Fear of Failure

Today is one of those days where I want to get in my car and drive and drive and drive, because it might somehow put this heavy sense of dread behind me. Like, maybe fear of failure is some monster I can box up and shove into the top corner of my closet. It might growl, but I can leave it there and get in my car and go away and it won't be able to follow me.

But that isn't going to work. Fear or depression isn't something I can leave behind. It belongs to me and it knows it. Like one of those improbable pets in family movies, it will find it's way back no matter where I go. It will curl up in the back of my mind and sink its claws into my throat.

Sometimes I can kick it out, ignore it's yowling and scratching. But sometimes I open the door just to look at it, to check if it's still there, and it streaks in past my legs before I can stop it.

Some days, just getting up, getting dressed, and leaving the house is the hardest thing in the world.

I guess this happens, though. We feel afraid. We feel useless. We feel like nothing will ever come to any good. We grieve those parts of our former selves we've lost in growing up, giving up, or refusing to give up when we probably should. We swallow the lumps in our throats and pretend we're okay until we fool ourselves into believing it, until it comes true, until next time.

Does Talent Matter? How the Idea of Talent Saved and Sabotaged Me

I’m sitting in my fourth grade classroom, picking at a bit of dried glue on my desk. Across from me is Matt, a tall skater boy who belongs to the popular-kid posse but bent the Cool Rules enough to help me with long division. He's gone back to being surly now. Across the room, someone giggles.

Our desks are arranged in four-desk pods, and the giggle came from the one diagonally across from mine. Two boys crumble bits of their eraser and throw it at Jess, taking advantage of Mr. P’s turned back. Jess’s head is bowed, blonde hair falling over her glasses as she tries to ignore them.

“Pick your nose!” one of them says in a carrying whisper. He shifts his wicked glare from Jess to me, challenging my temper.

Tears drop onto the stiff, glittery face of the Siberian tiger on Jess's shirt, and I go hot with anger. I clench my teeth and glare back down at my desk. I want to yell at them, but if I do I’ll only cry, and if I cry I’ll probably get in trouble for being so easily provoked.

I’m always easily provoked. I am, as my grandfather would say, pugnacious. After a while, though, you either fight back or shut down, and I’m years from shutting down.

Mr. P finishes pulling our composition books from the file cabinet and gives the boys a look. He’s the nicest teacher I’ve ever had, but I wish he’d let me and Jess sit together. He can’t, really. The desks are alphabetical, and despite our names both starting with “Har-”, the luck of the numbers has us sitting half a classroom apart. My desk is closest to the door. I can’t wait to get out of here.

Mr. P hands out the composition notebooks, and after yesterday’s class, my face is still burning. I wish Jess hadn’t raised her hand to read her story. It had been about us watching a spaceship landing and being ecstatic when some of our favorite fictional characters stepped out. She cried “Luke Skywalker!?” and I cried out “Ben!?”

My childhood love.

She’d meant the intrepid apprentice from the American Girl series about Felicity, but there was a boy in the class named Ben—one of the popular boys—and they were all now convinced I had a crush on him. I’d rather date the apprentice, who has dark reddish hair that matches his stubborn, fiery personality. Jess knows my taste pretty well. That’s why we’re friends.

I slide my composition book toward me and open it, letting myself fall back into the story of kidnapped golden foxes and the young girl who rides off to find them and save her village. I’m glad Mr. P has us writing stories. He reads to us too, and pairs us off to read books together so we can talk about them. I flush, remembering he assigned me to read a book with Ben a few weeks ago. Ben was nice, and never said anything bad about me like the other boys did.

He wasn’t brave either, though. He laughed when they said mean things and never tried to stop them. I remember him standing there when A.J. spat in my Young Jedi Knights book, and when Josh “accidentally” hit me in the face with a basketball. Never mind. Ben isn’t nice. Ben is scared.

Instead of thinking about it, I disappear into my story, imagining the thud of hooves and the warm little crate where the golden foxes are held, deep inside a cave covered in twisting vines. I don’t come out again until Mr. P crouches next to me, his hands on my desk for balance. Mr. P is young—he has long, curly hair he wears back in a ponytail and glasses. He drives a motorcycle to school and is engaged to the art teacher.

“Lauren,” he says, already smiling. “I read your story so far and it’s really good. Have you ever thought about becoming a writer?”

I know people write books, but they’ve always been distant, mythical beings as rare and magical as pegacorns. They’re Authors. I love making up stories but I didn’t think anyone would like reading them. Mr. P said my fox story was good, though, and he’s a teacher.

I don’t look around. I don’t want to see my classmates, whether they’re looking or not. Mr. P hadn’t crouched down at any other desks. Only mine. I feel strangely triumphant all of a sudden. I’m a horse-loving bookworm and a Jedi-wannabe; I make myself an easy target because I try to be like the heroines in my favorite books and stand up for other people.

But I have talent.

Have you ever thought about becoming a writer?

“Yes.” It was almost a lie, since I never though about it before now, but I don’t want to lose hold of this new possibility blooming inside me, quietly pushing back the dread. “That’s what I want to do.”

Does Talent Matter?

I was bullied from fourth to eighth grade and books had always been a solace for me, as they are for so many. When I found out I could write them, I knew it was what I wanted to do for the rest of my life.

But what does talent really mean, and does it really matter? Its impact on my life has been both positive and negative, because as much as talent itself helped me to identify and be recognized for my passion, the idea of talent may have held me back.

I'd had attention for writing as a child and teen, and that talent drove me to keep impressing so I didn't lose the one thing that, amid the insults and fistfights, made me feel special. As a middle schooler, my body started reacting to the bullying for me. I dreaded the bus, the cafeteria, the classrooms, and when the stress got too bad, my body produced a fever like a rabbit from a hat. I went home. I wrote.

My youth was my selling point and, like a desperate fashion model, I was determined to cash in before my moneymaker checked out. I felt like it wouldn't be as "impressive" to publish as a bona fide adult. I didn't think I would ever be great, but I didn't just want to be good.

So I wanted to be special instead. S.E. Hinton special. Christopher Paolini special. (Except, you know, continue publishing.)

Talent isn't the end-all-be-all of "making it". After all, every one of us can think of at least five people who are famous despite being talent-less at their chosen field. There's no formula to getting published, though some combination of the following elements is usually quoted in the result:

• Talent
• Hard work
• Dedication
• Skill (gaining/improving)
• Luck
• Connections
• Timing
• Blood
• Sweat
• Tears
• Coffee

At BaltiCon 2012, +Dave Robison of The Roundtable Podcast interviewed the podcasters, begging the question "Does Talent Matter?" Here's a link to that excellent episode. Few of the responses gave an outright "no"--most people were quick to point out that talent might give writers an extra boost, but needed a lot of elbow-grease to develop it into something like skill. One interesting comment, however, indicated that the perception of "talent" may very well hold writers back.

Talent!? How can talent hold you back?

Let's return to high school-aged Scribe. I went to a small, nerdy high school that had just opened, and almost everyone who went there was a geek. It was a godsend. For the first time since moving to North Carolina, I didn't get bullied. I made friends--the best friends of my life. Friends who are still with me today (shout out to the Ladies Pendragon). Finally, the shackles of depression and CONSTANT VIGILANCE were falling away. In this new, safe atmosphere my writing flourished. I dreamed up new worlds and characters with my friends. I found my target audience. I expanded to fit my own skin, giving life to the construct that had been holding my place until it was safe to come out.

I studied grammar fiercely and felt secure in my talent as a writer, lavishing in the descriptions of the worlds I wanted readers to see and love as I did. When I was seventeen, I sat down and decided I was going to start My First Novel. Unlike the other times I'd written a couple of scenes, I swore to finish this one.

Three and a half years later, I did. I was in college at this point and started researching agents. I realized my story was far longer than the projected 100k average for fantasy novels. Mine was 150k.

Whatever. I was a good writer for my age. I hacked my book down to 130k and sent off a query. A few weeks later I got a full manuscript request.

Ecstatic, I printed and shipped the manuscript (this was, believe it or not, before most agents accepted emailed files) and dashed down to my local coffee-shop to wave the yellow request slip in front of my writing club and jump up-and-down like a Took on a sugar-high.

Secretly, I thought my youth would still be impressive. Though I was already 22, I was still at university. I still had this delusion that I was a precocious child and my youth was the selling point  rather than my skill.

A few weeks later, I got a rejection. It was a form, with a little check mark, and a neat cursive message:

The writing is nice, but the story is too long and slow.

I was annoyed. It was a good story. And it was way shorter and faster than other stories I'd read. AND I WAS TALENTED! After the initial despair, I realized my mistake had been relying on my talent--or my perception of myself as talented--to make up for whatever my writing lacked. Luckily, I had learned two excellent things from that rejection.

• The prose itself was decent (though not amazing enough to carry a slower start like Tad Williams or Jacqueline Carey)

• Talent and passion had let me coast this far, but if I wanted to get published, I needed to start pedaling.

I was annoyed at myself. If I hadn't been so convinced my talent and youth would get me published, I might have started learning mechanics sooner, started working on how to make my sentences clear and precise, my story structure logical, and my pacing on point. I'd wasted too much time trusting in my +5 Armor of Talent long after the battle against bullies was over. I had failed to hone my skills enough to be comfortable taking that "talent" armor off.

Does talent matter?

Yes, it mattered when I was young, but not because it meant I was a good writer: because it meant I had a goal to look forward to when I couldn't stand being inside my own skin. Something to be better at than other people. Part way through eighth grade, when a horrific family event caused me to lose both my best friend and my sense of personal safety, I finally did shut down. I went through class in a daze. I didn't do homework. I didn't see friends. I woke up in the middle of the night and sat on the couch, crying. I thought I was going crazy.

Then, one of my tormentors (who had somehow become friends with my brother) found out and used the worst trauma of my life to ridicule me in front of the entire cafeteria. I hurled my unopened milk at him and stormed out of the cafeteria, past the front desk, and out the front doors, crying so hard I couldn't breathe. I didn't want to be there anymore. I hated that school and I hated what it had made me become. I hated how weak I was and how broken my world felt, how quickly I cried and how often.

My seventh-grade math teacher, (an ex-football player and also a Mr. P) had been overseeing the cafeteria. He'd borrowed my notebook full of stories and drawings the year before, and despite my lackluster grades in math, encouraged me to keep writing and even found a contest for me to submit to. I was almost to the school's front stairs--stairs I'd been shoved down the year before by a kid on my bus--when he stopped me.

"You're going to be a writer," he said.

Tears rolling down my face, I didn't respond to him. I knew what he was afraid of. I've never considered suicide, and I wasn't considering it then; I just wanted out. I went with him to the guidance counselor. They called my mom, who came to pick me up. Before I left, he reminded me again that I was a talented writer, and that was something no one could take away.

Does talent matter?

No. It stopped mattering after that first big rejection, when I realized talent alone would never be enough to get me published. I had to stop thinking about it, or I wouldn't be able to move forward with my work. I wouldn't be able to accept the criticism I needed to improve if I didn't let down the shields a little. I'd always been good at accepting line-notes, but the ideas themselves? I'd never considered those open-season.

I'd constructed my entire identity around writing, down to my nickname: Scribe. It wasn't all I had, but it defined who I was. But my love of writing was deeper than the superficial idea that my talent for it could somehow protect me, somehow make people like and respect me. I love writing because I love the part of myself that creates stories. I love the part of me that can put words on a page and evoke images, create emotion, make it matter. That has nothing to do with talent.

Does talent matter?

Maybe. Now, at 28, I'm too old to be special if I get published. I'm not a prodigy. I'm not even sure I'm talented anymore because I still have this notion that "talent" somehow drives success, and if I'm not successful by now despite all the hard work I've put in since that rejection, I must not be talented. I know that's not true, but getting myself to believe it is sometimes hard, especially when I'm at the bottom of the hill, looking up.

It's a load of crap, really. I don't want to be special because I'm young, or talented "for my age", because that indicates there are insufficiencies elsewhere that people are willing to overlook because I'm not a writer in full blossom yet.

I want to be special because I'm a good writer, and because my stories have meant something to the people who read them. I'm not young anymore, and if I'm not talented I'll just have to work harder to become skilled.

This has not been an easy post to write, but I feel it's an important one. I love writing. I love it enough to let go of my out-dated ideas of talent and what it says about my future, my dreams, and myself.

Do you think talent matters? Why or why not? How has the idea of talent (and having or not having it) affected you as a writer or artist?

**Pictures from American Girl wiki, dosomething.org, and the ilovecharts tumblr

Goals for 2013

Photo by Markybon

Last night, I went to sleep hoping I could avoid the icy drive in the morning and sit at home with my work laptop, processing documents in my pajamas. Alas, the expected snow did some half-hearted acrobatics and failed to stick the landing, and by the time I slid onto my porch it was little more than a scraping of white icing on the roof next door. I was driving to work after all.

I live in the South, where asking people to drive in snow and ice is like asking a cat to walk when he's wearing a collar for the first time--a combination of tragic and hilarious. I don't claim to be much better, though I do know which way to turn the wheel if I start to slide. I wasn't surprised when, halfway to work, traffic slowed to a crawl.

I spotted flashing lights, but the smell of gasoline was the first indicator this wasn't the usual fender-bender. When my lane stopped, I glanced between the inching cars. The blackened husk of an overturned car steamed from inside a ring of emergency vehicles by the side of the road. There was no fire anymore, but it was clear the car had been blazing not too long before, though the shape of it was mostly intact. I hoped the driver and any passengers had made it out.

It was suddenly strange to think my largest concern not ten hours before was whether I could stay in my pajamas. Someone else has lost a car, possibly lost a love one; my day-to-day concerns can't compare to that. What if it had been me in that car? Would I be satisfied with my last petty concerns? Everything changes in an instant.

That sobering understanding got me thinking. I need to improve my way of living, because I don't want to have any regrets should my instant come. That may seem morbid to some, but when you're unhappy with how things stand in your life, the thought of not having the opportunity to change it is a bitter but strong motivation.

2012 saw two of the worst creative crashes I've ever had, brought on by my inability to adjust to a demanding work schedule and maintain a level of creativity I was happy with. I bit off more than I could chew, and I choked on it. Twice.

I began to doubt my ability to write well enough, revise fast enough, be organized enough to ever publish. I warred against a self-image no longer reflected in the 35 lbs I gained since leaving Japan or the skin problems I'd never had as a teen. I was too tired to write when I got home, but too busy trying to write to take care of myself or contribute to the chores at home consistently, which made me feel like a wretched slob.

I started personal training. It went well for a few months. I started Fit-2-Write. We managed three episodes before I hit my first crash.

I was scheduling every part of my day down to my two 15-minute breaks at work. I was doing two personal training lessons a week after work, D&D on a third, and trying to edit and post two podcasts. Also, I went to StellarCon, ConCarolinas, Sammy's wedding, and BaltiCon all before May. Saturday mornings, I was taking a class on Google+ with Cat Rambo. I was trying to revise the first 100 pages of The Mark if Flight, write a short story, read and comment on two short stories a week, update my blog, and plan out my next book and the revisions for HELLHOUND.

Then this happened: Do You Want to Do My Laundry?

Despite the playful tone, this post was coming on the back of a serious meltdown after a couple of major disappointments. I felt like I would never "get it together". I still feel like that.

I dropped everything, and when I'd finally stopped crying log enough to look at the detritus at my feet, I had no idea how to pick it all back up again. I'd latch onto something, wade a couple feet through the rest, and drop it again. I couldn't let go of any of it, but I couldn't figure out how to clean the mess of my creative life without shoving it all to the curb.

It was tough to fish out the things that mattered to me the most, and I felt unspeakably guilty for letting the others rest.

At the same time, 2012 was a year of many steps forward: I gained what felt like a whole new world of friends after meeting the other folks in the podcasting community face-to-face at BaltiCon. I hammered out two short stories, a novelette, the first six chapters of a new book, and yet another opening for The Mark of Flight, which is now beginning to resemble something like a pretty good book. I made a carved leather hat that actually looked like what I had in mind. I asked to be on panels at StellarCon and BaltiCon and was accepted. I was invited to attend and speak at New Media Expo. I took a couple of trips by myself and with friends, just because. I started kayaking again, bought a bike, and got a new car that makes me super happy.

That said, I refuse to have another year where the lows are as low as 2012's. So I did some soul-searching and tried to figure out what goals I could make this year that would help me live with fewer regrets. I'll split them up into personal and creative.

2013 GOALS

Personal

• Get healthier - exercise, eat better, figure out the energy situation, ride my bike, relax
• Go out and do things. With other human beings. And not just because I can use it in a story someday.
• Spend more time outside doing things I enjoy, like biking or kayaking or camping.
• Do more to maintain the apartment
• Consistently pay all bills on time
• Pay down credit card
• Fill the well
• Volunteer

Creative

• Worry less about 'making it'
• Chill, before this shit gives me heart problems
• Finish first draft of Heretic's Resonance
• Get Pendragon Variety - Issue#1 released
• Make Season 2 of Pendragon Variety
• Keep making friends who are awesome, supportive, and inspiring
• Query MoF
• Read more

I don't know if I'll be able to do all these things, and I'm almost certain I won't do them consistently. There's a certain measure of cognitive dissonance to pursuing your dreams during an economic recession. Last year it was cacophony. This year, we're gonna try to find the right key.

What are your personal and creative goals for 2013? Did you suffer any setbacks or disappointments last year? What improvements do you want to make?

How to Burn a Candle

Finishing a story holds exactly the same amount of joy as eating a giant bowl of peach shaved ice.

On Sunday morning, I finished a short story--the first thing I've finished since completing my first draft of Bull-Rushing the Ghost earlier this year. Of course, I've worked on plenty, and the short story is barely the length of two novel chapters in Heretic, but there's something about FINISHING a whole narrative that gives me a sense of accomplishment and slingshots me through the next few days.

This time was better than most, though. First, it was a story I'd been asked to write, so I was a but apprehensive about writing toward specifications. It turned out well enough, though. Second, it's the first thing I've completed since my Wiley Coyote-esque plunge over the cliff of creative overexertion.

About that cliff. Regular readers might have noticed I've neglected the blog over the past weeks. 20 days into NaNoWriMo, I waved the white flag. I could barely force myself to pick up pen or keyboard, and my utter exhaustion forced me to admit a fact I'd been trying to hide from myself: all year I've been burning the candle at both ends, trying desperately to balance a mentally-draining job with personal commitments, health issues, and the, frankly, alarming number of creative pursuits.

I write throughout the year, so while giving up on NaNo was a blow to my pride, it didn't hurt my page-count much. But I won NaNo the previous two years--in '10 because I was unemployed and had nothing better to do, in '11 because I guess I just had more energy. This year's defeat indicated larger problems.

I didn't realize how much I needed a break until I NaNo-Failed-To-WriMo.

So I took some time off. Three weeks, in fact. During that time I didn't try to write. Rather than trying to bend my protesting brain to the page, I cleaned, watched Netflix, slept, and read like a madwoman.

I'd forgotten how much I like reading. There was a reason I started this whole writing thing.

For anyone who's lit up both ends of the creative firecracker, I recommend bingeing on books.  I read serious books and "crunchy" books, YA and literary criticism, traditional and self-published, ebooks, audiobooks, paper, and hardback. I reread the Last Herald Mage trilogy. I finally read the latest Scott Lynch. I returned to Riverside. I even read an LGBT firefighter romance novel, which made me smile despite the "read that in a fanfic once" porn-industry sub-plot (yes, really). The binge reminded me how much I love falling into other worlds and stories, falling in love with characters like Atticus O'Sullivan, Wellington Books Esq., Deryn Sharp, Bard Stefan, Locke Lamora, and the Mad Duke Tremontaine.

Speaking of Wellington Books Esq...

I've finished the short story for +Tee Morris  and +Philippa Ballantine's The Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences: Tales from the Archives, and it's currently out with a handful of alpha readers. I should be right on time with the first draft.

Finishing a story after what had felt like a creative drought left me feeling like I was soaring in a chariot pulled by a team of Nyan-cats, because it was a great reminder of what I could do when I wasn't stretching myself too thin.

So, I have two writing-related resolutions for 2013:

1. Read at least one book a week, no matter what kind.
2. Learn how to burn a candle: one end at a time, because there will still be enough light to see by.

What gives you a creative high? Have you burned the candle at both ends? What do you do to relax when you've overtapped your creative well? What are your creative New Years Resolutions?

Happy Solstipocalypse!

Catoon by Grant Snider

Happy Solstipocalypse!

Dropping a line here since I haven't updated in over a month. I'm working on my short story for The Ministry of Peculiar Occurances, Tales from the Archives, and hope to have it done by the end of the year. That is, assuming the zombies don't eat me by midnight (though it's past midnight in Japan and I have friends uploading pics to Facebook, so I figure we're in the clear).

I've also got about seven scenes of my new novel written. The name has changed from The Beggar's Twin to Song of the Heretic Cycle. It will be two books: Heretic's Resonance and Heretic's Dissonance. The first book is outlined, and I've left the scenes a bit short in the hopes that I will not run too long with it. I need to flesh out the ending, but that will come.

Oh, and if you want to hear me brainstorming that book with +Dave Robison, +Justin Macumber, and +Alethea Kontis on The Roundtable Podcast, my episode drops on Christmas Day! Please ignore my initial resistance to change. I didn't want to be THAT person, and I totally was (oops).

NaNoPanic - How to Move On

This picture is from my junior year of HS. I'm rowing Stroke (the front rower). NaNo is sort of like a regatta, except if you stop rowing in a regatta, your team-mates kill you.

I'm about 12k behind on NaNoWriMo. Luckily, I have tomorrow off work (it's my birthday!) and am spending the entire weekend in the mountains with friends catching up on my word-count. Sarah is even bringing Recees to pedal out each time one of us hits 1k.

I had a moment where I knew a scene had gone wrong because I realized that my outline had my heroine getting caught by the "cops" of that world THREE times in a single day, and twice for the same offense. Um. TSTL* much?

Now, this all made sense in my outline, and the first time she got caught made total sense and worked very well. The second time, though, was the problem. I was going to have her encounter one of the other main characters, who is an officer, to show he's not always a douche-nozzle (though he usually is). However, I realized that it made her seem unspeakably stupid to get caught out after curfew twice in a row. Also, it made the douche-nozzle character too nice, too fast.

So instead, I introduced another character--a contact my main character could have in the city that gives her life a sense of history. I love it when problems can be solved with new characters, because I get to populate my world and my character's history with interesting people. They don't seem like they stepped straight out of space and time and onto the page, timelord style.

This particular character's name is Rat, and he's sort of a common-tier foil for the officer character, who is a noble. He's that hot-but-frustratingly-arrogant thief-type I love so much, but pushing a bit farther down the path of coward than I usually make these sorts of characters.

He's not in my outline, but I can just feel that I'm going to be using him again later.

Of course, I didn't delete all the words I wrote permanently, and I'm still counting them towards NaNoWriMo. I just back-tracked and fixed something that had me stuck pretty bad.

NaNoWriMo Update

You guys, I am so far behind on my NaNoWriMo word-count. Like, 6000 words behind.

HOWEVER, I did start something on Google + called WORD WAR I, which is a set of team-based word-sprint battles every half hour during Saturday nights in November. It was awesome! I met some great folks and ended up adding 3k to me word count!

If you're interested, find me on G+ and let me know. I'll add you to the invite for WORD WAR II, which is this Saturday night, 7pm-12am ET.

NaNoWriMo Eureka!

So Much This.

Not a whole lot of time right now, because NaNoWriMo is eating my soul, but I had a wonderful time brainstorming my NaNovel on The Roundtable Podcast with my podio-bro Dave Robeson, podio-papa Justin Macumber, and the glorious Alethea Kontis. Look for that episode to drop on Christmas Day!

That said, I just had a moment of synthesis I completely didn't expect at the end of the second scene, which I'm almost finished with. It's one of those moments where you're like, "Crap, I've written myself into a corner", but then you think of something that lets you drag in another bit of the story you'd already planned and seed it for the next scene, and you feel like a complete genius, even though no one will probably ever know. Which is good. Because then they'll think you're a genius too and not realize it was basically a secret, unplanned escape route that just happened to work.

Bwahahahaha.

What were some surprising moments of genius you've had writing? Have you had that on your NaNoWriMo project this year? How's it going?

5 Tips for Your NaNoWriMo Outline

305/365 - NaNoWriMo! by haley-elise

Does your NaNoWriMo outline need a little spit shine? Like your basic story but don't know if it's any good?

Piggy-backing off last year's NaNoWriMo outlining workshop, I've got a few more techniques I've accumulated to help hammer your outline into shape and give it a bit of a spit-shine.

The following tips will help you identify your main conflict, work tension and conflict into each scene, make sure your scenes flow logically toward the ending, and move your story from hook to resolution.

If you haven't taken a look at my NaNoWriMo Outlining Workshop, it might be a useful reference for the application of these techniques.

Part I - Part II - Part III

1. WRITE A 35 WORD PITCH

The third, and Adryn's favorite (and by favorite, I mean she hates me for making her do this), is to boil the conflict down to 35 words. You might remember when I described how I wrote a 35-word pitch for The Mark of Flight, which has really helped me in my quest toward publication. (More on pitches)

A pitch this short will force you to think critically about the central conflict. You can use the pitch to keep your plot from sprawling in unnecessary directions (if you tend to sprawl, like I do) and to identify whether your story has core plot-issues. Can't pitch it? That's an indication that the story's basic framework might need more work.

If, like Adryn, you have no idea where to begin boiling down the conflict, start by summarizing who your protagonist is and what they want in 35 words. Then summarize who your antagonist is and what they want in 35 words (hint: it better be something that chucks a horny, sparkly vampire in the Bed, Bath & Beyond display room of your protagonist's goal.)

Now take your protagonist and describe what she wants and how the antagonist is preventing her achieving that (of course, in 35 words).

Yeah, this is time-consuming, but it will likely save you a ton of time in revisions and give you a great framework for your query pitches!

Yes? No! image by Laura Appleyard

2. YES, BUT... / NO, AND...

Conflict in your scene uninteresting? On a recent episode of the Writing Excuses Podcast, Mary Robinette Kowal described a technique for making sure your scenes are exciting. It was intended for pantsers rather than plotters, but I think the technique is a fantastic way to make sure you're giving your scene enough conflict and tension.

Simply, get your characters into a pickle. Then ask the question, do they succeed in getting out of the situation?

If you answer YES, you must then come up with a complication.
YES, Bilbo rescues the dwarves from the Mirkwood prisons, BUT they nearly drown in the barrels.

If you answer NO, you toss in a little extra complication to really put pressure on your characters.
NO, Katniss's friends and family are not spared at reaping day AND it's her little sister who's been chosen to fight (and probably die) in The Hunger Games.

3. BUT / THEREFORE

You've note-carded and chased every plot-bunny down their respective rabbit holes, but do your scenes flow one-to-the-next in a logical, domino-effect that leads you from inciting action to inevitable conclusion?

Carrie Ryan, Magical Words blogger and author of the creeptastically beautiful Forest of Hands and Teeth, describes a technique she learned from an editor.

"If you line up every scene or plot beat in your book, and the only words that connect them are “and then,” you have a problem; instead, each scene needs to be connected with either ”therefore” or “but.”

 I'm doing this with my outline for Beggar's Twin, and it's really coming in handy. It's a bit complicated with multiple perspectives, but I'm literally setting up my notecards into the different perspectives and making sure they flow both along their individual storylines and toward the conclusion. I've found it super-helpful in identifying scenes that aren't working.


4. SEVEN-POINT STORY STRUCTURE

The fourth is the 7-Point Story Structure from Dan Wells--seven points that help you move your story from hook to resolution, which you can watch in five parts on YouTube:



According to the Writing Excuses show notes, the seven points are:

• Hook
• Plot Turn I
• Pinch I
• Midpoint
• Plot Turn II
• Pinch II
• Resolution

If you don't want to take the time to watch the YouTube video, you can also hear the cast of Writing Excuses discuss these seven points HERE.

Similar to this: The Hollywood Formula; The Three-Act Structure; The Secrets of Story Structure

5. TORTURE YOUR FRIENDS

Put down the scalpel.

Once you're finished making sure your conflict is solid, your scenes have tension, your plot chugs nicely toward the resolution, and you're hitting all the points of basic story structure, it's time to type it all up and present the outline to a friend, preferably another artistic type.

Generally, I find other writers or artists understand how to look at an embryonic story idea and help it grow. You don't want someone to give you unnecessary criticism and kill the excitement.

Don't know any other writers IRL? A great resource for other writers is the NaNoWriMo forums! Find someone to swap outlines with. And hey, if you're noticing some familiar problems, point them in the direction of whichever resource was most helpful. I don't mean my blog, though that would be awesome; I mean the primary source. If you think they'd benefit from But / Therefore, send them to Carrie's post on Magical Words.

Happy writing, and remember to eat occasionally!

Three Months to New Creativity: The Artist's Way

When I was 21, I lived alone for the first time. I was overweight, depressed, and coming out of a stale relationship that left me emotionally and creatively drained. I headed into my final year with an advanced case of Senioritis and a death grip on the goals that have always been my lifeline.

Suddenly it was just me in a refinished basement with cinderblock walls and not enough windows, and I had to face the truth: I'd forgotten how to be alone. I'd sacrificed so much of my energy and time in that relationship, tamped myself down for so long, I didn't know how to use time I wasn't stealing between classes. I couldn't write. I couldn't sing. I couldn't draw. I had no "self" anymore.

A sphere expanded around me, a protective bubble so much like the shield my character Alukale casts when the pressures of the world become too much. It didn't feel safe to let anyone in, because what had happened hurt so deeply it felt like someone had uprooted my heart and ripped out the veins. Cold, empty spaces tunneled inside me and I didn't even want to fill them.

I went to the local second-hand bookstore to sell some of my books (to get extra cash for coffee; if that sounds glamorously bohemian, it really wasn't) and I got store credit instead of cash for a few things. I went looking for books and a familiar cover caught my eye: The Artist's Way.

It went something like this:

The Artist's Way

That suave, simple, unequivocally-directed-at-me "Hello" from the universe. (And, I mean, who wouldn't take that home?)

I knew The Artist's Way. It changed my mother's life and set her on the path to a career she loves. When I was 17, she had this plan that involved a total lifestyle overhaul for her, my dad, and me: The Artist's Way, a diet, and a Pilates. Simultaneously. It was too much too fast, and we juggled those three balls for about a month before the inevitable burn-out.

This time, however, it was just me. And I had nothing at all left to lose. No novel. No energy. No plan.

Over the next three months, I went through the Artist's Way and it was the equivalent of cleaning out my spiritual/creative gutters. Finally, i had the tools to clear away years of accumulated negativity, and rediscover some beautiful moments of encouragement. I was able to address and let go of many of my core negative beliefs. Yeah, some of the terminology and ideas are a little hokey (Artist Child? Positive Affirmations? The Great Creator? I'll start practicing kumbaya on my mandolin; I'll even try not to talk about Gullah socio-linguistics.) but it worked anyway.

It helps that the author, Julia Cameron, is up front: "You don't have to believe it. Do the work, and the results will follow." I had nothing to lose at that point, so I did the work. Results followed.

It's been a little over five years, and I'm in an entirely new situation. I'm supporting myself now, in an economy that sucks and a job that, at worst, makes the insomnia and anxiety and fatigue come back, and which I'm not even close to enthusiastic about. I've made a lot of headway on my career path of being a writer, but still haven't quite "made it" yet.

Last week, a friend in my writing/arts club was having a really crappy week. Her uncertain situation and difficulty with her art and transition left her blocked and frustrated. I recognized the words coming out of her mouth--the unspoken need to break out of the self-imposed cages of fear, expectation, and uncertainty.

The Artist's Way was on the shelf right behind her.

I shoved it into her hands and started babbling at my group in a way that probably would have accorded a few discreet phone calls in any normal circle. I badgered and cajoled and convinced them all to start it with me. I bought the last three copies at B&N and chucked it at their heads. So we got copies, purchased pens and notebooks, and started the basic tools: morning pages and the Artist Date.

One of the reasons I wanted my group to do AW was that I desperately need to do it myself. I've been improving my craft an my business sense, my networking and my platform, but I've been feeling unfulfilled and trapped in my own life for a while now, despite huge leaps in podcasting and writing. I think the self-discovery tools of AW will help me yet again to recover what I've cut myself off from.

Already, I've been struck by synchronicity. I was just complaining in my morning pages that I have no credentials to back up my experience in podcasting and social media beyond the Parsec Finalist (which is awesome, but admittedly a niche award). And then my friend and fellow podcaster, Abbie Hilton, sent me an email inviting me and a few others to join her as a speaker/panelist at the 2013 New Media Expo in Las Vegas.

！(◎_◎;)

Same day turnaround. Okay then. If I was having doubts about whether it would work for me this time--and I was--I'm feeling a bit more reassured now.

So. Leap and the net will appear.

Let's go.