I was scrolling through Pinterest this morning, you know, as one does before going to the gym. My Pinterest feed is typically cute animals, writing quotes, and ridiculously in shape people.
One of the things I saw was a screenshot of something off of Tumblr. It was a list of ideas to get out of a writing rut.
Guess what the first one was. Go on. I'll wait.
The very first one was 'kill someone'. At the end, someone had written that these were the best writing tips they'd ever some across.
*deep breaths* ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?
So I should explain, so you don't think I need to go to anger management classes. One of the things I hate more than anything else in writing is when writers kill characters for the sake of being brutal or for the sake of creating plot. And let's just be clear- there is difference between a character dying as part of a plot and a character dying to advance the plot.
But let's get back to this idea of killing a character because your story has stalled out.
First, who the fuck do you think you are? George R. R. Martin? Shakespeare?
If the answer is no (hint: it fucking is), then you should probably find a better way to move your plot than just picking a character to kill. Killing a character because you, the writer, haven't figured out what comes next, is the lazy, immature way out.
It's the same as not knowing how (or not wanting to deal with) what naturally comes next in a scene so you knock out the main character, thus saving yourself the trouble of actually writing said scene. Suzanne Collins, I am referring to Mockingjay.
For the sake of argument, let's say you are stuck at a point in the plot and you're not sure what to do. Maybe you had an outline you've since scrapped or maybe you're just writing because it's fun.
This is what I do. I step back. I go for a run (although I've heard walks are just as good but I'm too impatient for walks) and think about what needs to happen after the scene I can't write. I work backwards. Then I write the damn scene. Who cares if it's absolute shit? Revision exists for this precise reason.
The second option is to just skip to the next scene you know how to write. I personally can't do this because I have to go in chronological order otherwise I'd have a beginning and a end, with no middle.
I am not saying you shouldn't ever kill a character because people die. It's a fact of life so it's a fact of writing stories. There's a big damn war going on in my book right now, so yes, I am going to kill characters. But long before I got to this war, back when I was still writing the beginning of B&G I knew which characters were going to die. Their deaths will change the plot but not the overall story arc. Death isn't something that happens to the plot: it's what happens to the characters who don't die.
I suspect those of you who may have read B&G are worried about which characters I'm going to kill in C&C. Good. You should be worried.
But I'm not fucking Shakespeare, so I promise some characters will be alive at the end of the third book.
Friday, January 29, 2016
Wednesday, January 20, 2016
Eleven Years
I've been thinking a lot about how I've changed as a writer recently and I somehow got it into my head that maybe some of you would enjoy reading about how it all started, at least for me. If not, I'm not at all offended. Return to Facebook and enjoy cat videos. Or puppy videos. Hedgehogs. Donkeys. Whatever your heart desires.
When I was in fourth grade, my mom enrolled me in a week long summer writing camp at The Cabin in Boise. For a week, from 9:00-12:00, I hung out with a group of kids my age and wandered downtown Boise doing various writing assignments for our instructors. Nothing huge because even late elementary school kids can't write a whole lot. At the end of the week, we had to read one of our pieces for the other groups and for our parents. I read a poem about the river which my mom still has in a frame at our house.
That was the beginning. Well, okay, not exactly.
I have no memory of this but my parents have told me that when I was young, two or three, I would have them play with me and my set of Winnie the Pooh figurines. But I would tell them what to say and, according to my mom, I always had a little story worked out. Go three year old me! Woo!
I was in fifth grade when I made my first attempt at prose writing (if we can even call it that). I wrote really bad diaries because I was obsessed with the Dear America and Royal Diaries series. Yes, they were all bad and no, nothing could be salvaged from them. Believe me- I've transferred them from every laptop I've owned. More on that later.
So I basically hijacked my mom's laptop by using it so much she never had any time on it so by the time I was in sixth grade, she had given up and given it to me. I used to get up early on the weekends (early meaning my parents weren't awake yet which is even more impressive if you know how incapable my dad is of sleeping in) and go upstairs to write.
I wrote hundreds of half finished, barely begun, terrible stories. Then, in seventh grade, I wrote a story that I actually finished. It came out to roughly 40,000 words which is fucking impressive for a twelve year old and I'll fight anyone who says otherwise. No, it wasn't very good. But it had all the elements necessary for a good story: conflict, tension, rising action, even an ending.
It was around that time that I decided I needed to get better at writing dialogue so I decided to write plays. Not good plays but we still performed them with the neighbor kids for our parents and it was fun. See, having a writer for a friend can be fun!
Once high school rolled around, I spent my summers writing a series of five books about a girl who could control air, earth, fire, and water. Again, not the best but by the time I finished the fifth book, a few weeks before I left for college, I knew. I wasn't just playing at this. I was a writer.
It took me almost eight years of writing to say it: I am a writer. I've put in the time to get good enough that I know most writing sucks.
It took me almost ten years of writing to say this: I need to revise this. So I did. And then I said the scariest thing yet: I am good enough to be published.
Eleven years I've been writing. Coincidentally, right now I have eleven stories I'd consider book length.
I'm not even twenty one yet. Just think of all the stories I have left to write.
It's going to be wild, terrifying, exhilarating, brilliant, insane, frightening, breath taking and every imaginable thing in between. That's life. That's writing.
When I was in fourth grade, my mom enrolled me in a week long summer writing camp at The Cabin in Boise. For a week, from 9:00-12:00, I hung out with a group of kids my age and wandered downtown Boise doing various writing assignments for our instructors. Nothing huge because even late elementary school kids can't write a whole lot. At the end of the week, we had to read one of our pieces for the other groups and for our parents. I read a poem about the river which my mom still has in a frame at our house.
That was the beginning. Well, okay, not exactly.
I have no memory of this but my parents have told me that when I was young, two or three, I would have them play with me and my set of Winnie the Pooh figurines. But I would tell them what to say and, according to my mom, I always had a little story worked out. Go three year old me! Woo!
I was in fifth grade when I made my first attempt at prose writing (if we can even call it that). I wrote really bad diaries because I was obsessed with the Dear America and Royal Diaries series. Yes, they were all bad and no, nothing could be salvaged from them. Believe me- I've transferred them from every laptop I've owned. More on that later.
So I basically hijacked my mom's laptop by using it so much she never had any time on it so by the time I was in sixth grade, she had given up and given it to me. I used to get up early on the weekends (early meaning my parents weren't awake yet which is even more impressive if you know how incapable my dad is of sleeping in) and go upstairs to write.
I wrote hundreds of half finished, barely begun, terrible stories. Then, in seventh grade, I wrote a story that I actually finished. It came out to roughly 40,000 words which is fucking impressive for a twelve year old and I'll fight anyone who says otherwise. No, it wasn't very good. But it had all the elements necessary for a good story: conflict, tension, rising action, even an ending.
It was around that time that I decided I needed to get better at writing dialogue so I decided to write plays. Not good plays but we still performed them with the neighbor kids for our parents and it was fun. See, having a writer for a friend can be fun!
Once high school rolled around, I spent my summers writing a series of five books about a girl who could control air, earth, fire, and water. Again, not the best but by the time I finished the fifth book, a few weeks before I left for college, I knew. I wasn't just playing at this. I was a writer.
It took me almost eight years of writing to say it: I am a writer. I've put in the time to get good enough that I know most writing sucks.
It took me almost ten years of writing to say this: I need to revise this. So I did. And then I said the scariest thing yet: I am good enough to be published.
Eleven years I've been writing. Coincidentally, right now I have eleven stories I'd consider book length.
I'm not even twenty one yet. Just think of all the stories I have left to write.
It's going to be wild, terrifying, exhilarating, brilliant, insane, frightening, breath taking and every imaginable thing in between. That's life. That's writing.
Sunday, January 10, 2016
Reaching Goals: All Aboard the Struggle Bus
Let's talk about goals. Like, real life person goals, not character goals. It is the new year after all. For me, as a student, the new year doesn't feel like it really starts until second semester starts which isn't for three days so I'm not late at all. I won't be defined by your calendar.
Anyway, goals. We all make them, not just around New Year's but all the time. Little goals, like 'I will not miss class' and bigger ones like 'I want to lose weight' or 'I want to get a really good grade in this class'.
If you're anything like me, some of those big goals turn out to be a lot easier than you thought. And those little goals morph into the biggest mountains you've ever seen. Metaphorically speaking.
When I was younger, writing was just something I did because I enjoyed it. I used it to escape, to go live in places more exciting than Boise, Idaho. I used it to entertain myself. Don't get me wrong, sometimes that still happens but now I am older. I won't go so far as to say 'wiser'- I'd settle for 'slightly less naive.'
There are a lot of results from this but the big one is this: now, writing isn't just an escape. It is work. Enjoyable work but work nonetheless. Why? Because I have decided I want to be good at something and no one excels at something without working at it. Don't argue with me- it's true. People a lot older and a hell of a lot wiser than me have said so.
So writing isn't as much fun anymore. Thus, writing has become a goal. In my head, still stuck in the high school mindset that writing is just for fun, I see it as a little goal. It's not. It's a big honking Sisyphean goal. It's got other, slightly less enormous goals attached to it. Like revising.
My goal isn't even really to write that much. My goal is to revise. I have two books that need work. One is more about fine-tuning and the other is in its very rough first form. In the case of the latter, I will get to do a lot of writing because I've got a lot to add.
So how am I going to do this?
That is an excellent question. The first step is I am telling you, Internet, that I am going to do it. This creates accountability. Because I'll feel bad if I don't do something I committed to doing to someone other than myself. This is a trick I use when I need motivation to go for a run on the weekends. It works like a charm for a lot of other stuff too. Humans hate to feel humiliated more than they hate to do uncomfortable things.
My second step is this: I am going to start off slow. A few pages at a time. Because revising is like running a marathon. You can't start out running twelve miles to train for it. You've gotta put in those three and four mile runs to condition yourself. I really need a different metaphor but oh well.
The third part of my expertly devised plan is this: I am going to reward myself for finishing drafts. When I finish another draft (I've lost track of the number, how great is that?) of Black & Gold and the second draft of Crown & Claw, I will buy myself something. Not sure what it's going to be yet but it cannot be a necessity. Otherwise it isn't a reward.
I know there are other people out there with goals on the struggle bus with me. Maybe my plan isn't perfect but if nothing else, I take comfort in this: I will get it done. Because even if nothing else, I want that shiny, new, pretty draft to start in on with my pretty purple pen.
Why not a red pen, you ask?
Because red pen looks like blood all over the page and who wants that stressful shit when you've already got a decimated novel on your hands?
Then why purple, you ask? Why not blue or green or just plain black?
Because fuck you society, I won't live my life your rules and a purple pen is how I choose to express my individuality.
Okay, I should probably go to bed now because unpacking stresses me out and tomorrow I'm moving furniture around and--
Stopping now. Happy New Year, everyone.
Anyway, goals. We all make them, not just around New Year's but all the time. Little goals, like 'I will not miss class' and bigger ones like 'I want to lose weight' or 'I want to get a really good grade in this class'.
If you're anything like me, some of those big goals turn out to be a lot easier than you thought. And those little goals morph into the biggest mountains you've ever seen. Metaphorically speaking.
When I was younger, writing was just something I did because I enjoyed it. I used it to escape, to go live in places more exciting than Boise, Idaho. I used it to entertain myself. Don't get me wrong, sometimes that still happens but now I am older. I won't go so far as to say 'wiser'- I'd settle for 'slightly less naive.'
There are a lot of results from this but the big one is this: now, writing isn't just an escape. It is work. Enjoyable work but work nonetheless. Why? Because I have decided I want to be good at something and no one excels at something without working at it. Don't argue with me- it's true. People a lot older and a hell of a lot wiser than me have said so.
So writing isn't as much fun anymore. Thus, writing has become a goal. In my head, still stuck in the high school mindset that writing is just for fun, I see it as a little goal. It's not. It's a big honking Sisyphean goal. It's got other, slightly less enormous goals attached to it. Like revising.
My goal isn't even really to write that much. My goal is to revise. I have two books that need work. One is more about fine-tuning and the other is in its very rough first form. In the case of the latter, I will get to do a lot of writing because I've got a lot to add.
So how am I going to do this?
That is an excellent question. The first step is I am telling you, Internet, that I am going to do it. This creates accountability. Because I'll feel bad if I don't do something I committed to doing to someone other than myself. This is a trick I use when I need motivation to go for a run on the weekends. It works like a charm for a lot of other stuff too. Humans hate to feel humiliated more than they hate to do uncomfortable things.
My second step is this: I am going to start off slow. A few pages at a time. Because revising is like running a marathon. You can't start out running twelve miles to train for it. You've gotta put in those three and four mile runs to condition yourself. I really need a different metaphor but oh well.
The third part of my expertly devised plan is this: I am going to reward myself for finishing drafts. When I finish another draft (I've lost track of the number, how great is that?) of Black & Gold and the second draft of Crown & Claw, I will buy myself something. Not sure what it's going to be yet but it cannot be a necessity. Otherwise it isn't a reward.
I know there are other people out there with goals on the struggle bus with me. Maybe my plan isn't perfect but if nothing else, I take comfort in this: I will get it done. Because even if nothing else, I want that shiny, new, pretty draft to start in on with my pretty purple pen.
Why not a red pen, you ask?
Because red pen looks like blood all over the page and who wants that stressful shit when you've already got a decimated novel on your hands?
Then why purple, you ask? Why not blue or green or just plain black?
Because fuck you society, I won't live my life your rules and a purple pen is how I choose to express my individuality.
Okay, I should probably go to bed now because unpacking stresses me out and tomorrow I'm moving furniture around and--
Stopping now. Happy New Year, everyone.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)