine is particularly crucial—if the story simply can't fulfill its potential without it—then first person is pretty much a no brainer.My first published novel, Mary Modern, has two female protagonists along with two male leads and a small host of important minor characters. I suppose I could have let each character have his or her say—as in novels like Hillary Jordan's Mudbound, Tracy Chevalier's Falling Angels, or Daniel Wallace's Mr. Sebastian and the Negro Magician—but given that the family home in Mary Modern became something of a character in and of itself, it felt right to use a third-person omniscient point of view...almost as if the house itself were doing the narrating.Third-person narration can, of course, be limited or omniscient, and a limited third-person perspective might feel a bit like first person even though the narration is technically happening outside the protagonist's head. If you want to offer your readers a more objective view of what's going on, but don't need access to other characters' heads, then third-person limited is certainly an option. Frankly—and this is a matter of personal taste—I find omniscient third-person narration a whole lot more fun, probably because I can "play God" within the fictional universe I'm creating. Then again, the claustrophobic potential within a limited third-person perspective might be just what you're looking to achieve.Petty Magic is the "memoir and confession" of a 150-year-old witch, so it had to be written in the first person. The way Eve looks at the world is so unique and fun that had I not allowed her to tell her own story, much of her verve would have been lost, or at least watered down. It's like listening (over your favorite drink, in a cozy corner booth) to a juicy, almost impossible-to-believe anecdote from the person who experienced it, as opposed to just reading the story secondhand over the internet. (This is why young adult novels are generally written in the first-person present tense; to a teenager, everything often feels like it's happening all at once, and it's completely emotionally overwhelming, and the breathless pacing of the first-person present can capture this feeling most effectively.)Aside from voice, the other consideration of first-person narration is that your character's perspective is incomplete by definition. Every narrator is unreliable to a certain extent! As you write, you must leave space for a more objective truth, and decide to what extent your protagonist becomes aware of his or her "blind spots" and emotional limitations as the story progresses. Between her present-day romantic shenanigans and recounting her dangerous adventures of sixty years before, Eve is having so much fun that when the time comes for her rude awakening, she's completely unprepared for it. (At one point she remarks that the word "epiphany" feels like a shard of glass in her mouth.) Eventually Eve does choose to learn from her mistakes, though, and therein lies the payoff for both reader and protagonist.Another thing to consider is that even if you do decide on first-person narration, your narrator might not be the central character, as in The Great Gatsby. In this case, the narrator might have a more reliable view of the protagonist's motives and identity—or he might not.So far I haven't felt much of a desire to experiment with point of view. Second-person narration would be difficult to execute in a way that felt even remotely organic; and, more to the point, I have not yet come up with a story idea best served by second-person narration. Other writers have experimented with point of view quite effectively, as in Joshua Ferris's And Then We Came to the End. I haven't read it, but the critical consensus is that he absolutely pulled off the narration in the first-person plural.Every so often novelists will play it both ways—Diana Gabaldon employs both the first person and third-person omniscient in the thoroughly awesome Outlander series, for instance—but unless you are writing something similarly epic in scope, you probably won't be able to justify this sort of "cheating."The choice of perspective is just as intuitive as the rest of the decisions you'll make in the telling of your story. Each point of view offers its own potential, and if you keep plumbing those possibilities as you write, you'll be able to create a narrative that is more complex, and therefore more satisfying, for your reader.

FAQ: Switching Sexes

...It remains obvious, even in the writing of Proust, that a man is terribly hampered and partial in his knowledge of women, as a woman in her knowledge of men.

--Virginia Woolf, A Room of One's Own

 Here's a question posed by one of the boys at St. Lawrence: I noticed that the protagonists of both your novels are female. Are you ever going to write a story from a male perspective?One of the best writing compliments I ever received arrived by text message. I still have it saved on my phone nearly six years later.

Hi camille! I'm about 150 pages in & i really like your book! The attention to detail often leads to moments of sublimity in the prose, & your treatment of & insight into the male psyche is surprisingly accurate!! I'm reading every chance i get...

The friend who sent it is, of course, a man—and to be perfectly honest with you, I'm not sure how I pulled it off.Then again, if we define convincing literary "sex switching" in terms of the reader being so engrossed in the story as to forget the sex of the person who wrote it, then maybe I wasn't as successful as my friend would have me think. There's no denying that men and women differ in fundamental ways—physically, biochemically, et cetera.I thought it would be fun to offer a couple examples of sex switching in literary fiction—one I find successful, one not—and see if anyone else can think of authors who can get inside the minds of the opposite sex particularly well.The first example is a passage chosen at random from Hillary Jordan's Mudbound:

The war broke my brother—in his head, where no one could see it. Never mind all his clever banter, his flirting with Laura and the girls. I could tell he wasn't right the second I saw him. He was thin and jittery, and his eyes had a haunted look I recognized from my own time in the Army. I knew too well what kind of sights they were seeing when he shut them at night.

Jamie was thin-skinned to begin with, had been all his life. He was always looking for praise, then getting his feelings hurt when he didn't get it, or enough of it. And he never knew his own worth, not in his guts where a man needs to know it. Our father was to blame for that. He was always whittling away at Jamie, trying to make him smaller...

It was only after I'd finished Mudbound that I thought, wow, Hillary Jordan knows how to get into the mind of a man. I suppose I should get a man's opinion on this, but I was convinced anyway!Now here's an example of sex switching I found distracting:

Changing the subject abruptly, Ines remarked: There are some really good-looking men. Yes, there are some I find very attractive. There are some I find extremely attractive. Well, me too, if we're going to extremes. But, you know, they can turn out to be bastards. Yeah, of course; that's always happening on TV. But that's fake. Didn't you just say...? No, what I'm saying is they can be bastards. Like they can be anything, Ines added. Oh, OK, all right. But the really important thing, in love, is to find a real man. Not the real men again! exclaimed Patri. That's what mom's always telling me. Well she knows what she's talking about, I promise you. How does she know? Ines shrugged her shoulders...

That's from César Aira's Ghosts. Maybe it's just the company I run in, but I don't know any women who talk about men this way; perhaps I'm discounting cultural differences, but I'm not convinced. At any rate, the whole time I was reading this passage I was acutely conscious of the author's sex. As I said, if he'd actually nailed the tenor of this conversation between a teenage girl and her "hip" young aunt, I wouldn't be thinking of the fact that a woman did not write it. (The novel's complete lack of paragraphs and quotation marks drives me batty too, but that's for a different blog post.)In A Room of One's Own, Virginia Woolf recants her earlier assertion (see epigraph) that writers of both sexes are hindered by the utter inaccessibility of one half of the human experience.

...I went on amateurishly to sketch a plan of the soul so that in each of us two powers preside, one male, one female; and in the man's brain, the man predominates over the woman, and in the woman's brain, the woman predominates over the man. The normal and comfortable state of being is that when the two live in harmony together, spiritually co-operating. If one is a man, still the woman part of the brain must have effect; and a woman also must have intercourse with the man in her. Coleridge perhaps meant this when he said that a great mind is androgynous...

I like the concept of an "androgynous mind." Maybe this matter of writing men (or women) convincingly isn't simply a question of having a big enough imagination—if we can actually tap into a sort of Jungian reservoir of human experience, and funnel that knowledge into an act of creative empathy.And if that sounds like new-age nonsense, is writing a man as a woman all that different from writing about a woman as a woman? You're already seeing through someone else's eyes—someone whose experience differs from yours, even though you made the person up yourself.But to answer the student's question: yes, I am very interested in writing a novel from a male perspective, and excited for the challenge. In 2007 I started what I hoped would be a novel narrated by a man, but I wound up shelving it when Seanan remarked that the first chapter had the pacing of a shorter story. I haven't given up on that one, but in the meantime my second novel for St. Martin's, Immaculate Heart, is narrated by a male journalist. Working on this story is a whole new kind of fun.This was an excellent question, and I'd love to get some input from other readers and writers (especially since I didn't offer a positive example from a male author). Writers, how comfortable do you feel writing from a male point of view as a woman, or vice versa? Readers, what are some of your favorite examples of male writers who've nailed the inner workings of a female character, and vice versa?

@sarahpmiller Thanks for all the great examples/recs! Interesting to me that you're also coming up with more female than male writers...-- Camille DeAngelis (@comet_party) July 10, 2013

@comet_party I really don't know. I'd be interested to hear what men think about that.-- Sarah P. Miller (@SarahPMiller) July 11, 2013

A Novel is a Jigsaw Puzzle

I just had the juiciest conversation with a really smart new friend, who was nice enough to let me pick his brain over lunch. Like I said, this new novel has been marinating for a long time, but now that it's officially under contract everything seems to be drawing together in an eerily deliberate way. I think, "I need to know X because that's what my character cares about," and a few days later there it is, on the shelf at the library or on the lips of a friend or stranger. It might be the detail I need, or the way to the detail, but in either case I get really, really excited and can't wait to dig in. (Two and a half glasses of iced coffee enhance the effect, no doubt. I'll probably be up 'til four again.)

Iced coffee for lunch + incredibly good news tonight = wide awake at 3:30am. Early morning yoga class = not happening.— Camille DeAngelis (@PettyMagic) May 21, 2013

As I said to my friend, writing a novel is like sitting down to work on a 10,000-piece jigsaw puzzle when there are only half that many pieces in the box. Those other five thousand pieces I have to collect in my travels, or in "chance" conversations like the one I had today. The trick is to recognize a piece when I see it, which of course is why I always keep my journal handy.There's really not much of a "trick," though, come to think of it. It's usually more of a PING, loud and unmistakable. That's my intuition at work.In the future I want to write more (and more consistently) about the mysteries of the creative process (and, like I said, how veganism has allowed me to enjoy that process much more fully). The nuts-and-bolts topics too, of course—I still have a list of FAQs from my time at St. Lawrence back in October 2011 to get through! The first two are about choosing a point of view and switching sexes (i.e., a male writer writing a female narrator or vice versa), and I'm hoping to have those entries finished and posted in the next couple of weeks. Anything else you'd like me to write about here, do please tweet to me or leave a Facebook comment. (I'll be able to switch the blog comments back on once my new website goes up later on this summer.)