Ink Dance
Essays on the Writing Life
Deborah J. Ross
www.bookviewcafe.com
Book View Café Publishing Cooperative
January 14, 2014
ISBN: 978-1-61138-350-8
Copyright © 2014 Deborah J. Ross
Table of Contents
Foreword
Just You and a Blank Page
Getting Started in Writing
Negotiating with the Idea Fairy
Warm Ups
Open Here
More on Story Beginnings
Structure, Shape, and Interest
Do You Outline Your Novel? Should You?
Dream a Little Dream
It’s Only Fiction
Not Just Another Funny Forehead: Creating Alien Characters
Villains, Evil, and Otherness
Revenge and Retaliation
First Person Perils
Why Write Short?
Why Write Long?
Sexuality in Fiction
The Magic Notebook
Focus
Write It Again, Sam
More Thoughts on Revision
Critiquing vs. Editing
Strategies for Dealing with Writer’s Block
Overcoming the Inertial Hump
Sam In Spades: Why Not to Revise
Career and Survival
Queries, Synopses, and Other Uneasy Friends, Part 1
Queries, Synopses, and Other Uneasy Friends, Part 2
The Pitch and Why I Should Care
Book Promotion Rehabilitation
Non-Obnoxious Book Promotion, Part 2
Gatekeeping in the World of Ebooks
Story and Self
Stages in a Writer’s Development
Blackberry Writing
When a Story Isn’t Ready, Part 2
Series as Career Killer
How Gossip Can Trash Your Writing Career
Reviews: The Good, the Bad, and the Ignorable
Surviving Dry Spells
The Magic Phone Call
Letting Go, Moving On
The Writer’s Life
Where Do You Write?
Writing without Electricity
Interruptions
When Writing Friends Aren’t
Creative Jealousy
Encountering Wannabee Writers
The Lady (Actual and Honorary) Writers’ Lunch
Mentoring
Exercise for the Older Writer
Listening
When Is It Enough?
Nourishing Yourself
Surviving as a Writer (Or Artist . . . or Musician)
Defining Writing Success as Publishing
Would You Write Anyway?
Zen Yoga Writing Practice
Nothing Creative Is Ever Wasted
’Tis the Season to Get Crazy
Pacing . . .
Community and Solitude
Cross Training for Writers
On Writing and Healing
Writing Fears
Goals vs. Wishes
Settling in Meditation and in Writing
Copyright & Credits
About the Author
About Book View Café
Sample Chapter: Northlight
Foreword
Deborah Ross introduced herself to me at the first Science Fiction conference I ever attended in Portland, way back in, hmmm . . . must have been 1989, right after I’d started selling my short stories and showing up in the reviews as a ‘hot new writer.’ The ‘new’ part was certainly true and I was so flattered when this established author introduced herself and had clearly heard of me. We’ve been good friends ever since, through the ups and downs of our personal lives and our careers. Deborah is one of the ‘stayers’ in the New York Legacy publishing universe. Like me, she was never a blockbuster best seller, but she worked with Marion Zimmer Bradley, a very big name in fantasy, to help Marion complete her works as her health failed, and wrote her own science fiction and fantasy at the same time. She was able to stay on with one of the last truly independent Legacy publishers as other Big Six authors were being shed with the midlist, and is still supporting herself there today.
Deborah is the nurturing sort, whether she’s critiquing, editing a submission for one of the anthologies she publishes, or giving advice to an aspiring author at a local writers workshop. She makes writing work, and she understands how to make it work. She’s a good teacher.
This collection of essays guides you through the craft and career of writing with all the useful information of a shelf full of ‘how to’ books, but offered with the warm personal energy of a conversation across the kitchen table.
From her advice on how to actually get started, her craft and career tips, to her really excellent counsel on how to survive writing in real life and still nourish yourself and your spirit, this collection offers an in-depth look at what it means to be a writer. Every day. All the time.
While Deborah’s career has been New York oriented, most of what she has to say works for today’s author going the small press or Indie route as well. She speaks of the things that helped her succeed or got in her way with a refreshing personal honesty that invites us to examine our own behaviors. There’s a lot here for any aspiring writer who takes his or her craft seriously. No matter what you write or how you publish.
Read it, learn, and enjoy! You’ll come away nourished.
— Mary Rosenblum
Return to Table of Contents
Just You and a Blank Page
Getting Started in Writing
Writing a story—let’s say it’s your first—has some fundamental differences with beginning any other creative endeavor. At least, that’s been my experience. I’ve never assumed that because I’ve seen an oil painting, I should automatically know how to paint one, or because I’ve heard a symphony, I can just sit down and compose one of my own. Yet just about all of us carry the expectation that we already know how to write a story.
After all, we’re taught to “write” in school, so by the time the idea of putting our own stories down on paper occurs to us, we’ve had years of practice, or so we have been led to believe. We’ve learned to put pencil to paper and end up with something resembling recognizable words. We’ve put down sentence after sentence on such stimulating topics as “What I Did For My Summer Vacation,” not to mention book reports, history reports, science reports, essays on current events, and so forth.
We get exposed to visual art—painting, sculpture, graphic design and the like—music, and storytelling from an early age. Even if we are not fortunate enough to experience these in live forms, we get bombarded by their images in television, films, and the Internet. I suspect the difference between writing (prose narrative) and other art forms is that we also use the same motions for other purposes. Going out on a limb here, I propose that if we sculpted our grocery lists or scored them for full orchestra, we might approach chiseling marble statues or composing a concerto for bassoon and orchestra with the same expectations of facility that we do when embarking upon our first novel. We’ve also most likely read—or had read to us—many, many stories. We’ve turned in all those school papers. How hard can it be to write a story?
Once we’ve got that question engraved in our minds, we fall prey to a number of fallacies. One is that we ought to be able to write a story without learning how. If it’s easy, then any semi-literate primate can do it. If we have difficulty, there must be something seriously wrong with us. Second, and more crippling, is that we compare our internal experience of attempting to write a story with the finished products we read. Or, worse yet, with our memory of those finished products. It’s been pointed out that “derivative” or “copy-cat” fiction (as an example, all t
he riffs on The Lord of the Rings) feels flat and gray because we can consciously recall only a portion of what’s in the original. The rest contributes to the vitality of the work, but doesn’t stick in that part of our memory that allows us to reproduce what we read. So we try to create a story based on the fragmented, incomplete, and biased memory of a work that has been through the editorial and publishing process. This is a recipe for frustration and failure.
Instead, a more helpful approach might be to first acknowledge that we don’t know exactly how to go about creating a written story. We need to learn some stuff, and we need to experiment and see what works and what doesn’t. We need to find out how we write, as distinct from how anyone else writes. We also need to know what we want to achieve, which is a fancy way of clarifying what it is we love when we read stories by other people and what we love about our own story ideas. This leads us to another crucial concept, which is that effective storytelling is not the same thing as transcribing that amazing movie showing within our own skulls onto paper. It’s evoking a similar (but not necessarily identical) experience in the mind of the reader. That’s how we get to where we want to go.
Now we’re ready to ask: what skills do I need? How do the writers I love do this? How will I know when I’m on track? We’ve become teachable, if only by our own experience. We’re on our way.
Return to Table of Contents
Negotiating with the Idea Fairy
Where do you get your ideas? According to a highly successful writer friend, the Idea Fairy leaves packets of them under our pillows. When I tell people this secret, it’s usually received with smiles. What’s not said, but what working writers all know, is that’s only one step in an entire process.
First, you have to invite the Idea Fairy into your life. Leaving out a glass of milk and a plate of cookies won’t do the trick in most cases. (You never know. That toy train story might lead to fame and fortune.) Creating a receptive state of mind includes recognizing those tentative sparks, even if you aren’t prepared at that moment to give them the attention they require to grow into fully fledged plot outlines. People vary in what suffices: for some, it might be a simple “wow, that’s cool” moment; for others, jotting down the thought or image on a paper napkin serves to reinforce the generation of ideas. Anything that says to your creative muse, “More, more!” will work.
“More”? Is this woman demented? Doesn’t she know I already have a queue of stories screaming at me to be written? The last thing I need is more!
No, the last thing you need is none. If you train yourself to ignore story ideas, the Idea Fairy will sadly pack up shop and go find a more welcoming host.
Second, you have to find a way to accept the gifts of the Idea Fairy, even when you cannot immediately use them. Acknowledge, yes. Promise the moon, certainly. Create a treasure-house of ideas, great. How about setting aside time, not necessarily huge chunks of it, for daydreaming about those ideas? It’s fine to have them appear in their packets under your pillow, but not so fine if you never give them a chance to grow. How will you know which ones will blossom into truly cool stories and which had better ferment a while longer? Besides, do you really want to spend all your time on stories you have already started (or are under contract and heavily outlined)? Unless you absolutely loathe coming up with new material, it’s helpful to carve out some play time.
Eventually, even the most die-hard I-must-finish-what-I-write advocate will find the time or market for something new. This leads to a third essential skill: the discernment of what size packets the Idea Fairy has bestowed.
Beginning writers often can’t recognize the difference between a novel-sized idea and a short-story-sized idea. That’s fine; for most of us, judgment comes with experience. It’s like sculpting wood. A dense hardwood can support an elaborate design, whereas balsa or pine is more suitable for simpler shapes. Sometimes an idea comes in such a compact, neat form that it begs to be a jewel-cut short story. Other times, it’s a keyhole glimpse of an enormous, gorgeously complex world.
I’ve been wrong in both directions—having what I thought was a short story explode into a novel, or else finding that the idea I wanted to flesh out into a novel was far more suited to a shorter length. My current project, an epic fantasy called The Seven-Petaled Shield, began as a series of short stories. I had so much fun playing in that world, I wanted to spend more time in it. To do so, I had to expand the original landscape and lines of conflict, but that’s another story.
With time and thought, most writers learn how to gauge the heft and strength of an idea. “I reckon that’s about 5,000 words,” “Nope, novelette,” “Looks like a short-short,” or “Sweet heaven, I’ve landed a trilogy!” Nothing creative is ever wasted. Stories mature in their own time.
I still make mistakes as stories take unexpected turns, both in what I need to include and in what must be cut. But the Idea Fairy and I have worked out a pretty good understanding. I never forget to say thank you. And the milk and cookies don’t hurt, either.
Return to Table of Contents
Warm Ups
Athletes, dancers, and musicians all know the importance of warming up before going all out in their particular activity. Raising body temperature and blood flow to muscles, tendons, and joints helps make them resilient, thereby reducing the risk of injury. Range of motion increases. In the case of hard physical exercise, the heart rate rises gradually from resting into the target range. Adrenaline and other hormones prepare both body and mind to work.
What about writing? Do writer warm up? Do writers need to warm up?
Yes and no. And maybe. Writing is and is not like running track or performing Swan Lake (either the musical score or the choreography!).
Some writers dive right into a day’s work. They champ at the bit, ready to boot up the computer or insert a piece of paper into their typewriters. Words don’t just flow, they gush like a creative geyser too long pent up.
Then there are the rest of us. We fiddle, we daddle. We surf the net. We answer emails. We wash the dog (don’t laugh, that chore—post close-encounter with a skunk—delayed the writing of this essay). We do anything and everything except put our fannies in the chair and our fingers to pen or keyboard.
Octavia Butler used to say that when she had difficulty writing, she did something she really hated. A class in accounting. Scrubbing toilets. Getting teeth cleaned. (I don’t remember what examples she gave, but you get the point.) Okay, you say to yourself, you have a choice. You can do X or you can write the next chapter. My sister, a visual artist, employs the same tactic. I know she’s in a slump when her house is inhumanly clean.
I suggest less-overwhelming alternative tactics to ease us over the inertia barrier. These things convey the likelihood that no matter how blank our minds are at the present moment, they will not remain so. Here are some things that have worked for me:
“Morning pages” from Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way. One or more pages of longhand scribble, content irrelevant. The point is to keep the hand moving, the words—however inane—coming.
The “all I have to do” game. All I have to do is read the last page/paragraph/chapter. Okay, now all I have to do is add one sentence. Good. All I have to do is one paragraph. One page . . . (Although usually by then I’m over the “hump”).
Work on something non-fiction. A blog, an article, an essay. A letter to a distant relative. This is tricky because it can also be a diversion. So limit it in length or time spent.
Enter in my writing journal what I hope to accomplish today and commit to recording how the day’s session went.
Read a critique I’ve written of someone else’s work.
Write a paragraph on a “secondary” work—something just for fun (fanfic works great for some people). Agree that once I’ve hit my serious-writing goal for the day, I get another fling at shameless wish-fulfillment self-indulgence.
Return to Table of Contents
Open Here
Author and forme
r literary agent Nathan Bransford lists five openings to think carefully about using. He specifically did not say you cannot create an effective beginning with them, only that they pose particular challenges. This is a good thing, because my reaction to “never” and “can’t” is “I love a challenge! I’ll show you!” Here’s his list of “Beware Beginnings:”
1. A character waking up.
2. A character looking in a mirror.
3. Extended dialog with insufficient grounding.
4. Action with insufficient grounding.
5. Character does X and, by the way, they’re dead. (I have never wanted to open a story this way, I suppose there’s a macabre, gotcha, Twilight Zone appeal to it; it’s really a stupid trick to play on the reader, and, as a reader, I would not give that author a second chance.)
The first two are variations of the “white room syndrome.” A character wakes up in a white room (and looks in a mirror). The white room or the empty room represents the blankness of the writer’s mind. So instead of staring at a blank computer screen or sheet of paper, we stare at an opening setting. The mirror also serves as a metaphor for the writer having no idea who this character is, where he is, or what he is doing.
Here’s the thing: I think these are perfectly good ways to begin a draft. Some writers are obsessive about working out every scene before they put it into words. They agonize over every sentence as they create it. Their first drafts are marvels of planning and precision.
I’m not one of them.
For me, a blank screen is like a glass mountain. It’s too hard and thick to push through and too slippery to climb. Putting almost any words on paper/screen is my key to unlock the hidden door. Almost always, I will discard those first few pages, that first scene. But I need to start somewhere, to overcome that inertia, to give me something to tear down. If I am willing to write an idiotic opening—character awakens in a white room with no memory of who she is until she looks into a mirror—and let the words come, let the character speak to me, let the scene unfold, then I will, by slow stages or amazing leaps, be led to something of value. The white room is an act of creative faith.
Ink Dance Page 1