Pep Talks for Writers Read online

  There are many other prompts you can use. I’ve always been a letter writer, so l sometimes mine my memory for the odd characters who have passed through my life (real or fictional) and have them write a letter to me, to their mother, or to a lover from long ago. The letter is similar to Bradbury’s pensée—it’s an exploration that turns into a story.

  I know of a writer who looks for random photos on the Internet and writes tiny stories about the situation and characters in the photo. I know of another author who chooses a person in his life who is on his mind and makes a list of what is similar and different about each of them, and what bugs him about the other person (an entry point into story conflict).

  Exercises like these don’t have to be only focused on creating a new story idea. You might do something similar to warm up each day, just to get the pen moving on the page, or when you arrive at a patch of quicksand in your novel. Writing exercises can take you out of your usual frame, and sometimes the frame of the story is what holds it back most. The nice thing about prompts like these is that they feel like throwaway writing, so the pressure is diminished, and you can try something wild. Exercises also teach that much of writing happens on the fly. The conductor isn’t always waving his or her wand to orchestrate the symphony’s sounds. It’s good to chase your own notes, without direction. Let your ideas lead the way.

  TRY THIS

  CONJURE A STORY

  Just as Bradbury did, brainstorm nouns, “alert your secret self,” write any old word that wants to jump out of your nerves onto the page, and then look for a pattern or motif between the nouns. Did you find a story line that might feed into your novel, or an entirely new story?

  10

  BUILDING A CREATIVE COMMUNITY

  We writers tend to be solitary creatures. We sit in the penumbra of the light at our desks, anguishing over the inertia of a plot, crumbling up pieces of paper, biting our fingernails, and hoping that the next cup of coffee will deliver more inspiration than jitters.

  Or that is how we often think of ourselves. And it’s true, a lot of actual writing tends to happen in solitude. But what often goes overlooked is that most writers’ work is actually spawned and supported by a creative community.

  Take C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien. When they first met, they were just two men with a “writing hobby,” as Lewis put it. They loved to talk about Nordic myths and epics, but they knew their colleagues in the Oxford English department wouldn’t give their fanciful tales any critical gravitas, so they met regularly at a pub to imbibe pints and stories. As they shared their writing more and more, they met other writers who felt like outsiders as well, so they formed the Inklings, a group of writers who were searching with “vague or half-formed intimations and ideas,” as Tolkien wrote. The themes that would later appear in Lewis and Tolkien’s books first emerged during the Inklings’ weekly discussions. Tolkien said Lewis’s “sheer encouragement” was an “unpayable debt.” “He was for long my only audience. Only from him did I ever get the idea that my ‘stuff’ could be more than a private hobby.”

  Our culture celebrates the notion of a solitary heroic ideal, rugged self-starters who meet challenges and overcome adversity, whether it’s the sports star who leads his or her team to victory or the scientist who cures a deadly disease. Solitude no doubt plays an important element in writing, but if you trace the history of literature, you realize how it takes a veritable village to write a book. Hemingway fed off the creative energy of Paris in the 1920s, not to mention the writing advice of Gertrude Stein and Sherwood Anderson. (And what would Gertrude Stein have been without Alice B. Toklas?) Langston Hughes and Zora Neale Hurston defined their unique voices alongside each other as leading figures of the Harlem Renaissance. Kerouac, Ginsberg, Burroughs, and the rest of the Beats tumbled, bounded, and danced through their words as if they were an improv group riffing through a scene—creating each other as they created themselves.

  Frissons of creativity tend to happen with others. Think about your own life. I bet there are dozens of people who have guided you along your path, whether it’s a teacher who praised a story or drawing, a family friend who opened your eyes to new books, or a babysitter who thrilled you with scary tales before bed.

  Finding like-minded creative friends is important for those seminal imaginative sparks to catch fire. “None of us is as smart as all of us,” the saying goes. An initial idea grows through the interchange of ideas, with one idea sparking another idea—and then the light bulb of inspiration glows. Think of a jazz group, where individual musicians riff on a melodic theme. They don’t necessarily know where the song is going. The group has the ideas, not the individual musicians, but unexpected insights emerge, and a beautiful new song flows from the group. When you work with others, you’re naturally combining an assortment of different concepts, elaborating and modifying each others’ thoughts.

  Meeting regularly to write with others or get feedback is important not just for your creativity, though; it also keeps you accountable. Think about it. Are you more likely to stop writing when your plot plays dead while alone at home or in a room full of other writers? And, unless you come from a family of writers, it’s unlikely that your family will have any idea what you’re talking about when you mention that you fear your main character is a cliché or that you’re worried about the pace of your plot. They’ll mention things like going to business school, or helping with the evening dinner. Only your fellow writers can understand why you haven’t showered, or why you’re more concerned about a character lost in the space-time continuum than your own lack of sleep.

  As Bill Patterson, a NaNoWriMo writer from New Jersey, likes to say, “Writing is a solitary activity best done in groups.” Completing such an arduous task is just plain easier with others rooting you on. Your writing community can be a goad, a check, a sounding board, and a source of inspiration, support, and even love. There’s a reason it’s difficult to beat the home team in sports: they have an extra teammate, the crowd.

  Every novel is defined by the community of writers it belongs to. A novel isn’t written solely by its author; it’s also a work of the people surrounding and supporting the author. Think of all the people who support you creatively, and remember to celebrate the gift of their collaboration and seek them out in times of need.

  TRY THIS

  STRENGTHEN YOUR WRITING COMMUNITY

  Engage in a writing group. Either join a site like NaNoWriMo and enter the conversation with writers online, or invite your writing buddies to form a writing group that meets regularly in person.

  11

  AN ARTISTIC APPRENTICESHIP

  In biographies of famous artists, there’s almost always a key person who mentored them at a pivotal moment, whether formally or informally. Finding a good mentor is as rare and special as falling in love, a fairy tale of sorts. We all want that singular sage to drop into our life, recognize our talent, and then offer the crucial bits of guidance that will lift us to the next level.

  Sherwood Anderson persuaded William Faulkner to write novels instead of poems, and also suggested he write about the region of Mississippi where he was raised. Isaac Asimov befriended Gene Roddenberry and ended up helping him work out the characterizations of Spock and Kirk. Nora Ephron mentored Lena Dunham, guiding her not just in the making and business of art, but even in the selection of clothing to wear on a film set.

  “Colleagues are a wonderful thing—but mentors, that’s where the real work gets done,” said the author Junot Diaz, who found a mentor in Toni Morrison.

  A significant part of the “real work” doesn’t revolve around craft advice, but discovering the vibrancy and validity of one’s creative self. Sherman Alexie was aimlessly drifting through his studies at Washington State University when he randomly took a poetry workshop with Alex Kuo that changed his entire notion of himself. One line, by the Paiute poet Adrian C. Louis, particularly struck Alexie: “I’m in the reservation of my mind.” Alexie said it never occurred to him that
a reservation Indian could speak out and be heard. Kuo nurtured Alexie’s voice, modeling an engagement with literature and a political commitment that guides Alexie’s work to this day. “He was a father figure, and everybody wants to please their daddy,” said Alexie.

  It’s not easy to find such a figure, though. I’ve always envied such artistic relationships, and wondered how to form one. I once sent a fan letter to a favorite author along with a few chapters from my novel, hoping I would find the perfect reader. I received a short note in response, a few lines of advice typed on a scrap of paper. I now view the letter as a wonderful act of generosity from such a writer, but at the time I was disappointed that we didn’t strike up a friendship of some sort. Likewise, I had several good writing teachers, and I hoped one of them would turn into that trusted kindred spirit who would meet with me for coffee and offer me warm and cozy wisdom, if not introductions to their editors and agents. Alas, as helpful as they were, they didn’t truly step into a mentorship role, perhaps because they had many other students, and they needed time for their own writing and life as well.

  We all need someone who helps open the door to a bolder, truer vision of ourselves.

  It’s not easy to find someone who not only has lessons to impart, but enjoys imparting them with generosity and helpfulness. Someone who tells you the things you need to hear, not just what you want to hear. Someone who tells you not only what they did, but why they did it, including stories of wrong decisions, bumble-headed hubris, insecurities, and doubts. Someone who makes you comfortable enough to share your own dreams and foibles. In the end, finding a good mentor isn’t necessarily about someone who works their contacts to put you in touch with their agent or editor, but someone who enriches your life by sharing their experiences in a truthful and meaningful way. Someone who wants to connect.

  So, think about who might be a mentor to you. Write that letter to your favorite author or invite a professor or wise writer to coffee in the hopes of developing a meaningful connection. But if a deeper relationship doesn’t form, be grateful for whatever wisdom you can glean.

  Also, in lieu of finding a live, breathing person as your mentor, I’ve found that some of the best mentorships in my life have been the imagined ones I have with my favorite authors. One of the benefits of fandom, after all, is immersing oneself in the study of another’s work and life in all of its details. I read their work, their bios, their letters, their interviews, and if they’re living, I connect with them on social media to follow the more spontaneous nature of their thoughts, and perhaps even reach out to them. I listen to their advice, and I view my work through their eyes—I write for them, as Alexie did with Kuo. This person becomes my muse, my friend, my advisor, even in abstentia.

  We all need someone who helps open the door to a bolder, truer vision of ourselves. Think about the people in your life, and see if you can turn to anyone for such assistance, or even for just a single cup of coffee.

  TRY THIS

  FIND YOUR INNER MENTOR

  Do you have a mentor or have you been a mentor? What opportunities are there in your life to take on either role? What do you gain by helping others? How can you apply that kind of support to your daily practice of writing? Write a letter from your mentor to yourself giving artistic advice.

  12

  GETTING FEEDBACK

  Most people agree that one gets better in any endeavor with good feedback, and that might apply especially to writing. A story is layered with so many elements, so many nuances and complexities, that it’s often difficult for a writer to truly know how everything is working—if a scene is off-key, if a character needs to be more defined, if the pacing flows or plods—without a perceptive and generous reader’s critique. Somebody once told me feedback was the breakfast of champions, and it’s true: at its best, feedback can be energizing and nourishing, and deepen your creative experience. But feedback can also be damning. It can be laden with snarky comments that sting your spirit and paralyze your creative urges.

  Every writer’s relationship to feedback is complicated. When I first decided to become a writer, I eagerly gave a draft of a story to a good friend and awaited his feedback, which I assumed would be along the lines of “genius!”

  I didn’t hear from him for a while, so I called him, and when he didn’t mention the story at all, I asked him if he’d read it.

  “Yes,” he said, leaving it at that.

  “And what did you think?” I asked, to force the issue.

  “I’m your friend,” he said, “but I didn’t ask to be your critic.”

  I was taken aback at first, but as I thought about it, he was right. He didn’t ask to read my work. I’d essentially foisted it on him. Just because he was a smart person and we often talked about the novels we’d read, I shouldn’t have assumed that he’d eagerly read my work and offer to be a critic, supporter, and celebrant.

  Still, I wanted feedback, and I didn’t know who to ask (which has been a persistent question for me since then). What I didn’t realize at the time was that I also didn’t know what to ask for—and how to receive feedback when I got it.

  In this age of burgeoning MFA programs, writing communities, and online workshops, there’s an attitude that feedback goes along with writing, almost in tandem with pen and paper, but I’ve grown to realize that every writer is different and needs different types of feedback at different stages—and sometimes no feedback at all (a controversial claim to some).

  I’ve personally walked the gamut of feedback. I’ve received rounds of critiques from a room full of writers in a workshop; I’ve been part of writers’ groups where I had to show something to my group once a month; and I’ve worked my way through the slashing (but usually helpful) marks of an editor’s pen. It took me a long time to truly figure out what type of feedback I needed—and when.

  I realized that I’m the type of person who tries to figure out the story as I write it, and if other voices intrude, it affects my vision for the story. So I don’t receive any feedback early in the process, sometimes not for several drafts, and sometimes not at all (a good writer becomes a good editor of his or her own work over time). On the other hand, some people love showing their writing early in the process. I know one writer who likes to talk through a novel idea even before she puts words on the page, and another writer friend shows his partner his writing literally as the printer prints it. They’re galvanized by others’ input, and the idea of showing their work motivates them to write.

  Sometimes you need a huzzah of approbation, but unless my story is a finished, published story, I want to know what’s working and what’s not working. I want a rigorous analysis, even if it might make me a little uncomfortable. I find that it can be helpful to provide a framework of questions for readers to help get the type of feedback I want. I generally just ask a few big questions:

  What things are working well and what things are not? Why is that?

  What would you cut? What would you add?

  If this was your piece, how would you revise it?

  The traditional writing workshop model is formed around the practice of an entire class of students giving their critiques while the writer listens in a prison of silence, and then at the end of all of the critiques the writer can ask questions or respond. This framework was developed to limit a writer’s defensiveness and to negate the influence that a writer’s explanation off the page might have. That’s fine, but I like feedback sessions to be more of a conversation, a back-and-forth of questions. Sitting and listening with your lips zipped shut by the strictures of writerly law always felt horribly uncomfortable and stilted to me.

  It definitely can be challenging to receive feedback, though, and perhaps even more challenging to interpret it. Sometimes the feedback is more about the person giving it—his or her pet peeves and obsessions—than it is about you and your story. Or sometimes it’s just downright snide. It’s easy to get defensive, but always try to view criticism as about the writing, not you the writer.
Assume best intentions. People might express their critique in a hurtful way, but they’re usually trying to help. Sometimes awkwardly, sometimes inappropriately, but they’re trying. Don’t look for the judgment part of feedback; look for the kernel of help. If you’ve given it to several people, then you can get a better handle on this: if five people say the ending doesn’t work, then you should probably reflect on the ending and decide if it needs to be changed.

  Unfortunately, getting negative, misguided, spiteful, or wrong-headed criticism is practically a rite of passage. Remember that every great writer throughout history has received such criticism. “I would advise anyone who aspires to a writing career that before developing his talent he would be wise to develop a thick hide,” said Harper Lee.

  Negative criticism can make you stronger, though. Just as a fire that burns down a forest isn’t bad—the fire clears the brush for new vegetation growth—negative criticism can do the same for you. It can clear the brambles that smother an unseen sprout. No one has ever died from negative feedback. Sometimes they’ve been held back, or they’ve felt crippled. When you give your work to another, you’re making yourself vulnerable, so it’s easy to be wounded. But then the need to write returns—that passionate, deep need that can’t be denied—the need to give your story to a reader and connect in that beautiful, mysterious way. You have to write, negative criticism or not, because that is who you are. You may not choose the feedback you get, but you do get to choose what to do with it.

  TRY THIS

  CREATE A FEEDBACK PLAN

  What’s the best feedback you’ve received? What about the worst? What were the key differences? Did they change who and how you asked for feedback on your work now? Does feedback serve you best early in your process or when you have a finished draft? Decide on your personal feedback needs, and then think about how to build that into your creative process.