Why Do You Write?

There are many reasons to write, and so many of us do it without thinking. The cards, recipes, emails, IMs, twitters, and shopping lists are but a few of the scribbles or button punches we make throughout the day. But that's not the kind of writing I'm talking about. You knew that.

Why do I write? Why do I world build and character mold and plot thicken? What draws me back, time and time again, to the screen and keyboard?

Could it be the life style? I can picture myself now, dapper sweater layered over turtleneck and lean velvet skirt, hair fanned out down my back like mahogany jewelry. A svelte laptop slung on a battle-worn table, the coffee rings scored deep into the wooden grain. A world-weary gaze settled oh-so-importantly on my brow...

Um no. Not me. I need privacy and silence to write.

Could it be the money? I won't even bother. Nathan did it for us already. I excerpted the bit below, but check out the post yourself.

Start with a $24.95 hardcover:

$12.48 to the bookseller (50%)

$9.98 to the publisher (50% minus author/agent share)

$2.12 to the author (10% of retail minus 15%)

$0.38 to the agent (15% of 10%)

Not a huge motivator in my world. Or any world.

Could it be the prestige? "You're an author? Really? Have you written anything I would have read? Oh. Guess not. Hey, would you speak to my daughter's class? You'd be an awesome show-and-tell."

You guessed it. Probably not.

I write because I must. Because when I'm not writing, it's what I think about. Even when I'm walking or driving or talking to people, I'm dissecting and planning and revising. It's second nature. It's in the blood. But not in a bad way. I don't foam at the mouth or sink into monosyllabic utterances when denied writing time. I don't pout or throw temper tantrums. It's simply what I prefer to do with my time and energy...and it's what makes me feel the most fulfilled. I've never known anything quite like it.

And you? Why do you write? It's for the money, I bet. Or not :)

Writer's Retreat in the Grand Southwest

A Room of Her Own Foundation is sponsoring a writer's retreat for women this coming August 10-16, 2009. The deadline is fast approaching, so if you're interested, get you're on-line application in by midnight, March 5th.

IF the idea of wandering the grounds of Georgia O'Keeffe's Ghost Ranch in Abiquiu, New Mexico isn't enough to inspire you, maybe the fact that you'll be discussing the craft of writing with professionals in the publishing field will. Joining the retreat this year will be Rita Dove, Pulitzer-prize winner and former U.S. Poet Laureate, so get your applications in!

The Write Ingredients

Every high school freshman knows the criteria for a story by heart. Without characters, setting, and plot, you have nothing. "Without conflict," I always add, "you have nothing." But that's because they're freshmen; you already know that.

Gavin of Mechanical Hamster writes, "Every scene - every scene - needs to contribute something to all three of these story elements." This started me to thinking. And reflecting. And researching.

Let's look at Poe, master of horror, and his short story "The Tell-Tale Heart." The story is no doubt familiar to you: the narrator murders an old man because of his 'vulture eye' and then confesses the murder to the police because he imagines hearing the dead man's beating heart. I've chosen the second and fourth paragraphs of the story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture --a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees --very gradually --I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.

To say that this scene furthers characterization is to put it mildly. Never have I been more completely convinced that a narrator is obsessive-compulsive, paranoid, or insane. The scene also furthers plot. Plainly. He's going to kill the old man. Now we know where the story is going.

A paragraph in a later scene reads: I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back --but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.

Characterization-wise, we know that the narrator is not only insane but giddy with his evil, his own daring. He not only worries about what others think, but he's intent upon proving how courageous he is. He is also aware of the old man's fear of 'robbers'. As for setting, not only are we in a bedroom with fastened shutters, but we are in a thick, black as pitch darkness.

There is something to this layering of each scene with character, plot, and/or setting. I'm not certain I agree that every scene needs to include all three pillars, but it's true that every scene should further the cause of at least two of them.

My research is not ending here with Poe. I shall continue combing through stories and books I love. But what do you do in your own writing? Do you consciously seek to include all three of these elements in every scene? Or do you leave that for revising? Or do you just write what comes to mind?

Vacation from Writing or Cop-Out?

I've noticed a trend in my own writing and blogging, and I'm making brave. I'm going to base my hypothesis on nothing more than a simple observation. Maybe it's valid. Maybe it's a cop-out. But here's what I'm picking up: when I'm grading a lot of essays or reading other people's writing, I don't write. Sometimes I pretend I do, but the truth is pretty harsh. I produce next to nothing.

Anyone see anything wrong with this picture? I'm an English teacher. I assign essays. I read a lot of papers. Grading, it's what I do.

Okay, it's not that bad. Usually, I only have several hours a week of evening grading. It just so happens that I had extra grading in the month of January. And February. Portfolios were due, and those require hours and hours of grading. Entire weekends chock full of nothing but grading. Evenings spent surrounded by piles of binders, up to my elbows in abstraction poems and auto-biographical narratives and prose analysis essays.

Something happens when I read for work. Instead of finding inspiration, my inner writer encases herself in a shell and hides. It's not that she's shy or overworked or distracted --> I think she's just being petty. She wants to be the center of my universe; she doesn't want to share the stage. If she cannot have my undivided attention, then she wants none of it. And, for better or worse, I lose all desire to string sentences together beyond this vague, moody "i wanna be a writer" feeling I have in the back of my head -- that is, you must admit, a bloody poor excuse for writing.

So what about you? Do certain jobs or activities distract you from writing? I'm not talking about something that actually prevents you from writing but rather something that steals your desire or your muse or your secret rock that you keep hidden on the window sill...

Books as Maps

Someone somewhere said that YA books provide a map of sort for teens looking for answers. The characters -- whether in fantasy worlds or far, distant planets or on the streets of Brooklyn -- encounter problems and issues common to all teens. Readers are looking for ways to negotiate bickering friends and squabbling parents and temptations galore. Teens hover between the worlds of wanting to fit in and belong and wanting to be different and stand out. They face loneliness and fear, peer pressure and rage, love and lust, and all the feelings in between. Well-written books provide a variety of answers to the questions, with a variety of possible consequences to the choices made. There's a fine line between preaching and exploring -- and it takes a deft author to weave the engaging, thought-provoking series of choices and mistakes, actions and reactions.

The same person also pointed out that teens typically haven't read the myriad of books that "came before" -- the ones that set the tone or the bar or the stage. They're fresh eyes, looking for answers that have already been answered elsewhere. But you, the young adult writer, have a mandate to provide the same variety of answers with the same clever skill as those that came before -- only different. Same, because the questions are the same. Different, because agents have read all the books that came before. Or something like that.

It was an intriguing podcast. I wish I remembered who gave the lecture, but my iPod is at home. Regardless, how do you feel about it? And is this advice only for YA writers? Or can it apply to any writer of any genre?

Stormbreaker Unleashed

Another delightful thing about being human is the fact that we're all so bloody different. Or, as Horowitz would write, bliddy. I just finished Stormbreaker, by Anthony Horowitz, and I enjoyed the ride. I have a feeling that many of my writerly compadres would stick up their noses at it, though, and I'm okay with that. We're different, we like different things, and that is good. With such a tremendous range in audience desires, it means that there are more opportunities for writers like us.

Fast-paced, absent of trite lessons-to-be-learned, and full of intrigue, Stormbreaker was fun and shallow. It reminded me of the days I spent as a kid bemoaning the fact that adults are so completely blinded to the possibilities wrapped up in being adolescent. They think we're so innocent and so incapable of dissembling, I thought. They'd never know what hit 'em, if they just let us kiddies be spies. I was eleven, but as far as I was concerned, I could smile angelically and slip into 007 mode without even trying. Where were books like Stormbreaker then?

And honestly? I was never one of those kids who wanted to read some angsty, pulsing full of emotion and possibility book. Not even later, in high school, when everything was one great big soap opera. Life sucks already, alright? No need to wallow in the mud. Just give me a kick-butt book with spanking good action and I don't have to think about zits, the drama of fighting friends, or boys who say, "Look me up when you're eighteen." (Though, in retrospect, maybe it was a good thing everyone knew my dad had a shotgun!)

Why, then, do I say the book was shallow? The truth is, although I've always held protagonists in great disdain when they waffle over decisions and feel nauseated when the bad guy dies, humans invariably go through a range of emotions. And although Horowitz definitely gave Alex Rider a few emotions, there wasn't really any time for thought, reflection, and coming to grips with some of his own actions. It occurred to me when I set the book down that I was left feeling a little indifferent. Fun candy -- and I'll definitely read the rest in the series -- but not much substance, either.

So, what is it that I'm looking for? Do I even know what I want? Am I impossible to please? Am I asking for Cotton Candy with Vitamins? To quote Card, who's writing about something else entirely, "it's not a contradiction -- but it is a balancing act" (Card 88). I think that fits perfectly. There was only one instance in the book that made my eyes smart, and it was when he was at the training camp. The men, for the most part, ignored him, while one made his life a living hell. For an instant, I saw Alex as human, as trying to reach out and matter to someone, and as someone whose heart ached when rebuffed.

This brings me to my own writing. My own failures in my own writing. I've been so focused on writing fun, kick-butt stuff, that I've left the relationships at a relatively shallow level. And, honestly, relationships, both in life and in novels, are what it's all about. How do I intertwine gut-wrenching relationships and kick-butt action without going all sappy and ridiculously angsty? I don't know. But I'm gonna give it a try.

Loss of Innocence

We all have those life-changing experiences -- the kind that haunt you, twist at your guts, make you feel like going down twice and only coming up once. The ones that change you for the rest of your life, give you nightmares, affect the way you look at people. Well, this post isn't about one of those. It's about the kind that changes your life, sure, scars you a bit, yeah, but isn't exactly life-threatening.

It happened when I was eleven.

I had been reading quite voraciously, inhaling books, if you must know. It was an addiction. In fact, my father had told me that if he caught me with a book again, he'd whip my butt. Now, before you gasp in horror and ring for the Child Protection Services, let it be known that I grew up in a book-loving family. Our family activities revolved around books and reading and magazines and anything literary. I remember cuddling up to my dad in the fourth grade as he read Romeo and Juliet aloud to me, and I would often be handed the Scientific American and told to read such and such article. If I didn't understand, my dad would just tell me, "Keep reading." And then we'd discuss it when I was done.


When I was three, my parents thought I'd clamber into the nearest car of the first person who talked to me and disappear. I was that curious and that out-going. Once I learned how to read, however, I realized that I didn't have to go off exploring the world. I could safely bury myself in a book, and mom and dad wouldn't be worried. Despairing that I'd ever enjoy the beauty of a sunset or the scent of sunlight in pines again, my parents set up certain rules. One of these consisted of hours in the garden each day, weeding.The withering sun, the dry baked dirt... But I digress. The real life-changing experience came when they insisted that I read a book of their choice for every one of mine.

Because I loved reading, it didn't matter if I was reading a book written in 1806, 1906, or 1986. But when I was eleven, my dad handed me Gone With the Wind. I'm not exaggerating when I say that reading the book destroyed me. Like the scent of old perfume that transports you back to Grandma's house or the strains of an old song that swirls you into the arms of your prom date, just the title of that book sickens the pit of my stomach. I wasn't old enough or mature enough or hardened enough by life to enter into Scarlett's world. I tore through it, just like any other book, but when I read those last words on that last page, I thought I was going to throw up. I don't think my parents even noticed that I spent the next three days in bed, bawling my guts out. I'm sure they just thought I was holed up with another book.

I felt like a part of me died that day. And thinking back, I still feel sick and there's a lump in my throat I can't quite swallow that has nothing to do with Scarlett and everything to do with the loss of innocence.

And the long-term impact of such an experience? I hate drama. I excuse myself from any in the real world that flares up around me. I just don't play. And for the literary world, I despise books that wallow in it, characters that thrive on it, and authors who capitalize on it. I don't read those kinds of books. Don't get me wrong, I love books that explore the range of emotions a human can encompass, but I don't seek out the kind that tears your guts out. And I'm always on the look out for a fun romp minus the messiness of angst. So Stormbreaker, here I come!

New Authors? Gnooks Got 'Em

The feedback concerning new authors via comments and emails has been illuminating. So many of you want to support new authors -- buy their books, blog their success, and give them kudos (the non-icky, non-stalker kind) -- but there doesn't seem to be a slick, cohesive, convenient way to find them. At least not that we've found. So far. (Do contact me if you discover one.)


Although this isn't the answer we're looking for exactly, fellow blogger and word crafter extraordinaire, the other lisa of The Paper Tiger, blogs about a cool on-line tool called Gnooks:

According to the site: Gnooks - Welcome to the World of Literature! Gnooks is a self-adapting community system based on the gnod engine. Discover new writers you will like, travel the map. of literature and discuss your favorite books and authors.


So I tried it and it's pretty cool. It's not what we're looking for, I don't think, but it's good for an hour or so of entertaining exploration. There's even a feature for finding new authors you might like. When asked to type in three authors I like, I gave them Katherine Neville, Lois McMasters Bujold, and Edgar Rice Burroughs. I was given Ann Benson. (Not to be confused with Anna Benson, the American model, former stripper, and wife of Major League Baseball pitcher Kris Benson.) A quick google search reveals the literary Benson to be more closer aligned with Neville than the other two, but who am I to grumble? Woo hoo: new author Ann Benson, here I come!


An interesting addition: When I typed in Courtney Summers, it didn't recognize the name. So it asked me to verify spelling. Then it asked me if I wanted to submit the name for review. I clicked yes. The awesome thing is that the site doesn't just accept whatever name you submit. It then puts it up for review to the next site-comers, and everyone gets a chance to vote. Is this a real author?


So, try it out. See if we can get Courtney Summers on the play list. Explore and see if it really works, or if it's just yanking our chains. And keep an eye out for new authors. I want a list!

Jeffery Deaver's Words of Wisdom

The Jeffery Deaver interview in Author Magazine had a few more tidbits I'd like to share. Admittedly, Deaver has a predictable writing style (e.g. figure out the least likely individual in the entire novel to have committed the crime, and you've solved the case), but his Lincoln Rhyme books are always a fast read and a ton of fun.

Besides -- as far as advice goes -- if you hear enough people say exactly the same thing, you start to take notice. And when someone throws in an oddball, you sit up and think, Hey, that's different. I wonder how that might work. Anyway, here's what Deaver had to say:

1. Study the market place. Write what comes out of your heart w/ the caveat of knowing where it fits into the market place.

2. Study the books of your favorite authors. Take them apart. Analyze them. Outline them. Copy down passages of writing that resonate with you.

3. Get an agent. They are a must in this day and age.

4. Figure out that rejection is simply a part of the game. It's a speed bump; it's not a brick wall.

Weekend Challenge: Kudos to Uppington

When uppington created a weekend challenge this last Friday, I tucked the thought away into a corner of my brain: good idea, for sure, and yes, I wanted to participate, but actually set a word count goal? After all, it wasn't like I had just blogged on list-making, goal-setting, and focusing on where you want to be, or anything... Ahem. Anyway, I typed up a nifty little comment on her blog and hit Submit. The computer froze or the Internet belched or Fate intervened. Regardless, the comment didn't save, and I was left thinking, "Coincidence?"

I spent Friday night perfecting those articles I talked about earlier. Saturday morning I jumped up to get cracking away on them again and discovered that I had saved none of my changes. For being an old hat at tech stuff, this was startling. mortifying. and, of course, depressing. Coincidence?

There was nothing left to do: I brought out my assorted thoughts and notes on "The Last Marine" and started typing. Oddly, the story stands complete in my head -- has for over a year -- but thus far resists a capture in print. I didn't dare look at the several false starts that litter my notebooks; I simply started in the middle of a scene and let the moment carry. I set no goals beyond "butt in chair, hands on keyboard." Oh, and uppington? I finished the weekend with over 3,000 words and a clear sense of where I'm headed next. Coincidence? I think not.