Hi all. Chris Bigelow has provisionally agreed to publish No Going Backward, my novel about a gay Mormon teen coming out and coming of age, with Zarahemla Books. I’m looking for readers who would discount code united pharmacy be willing to look over the MS within a relatively short timeframe (my revised MS is due to Chris for editing by the end of April), in exchange for bribes, favors owed, baklava, what have you.
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My wife cleans one room at a time. This, she insists, is the normal, the sane way to clean a house. You start with one room, you pick things up, you sort things, and then you vacuum (or mop, as the case may be). And then you have a clean room.
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Think about what passes through your mind when you’re reading a story. Do you see pictures illustrating the various scenes? A movie, perhaps?
Most people have a largely visual response to written text. Some of us, however, are more auditorily inclined. In my case, when I read a story – or pretty much anything else for that matter – I hear a voice mentally narrating the words on the page. (Reading quickly makes the voice speed up, which may be one reason why I find skimming documents so intellectually draining.)
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Edward Gorey – in a marvelous little piece titled The Unstrung Harp; or, Mr Earbrass Writes a Novel – describes the conditions under which his protagonist writes: “Mr Earbrass belongs to the straying, rather than to the sedentary, type of author. He is never to be found at his desk unless actually writing down a sentence. Before this happens he broods over it indefinitely while picking up and putting down again small, loose objects; walking diagonally across rooms; staring out windows; and so forth. He frequently hums, more in his mind than anywhere else, themes from the Poddington Te Deum.”
I can’t claim to be quite so eccentric as Mr Earbrass. However, I will concede that one of the more baffling, indeed frustrating, elements of learning how to write has been trying to figure out what my own ideal writing circumstances are and then inventing ways to achieve them. Continue reading “The Writing Rookie #5: Conditions for Writing”
Here’s #4 in Jonathan Langford’s series The Writing Rookie. Don’t miss an awesome usage of the word ‘stroppier.’ ~Wm
Author’s Note: This is adapted from something I sent out as part of an occasional print-blog series that gets mailed to miscellaneous family and friends. Just so you know.
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Writing, it turns out, involves an astonishing amount of research. This isn’t just true for science fiction and fantasy — which I’ve known for a long time, thank you — but even for my current, mainstream Mormon novel, set (more or less) in a place where I grew up and in a time only 4 to 5 years in the past.
In the past, I’ve often thought of research not in terms of positives, what it contributes to the writing process, but rather in terms of what it prevents: i.e., the measures you take to make sure readers don’t think you’re an idiot. Last spring, I remember starting to write a scene where I was about to make one of my characters into a cross-country runner. Then I thought, I really ought to find out something about cross country. Like what time of the year people do it. And so I called up one of the teenagers in my ward who’s into athletics and eventually decided it wouldn’t work right for the plot role I wanted it to fill, and so I abandoned the notion. (Chad wound up playing soccer instead.) Continue reading “The Writing Rookie #4: R&R (Research and Recordkeeping)”
In this edition of Jonathan Langford’s guest column The Writing Rookie he describes a phenomenon I know well — it is an odd combination. ~Wm
Walking (I believe I once read) is a process of continually falling and catching oneself. Always, at every point in the process, we’re essentially off balance. What stability we achieve comes from the fact that the activity is continued over time, in a constant, ongoing transition from one unstable position to another.
That’s an image that’s occurred to me more than once over the past year in connection with my writing. No matter how much I write, it always feels like I’m a little bit off balance. It never actually gets comfortable. At the same time, there’s a certain impetus to it, a drive to do more each day. It’s an odd combination.
I remember back when I was around what’s now called middle school aged that I used to dislike essay tests because they were hard, even though I did well at them. The mental exertion involved in trying to come up with things to say seemed to me quite a sufficient reason to avoid writing when I could. It wasn’t until I was older that I started to value writing for the focus and clarity it provides to my thinking, the opportunity to explore ideas, the sense of satisfaction in successfully aligning words with intent–the feeling that in writing I am creating something, and that part of what I am creating is myself. Continue reading “The Writing Rookie #3: Off Balance”
Here it is — part two of Jonathan Langford’s writing rookie series. Wm
For the complete list of columns in this series, see here.
How quickly should you write, if you want to succeed as a writer? Answer: More quickly than I do.
One of the things I found dispiriting, back a few years ago when I first started trying to restart my creative writing, was just how slow things went. Every time I started writing a scene, it seemed like a hundred questions would pop up in my mind. Just how does one make candles anyway? What would a candlemaker’s shop be like? How big? What materials would they use? How many candlemakers would there be in a city of 20,000? Inquiring minds needed to know.
And that was just questions about the setting. Trying to figure out what to say, how to say it, what would happen next — it all added a toll. That slowness was probably the single largest reason why I gave up on that novel after a year or two.
So. Jump ahead to a little over half a year ago, when I started writing again — mostly little throwaway pieces that had the advantage of not actually needing any real research or advance plotting. Not surprisingly, these went much faster, though they also didn’t really go anywhere as stories. Case in point: a set of six one- to two-page conversations among middle schoolers written purely for my own amusement (since I can’t imagine any venue where they could be published). Composing them them was a bit like eating popcorn, one handful right after the other.
And then I dusted off a side-story to my fantasy novel, one I started six years ago and abandoned after 20 pages. It went well. It went relatively quickly, for one thing. I’d already put in a lot of the effort of creating the milieu, and the story I was trying to tell was relatively simple. 20,000 words later, I had me a novella.
And then I made what was probably the smartest decision I’ve made in a long while, relative to my writing: I didn’t try to go back to my “big” fantasy novel.
One of these days, maybe I’ll comment on the oddity of a wannabe fantasy author writing a mainstream Mormon novel. For now, though, suffice it to say that out of several projects I puttered with, that’s the one where I wound up putting my next major effort.
I’d had the basic idea for some time, though I thought of it mostly as a possible short story. Then I was struck with some ideas that might turn it into a novel. And so, after a few initial stutters, I got started — without a detailed outline, but with a basic sense of where I wanted the story arc to go and some of the main plot events on the way.
At first it went quickly. Then I showed it to a friend whose opinion I respect, and he pointed out some fairly substantial problems with what I’d written, including the fact that my teenage boys didn’t always sound like teenage boys, or at least not the same teenage boys I wanted them to be.
And so I went back and revised my early scenes, adjusting them in ways I hoped would make them work better. It was very slow going, since I was reconceptualizing conversations and events that I had already thought of once in a different way. Maybe it would have made more sense to keep pushing ahead instead of going back to the beginning, but I felt like I couldn’t do that, since knowing what had gone before would affect what came after. Besides, I felt like I had to make and stick to some fairly basic decisions about the nature and voice of my characters.
And then when I got back to writing new scenes, I found that my pace was slower than before. I’d sit for long moments, staring at the paragraph in front of me and wondering how to get the characters to say what I wanted them to say. Surely, I thought, if only I had a better grasp of my characters, dialogue would fly off my keyboard instead of being forced off one jerking phrase at a time. I also worried that composing it this way would make it sound just as uneven as the composing process was. But I didn’t seem able to make it go any faster.
And I would stop writing whenever I felt uncertain about what to write next, instead of pushing on and making something up — mostly because I’d found that the “make-it-up-as-you-go-along” approach took me down strange paths that had to be retraced later on. Given the negative impact on my writing morale — and thence on my writing output — when I’m exposed to negative feedback (including my own), I eventually decided it was worth taking a little more time during composition so that I’d be forced to hate my own writing just a little less.
(That’s three paragraphs in a row that started with “and.” Maybe there’s something to Orson Scott Card’s suggestion that as Mormon writers, long exposure to the Book of Mormon trains to us to think that all really true, profound, meaningful sentences have to begin with “and.”)
Mostly, I think it worked. But my writing was very slow for several months afterwards, and I very nearly gave it up completely.
Working on a story is a lot like taking care of a whiny child. It’s always there in the background, wanting a toy or a cookie or some chocolate milk and complaining that you didn’t fix its sandwich just right, and please let me watch just one more YouTube video before bedtime.
Okay, so maybe I got a little too much into that comparison. (Can you tell I’m a parent?) The point is, though, that once you invite a story into your mental space, I find it tends to nag at you if you don’t work on it. That’s what I probably owe for the fact that I didn’t actually quit writing, all that summer that I was bummed out over just how slowly my writing was going and how uncertain I was that it was going anywhere worthwhile.
Eventually, though — sometime in September when I finally realized that I was actually making progress on the thing — I decided there were some advantages to the way I’d been doing things.
First, there was the whole dialogue-thing. On rereading what I’d written since my big slowdown, I thought it genuinely had fewer problems than my first few chapters. Of course, I still need to get my first reviewer to look at my latest stuff and see if he agrees. But that’s my impression, anyway.
Second, I found that pausing every now and then gave an opportunity for more cool ideas to bubble up to the top for things that could go in my story.
Pause now for transition to Jonathan launching into an extended comparison…
See, writing is like a Christmas tree. (Bear with me here.) For any kind of writing, there’s the trunk: the main idea, thesis, or primary conflict. And then there are the branches: the main arguments, plot threads, etc.
But when it comes right down to it, the part of writing that wins the oohs and aahs is the ornaments: the shiny glittering details, insights, bits of conversation, memorable characters, vivid metaphors, and so forth. For a piece of literary criticism — the type of writing that first provoked me into developing this comparison — it’s the new insights you provide into the piece you’re critiquing. Who cares about the theory or underlying argument? Really, the main importance of the trunk and branches is to hold up the glittery bits, which are what we really care about. So long as they don’t snap off under the weight, we hardly even notice their existence. (As someone who came very close to becoming an English professor, I can say that this is far closer to the truth than many literary types would like to admit.)
Applying this to stories, it’s my theory that these ornaments (like Douglas Adams’s fiddly bits around the fjords) are a big part of what impresses us as readers, and thus a big part of what we as writers should be trying to provide. Dawdling along the way gave me more opportunities to go rummaging around for more shiny sparkly decorations to add to the tree.
I’m still hoping that I’ll get faster as this goes along, especially if I ever start writing fantasy. There’s a sense in the fantasy and science fiction universe that if you don’t publish fairly frequently, your name will drop out of sight. Certainly a book a year is the right pace for keeping interest in a fantasy series, or so it seems based on my observations.
At the same time, I don’t want to lose the hard-won lessons of my current experience — the most important being that simple persistence does in fact add up over time. Despite my slow pace and the weeks when I basically lost my nerve and did nothing, still six months after starting my novel, I’m at 50,000 words and halfway through my projected plot. So something seems to be working.
Now all I have to do is finish the darned thing… But that, once more, is a topic for another time.
Wm writes: I've been after Jonathan Langford off-and-on to guest post here at AMV. In the 10 years that I've been participating on the AML-List, Jonathan has been one of the most thoughtful, interesting contributors (he also moderated it for several years). So I am delighted to bring you the first post in his The Writing Rookie series. For the complete list of columns in this series, look here. Author's note: This is the first in what is intended to be a series of blog posts, issued at irregular intervals, describing some of the insights and mishaps I've encountered in attempting to get started with my own creative writing. Any inclination to view these insights as in any way authoritative should be tempered by the knowledge that thus far my efforts have been untainted (as it were) with publication success . . . I've spent a lot of my life not-writing, or at least not-writing stories. Back in late elementary school, I decided against a writing career, even though I loved to read. Even so, I spent a lot of time plotting out stories -- purely for my own entertainment, and as a kind of shared creative activity with my best friend. (Years later, my son did the same thing with his best friend. Now he's a math major, his songwriting and video game design purely a hobby -- or so he claims. Time will tell.) In college, I wound up running around with the science fiction and fantasy crowd: editing the student magazine, helping to run BYU's substitute for a science fiction convention, and even participating in the same writing group as Dave Wolverton, Shayne Bell, and others who have actually gone on to become published writers. Several people complimented me on my story critiquing and editing, though my actual creative output was always low. And then my career detoured, and instead of winding up as an English professor I became a freelance writer and editor, mostly in the field of educational technology. For health insurance and a more steady income, there was my wife's job as a math professor. For creative stuff, I participated on AML-List, wrote Christmas newsletters (I'm told that my "future projections" newsletter -- describing the accomplishments our family would like to be able to brag about in the coming year -- is a classic of its kind), and produced various other musings for the amusement of my family and friends. When that wasn't enough, I cooked (and gained weight). And the thought of creative writing receded further and further into the background. And then I woke up one day -- strangely near my 40th birthday -- and it was like a timer had gone off. "Ding! Okay Jonathan, time to write." Continue reading "The Writing Rookie #1: Why We Write; or, Jonathan Runs Out of Excuses"