I am going to tell you a secret about moms.
All moms.
Lean in.
Listen carefully.
You won't want to miss this.
Ready?
We HATE cooking dinner. Despise it.
Almost as much as teachers HATE homework (yes, that's another secret for another day, kiddos.)
We don't hate cooking dinner so much b/c we hate cooking. Some of us actually like cooking. When we have the time. And the energy. And the supplies. And someone is there to clean up after us. And, yes, the family actually eats and enjoys what we've cooked. Which is probably one out of one hundred dinners cooked in America.
But I thought this blog was about writing, not cooking! You are right, Sensei. Inner editor. Now go back to the inner monologue where you belong!
The secret about writing is not really a secret at all. I've written about it before. We don't like to revise. We want our stories to come to us ready-to-serve. Pop it in the microwave for one minute and enjoy... sort of. Nevermind letting stories simmer. Or finely chopping those details. Or leaving the yucky parts in the trash.
But there is nothing about a story that is fast. Even though sometimes we need to write fast! That is why I believe writers need a pantry of ideas, bits of dialogue, observations about the world. Here are a few ways I stock my writing pantry:
1. Write down distinct bits of dialogue. These are never copied (plagiarized) from a television show, movie, or someone else's writing. They are usually from my children, family members, or the kids at the park. I'm listening!
2. Memories. Sometimes a smell or a song or a piece of clothing even will trigger a memory from my childhood. If I'm smart, I run to my notebook and write it down quickly before I forget the nostalgia of it. This is probably my favorite way to stock my writing pantry.
3. Story starters. I have literally boxes and boxes of "first pages" of stories I've begun over the years. If I need a kick-start I pull one of these gems out and fall right into the place I left off 10 years ago. It's magical.
4. Observe. This is where blogging comes in. I watch people. A LOT. It sounds kind of creepy, but it's not really. Really! I'm just taking a mental note of how people interact... body language, dialogue, relationships, humor. I had a friend one time who used to call me when she was a stay-at-home mom, and she used to say the strangest things to her daughter while I was on the phone. Like, "Alexis, your cheese is not a hat!" And "Do not stab your brother with your chicken nugget." I guess she liked to call me at lunchtime. Those bits of dialogue became part of my writing pantry, but so did the observation that mommies lose about 25 points of their IQ during their children's mealtime.
So, moms: stock that pantry because you know dinnertime is coming. And writers, you would be wise to do the same.
Happy writing,
Rachel
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Friday, October 11, 2013
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Tuesday, October 1, 2013
Discovery
Lawyers call it "discovery."
Writers call it "pre-writing."
Editors call it "junk."
It's what every writer knows before the story begins. The big mistake? To think "discovery" is important enough to jump start a story. It's not. Don't get me wrong. Discovery is important. Just not in the way I used to think...
In regards to the law, discovery refers to the pre-trial phase of a lawsuit where lawyers explore evidence which might be relevant to their case. Might be relevant. In storytelling, it's everything the author knows which might be relevant to the story. It's the fact that Brick's mother named him so because she wanted him to be strong and mighty, but that she sometimes felt like he was dragging her to the bottom of a very deep ocean. It's what the author knows but the reader doesn't need to read for the story to move. It's what I'm guilty of including too much of in my stories. Guilty. There, I said it.
Discovery is fun to write. And necessary. As a teacher, it's what I often was handed as a "final draft." Hmph. Try telling kids their discovery isn't the end. Of course it's the end! It's the end of a beginning, that's all. Writers... all of us, short and tall, young and old, cranky and cheery (oxymoron... who knows a cheery writer in the middle of a draft?) believe our discovery is vitally important. So, teachers, editors, inner-editors please don't tell us writers that it doesn't matter if Mrs. C had hammertoes as a young dancer. It does matter... but maybe not to this story. Maybe that's ANOTHER STORY.
But writers... and I'm speaking to myself here... don't get stuck in discovery. Move on to making your case for your story. Because the story is the star. Hook a reader, reel them in, give them a little line, then reel them in again! Make them go on an adventure, even if it isn't an exotic location. Don't give the reader a chance to think, "I'll get back to this later..." because later may never come. Make the reader wish they had more time to read or listen! Make the reader need to know what happens next, what decision the characters make, what their next move will be, and surprise them but don't jerk the hook from their mouth with a twist that comes from nowhere. Like Robert McKee says, give them what they expect, but not in a way they expected it. Golly, I think that is such a smart way to explain a good ending. I strive for that... the perfect ending. But that's another post for another day.
So, go on. Discover. Write the notebooks full of stories and character descriptions and weird bits of dialogue. But don't be afraid to move on from discovery. You might like what you find there.
Happy writing,
Rachel
Writers call it "pre-writing."
Editors call it "junk."
It's what every writer knows before the story begins. The big mistake? To think "discovery" is important enough to jump start a story. It's not. Don't get me wrong. Discovery is important. Just not in the way I used to think...
In regards to the law, discovery refers to the pre-trial phase of a lawsuit where lawyers explore evidence which might be relevant to their case. Might be relevant. In storytelling, it's everything the author knows which might be relevant to the story. It's the fact that Brick's mother named him so because she wanted him to be strong and mighty, but that she sometimes felt like he was dragging her to the bottom of a very deep ocean. It's what the author knows but the reader doesn't need to read for the story to move. It's what I'm guilty of including too much of in my stories. Guilty. There, I said it.
Discovery is fun to write. And necessary. As a teacher, it's what I often was handed as a "final draft." Hmph. Try telling kids their discovery isn't the end. Of course it's the end! It's the end of a beginning, that's all. Writers... all of us, short and tall, young and old, cranky and cheery (oxymoron... who knows a cheery writer in the middle of a draft?) believe our discovery is vitally important. So, teachers, editors, inner-editors please don't tell us writers that it doesn't matter if Mrs. C had hammertoes as a young dancer. It does matter... but maybe not to this story. Maybe that's ANOTHER STORY.
But writers... and I'm speaking to myself here... don't get stuck in discovery. Move on to making your case for your story. Because the story is the star. Hook a reader, reel them in, give them a little line, then reel them in again! Make them go on an adventure, even if it isn't an exotic location. Don't give the reader a chance to think, "I'll get back to this later..." because later may never come. Make the reader wish they had more time to read or listen! Make the reader need to know what happens next, what decision the characters make, what their next move will be, and surprise them but don't jerk the hook from their mouth with a twist that comes from nowhere. Like Robert McKee says, give them what they expect, but not in a way they expected it. Golly, I think that is such a smart way to explain a good ending. I strive for that... the perfect ending. But that's another post for another day.
So, go on. Discover. Write the notebooks full of stories and character descriptions and weird bits of dialogue. But don't be afraid to move on from discovery. You might like what you find there.
Happy writing,
Rachel
Monday, July 29, 2013
The S-Factor... Sale-ability
Here we go. Again.
I have been doing my best my whole life at being sellable, or sale-able. For starters, there were the ponytails.
1983. A time of Izod polo shirts and Normandee Rose jeans. Sixth grade. A time of identity building. And sale-ability. If no one bought what you were selling, you wound up playing Barbie's with Heather on the sixth grade picnic. Nevermind that I kind of wanted to play Barbie's with Heather, Heather was an outcast and NOBODY had played with Barbie's since 5th grade which was so long ago and everyone had matured so much in 155 days. How much? So much so that wearing ponytails had been denigrated to the level of playing with teenaged 11-inch dolls. Only I didn't know that. I thought ponytails were cute. Lucky for me, there was one friend who steered me straight just when I was about to drive off the cliff of sale-ability. The day I wore two ponytails perfectly aligned just below my ears with a clean part down the middle of my scalp, Lynn pulled me aside and offered this bit of sage advice... "Nobody wears ponytails. They're for little kids." And there you have it. Me + what I thought = Unsale-able. It was an equation I carried with me for many years. The problem is, the two variables are not very variable! It turns out they are one and the same.
Now I am here. Again. At the junction of sale-ability and Rachel-ness. The thing is... I kind of like Rachel-ness. I like to see things in a way that is different. I like to lose myself in a world that no one else has seen except for me, and tell a story that no one but I can tell. I like to be the author, the authority, the voice. "Is it sellable/sale-able?" is a valid question. But all I have is a fistful of Rachel to throw at life's problems. I'm not a moron. I won't write a picture book for grown-ups... or will I?
My whole life I've done my best at being sellable. Now it is time to admit there is a new equation... Rachel + unsale-ability = stories. Yes, my stories are about the unsale-ables. And I happen to like them very much!
Does it have the S-factor? I'll leave that question to the Lynns of the world.
I have been doing my best my whole life at being sellable, or sale-able. For starters, there were the ponytails.
1983. A time of Izod polo shirts and Normandee Rose jeans. Sixth grade. A time of identity building. And sale-ability. If no one bought what you were selling, you wound up playing Barbie's with Heather on the sixth grade picnic. Nevermind that I kind of wanted to play Barbie's with Heather, Heather was an outcast and NOBODY had played with Barbie's since 5th grade which was so long ago and everyone had matured so much in 155 days. How much? So much so that wearing ponytails had been denigrated to the level of playing with teenaged 11-inch dolls. Only I didn't know that. I thought ponytails were cute. Lucky for me, there was one friend who steered me straight just when I was about to drive off the cliff of sale-ability. The day I wore two ponytails perfectly aligned just below my ears with a clean part down the middle of my scalp, Lynn pulled me aside and offered this bit of sage advice... "Nobody wears ponytails. They're for little kids." And there you have it. Me + what I thought = Unsale-able. It was an equation I carried with me for many years. The problem is, the two variables are not very variable! It turns out they are one and the same.
Now I am here. Again. At the junction of sale-ability and Rachel-ness. The thing is... I kind of like Rachel-ness. I like to see things in a way that is different. I like to lose myself in a world that no one else has seen except for me, and tell a story that no one but I can tell. I like to be the author, the authority, the voice. "Is it sellable/sale-able?" is a valid question. But all I have is a fistful of Rachel to throw at life's problems. I'm not a moron. I won't write a picture book for grown-ups... or will I?
My whole life I've done my best at being sellable. Now it is time to admit there is a new equation... Rachel + unsale-ability = stories. Yes, my stories are about the unsale-ables. And I happen to like them very much!
Does it have the S-factor? I'll leave that question to the Lynns of the world.
Thursday, June 20, 2013
An Unwanted Gift
I've been told I am naïve. And, yes, even gullible. Like that's a bad thing. Haha.
For example, I have a hard time understanding how people can be so mean. I think: "Wow. You must have had a terrible childhood." Or : "Wow. You don't really like yourself." Generous assumptions to make. But not for someone who is naïve.
It seems I start a lot of my posts with "When I was little..." Someday I'll have to make a list of transitional phrases to interchange, but for now... When I was little I believed in inherent goodness. I believed that everyone was good and maybe Satan himself was good but just hadn't been convinced of his goodness. Yes, I actually believed that with my whole little 6-year-old heart. Can you imagine? How naive I was.
Even when people hurt me, I still believed that somehow they were good. Perhaps I had done something to deserve being hurt. Yes, that was it. It was my fault! Then I would punish myself appropriately. Oh, the vile words that mean people sneered were nothing compared to the things I told myself. I would do my penance. Then I would start the cycle all over again. Again, I was so naive.
It isn't any accident that my stories revolve around people problems. Relationships. Meanness. As a writer, as a human being, as a celestial soul I am trying to figure it out. I refuse to accept that people are anything but inherently good. I give my characters a LOT of room for failure. I expect my characters to overcome. To be better. I am awed at how they do it. How do they do it?
Would it be wrong then to think my naivete is in some way a gift? Because of it, not only do I expect I will be a better human being, but that you will be also.
So, go ahead. Be mean. Say I'm naïve.
I'll be writing.
For example, I have a hard time understanding how people can be so mean. I think: "Wow. You must have had a terrible childhood." Or : "Wow. You don't really like yourself." Generous assumptions to make. But not for someone who is naïve.
It seems I start a lot of my posts with "When I was little..." Someday I'll have to make a list of transitional phrases to interchange, but for now... When I was little I believed in inherent goodness. I believed that everyone was good and maybe Satan himself was good but just hadn't been convinced of his goodness. Yes, I actually believed that with my whole little 6-year-old heart. Can you imagine? How naive I was.
Even when people hurt me, I still believed that somehow they were good. Perhaps I had done something to deserve being hurt. Yes, that was it. It was my fault! Then I would punish myself appropriately. Oh, the vile words that mean people sneered were nothing compared to the things I told myself. I would do my penance. Then I would start the cycle all over again. Again, I was so naive.
It isn't any accident that my stories revolve around people problems. Relationships. Meanness. As a writer, as a human being, as a celestial soul I am trying to figure it out. I refuse to accept that people are anything but inherently good. I give my characters a LOT of room for failure. I expect my characters to overcome. To be better. I am awed at how they do it. How do they do it?
Would it be wrong then to think my naivete is in some way a gift? Because of it, not only do I expect I will be a better human being, but that you will be also.
So, go ahead. Be mean. Say I'm naïve.
I'll be writing.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Losing
When I was a kid, I spent a lot of time at the library. I mean a lot. I could walk there from my house on Warner Street. The house with its corners full of garbage. The library was a place I could escape.
I had a few favorite authors. Roald Dahl was my absolute all-time fav. Madeline L'Engle. E.B. White. But the number of books my favorite authors had written didn't fit the number of hours I spent in that little brick building. I went out of my comfort zone a lot. But it was ok. A book was an easy commitment to make. If I opened it and didn't like it, no problem. I just slipped it back into the little door for book returns. No one even had to know I didn't read it all the way through.
There was one book I remember reading about a girl who ordered wings through the mail. Yes, I think it was something like she ordered these wings from the back of a cereal box. But, when they arrived and she put them on, she couldn't get them off! They grew into her. It sounds gross, but the way it was written was marvelous. Because these wings became a part of her. And they allowed her to fly! What kid--or grown-up for that matter--doesn't dream of being able to fly away whenever they wish? Well, the best thing turned out to be the worst thing for this girl when the wings grew into her back. Because, she couldn't be a normal girl. I don't remember exactly how it ended, but I remember that she went on an adventure with a flock of geese. I remember how the author actually made me feel like I was flying. Gosh, it must be 32 years ago, and I remember that vividly!
I guess my point is, this wasn't a famous author. Who knows who this author was? I can't even remember her name and couldn't remember it two weeks after I'd read the book, because I went back and tried to find it again and couldn't. This author may have only written and published that one book. Who knows? Did she win a literary prize? Ever? Maybe. But most likely not. Does it matter?
I wish I could write an open letter to that author. And to myself. Because we don't write for prizes or New York Times Bestseller List recognition. Would it be nice? I'm not going to lie; of course! Gosh, I really wanted to win that contest (PNWA Literary Contest Category 7 for Children's Literature... There. Now you know. Go look it up. Hmph.) I wanted to win and run into the arms spread-wide-open of the literary world. Where have you been? The literary world would ask me. Right here. I would answer. I've always been right here. Now shower me with your praises! Which would be immediately followed by clapping and cheering and fanfare. And $700 in prize money, which my children have already mentally spent, by the way.
Alas, no. It wasn't meant to be. But I ask again... Does it matter?
When I went to the library so many years ago and took down that author's book about a girl turning into a bird, I had no idea who she was. But what she wrote made a lasting impression on me. If I could give one child that gift, I will call it good.
Congratulations to the eight finalists. You have earned it.
Begin clapping and cheering and fanfare :)
I had a few favorite authors. Roald Dahl was my absolute all-time fav. Madeline L'Engle. E.B. White. But the number of books my favorite authors had written didn't fit the number of hours I spent in that little brick building. I went out of my comfort zone a lot. But it was ok. A book was an easy commitment to make. If I opened it and didn't like it, no problem. I just slipped it back into the little door for book returns. No one even had to know I didn't read it all the way through.
There was one book I remember reading about a girl who ordered wings through the mail. Yes, I think it was something like she ordered these wings from the back of a cereal box. But, when they arrived and she put them on, she couldn't get them off! They grew into her. It sounds gross, but the way it was written was marvelous. Because these wings became a part of her. And they allowed her to fly! What kid--or grown-up for that matter--doesn't dream of being able to fly away whenever they wish? Well, the best thing turned out to be the worst thing for this girl when the wings grew into her back. Because, she couldn't be a normal girl. I don't remember exactly how it ended, but I remember that she went on an adventure with a flock of geese. I remember how the author actually made me feel like I was flying. Gosh, it must be 32 years ago, and I remember that vividly!
I guess my point is, this wasn't a famous author. Who knows who this author was? I can't even remember her name and couldn't remember it two weeks after I'd read the book, because I went back and tried to find it again and couldn't. This author may have only written and published that one book. Who knows? Did she win a literary prize? Ever? Maybe. But most likely not. Does it matter?
I wish I could write an open letter to that author. And to myself. Because we don't write for prizes or New York Times Bestseller List recognition. Would it be nice? I'm not going to lie; of course! Gosh, I really wanted to win that contest (PNWA Literary Contest Category 7 for Children's Literature... There. Now you know. Go look it up. Hmph.) I wanted to win and run into the arms spread-wide-open of the literary world. Where have you been? The literary world would ask me. Right here. I would answer. I've always been right here. Now shower me with your praises! Which would be immediately followed by clapping and cheering and fanfare. And $700 in prize money, which my children have already mentally spent, by the way.
Alas, no. It wasn't meant to be. But I ask again... Does it matter?
When I went to the library so many years ago and took down that author's book about a girl turning into a bird, I had no idea who she was. But what she wrote made a lasting impression on me. If I could give one child that gift, I will call it good.
Congratulations to the eight finalists. You have earned it.
Begin clapping and cheering and fanfare :)
Friday, May 3, 2013
The Life of a Writer in a Haiku
Finish line why do you
Taunt me? Always moving further away when
I might have crossed you?
Taunt me? Always moving further away when
I might have crossed you?
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
Yesterday I Told a Lie
Yesterday I told a lie. It was a whopper. The thing about the lie was I tried to convince myself it was the truth. "No. No. No." The inner editor nagged me. "Shut up! I'm working here!" I nagged back. But the lie was there. And it was about to get bigger. Because the thing about telling a lie (or showing, even) is that you have to continue to lie to cover it up. Then it's all a lie, and I just want to throw it in the garbage, which is really where it belongs. What was the lie? Does it matter? You'll never know (Ha! Take that!) because I'm going to go back and untell it today. First, I have to figure out where the lie began, then go back and do the difficult thing, the thing that makes writers sip coffee in their pajamas until dinnertime... I have to tell the truth. It's frightening, humbling. I had a goal, you see... write 1000 words a day. At any cost. But that's what a hack does. I'm not a hack. So, no more word, page, chapter goals! Because I will get there... but not to The End necessarily... to The Truth.
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Why I Write Realistic Fiction
Trying to define
Who I am as an author
Carving a little niche
in the trunk of a very large publishing tree
Writing about real kids in the real world... no magic involved
Unless you count of course a strong character and
Unlikely events that could but probably won't but could happen...
I say "No!" to fantastical wizards or strange uncles with enchanted wardrobes
and "Yes!" to boys and girls who are as ordinary as they are extraordinary.
But why?
Because when a child holds my book and turns the last page
I want him or her to feel as though someone knows what it's like
And it's going to be better than OK
Today will be the magic they make it.
Happy writing,
Rachel
Who I am as an author
Carving a little niche
in the trunk of a very large publishing tree
Writing about real kids in the real world... no magic involved
Unless you count of course a strong character and
Unlikely events that could but probably won't but could happen...
I say "No!" to fantastical wizards or strange uncles with enchanted wardrobes
and "Yes!" to boys and girls who are as ordinary as they are extraordinary.
But why?
Because when a child holds my book and turns the last page
I want him or her to feel as though someone knows what it's like
And it's going to be better than OK
Today will be the magic they make it.
Happy writing,
Rachel
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