Category Archives: creative writing

Six Years in Review

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So… It’s done.

The book is done.

Or manuscript, rather. I suppose I’m not supposed to call it a book, or a novel yet. But, I mean, that’s what it is to me. It’s my novel. And I’ve finished it. Finally.

3The culmination of six years of work and research and late nights and early mornings and missed meals and anxiety and thrills and fears is sitting here on my computer in 95,732 words. Every one of them hand picked, carefully (or perhaps not) chosen by me in moments of inspiration or frustration or dogged determination. It feels pretty good.

I didn’t have that “ah-ha!” satisfactory moment that I had hoped for when I finished. I actually carried on writing well past 100,000 words, but then realised the story I was telling would take much, much longer than one book. So it’s now a trilogy. But that final, “The End” moment was denied me, the realisation that I was finished dawning slowly on me about a week after I’d written that part of the book. Which is kind of disappointing, but I’m still monumentally pleased with myself.

There were many, many times when I’d considered putting the book down, not finishing it, pursuing something else. But I think I would always have regretted not trying harder, not following through and completing that thing that I’d started so many years ago. I hate, hate, hate, the phrase “giving birth” that authors use to describe their books. I can’t stand it, it makes me mind-retch. But I feel like I would have been incomplete without creating this, and though it doesn’t feel anything like a child–another term I hear authors use to describe their works–it certainly is mine, and I’m very proud of it.

Terrified of it, to be sure. But proud also.

So what’s next? Well, I’ve sent the thing out to every author I know personally and, although no one has finished it yet, I’ve gotten great reviews so far. Honestly, I was incredibly apprehensive as I waited to start hearing back. I expected them to say it was no good, badly written, presumptuous, pretentious, or–worst of all–boring. 

But that’s not the case! So far it’s gotten stellar feedback. Which, is, you know. Just fucking fantastic.

So that’s where I am. Waiting for someone to finish the monster and then let me know how they feel about the ending, which is what I’m really worried about. Another concern is that the entire 95,000 words–which translates to roughly 360 standard book pages–takes place over the course of a single day. That wasn’t entirely intentional.

I mean, it’s the prelude to something gigantic, the catalyst that sets off the rest of the story, but, I mean… damn! One day. Mostly my penchant for going into minutia and highly detailed descriptions of place and setting and history is responsible for that. I want to make sure that the world is clear to the reader, and, yeah. I dunno. Maybe that’s too much. So far no one has complained that it’s boring or wordy or too heavy, so… fingers crossed.

Anyways, once I get some solid feedback I’m going to edit it and start writing query letters and sending it out. And then this little ship I’ve built will set sail on the great ocean of the unknown, it’s little sails desperately clinging to every little breeze to keep it moving forward.

Here’s hoping for some strong wind.

It’s Been A Long Road

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So here I am, stuck in the middle of a road that runs all directions at once. I’m nearly done with my novel, and the prospect of finishing is looming large above an inescapable horizon. I’ve learned a lot about writing in the last month, and a lot about what motivates me and inspires me. There’s a big difference between what you love to write, and what you want to write.

tumblr_lrsfuv118r1r1xia1My book, for example, is a sci-fi book. It’s fun, it’s interesting, and it takes all the imagination I have to keep it going and imbue it with life and make it real. But I’m also becoming more aware that fantasy, sci-fi, these are things that, try as we might to fight reality, don’t exist. And because of this, there will always be a disconnect with the reader. A part of them that will be unable to connect with what you’re writing. Because it’s never happened to them. It’s never happened to anybody. They don’t understand it.

We do understand our own lives though. Or at least, we’re familiar with how they work and what happens and our own mistakes and screw ups and successes and triumphs and heartbreaks. That is all well and good, we know that stuff. And the more I realise this, the more it seems like that’s the kind of story I should be writing. Because I feel it, inside, that there is this truth behind the curtain of daily living that wants to be captured.

Hemingway captured it, for sure. I’m reading Bukowski right now, he got it too. Bukowski is like if Hemingway had written smut. It’s dark, it’s dirty, it’s gritty. I don’t honestly know if I like it, but it’s fascinating, and it’s real. That’s the kind of story I want to write. Something that grabs you by the balls and says no, this is what it’s about, go ahead and try and deny me but I’ll be here whether you like it or not.

Anyways. I’m writing, I’m reading, and living and learning. I’ve started going sailing recently. It’s fun.

all we wanna do is share

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isn’t that the point? As writers, singers, actors, musicians—all we wanna do is share what we feel, what’s going on in our heads, what we feel that can’t be expressed in any other way.

I was just watching Smash, and this girl got up and started singing in the middle of this crowded room at a party. Everyone gathered around and was listening and nodding their heads. Obviously this is just a show, and they’re actors, but that’s not the point.

p159-1-jpgThey’re doing that because that’s what real people would do. At least, that’s what I’d do. When I see someone expressing that ineffable thing inside, a street artist making a painting, a musician in a crowded subway, just someone putting themselves out there and exposing that raw, tingling nerve that vibrates to that unknown chord of humanity that we all share.

It’s something magical, and it’s something we all have, and that’s what so wonderful. I love that. I love sharing that. I love feeling it. What an incredible gift we have, to be able to share that feeling, or even just a tiny piece of it, with others. To make others hear that singing that only we hear, to see the colours that only we see, to live in the world that only we know about.

Hold Fast, Young Fellows

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Last day of January! That’s exciting, I think. I’ve become resolute in my determination to maintain better writing habits, and so far it’s been paying off. There’s seldom enough time in the day to do all the nothing I’d like to do, but mornings I wake up earlier and work on this site, five days a week, and evenings after work is novel writing time. The novel is a beast, but it’s always worse imagining working on it than it is actually working on it.

There’s something dreadful about sitting down in the chair and contemplating opening up that word document, scrolling down and having a staring contest with that blinking icon. What will the first word today be?

Well, there’s a trick I’ve found, and that’s going back and doing a little editing of the work you did yesterday. That way you’ve already started writing by the time you start writing. You’re already warmed up and you’ve found your place again. It seems to work pretty well.

I was reading an article about the daily routines of famous writers. You can find it here. It’s definitely worth looking at. Some people have some pretty strange habits, such as Jack Kerouac doing bizarre yoga positions before he wrote, or Hemingway‘s famous habit of standing up while he writes.

Yet there was a common theme among all of them that I found reassuring. The most important habit to cultivate as a writer is to write. Write first, last, and foremost. Nothing else is more important. You must write, and you must continue to write until you are done. Then you should probably keep writing some more.

Friends, family, dates, games, movies, social outings, lunch with colleagues—they must all take a back seat to your writing. This isn’t to say you must do nothing else besides write. But your writing must not be neglected or postponed for anything. Whether you’re in the mood or not, you must write.

Hemingway in Cuba

Hemingway in Cuba

And it makes sense. If you were a professional in some occupation, and you may well be, you couldn’t call and tell your office you weren’t coming in because you found this awesome new website full of hilarious cats and you want to look at it for a while before you do work (I can’t be the only one for whom this is a problem). You wouldn’t tell them you’re going on a date with your girlfriend this afternoon so you won’t be able to make that deadline. No, work comes first.

I’m not sure why this is such a difficult task for us to grasp as writers. Or at least, it is for me. Deadlines as a self-motivated writer are such soft, fuzzy things. I’m reminded of Jack Sparrow, I like to set deadlines, I like to wave at them as they pass by.

In any case, it’s comforting knowing what you need to do to accomplish something. Writing a book is hard, extremely hard. But hearing all the best writers that have ever been say the same thing, well, you start to get an idea of what needs to be done. I leave you with a wonderful quote from Hemingway, and I feel like it sums up the romance, charm, and hard work necessary to be successful as a writer.

When I am working on a book or a story I write every morning as soon after first light as possible. There is no one to disturb you and it is cool or cold and you come to your work and warm as you write. You read what you have written and, as you always stop when you know what is going to happen next, you go on from there. You write until you come to a place where you still have your juice and know what will happen next and you stop and try to live through until the next day when you hit it again. You have started at six in the morning, say, and may go on until noon or be through before that. When you stop you are as empty, and at the same time never empty but filling, as when you have made love to someone you love. Nothing can hurt you, nothing can happen, nothing means anything until the next day when you do it again. It is the wait until the next day that is hard to get through.

 

 

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art is everywhere

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I think as artists we see the world differently. I mean, this isn’t a revelation. It’s well established. But there’s something to it that goes unnoticed by almost everyone as they go about their daily lives. I noticed it the other day when I was visiting family.

My grandfather has always been an avid sports enthusiast. Whenever there’s a Lakers game he is glued to the television, muttering and growling or haranguing the antics of the little men as they prance about their baskets.

I don’t notice this though. I notice the jerseys. Someone designed those. Who? I notice the team logos painted on the court. Some artist, somewhere, was commissioned to draw them and present them before a committee for approval. Who did that? When the camera pans over to the commentators in their boxes, gathered around a sleek, semi-circular desk, I don’t hear them talking about the half-court field goal, I notice the rotating ESPN sports logo in the centre of the desk.

beautiful-glass-rain1Someone designed that, programmed it, thought about how it would look when it was spinning, as the letters pop up individually. Who? Who did that? Who thought up and created the flashing lights and arches that make up the stage where the commentators sit? Who wrote and composed the music?

These are just the background, the setting, for the events taking place there. But I am  mesmerised by the flashing lights and the pageantry of the performances. Imagine watching a game without them. There would be no music, no stage, no jerseys, no spinning logos or designs, it would be an empty, hollow performance.

The same applies to our daily lives, every day on the street. The buildings around us, the taxi logos, the cars, our clothes, everything is a parade of artistry. Where would we be without it? We aren’t just living in our world, we’re trying to colour it.

As humans, we desperately need to express this inexpressible feeling we are driven by, consumed by, compelled by, even tormented by. We seek to take the ordinary and make it extraordinary. And I start to wonder about my own place in all of this. Where will my impact fall? Where and how will I make my presence known? Where, in all of this, is my art?

One Lego at a Time

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So there’s this book called “Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life,” by Anne Lamott, and it’s fantastic. I highly recommend picking it up, if only for the anecdotal stories. Anne is a brilliant writer with a calm, engaging style that makes her advice all the more resonant. She’s someone who “gets” what being a writer is all about. And why shouldn’t she? As I was reading it last night, I kept nodding thinking yes, yes, this is exactly what it’s like.

“…as the panic mounts and the jungle drums begin beating and I realize that the well has run dry and that my future is behind me and I’m going to have to get a job only I’m completely unemployable…”

I don’t think you can really say you’re a writer unless you sit there night after night and wonder what you’re doing with your life, where your degree has gone, and how you’re going to pay the bills. If there isn’t some anxiety building in the back of your mind as to whether or not you’re going to make it and oh-my-god-what-will-the-world-think-of-me, you simply aren’t putting your heart into it.

490d9dfb26a34e8914d017dc7835084e-d5r4gsgI think we’ve all been there. It’s terrifying, but that gives us fuel. At least, it does for me. I reminds me that the only thing that can pull me through is myself, and I know I’ve got my back. Anne suggests that all you have to do is write enough to fill one little picture frame.

When you sit down to write, all you have to do is tell enough to describe what you can see inside that little picture frame. Just that much, that’s all. So it’s not insurmountable, you aren’t climbing Everest, you’re just going for a walk. You’re stretching your legs, seeing what the world looks like today. It’s not scary, it’s exciting. And yeah, it’s often a matter of viewpoint, you can definitely psych yourself out and into a place where you can’t write. So relax.

“E. L. Doctorow once said that ‘writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.’ You don’t have to see where you’re going, you don’t have to see your des­tination or everything you will pass along the way. You just have to see two or three feet ahead of you. This is right up there with the best advice about writing, or life, I have ever heard.”

And I have to agree. Which is difficult when you’re writing an epic space opera novel, but it’s still true. It builds up piece by piece, bit by bit, until you’re there. It’s the old brick by brick analogy. When I was a kid, I loved to play with Legos. I remember one day they were scattered all over my room from a great afternoon of castle building, and my mom told me it was time to go and I had to clean up. I looked around the room and was completely overwhelmed. How could I possibly clean up all of those Legos? I tried picking them up one at a time and putting them into the bucket, and I realised it would take me forever.

My mom laughed and showed me how to start in sections and scoop the Legos up into big piles, then dump them into the bucket that way. I was done in no time, and it changed how I approached room cleaning and Legos and life forever. Don’t sweat the small stuff with your writing. It’ll come together, I promise. Just put the words down on the page, let it flow, and you can clean up the mess later. It’s far easier to let it flow than it is to tug it forcefully out of yourself, striving for that right word or phrase. That’ll come later. Just get the ideas out and down and move on.  Don’t be afraid to write badly, you’ll know the difference afterwards far better than you will in the heat of the creative moment.

In any case, I suppose all this is just a little pep talk for myself, really. Keep going, keep it up, and don’t worry what it’s all mounting towards. If you put in the effort, the time, and your heart is in it, you’ll succeed. And why wouldn’t your heart be in it? You’re writing because you want to, right? No one’s making you. So have no fear. Your story will be told, even if you have to drive all night through the fog with only a few feet of visibility and no idea where you’re going. You’ll get there.

The Next Post

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I’m having a heck of a time getting back into the swing of novel writing. I’ve done alright getting back into this site, but writing on here is so much easier than novel writing, for obvious reasons. There’s no plot here. I can say whatever comes to mind, and generally it turns out ok.

There are so many distractions to being productive however. If I take a look at the environments of some of my favourite authors, I’m embarrassed by how comfortably I live and how easy writing a novel these days should be. There was a famous story by Jack London called “Martin Eden“, which, if you haven’t read, go and do that right now. It’s phenomenal, and if it doesn’t motivate you to work harder, I don’t know what will.

Jack London

Jack London

In the story however, there’s this young guy who decides he wants to be an author. He works his ass off, doing jobs I wouldn’t wish on my enemies for practically pennies a day so he can afford to live in a cramped studio above a laundromat sleeping four hours a day and writing and reading the other twenty.

He works for six months at a time, going out to sea to be a deckhand on a sailing ship, or working for a hotel in the laundry room cleaning the linens of the guests, which he compares to working in hell. He saves up, then lives on the savings and writes all day, going into huge debt just renting a typewriter so he can work.

He eventually makes it after several years, but that’s not the point. When I consider what he would do if he were in my situation—with the ability to write on a computer, in a comfortable room, and with tons of free time, I feel pretty guilty that I haven’t done more by this point. I suppose we’re all victims of our day and age and upbringing, but I’d like to think I’m capable of working just as hard as Martin Eden.

The culprits are all around us, and people have been harping on them for years. TV, internet, phones, etc. The trick is figuring out a way to do work in spite of these things. There’s something called the “Pomodoro Technique” I recently learned of, and it’s actually quite simple. It involves a regular old kitchen timer and some self motivation. Turn the timer to 25 minutes, and do your work during that time. 25 minutes, that’s all. Then you get a five minute break, start again. If you get interrupted with a phone call or a friend or your cat you have to start over.

I haven’t tried it yet, but I think I’ll start tonight. I’d really like to say with confidence that I’m working on this book as hard as I can, and if I can find a trick or two to make that happen, all the better.

Work’s a Beach

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“The way to be happy is to find something that requires the kind of perfection that’s impossible to achieve and spend the rest of your life trying to achieve it.” ~ Winston Churchill

I like beginning these with quotes. I love quotes. They are brilliant ideas from brilliant people captured in easily digestible little nuggets.

And who better to quote than Winston Churchill? I really like message here, and it’s particularly meaningful to artists who must create something, because that creation often falls short of our vision.

a_diamond_in_the_rough_by_erezmarom-d4yl4nhWhen I’m writing, there’s always the nagging feeling that I’ve got the gist of what I’m trying to say, but the full magnitude is always just out of reach. I suppose if I nailed it every time, there’d be nothing to continue to strive towards, and that would make the whole enterprise rather dull. It’s the chase, as always, that keeps us coming back for more.

But don’t let that stop you from trying. Perfectionism can be a double edged sword, and if you let the fear of failure prevent you from succeeding, you’ll never know the joy of seeing your vision realised. It’s healthy to strive for that perfect ideal, but never let that get in the way of your accomplishments. It’s something I must frequently remind myself of, I’m seldom content with what I’ve created at the time. But if I step away from the keyboard and take some time to reflect, what I’ve created usually surprises me.

Give yourself a chance to breathe, and you’ll probably discover that your work takes a life of its own. It may not be what you had envisioned, but that random growth and chance gives your work an unexpected life and vitality. Learn to celebrate this, not fight it, and you can still strive for that perfection that drives your passion without hindering your own work.

The happiness we find in creating will never dim, and it’s important to remember that this is why we create, not to be perfect, but because bringing something out of our minds and into the world is a joyous process. Never let critics, or worse, your own idealism, stop you from unleashing yourself upon your work.

Go, Create, Write

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“There’s a natural human tendency to lean on and repeat that which we do well. This is okay if we’re cranking out donuts or widgets. But as self-anointed creative artists, our daily joy and progress rest on our ability to jump beyond our safety. Look steadily and imaginatively at the blah in front of you. Given time and contemplation, your new level will stealthily appear. When “So what?” strikes, we ask ourselves “What now?” ~ Robert Genn 

Robert Genn strikes again. In this post he talks about how to overcome the “so what?” factor that plagues so many writers, including myself.

Hemingway at Pamplona, contemplating his passion

Hemingway at Pamplona, contemplating his passion

Often I get the feeling that what I’m writing is good, but, so what? Who cares? And it’s a big deal, because if you can’t answer “so what?”, then you’re usually stuck with “why bother?”

But that’s not the point. The “so what” factor isn’t relevant to us as writers. That’s not up to us. Sure, we should be aware of it, but like one of my old heroes Frank Herbert once said, “You don’t write for success. That takes part of your attention away from the writing. If you’re really doing it, that’s all you’re doing: writing.”

And he’s right! You aren’t writing for “so what”, you’re writing because you have to. Hemingway said you just sit down at the typewriter and bleed. That’s what you do. You’re doing this for you, not anyone else. So there is your “so what”, there is your raison d’etre, your meaning of life. Do it for you, because you must, because you love it. If you approach it from a business standpoint, then yeah, “so what” matters a lot more, and that passion and enthusiasm that ought to be filling your work will be cold and lifeless. No one ever read For Whom the Bell Tolls and said, “so what?” It’s passion, as all art must be. If not for passion, then why?

Breathe and write, all else comes second.

 

Art and obsession

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Art and obsession.

Cristian Mihai posted an article about art and obsession. It’s an interesting read, and a paragraph at the end really grabbed my attention.

“I like the idea that the only theme in art is the question, “Who am I?” That all art is  a journey of self-discovery. Artists make art because they want to find out who they really are, and the audience “consumes” that art because they want to know they’re not as alone as they thought. Because they want to find particular truths they wouldn’t have been able to find otherwise.”

It’s a thought I’ve had myself for probably as long as I’ve been writing. Who am I? Does anyone care? But we all want to know, and we all want to share. That’s what pretty much everything is about. Figuring that out, and not being alone.

So let’s share.