True Words

mug shotAnne Lamott said something like if people didn’t want to end up being made into bad characters in her books, they should have behaved better. I always thought that was kind of funny, not that I’d ever use pen as sword.

But recently I was talking with a writer friend and realized I’d totally done it subconsciously. I’d killed off this person (and not in a very nice way, I might add) that had definitely annoyed me. I felt bad. What struck me most was that I totally missed it.

That’s just part of the fun of fiction, I guess. How often do you read a book and wonder if the author knows what she is revealing about herself by being quite possibly unaware of that. Writers are brave people that way. They know that they reveal their truest essence in ways they may not see, yet they do it anyway.

This is true even in non-fiction. I’m working on a couple non-fiction projects and am noticing that staying neutral is a challenge. I wouldn’t have thought that. Fact is fact. Yet, we all have a filter of some sort and even interpreting fact moves through it. Movie critics are probably the best example of this. Their reviews feel very much apart of their core personality to me.

There’s only one answer. Be nice to the writers.

I Heart My Agent

rachael2

Last week, I finally had a chance to breathe from a whirlwind summer I hadn’t forecasted. (This summer was going to be the relaxing one, I told myself last May. Ha! Joke’s on you @jamieweil the Universe tweeted back in July.)

In that minute, I thought, “Hey. What happened to my manuscript? I sent it to Rachael (that darling under the umbrella) after she sent it to me and I fixed it and she said good and then I sent it back and…where is it again?”

I know the power of thoughts. I try to interrupt those sessions that take place around the conference table in my mind. I fail. Anne Lamott writes about it in Bird by Bird. It’s that part of every writer that likes to have multiple discussions in their head, usually flavored with self-doubt.

Immediately, I did that thing. Crap. She hates it. She threw it away. In the spam folder. Then, my cheerleader voice. Don’t be ridiculous. She loved it. She said you brought it up to a whole new level before. Why would she suddenly hate it? Then, my zen buddhist. All things in perfect time. Then, my hysteria voice, which may or may not be in menopause. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA. (No place else can you get away with that many “thens.” Let’s hear it for blogging.)

I sent her a note, “Not to bug. Just checking on the timeline…” More word ingredients. Same flavor.

This is why I love her. “NO–BUG! I’m so insanely busy…there’s no better time to be an advocate for yourself. If I don’t contact you with a list by next Wednesday, BUG! Please!”

VOICES in unison: See. We told you. (What? Hunh?)

Just knowing I’m not the only one whirling around like the Tasmanian Devil relaxes me. The candor, the kindness–knowing someone else is in it with me and in a bunch of other places at the same time relaxes me somehow and let’s the zen buddhist voice sound through: all in perfect time.

Thanks, Rachael Dugas, for being in it.

Best Writing Advice Ever

rabbitE.L. Doctorow said once 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.”

Anne Lamott followed that up with, “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 on writing, or life, I have ever heard.”

But if it were this simple, why do we have the constant debate about outlining vs. following the story? Every time I turn around someone is blogging about one or the other as the answer to the holy writing trinity. Here’s the answer.

There’s no one answer.

Writing is so not about absolutes–and that’s the hard part. If there was one formula, one way, every MFA program across the country would be teaching it. Second grade teachers wouldn’t puzzle over, “How the hell are we going to teach these kids to write? I don’t even know if I know how to write?” (We actually had those conversations when I was teaching at one of the top elementary schools in the country and it’s not like we weren’t armed with masters degrees and curriculum.)

We get through school with some teachers (and later editors and agents) telling us we’re amazing and some telling us we suck eggs and we ought to just hang it up. (They usually euphemize.) It’s a very subjective medium. Just join writers (critics, librarians, parents) in a discussion of published books they think are pure genius or crap and you’ll generally get a divided room.

So what’s a new writer to do when writing a first novel? On the first draft of my first novel I followed the advice of Lin Oliver, co-founder of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators. The reason I did that was that I’d happened upon her workshop as my first ever and she talked about plot structure that day. She’d come from Hollywood (television) and had learned the 3 Act structure and that’s how she did it. A short time later I met the late Blake Snyder at Book Expo America. He was a third generation screenplay writer and author of Save the Cat. What a great guy. I really liked him. He was funny, nice, and he pitched random people at Starbucks on his ideas.

It was settled. I’d outline. I bought poster board and colored sticky notes. I stuck packets everywhere for my brilliant ideas. Scenes were all over my house in errant places for months. And in the end, I rewrote it all in the first rewrite and it didn’t represent the outline at all. Sigh.

When mentor and friend, and oh–Edgar winning YA novelist–Charlie Price told me how he wrote, I decided to try that. This is the E.L. Doctorow School of Writing. Charlie would say, “Just peer in the window at what’s happening in this scene.” I loved that! And, as an only child who used to plant recorders behind the couch at my parent’s cocktail parties starting at age 6, I had that voyeuristic streak anyway. It was a natural progression. If I just listened to my characters, they’d tell me what was happening.

That’s the approach I’m taking on my current novel. I have the outline in my head, of course, but I’m trusting the story. No poster board or sticky note scenes. It’s definitely more fun even if, as outline afficionados would have you believe, it takes me more time on the flip.

Follow your intuition and know this for sure–in writing, as in life, we are here to explore a diverse buffet of options. It’s how we grow. It’s how we discover. It’s how we create.

The First Draft

biggesteraser“Shitty first drafts.” Anne Lamott says everybody has them. They’re messy.

I like things in neat boxes, so messy is hard for me. Recovering perfectionist type. But letting the story pour out in the first draft feels more fair somehow.

Because of that, I force myself into that place. I let myself over explain, tell far more details than (almost did “then”) anyone cares to know. I do draw a line in the sand on some things–bathroom trips. My characters never go to the bathroom–even in a first draft.

It’s all I can do to power through a whole draft and not go back and edit as I go. (That’s the picture here in case you couldn’t tell–the world’s largest eraser in New York compliments of my friend, Kevin. Thanks, Vin.) Sometimes, I cave. I justify to myself that I can only build accurately forward if I fix the foundation. What kind of house stands on sand, I ask!

Really, if I’m being honest, I just don’t like to see my writing looking messy.

Blogging has helped here, though. You’re getting first drafts. Shocked? No, I didn’t think so.  I don’t pour over each detail, give it the proverbial sit in the drawer test and go back with new eyes. Nope. Misspellings, wrong words, word mishegoss when I’m not looking–all of it pours forth to the universe each and every Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday. (Thanks for tolerating that, by the way.)

In fact, sometimes when a blog comes out, I’ll read it just to see how it looks in my email. It may have been a few days since I wrote it (yeah, I’m one of those autoresponder kids). When I read an awkward sentence that I didn’t even know I had the ability to construe, or substitute “our” for “are,” a mistake my second graders even avoided in their writings, I think, “Really? Really!” About an hour later, my husband yells downstairs, “There’s a mistake in your blog.” (He’s my after-the-fact editor.)

It’s hard not to feel stupid. Like maybe the writing police should come and suspend my writing license or something. And then I counter (in my imaginary conversation with myself), “No way! I’m a recovering perfectionist. It’s part of the writing process.” Stuff. Like. That.

Join me. Let the story pour out. Erasers be damned! Embrace the shitty first draft.