Shut Up & Write!

by Judy Bridges

  Tell. Does the author “tell” things you wish she would “show?”

  Title. Is the title appealing? Does it make you want to read the story? Does it hold up once you have read it?

  Tone. Does the choice of language complement the mood of the piece?

  Figure 26 - The Shut Up & Write! Critique List

  CHAPTER TEN

  A HATFUL OF RABBITS

  When the Going Gets Tough

  I have forced myself to begin writing when I’ve been utterly exhausted, when I’ve felt my soul as thin as a playing card . . . and somehow the activity of writing changes everything.

  —Joyce Carol Oates, novelist

  You don’t have to suffer to be a poet. Adolescence is enough suffering for anyone.

  —John Ciardi, poet, essayist

  I want to live other lives. I’ve never quite believed that one chance is all I get. Writing is my way of getting other chances.

  —Anne Tyler, novelist

  Beyond the nuts and bolts of learning how to write, there is life. Babies cry, spouses cheat, parents get sick, bosses get crabby. Day in and day out, after the novel is finished, before the next poem is begun, the morning you wake up with great ideas and the night you’re sure it’s all over—you have to keep at it. Visits from the Muse are not guaranteed.

  Life happens to experienced writers as well as beginners, and sometimes even good news can cause a dry spell. I remember seeing Victoria Hinshaw in the café at one of the old Schwartz Bookshops, a tense look on her face, fingers poised over her laptop. I knew exactly what she was thinking: “What in heaven’s name made me think I could do this?” She had a book contract for three romance novels—one written, two somewhere out there in the ozone, completely out of reach at the moment. She did finish them, of course, plus another five novels and three novellas. But that day in the bookstore, she was a deer in the headlights.

  Writing rarely happens as easily as we’d like. A. Manette Ansay said that her novel Good Things I Wish You was ten years in the making. In his book Other Colors, Nobel prize-winning author Orhan Pamuk talked about his life as a writer:

  . . . the greatest source of happiness, is to write a good half page every day. For thirty years I’ve spent an average of ten hours a day alone in a room, sitting at my desk. If you count only the work that is good enough to be published, my daily average is a good deal less than half a page. Most of what I write does not meet my own standards of quality control.

  And as if writers aren’t hard enough on themselves, imagine working for the owner of a public relations firm who insisted that his writers keep churning it out, no matter what. If he walked past an office and didn’t hear the keys clicking, he banged on the door and yelled, “Get busy!” I’ve written under that kind of stress. It ain’t a whole lot of fun.

  Among my most cherished belongings is a poster given to me by a colleague, Richard Fraser, who knew what it was like to write no matter what.

  The Most Terrifying Thing in the World

  A blank piece of paper.

  Everyone who communicates in print faces it almost every day of their lives. It frightens the good ones and terrifies the great ones. Only the mediocre take it in stride.

  The mediocre have very little trouble filling the blank piece of paper . . . and they are always satisfied.

  The good ones fill the blank piece of paper with sweat . . . and sometimes they are satisfied.

  The great ones fill the blank piece of paper with blood and a few tears . . . and they are never satisfied.

  If you are searching for meaning in the printed word . . . look for the writer who is terrified by a blank piece of paper.

  —Anonymous

  If the blank page scares you, take it as a sign that you are doing something that really matters to you. Even the most accomplished writers phase in and out of confidence, in and out of energy, in and out of determination and competence. We all write more junk than we’d like to admit. Most of us spend less time writing than we’d like to admit, and we spend half of that time staring at the screen, wondering, “What in heaven’s name made me think I could do this?”

  To be a lifelong writer, you need to find ways to cope with the on/off, up/down business of putting your thoughts in readable form. You need to find what works to keep you going, and know that what works one time might not work the next.

  Basically, you need a hatful of rabbits.

  Rabbit #1: Stake Your Claim

  During my dark nights, I think of Mrs. Engelhardt, the English teacher who was the first to write “What lovely writing!” at the top of one of my stories. I found that story a while ago, and the writing wasn’t all that lovely, but it wasn’t bad, either, and her encouragement stuck in just the right corner of my brain. If you ask a roomful of writers whether or not they had a parent or teacher or aunt who praised them, nearly all say yes. If you were encouraged, you can bet that you had decent adults in your life, and what they said was true. If they thought you would be a better singer than a writer, they would have said so.

  I do not agree with the statement “If you write, you are a writer.” That’s too easy. You are a writer because you are drawn to it, because you want to communicate and you work hard at it. Chances are you’ve been collecting pens, pencils, and notebooks since you were a kid. You remember stories you wrote in elementary school. You took more books out of the library than you could read, and to this day, you always have a stack of books or periodicals begging for your attention. When you read, you notice how words are used. You catch symbolism and nuance. You love the rhythm of beautiful language and the way a paragraph can turn your heart. When you write, you love the feel of paper, the sound of a pen on it, the soft click of a keyboard, the wild joy of finally, finally, getting it right. If these things are true of you, you are a writer.

  Laurel Landis, a runner-up for Rosebud magazine’s Mary Shelley Award, said, “The biggest thing I’ve done is to identify myself as a writer. It took me years to do that. Coming to Redbird was instrumental in realizing that I am as much a writer as I am all the other things in my life.”

  Laurel didn’t casually claim she was a writer simply because she picked up a pen and scribbled a few paragraphs. She had been writing for years, studying the craft, attending workshops, and although she wasn’t published at that point, she had finished several stories and was submitting her work. She really was a writer as much as she was “all the other things” in her life. Saying it out loud, laying claim to the identity, was a legitimate, logical step—one that affirmed her work and encouraged others to treat her like the writer she is.

  When you wonder if you’re for real, you project a lack of confidence that makes others wonder the same. You live in a vicious circle of “can’t write/never will/ought to quit/give it up/nobody else thinks I’m any good either!”

  When the going gets tough, do this: Stand up straight and say with conviction, “I am a writer. And even if I’m stuck at the moment, I will keep going and the words will come. I’ll nail it. You can bet on it!”

  Rabbit #2: Surround Yourself with Support

  Every writer needs a circle of support—the right combination of good will and good things to help get through the difficult days. You need to surround yourself with people who understand what you’re going through, friends you can count on for advice or sympathy or a politely phrased kick in the butt. These are the friends you contact to:

  Meet at a coffee shop and write for an hour

  Plan an outing to a favorite bookstore

  Attend a reading by a newly published author

  Attend a writing conference

  Set dates on which you will exchange a certain number of pages

  Agree on a daily allowance of two minutes to whine

  Meet up at a hotel for a weekend of serious writing

  Writers Sheila, Robert, Laurel, Carol, and Pam meet on Saturday mornings. One brings a prompt for a writing exercise. They write to the prompt and exchange enough encouragement to k
eep them focused on writing for another week.

  Marjorie Pagel wrote this vignette to the prompt: use the word “cliché.”

  She thought, my whole life has been a cliché. I’m just a cardboard cutout of so many other Lisa Mullarkeys, though with different names, up here in front of an unruly, uncaring group of fourth graders, trying to teach them something that will benefit their lives.

  But then she intercepted those thoughts with some others, a kind of argument with herself: No, what I am really aspiring to is having one of these unpromising students emerge to be a cardboard cutout of me teaching other fourth grade students who will be cardboard cutouts. A cliché at the head of this class teaching a cliché and urging her charges to be clichés.

  From that moment on, Lisa Mullarkey determined that she would march to the beat of a different drummer and—there! she caught herself. Another cliché.

  —From “Lisa Mullarkey” by Marjorie Pagel

  Email is a great way for writing friends to stay connected. Yes, we can waste time on it, but it’s pure joy to send that quick email to friends saying, “I finished it!” and hear back, “Hooray for you! I knew you would.” Roi Solberg is one of my writing friends. We live in different towns but are in touch daily to say, “How’s the book coming?” “Did you finish that chapter?”

  If you’re very lucky, you have a dear writing buddy who’s always there for you. Two of my friends met for years, to write and share their work. When one became seriously ill, the other showed up at her bedside with a notebook and pen and said, “Let’s just write.”

  Last year Jean Scherwenka gave me three Clairefontaine notebooks as a birthday gift. Only another writer would understand how precious that is.

  Rabbit #3: Ditch the Glommers

  Writing, like every other field, has its share of people who will suck the life out of you if you let them. When the going gets tough, you have to get rid of these people.

  Glommers are like the girl you met in sixth grade, the one who glommed onto you the first day of school and never let go. She’s in a writing workshop now, waiting to latch onto you and become your new best friend. She wants to attend every class with you, including the writers’ retreat where she thinks the two of you should share a room. Risk: Suffocation. Cure: Just say no.

  Bookies buy all the books on the “For Writers” shelf and drag them around in huge, heavy tote bags. They don’t write, they just rattle on about all the books they’ve read and look at you haughtily if you have not read the books they adore. Risk: Feeling insufficient. Cure: Roll your eyes.

  Decorators spend all of their time creating the perfect work space—brand new computer, tidy desktop, handle on the coffee cup in perfect alignment with the planet Jupiter. A little feng shui is fine, but honey, you do have to write. Risk: Distraction. Cure: Dress ugly.

  Junkies are addicted to classes. Show a junkie a brochure about a writing conference on the moon and they’re gone. The next thing you hear from them will be the full report about who they met and how much they got out of it, which is always more than you got wherever you went. Risk: Boredom. Cure: Sigh deeply.

  Exercisers write hordes of writing exercises and journal entries they believe will add up to something, someday. They tell you about all the funny/sad/ serious/interesting tidbits they have stored in plastic boxes that they’d love for you to read, but they won’t attend a class or get down to business. Risk: Giving away your time. Cure: Tell them to Shut Up & Write!

  High Rollers are similar to exercisers. They have the most amazing things all worked out in their heads, bestsellers worth a fortune, but they aren’t going to share them because someone might steal their ideas. Try telling them that you can’t copyright an idea anyway, that they have to actually write it, and they will tell you that the writing can come later because, after all, that’s the easy part. Risk: Irritation. Cure: Say your agent is calling.

  Queens and Kings simply must be a little above everyone else at all times. They are pleasant until someone else’s star shines—until another writer gets especially good feedback or has a story accepted for publication—then they imply that the praise was mistaken or the publication insignificant, or say something cute, like “Couldn’t you just kill her?” Beware. “Couldn’t you just kill her?” is not a joke, it’s a warning signal. Risk: Getting stabbed in the back. Cure: Run. Now.

  Know-It-Alls populate every profession. They know the best way to do whatever you’re doing and will drive you nuts with detailed instructions. The worst part is that they actually expect you to do what they say. Risk: Acrimony. Cure: Tell ’em to stick it.

  Rabbit #4: Go through Your Orchid File

  What, you aren’t keeping an orchid file? Well, then, start one. Take a file folder, a box, or a huge trunk and put your orchids in it. Orchids are things that remind you how wonderful you are: congratulatory notes, awards, photos of the skit you wrote for the company party, a thank-you note from a friend, the newspaper clipping from the soccer tournament, your graduation tassel, keys for the red convertible you worked your butt off to buy. And every paragraph that was ever published, anywhere.

  When you’re gloomy, it’s hard to remember you ever did anything good. That’s when you haul out your file and go through your orchids. If you find an especially affirming news clipping or quotation, print (and maybe even decorate) it to hang on the wall near your computer. Or get a bulletin board and tack up some of your favorites. Call it your kudo-board. If you’re going through a really bad phase, redo the kudo-board hourly.

  The idea is to remind yourself of your beautiful moments. You can’t count on others to do this for you—they may not even know you’re gloomy.

  Rabbit #5: AC-cent-tchu-ate the Positive

  Remember the song? “You’ve got to AC-cent-tchu-ate the positive, E-lim-in-ate the negative.” Johnny Mercer wrote the lyrics in 1944, eight years before Norman Vincent Peale wrote The Power of Positive Thinking. It stands with others on the list of great tunes to listen to when you get the blues. On bad days, my mother would belt out “Everything’s Coming Up Roses” right along with Ethel Merman. I swear, she could grit her teeth and sing “roses” at the same time.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for screaming and crying when bad stuff happens. But soon enough I get tired of it and want to move on. Then it’s time to AC-cent-tchu-ate the positive.

  One way to do that is with affirmations. These are perfectly positive statements framing your world, your way. You can find a ton of them in books or online, or you can make up your own, or you can borrow one of these:

  I write quickly, easily, and well.

  I write interesting, exciting stories that hold a reader’s attention.

  I see myself in a bookstore, signing copies of my new bestseller.

  I am free to write what I please, in a style that’s all my own.

  I have more fresh ideas than I know what to do with.

  I thoroughly enjoy being a writer.

  Damn, I’m good!

  Rabbit #6: Hire a Dutch Uncle

  A friend warns me that some people might take offense at this title. Apparently “Dutch Uncle” dates back to a time when the English and Dutch didn’t like each other very much and the English used “Dutch” as a derogatory label. “Double Dutch” meant gibberish. “Dutch courage” was booze-induced bravery. A “Dutch wife” was a prostitute. “Dutch treat” is still used when you invite a person to dinner and expect them to pay for their own meal.

  A “Dutch Uncle” is a practical, well-meaning, bossy guy who gives you grief when you need it. When it comes to writing, a Dutch Uncle is a man or woman you hire (or just ask) to give you grief if you don’t do your work.

  Tom Hanratty, for example, asked me to help him stay focused on a book he wanted to write. I said, “At the end of each month, you will give me a brown envelope with the pages you wrote that month. I will not read them, I just need to know you did the work.” I promised that if he did not give me pages, I would say plenty about his irres
ponsible behavior.

  I never got to say it. He turned in pages every month and eventually finished The Art and Science of Tracking Man and Beast.

  I have a Dutch Uncle for this book, Susan Pittelman, who, after any period of silence, sends me an email that says, “Well?”

  It works.

  In another form of Dutch Uncle-ism, an unemployed playwright in one of my workshops whined and whined about how he couldn’t get anything done. One night, while I was driving him home from a workshop, I asked if he had any money.

  “Twenty bucks.”

  “Can I have it?”

  “I guess, if you really need it.”

  He fished out the twenty and handed it to me, slowly. I stuck it in my pocket and said he could have it back when he wrote thirty pages.

  In one week, he wrote thirty pages.

  You can find a Dutch Uncle—any outspoken person whose opinion you respect. Work out an arrangement that keeps your feet to the fire.

  Rabbit #7: Do It Anyway

  Like every writer, I’m certain I could write better, be more prolific, get more published, if only . . . If only I had more time, fewer interruptions, more encouragement, fewer worries, faster fingers, the perfect balance of inspiration, location, tools, and energy. Plus a personal assistant and a full-time massage therapist.

  I can pile up excuses with the best of them, and I will argue long and hard for making a clear decision not to write during certain phases of life or the moon. With all that said, I know that if I really need to, I can do it anyway.