Deborah's Journal

From the time we’re small children, it seems that someone is always urging us to hurry up, to not dawdle, to stop procrastinating, to keep “on target,” and to do things faster. We are supposed to race through our lives without paying attention to the wonders around us (except, of course, when we’re supposed to be observant and appreciative). Of course, what is wonderful to a child is all too often invisible to the harried parent or teacher who herself has deadlines and schedules to keep. Homework assignments are Important; watching snails is not.

When I began to write professionally, I found myself juggling motherhood, a day job career, and the inner-driven need to set down the stories in my head. Writing time was precious and all too scant, and I had much to learn about the craft. My initial style involved “pantsing” (writing “by the seat of your pants”) or, as I put it, “taking a flying leap off the edge of reality, ” and then revising, revising, revising. As a consequence of this and the limited, fractured time periods available to me, my stories progressed slowly. I remember meeting a certain published author at one of my first convention, who breezily talked about how he never revised, he sold his first draft novels, and he produced three or four of them every year. I cringed to think of my one or two short stories and maybe one novel draft in that same time period (keeping in mind that I needed three or four – or more! – revision drafts). Was this what professional writers did? I wondered. And how was I ever going to produce that much, that fast, and of that professional quality?
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(As a slightly smirky footnote, I have no idea what happened to that writer. I haven’t seen the byline in decades, so maybe that strategy wasn’t so successful after all. Or the name might have been changed, as so often happens. Me, I have four traditionally-published novels and an ebook short fiction collection coming out this year.)

To my great good fortune, I also encountered writers who had learned to listen to their own creative rhythms and understood that getting the story right trumped getting it fast. These were not writers who use “I listen to my inner muse” as an excuse for not writing, or who polish endlessly and never submit their work. These were professional, published authors. Some of them sold many books and others only a few. Not all were genre writers, but all prized their craft. I met writers who considered a day successful if they got a single paragraph exactly the way they wanted it; others measured their daily productivity by hours spent or pages finished. They opened my eyes to many possibilities for measuring progress besides how fast I could turn out a manuscript.

As it turns out, I found that different stages of a story call for different speeds. I work best when I draft quickly from outline and then revise slowly. I give myself permission at all stages to take a break and think about a “stuck place” (whether that is a block in the sense of “I have no idea what comes next” or just a niggling feeling that something isn’t right). I go for a walk, I clean house, or I pick up the phone and chat with a friend about something utterly unrelated to writing. When I’m willing to do this, I end up in fewer dead ends, I need fewer subsequent drafts, and I’m more in touch with the internal fabric of the story.

All this has a great deal to do with observing and accepting my own creative rhythms, but also with patience. Patience loops the topic back to my opening, which is how we find our way back being fully present with what is unfolding at the present moment and at a pace too often at odds with the regimented, overcommitted, multi-tasking, hurried expectations around us (not to mention the financial pressures for a working writer to produce so many books a year). It’s all very well to recite slogans like, “Stop And Smell The Roses,” and quite another to shield ourselves from those expectations.

I’ve been blessed with several Teachers of Patience and I’m trying to take what I have learned from them and apply it to my work. One of my most significant teachers was an elderly Quaker woman, who welcomed me when my husband and I began attending the local Meeting. She and I had many wonderful conversations before she died a few years ago, some at Meeting or the monthly potlucks, others at our lunch dates. She walked very slowly due to various medical conditions, but I quickly realized how important it was to accord her the dignity of doing what she could, of being autonomous. She did need my help from time to time, with opening doors and such, and she taught me ways of offering or responding that maintained that relationship of respect. It became a spiritual exercise to adjust my own walking speed to hers, to hold the door for as long as she needed, to move with her as if in a slow-motion dance. Adagio, not Presto. So much of the joy of writing is discovering new experiences, new points of view, stories told by characters who are not like us and who live in worlds not like our own. Here was a precious chance to experience living at a different pace.

Now I am staying with my best friend during the final weeks of her life. She, too, is moving slowly, more slowly with each passing day as her body winds down. I watch her savoring every moment, paying attention to her strength, which varies from day to day but it never what it was when she was healthy. Slow means taking the time to be as fully alive and present as possible. Slow means reordering priorities (eating dessert first, as it were, choosing only the most precious things to spend waning energy on). Slow means savoring the meadow at sunset, perhaps with a cup of hot chocolate and a dear friend.
Take your time; there’s no need to hurry.

The SLF [Speculative Literature Foundation] Older Writers Grant is awarded annually to a writer who is fifty years of age or older at the time of grant application, and is intended to assist such writers who are just starting to work at a professional level. We are currently offering one $750 grant annually, to be used as the writer determines will best assist his or her work."

The Speculative Literature Foundation

Today's blog post from Kay Kenyon takes on a difficult topic: how do we maintain -- safeguard -- the integrity of our creative vision and get useful feedback on the manuscript? She points out the unconscious and perhaps unavoidable tendency of a fellow writer to re-write your story in his head as part of the critique process. Saying, "This doesn't work for me" is one thing; saying, "How about --?" or "You could --" is another.

Suggestions aren't always detrimental. Sometimes they "click" by helping get you un-stuck from a particular way of looking at the problem. I sometimes joke that whatever someone suggests is the thing I won't do. (I used to mean, because I am stubborn and ornery and insist on doing things my own way, so no matter how brilliant the suggestion, it's automatically off the table. Kay's insight adds that most suggestions are not going to work because they arise from another writer's vision of this story, not mine.)

Critiques can be invaluable in pointing out weaknesses in prose style, grammatical errors, structural problems, uses of diction, that sort of thing. They can show us where we left the reader confused or lost her interest. What they should not do is mess with the story that is struggling to be born.

When we're starting out as writers, most of us are riddled with self-doubt. At least, I was. I vacillated between thinking this was the best thing ever written to the certainty that I could not write my way out of a wet paper bag. For years, it seemed my writing never improved. I was clearly a hopeless case of zero talent and even less skill. (Actually, my rough drafts did improve, but very slowly; my ability to revise, however, increased exponentially!) This left me pathetically vulnerable in those early years to being influenced by feedback from writers group members. That stubbornness proved to be my best asset, although it wasn't easy to hold out against the authority of a critique delivered with great sincerity and certainty. I learned a lot about what to listen to -- and even more, what not to listen to.

A turning point came after a number of years of this sort of struggle. I'd written a story straight from the heart, tears streaming down my face as I finished it. It was right and true and I felt it in every fiber of my being. But because I'd been trained to not trust my assessment of my work, I ran it through my group. The most influential of the members said s/he couldn't even critique it, it was such a piece of sentimental twaddle. Instead of going home and crying, which is what I would have done as a beginner, I sent it out to the most competitive, highest-prestige market that was open. I received an almost immediate acceptance.

More thoughts on sabotage.

From Janet Reid, Literary Agent, wisdom from Elmore Leonard

"I spent 10 years writing short stories, or ten years 'getting better'."

"I started out imitating Hemingway till I found out he (Hemingway) had no sense of humor."

"If it sounds like writing, rewrite."

"Outlining means you go with an idea that could be old or outdated as the novel develops"

"Don't muck it up with -ly words"

"Watch for words that don't belong in the book because they are not natural to the characters"

There's more. Check the original article.
Which is your favorite? Mine is the one about Hemingway, but the most practical for me is the advice to rewrite.

Maggie Stiefvater, a successful YA author, offers a step by step description of her own learning process. Everything she suggests may not work for you, but it's a fascinating peek into another author's creative journey.

Originally posted by m_stiefvater at How To Turn a Novel Into a Textbooke

If you have a moment, click over to my blog post on "The Book of My Friend" from a few days ago and check out the comments, particularly the one from Chris Weuve, who has a lot of pro writer friends and wonders about asking them for critiques. Your perspective is most welcome!

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