Pep Talks for Writers Read online

  Art is fundamentally an act of exposure. An artist opens the closets, dares to go into the dark basements, and rummages through the attics of our souls.

  Each sentence, each paragraph, each story holds its own particular demand of bravery. So push the limits of your prose as much as James Joyce, or create fantastical universes that rival Octavia Butler’s. Just as a robber breaks into a bank, it’s your job to pick the locks of the human soul. Use everything, even doubt, to tell your story. By doing so, you won’t find shame—you’ll find enlivening connection. People will appreciate your moxie and your generosity. They’ll applaud you for telling their story, the one they can’t tell themselves.

  TRY THIS

  RISK OPENNESS

  Attune yourself to those moments when you’re hindered. Pause to identify the niggling and naysaying voices within yourself. Ask yourself these questions: Are you evading a truth in your story? Are you shying away from subjects that make you uncomfortable, subjects that might draw attention to yourself and make you feel exposed?

  23

  FAIL OFTEN . . . FAIL BETTER

  No one knows how to fail quite like a writer. Each day brings with it wrong turns, doubts, swaths of deletions, and endless rejiggerings. There’s an inherent chasm between the book in your mind and the one you manage to get onto paper. It’s difficult not to measure your words against an ideal of your vision, not to mention the works of your favorite authors, so your words inevitably resist singing in the way you want them to.

  You might actually say writing is a special training ground of failure. “Writing is frustration—it’s daily frustration, not to mention humiliation. It’s just like baseball: you fail two-thirds of the time,” said Philip Roth, who, despite all his whiffs, won such awards as the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize.

  Perhaps fail isn’t quite the right word, though. The word fail is fraught with negativity, catastrophe, and downright shame, but failure, especially in writing, isn’t necessarily any of those things. In fact, failure is the breeding ground of innovation.

  How so, you say?

  Consider Thomas Edison’s approach to failure: “I have not failed, I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work.”

  Edison didn’t celebrate failure for failure’s sake, but rather failing as a way to test an idea, learn from it, and move on to the next experiment. Creative thought is inherently a trial-and-error process, an immersion in a series of failed associations, and it’s often only in the darkest realm of frustration when the “Aha!” of a creative solution emerges.

  Samuel Beckett famously wrote, “Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.” This notion to fail better is fascinating to ponder. It’s a Zen koan of sorts that demands individual interpretation.

  For me, to fail better is an invitation to experiment, to pause and truly scrutinize your story in a rigorous and demanding way. The trick to making good mistakes is to embrace them, turn them over in your mind, and even search them out. Are you holding back from what’s truly at stake in your story? Are you being too nice to your characters? Have you allowed yourself to truly push your language?

  Or perhaps you’re suffering from the dreaded notion of the right way to do things, which has plagued many a writer. With all the how-to-write books available, it’s easy to think that you need to write your story correctly, according to others’ rules, as if all stories conform to a formula. But in the end this is your story. You have to write it your way. Think of the mistakes you’re bound to make as adventures—as your friend who asks you to walk home from school a different way, a travel companion who convinces you to go to a town off the tourist track, a confidante who listens to the risks you dream of taking. “There is no poetry where there are no mistakes,” said Joy Harjo. Every failed sentence, paragraph, or chapter is essential. You have to go in unknown directions sometimes; you have to find a way to be comfortable with uncertainty; you have to rid yourself of the fear of failure.

  Imagine if Vincent van Gogh feared that people would see his paintings as messy smudges of color instead of vibrant representations of his fiery spiritual state? Van Gogh had to go through Edison’s 10,000 experiments to master his groundbreaking approach. He painted thousands of paintings, averaging a painting a day. “To be good—many people think that they’ll achieve it by doing no harm—and that’s a lie . . . That leads to stagnation, to mediocrity,” said Van Gogh.

  So failing better is just openness, the desire to see, and in seeing to learn, to begin again, always. That is where the joy of life and creativity reside—in the constant testing, the constant searching. Failing better is an attitude of always moving forward, of looking around the next corner. It’s a mindset of not looking for rules, but of following one’s curiosity and wonder. It’s a mentality of fun, of self-reflection, of privileging the integrity and unique personality of your story.

  Failing worse is failing from a lack of effort or a lack of verve. Failing worse is comparing yourself to other people’s talent or accomplishments and deeming yourself on the short side of things. Failing worse is not testing the limits of what’s possible.

  So become accustomed to failure. Writing through failure in the search of beauty is what makes writers such a rare breed. We’ve chosen to practice an art that is so challenging that it can feel damning. We’re so often alone with our words, writing without much approbation, but even as our words fizzle, even as our plots falter, we show up to fix things, to experiment and fix, experiment and fix, again and again. We know that with enough tinkering, with enough alchemy, we can turn straw into gold and capture the elusive beauty of the story at hand. We can fail better.

  TRY THIS

  MAKE AN AMAZING MISTAKE

  Think about this Neil Gaiman quote: “Now go, and make interesting mistakes, make amazing mistakes, make glorious and fantastic mistakes. Break rules. Leave the world more interesting for your being here. Make good art.” How can you make a mistake today? Do it just for the heck of it and see where it leads.

  24

  CREATIVITY AS AN ACT OF DEFIANCE

  One of the most difficult things in life is to declare yourself as . . . yourself.

  Among the first questions people ask when they meet each other is, “What do you do for a living?” or “Where are you from?” Humans have a deep-seated need to swiftly put people into a neat category and place them safely in a box. To be from Peoria puts you in a different category than if you’re from New York City. To be a lawyer puts you in a different category than if you’re a waiter.

  We act out these categories to some extent as well, even though we’re so much more than those check boxes of identity: teacher, student, plumber, doctor, mother, son. We adopt a persona for the role we have and wear different masks as the situation demands. Our roles can certainly feel comfortable and true enough, especially the more we become habituated to them, but they aren’t necessarily the definition of who we are.

  There aren’t many opportunities to tell the world—and yourself—that you’re a writer, that you spend hours in your non-persona time conjuring weird and scary tales, putting decent human beings in situations fraught with peril, painting pages with descriptions of other worlds, and penning dialogue that snarls with subtext. In order to feel the full strength of our creativity, I believe at some point we have to be defiant—defiantly ourselves, you might say. We have to declare, “I am a writer”—say it proudly and loudly, say it with grandiosity and verve, I AM A WRITER—and accept the circumstances of living in whatever Outsiderdom befalls us.

  Then we have to go even one step further. Being a writer carries with it its own assortment of masks. (What genre do you write in? Who are your favorite authors? Do you have an MFA?) We have to ask ourselves who we are as writers—what rules do we want to follow, and what rules do we want to break? “Literature is strewn with the wreckage of men who have minded beyond reason the opinion of others,” Virginia Woolf wrote in A Room of One’s Own.

  We
don’t want to be the writers others make us out to be. An artist is by definition a menace to conformity. The underlying purpose of deciding to write is to bring forth this mysterious and sacred gift within ourselves, to touch, revere, and express the truth of the way we see this crazy world. If you put your story in a cage of others’ rules, your imagination will always reside behind bars. Prescriptions are a creative trap, so shed the tribalism of your stated genre and just be a storyteller. Put up your dukes and jeopardize any habituated expectations and assumptions. The imagination is always subversive. It’s always seeking to know reality, take it further, transform it. Steel yourself to be resilient, defiant, and cunning. “We are making birds, not birdcages,” said the poet Dean Young.

  There’s nothing sacred about any narrative rule. Our art—the very way we tell stories—needs to challenge format, style, subject matter, and more. A creator needs to push against boundaries to take risks and innovate. There is an insurgency, an insurrection within us all, so dare to ask impertinent questions. In fact, I think rebelling against the rules is actually an act of love and reverence for your voice. Pushing up against the supposed gatekeepers of taste can strengthen resolve.

  When you do so, you risk inviting the naysayers in, of course. “The world in general disapproves of creativity,” said Isaac Asimov, and that’s because creativity disrupts the norms of the status quo. Defiance isn’t an easy thing; it’s a lonely pursuit. So many people love saying, “That’s not the way we do things,” or “We’ve always done it this way,” and if you listen to them, you’ve decided to live by their rules, whether it’s the rules of storytelling or of life. Is that why you’ve decided to write a novel—to follow another’s rules?

  The world gives little approbation to those who choose to be artists. You’re questioned, scrutinized, and sometimes even looked at with disdain. This feeling can make a writer want to go into hiding when just the opposite is necessary. Let your candle burn, and even pour gasoline over it if necessary. A writer needs to create with an outlaw sheen to boldly escape the snares of others’ expectations.

  The anthropologist Margaret Mead was known to keep all her hate mail in a drawer. When she needed a boost, she would read the letters to spark her dissenting energy. Simply because so many are going to tell you no, you have to find a way to turn that no into a yes—to fight against it, make it into a motivator, a source of inspiration and resilience. Nourishing your inner spitfire will help you develop a strong sense of self, to be less concerned about what others think and more focused on what you think.

  Get on that motorcycle in your mind and rev up the engine. Do a wheelie, burn some rubber, and write your story.

  This means that sometimes you’ll have to rebel against your artistic mentors, your teachers, even your favorite authors. If you work within the prisms they hand you, you’ll be tweaking and refining and tinkering within a confined space, marching in lockstep with everyone else, feeling their cadence, not your own. The most original contributions have rarely, if ever, come from the desire to please the crowd.

  So put on your black leather jacket, whether literally or figuratively. Get on that motorcycle in your mind and rev up the engine. Do a wheelie, burn some rubber, and write your story. That chip on your shoulder is worth nourishing because you’ll need it.

  TRY THIS

  REBEL

  Reflect on those moments where people have dismissed or disrespected your writing pursuits. Did you shrink? Did you defer? Did you become silent? Think about ways to rebel—to defy the expectations they’re setting for you. Commit the crime of being yourself.

  25

  YOU ARE WHAT YOU WEAR

  It might seem odd to discuss fashion in a book about writing, but trust me on this one. Especially if you’re the type of writer who wears flannel pajama pants, dinosaur slippers, and a cuddly but tattered sweatshirt that you’ve worn for 63 straight days when you write. (Believe me, I’ve got my own version of this outfit.)

  Writing—because you do it alone and behind closed doors—allows for a certain slovenliness. You don’t have to brush your hair or take a shower. You don’t have to change out of your pajamas. Your characters can’t see you to judge your authorial attire (or lack of one), and you can even argue that by not getting all gussied up you’re maximizing your writing efficiency (especially if you skip a shower as well).

  What you wear can actually alter how you interact with the world. Psychologists conducted a study where some people wore a white lab coat and others wore a white painter’s coat to see how it affected their mindset. Guess what? Those who wore the lab coat showed heightened attention and focus; they embodied the gravitas and acumen of a good doctor. By simply wearing the coat, they essentially entered into a game of pretend, and their mind transformed itself into a different state. Clothes wear us as much as we wear clothes, you might say.

  The same thing goes for authorial attire. If you can tell who a person is by their shoes, it’s time to wear the shoes, the beret, or the bangles that make you feel like the kind of author you want to be.

  Authors throughout the ages have created signature styles that infused their words with a particular pizzazz and personality. You can’t read the dalliances of Tom Wolfe’s prose without thinking of him in his dandy white suit. George Sand wore men’s clothes because she said they gave her greater freedoms in the 1800s, and her stories expanded into greater liberties as a result. Anaïs Nin accented her pencil-thin black eyebrows and dark lips with lace headdresses, thick dangling earrings, and flowing madras dresses to embody a mysterious, bohemian persona. Oscar Wilde’s wit flourished in capes, ascots, fur-lined coats, broaches, canes, pinstriped pants, tilted hats, and double-breasted suits.

  We’re told to push our stories to their extremes, so push the boundaries of your writing wardrobe into your own bravura style and dress with flair and panache. Do you conceive of yourself as an artsy, mysterious scribe? Then wear a gauzy scarf and a flowing tunic. A more scholarly type? Don a rumpled jacket and tortoiseshell glasses. Steampunk? Bustle yourself in a corset and gown, put on a waistcoat and a top hat, and pull down your goggles to plunge into your retrofuturistic tale.

  Put away your dinosaur slippers. It’s time to dress the part of the author you want to be (and shower if need be).

  TRY THIS

  DRESS LIKE THE AUTHOR YOU WANT TO BE

  What’s one article of clothing that gives you magical writing powers? Wear it. How does dressing the part of an author change your self-perception?

  26

  WHERE YOU WORK MATTERS

  Writing is so much about finding the right mood to create. Many factors go into this, of course, but one that we have the most control over is the space where we write. The spaces we occupy shape our thoughts, our feelings, and our imaginations, so it’s important to make your writing space a sanctuary that invites your creativity in each day, a space where you feel the pulse, the scent, and the light of your inspiration.

  When I was a boy, my mother bought me a child-sized roll-top desk. It was my first desk, and I was as proud of it as I’ve ever been of anything. I remember carefully selecting different objects to place on the desk—a porcelain statue of a dog, a toy antique cannon that my grandmother had given me, a mug to put pens in. Perhaps I’d seen desks on TV shows that were decorated with objects, and I thought this was what was required. I don’t know, but ever since then, I’ve collected an assortment of random totems that act as inspirational cues, motivating me in some ineffable and mysterious way. They’re there for me each day, my little creative companions.

  A writer’s trinkets, totems, and tchotchkes are numens that possess a magical aura, as if they were inhabited by a spirit. Roald Dahl wrote in a shed that included two desks with an assortment of carefully arranged trinkets, photos, and objects—including part of his own hip bone that had been removed (or so it was said). Jack Kerouac decorated his desk with a tiny plastic bride and groom that topped his wedding cake, an incense burner, and a miniature mo
del of a Triumph motorcycle.

  Some writers like streams of natural light, while others prefer a shadowy darkness. Some like stacks of papers, while others can’t think without a clean and uncluttered surface. Joyce Carol Oates believes there is an interplay between what we see and what we write. “There is surely some subtle connection between the vistas we face and the writing we accomplish, as a dream takes its mood and imagery from our waking life.”

  A writer’s trinkets, totems, and tchotchkes are numens that possess a magical aura.

  Because Oates’s earliest memories are of the fields and woods of her childhood, her writing room replicates the lost vistas of her childhood, looking down upon the slope of her backyard which leads to a creek that flows into a lake. “Like all writers, I have made my writing room a sanctuary of the soul,” she says.

  Edwidge Danticat constructs her sanctuary by surrounding herself with faces—paintings and photographs of intriguing faces that she tears from magazines to borrow distinctive features and gestures for her characters.

  But art, trinkets, and views don’t work for every writer. Jonathan Franzen wrote The Corrections at a simple desk in a stark room with nothing on it but a laptop computer that was unconnected to the internet. His approach was so severely monastic that he not only wore earplugs, but noise-cancelling headphones that piped white noise to make sure noises didn’t distract him.

  I’ve always had a dream of living in a house where I could have a large office all to myself lined with books in dark walnut bookshelves, overlooking vistas similar to those Oates gazes upon. I wanted a large desk where I could spread out my papers and books among my various writing totems, a chalkboard where I could sketch out plots and character profiles, and a leather couch where I could occasionally recline to read or write by longhand. I live in relatively cramped quarters, though, with children who can at times seem like invaders, so I don’t have such an idyllic space and probably never will.