That Really Deep Writing Post // Part #5

And, here we are again with another That Really Deep Writing Post, because like I said, I have way too much time to think when I’m at work. And if I don’t think about things to write, I will go insane (or, to be accurate, more insane). 

Anywho, here we go. 

Please, Me Do Other Things? (Me writer. Me talk good English.) I’ve already mentioned this feeling a little, but it bears repeating. Even though I have a great boss and I like my job and my workplace, and even though I love earning money, (*eyes turn to dollar signs*) I spend a lot of time fighting the desire to go home. A large part of this is anxiety, but part of it just comes from forgetting that I am tired and in pain now, but if I go home, I will just be tired and in pain there. I have this annoying habit of always wanting to be doing something other than the task in front of me. Every time I start reading a book, I suddenly get the urge to read a different book. When I'm at work, I want to be writing. When I'm writing, I want to pet the dog. If I’m sitting in one chair, then by golly, I would like to sit in that other chair. *shakes head at self* I’m essentially a toddler. 

Likewise with writing. If you’re doing NaNoWriMo this November, it’s probably because you want to write—because, despite the many conflicting emotions that come with the job, you do love it, if only in secret. But that doesn’t change the fact that you are likely to spend about 75% of your writing time wanting to do just about anything else. You make your coffee or your tea. You sit down at your computer. And bam! You have the sudden urge to wrestle gorillas or donate your eyes to science. Anything to avoid putting words on the page. And you know what? You just have to push through it. Teach your brain to ignore these feelings of discontentment, these little lines of complaint, and you will get stuff done. If your brain tries to sabotage you, put it in time out. Don't forget that you're in charge here. (Side note: Don't be like me with antsy horses. When I was working in a barn one summer, another barn girl told me to show the thousand pounds of anxiety who was boss, so I left the horse in charge. Don't do that with your book.) 

Can’t You Stay Clean For, Like, Five Minutes? As you hurdle toward the end of November, you’re likely to start thinking about revisions. So it only makes sense to include an editorial comparison. 

When I’m cleaning on Sundays, I have to work around the youth group. Basically, they follow me like the trail of slime following a snail. Me being the snail, since I feel like I’m working so slowly all the time. And them being the slime, because they make things messy. (Gosh, Liz, you can’t just go calling people slime. It’s not nice. It’s not civilized.) Whatever. I clean stuff just in time for them to use it and make it dirty again, which is totally fine. That’s what I’m there for and that’s what they’re there for. La di da. But it can be somewhat sad to realize that the set of rooms I have just spent two hours cleaning is going to be dirty again in a matter of moments. When I leave the building, it’s usually with a dramatically mournful sense that I have accomplished nothing more than damage control. *cue existential crisis* 

In the same way, when you edit, sometimes you can think you are doing a wonderful job. At least, you hope you are doing a wonderful job. Everything is so clean and shiny and perfect seeming. You are brilliant, you mad genius you. And then you send the draft off to beta readers, and they dirty it up with all their comments and their red pen marks, and you have to do even more cleaning. You don’t get to enjoy the satisfaction of a tidy draft for long. This is to be expected, though, so it works best for everyone if you refuse to let yourself get frustrated. 

It’s not a perfect analogy, I know. But it works in my mind, so maybe it will work in yours? 

What about you, my little coffee beans? Do you find it somewhat disheartening to think you have done a good job with editing, only to realize you have so. Much. More work to do? Do you struggle to be content in the moment? Do you think that’s purely an anxiety issue, or something else as well?

That Really Deep Writing Post // Part #4

And here we are with another That Really Deep Writing Post (you can find the others here). You could either interpret this as me being good at gleaning post material from random places, or me being too lazy to think about other things at work besides more work. (That sentence made little sense. Please ignore it.) 

Onward and upward. 

Think Long-Distance Running. I realize I’ve used this comparison several times over the past couple years, but I know from my years running cross country that it is painfully accurate. When you begin the race, no matter how many miles you have ahead of you, it can be tempting to sprint right from the starting line. But you can’t afford to do that with long-distance running. You have to pace yourself, or you will burn out/injure yourself (and also possibly vomit). Only start sprinting when the finish line is almost in view. 

The same goes for writing and working custodial. Janitorial work is not especially difficult, but it is strenuous (if that distinction makes any sense), and it can be easy to set a pace I can’t maintain for nine hours. I don’t want to use up my limited energy in the first two hours, only to find myself lagging more and more as the day progresses and the sun goes down. That is a recipe for an anxiety attack. 

You can bet this applies to writing as well, specifically NaNoWriMo. It can be so temping to ignore sleep and meals and hygiene in favor of writing until you can’t feel your hands on the first day. But unless you know from experience this won’t burn you out, you’re going to be in trouble sooner rather than later. And you could cause permanent damage to your wrists and shoulders. If you’re in it for the long haul, you are allowed to do what you like, but you might want to consider maintaining a consistent (but challenging) pace until the final week. 

Deadlines. I have to get my custodial work done before I can go home, which means I have to stay focused and keep working even when I don’t feel like doing anything. I don’t get the luxury of taking a nap when I feel like taking a nap (which is always). Likewise with writing under any sort of deadline, like NaNoWriMo. You can’t afford to slack off when you’re not feeling it. If you are going to reach your goal this November, whether it’s the 50K, or some other number, you are going to have to write even when you would rather be doing something else. But the end result will be worth it. And if you’re like me, you need the deadline to keep that fire under your butt burning hot and bright, or you’ll turn into a sad potato. True story. 

Alone, But Not. I’m alone a lot when I’m doing my job, but there are also plenty of times when I'm not. There are days when the silence of the empty building gets lonely and scary. Likewise, sometimes sequestering yourself in your writing cave might not be the best option for your sanity, even though you still need to get your work done. Writing in coffee shops can help with this, as can hanging out on the NaNo forums. When all else fails, maybe buy cutouts of the hottest actors you can find and talk to them while you work. (That sounded like a better idea in my head.) 

There are also times when the sounds of other people in the building make my anxiety worse and I would rather be alone. One of the functions of my PTSD is that being in crowds, especially crowds of loud young people, can trigger flashbacks, even when I have my earbuds in. Similarly, sometimes the people around you will be too distracting when you’re trying to write. Maybe they won’t give you flashbacks, but they might give you anxiety or slow you down in other ways. Sometimes you can come up with solutions for this, but other times you’re just going to have to grin and bear it. But if I can clean through the flashbacks, you can write through the distractions and the anxiety. I believe in you. 

What about you, my little coffee beans? Do you like writing under deadlines (self-imposed or otherwise), or do they kill your mojo? What are some ways you cope with unavoidable writing distractions?

That Really Deep Writing Post // Part #3

Ever since I got a custodial job in August, I’ve been amassing ideas for another Really Deep Writing Post. (If you want to read the first two, you can find them here and here.) This one will, of course, be somewhat NaNoWriMo-themed, as this is technically my first pep talk of the month. It's on the short side, but don't worry—there's more to come. 

Manuscript Mountain. If you’ve been reading the official NaNo pep talks for any amount of time (or anything about writing, for that matter), then you’re probably familiar with the concept of Manuscript Mountain. I think it goes without saying that comparing writing a book to climbing a mountain creates a painfully accurate picture (but I’m me, so I’m going to say it anyway). 

What you may not know, however, is that custodial work can seem like its own mountain. I have to clean my church Fridays through Sundays. And it’s a large church. To break it down, I have to clean the building twice every weekend—roughly one third on Friday, two thirds on Saturday, and then the whole thing all over again on Sunday. Sundays can be especially overwhelming, since I have tended to need about nine hours to get the work done. It’s not that I can’t handle the job, because I can, even when I feel like I’m two steps away from falling asleep on my feet. Literally. But my anxiety has a tendency to look at the amount of work ahead of me and freak out. It tells me that I’m going to be stuck there all night—that I’ll still be cleaning the same bathroom when my boss gets there in the morning. As can be expected, I have to work harder to overcome this anxiety. 

Likewise with writing (and editing) a book. When you think about the concept of writing 50K words (or more), it doesn’t necessarily seem all that difficult. That’s why so many people will cavalierly declare that they would write a book if they had the time. Anyone who has written a book will hear this and laugh while crying hysterically on the inside. 

However, anxiety or no anxiety, once you actually break ground on your novel, you’re likely to start feeling a little overwhelmed. And by “a little overwhelmed” I mean, you would probably sell your own kidneys to get out of finishing that draft. This is an understandable emotion. But please don’t start selling your organs just yet. 

The trick is to focus on the task at hand and, for the most part, ignore all the work ahead of you until it’s time to move on to the next task and the next. It’s fine to plan ahead, but you’re going to exhaust yourself if you spend too much energy thinking about all the stuff you have left to do before you can call it a day. Yes, anxiety does not listen to reason, so either way, you may still suffer. No matter how much I remind myself that everything will be okay, I struggle. Every day. But the more I fight to control my thoughts, the more I win small battles in this larger war against my mind. 

But the thing you have to remember is this: Just because your veins feel like live wires doesn’t mean you should quit. And it gets better, even when it feels like it’s getting worse. I have, in small measures, gotten from the point where I couldn’t even think about leaving the house by myself to the point where I am sitting here, typing this in a coffee shop full of strangers. I have gone from the point where I couldn’t fathom getting another job to the point where I work overtime every week because I like getting the job done and doing it well. It doesn’t get completely better, not right away, maybe not ever. But it improves. You can improve. 

Motivational speech over. 

What about you, my little coffee beans? Do you struggle with anxiety, in life and/or in writing? What are some ways you fight your fears?

Knocking that Word Count Dead

Ah, welcome to the third week of NaNoWriMo, where everything gets just a little bit more interesting. At this point, you’re probably tired, and, if you’re like me, you’re running behind on your goal (whether it’s the official 50K or whatever goal you’ve set for yourself). Others of you may be breezing ahead, throwing your cares to the wind, and having the time of your life. Wherever you’re at, it doesn’t hurt to think about getting some extra words written in case you find yourself unable to make significant progress over Thanksgiving.

Let me just say, as a disclaimer, that everyone’s brain is different. So the advice I’m about to give won’t necessarily work for all of you, and that’s perfectly okay. Remember what I said last week? The ultimate goal is to write the story. Your final word count at the end of the month will not be a meter by which you should measure your self-worth, or even your successfulness. Some people write slowly, and they need to write slowly, and that’s totally cool. Writing slowly doesn’t make you a failure. That being said, if you’re as numbers oriented as I am, here are some tips that might help you beef up your word count.

First of all, it’s important to keep in mind that writing, like a professional sport, requires a lot of practice and training. If you’re just coming out of the gate, you probably don’t want to count on pulling a 30,000 word day. Push yourself, yes, but don’t be angry if you fall short. Those just beginning training for a marathon shouldn’t expect themselves to be able to finish the whole race on the first try. If you’re new to writing, or new to writing thousands of words in a month, please don’t make this a miserable experience by forcing yourself to produce more than you’re able to. And don’t expect it to be fun all the time. Like long-distance running, it takes a lot of sweat and effort and focus, but the end result will be worth it.

My first NaNoWriMo (2012), I didn’t officially participate. Instead, I just kept track of what I wrote during November, and my count came to about 36,000 words. At that point, 36,000 words was a big deal—the most I had ever written in such a short space of time. When the next November rolled round, I decided to push myself a little harder, and I came to 160,000 words at the end of the month. Last year, I went into NaNoWriMo intending to one-up myself and write 250,000 words, but after a bit of warm up, I found I was able to go above and beyond that, and I reached 404,404 words total.

Now, my point in mentioning these numbers is not to make those with lower word counts feel bad in any way whatsoever. So let me put some things into perspective for you. In all of those NaNoWriMos, as with this one, what I wrote was pretty nearly junk and I would die before I let anyone read those rough drafts. But, I would never have even reached the 50,000 word official goal had I been writing something quality. Which brings me, at long last, to my next point. If you want to beef up your word count, and you’re like me, you need to lock your inner editor up in a maximum security penitentiary for the month. Be aware that if you’re going to go for the higher word counts, you don’t have as much leeway to second guess what you’re writing. One of the biggest rules that I set for myself is that I can never go back and reword something, even if I absolutely hate what I just typed (although I may also write the alternate wording down so I don’t forget it). If I’m in the middle of a scene, and I decided it’s really not what I’m going for, I make a quick note to myself about it and then pick up wherever I left off before things went wrong. But I don’t delete anything.

One of my greatest joys in writing comes from the editing process, so the messier my first drafts get, the more fun I’ll have on the second. I try to keep this in mind as I vomit words all over the page. Remember, the official goal for November is to write 50,000 words—just 50,000 words—not 50,000 polished words, not 50,000 words of publishable manuscript. At the end of the month, no one has to read what you’ve written (or at least, I hope you’re not under that sort of pressure.) When trying to beef up your word count, type the first thing that comes to your mind, and then the next thing and the next thing. You’re allowed to stop and think, but you’re not allowed to stop and overthink, and you’re going to have a lot of trouble making headway if you spend too much time second-guessing yourself.

Another important aspect is good time management. I can be guilty of way too much procrastination—in fact, I don’t think I’d be as far behind my goal as I am if I’d spent more time holding myself to task. Part of good time management is taking advantage of every spare moment you have. Can you write on your phone? Do that when you can’t access your computer. Do you have five minutes while you’re waiting for someone to vacate the bathroom? Use that time. Are the kids napping? Write. Do you have ten minutes while the cookies are baking? Well, don’t just stand around doing nothing—TYPE. Do you feel like slacking off? Write anyway. Squeezing in five or ten minute segments whenever they crop up may not feel hugely important or helpful, but you may find you’re able to salvage more time than you think that way. Even if you only manage an extra thousand or so words, at least you’re farther along than you would have been. Remember that, like spare change, spare moments add up.

Now that I’ve talked about writing all the time, let me reverse directions and advocate taking strategic breaks. Let’s face it, your brain and your fingers are going to need rest, and if you deny them that, they won’t work for you as well as they could. Set a word count goal that you want to reach (something reasonable, maybe anywhere from 100-2,000 words), and write that amount. Don’t pause until you’ve written that. Then take a quick break to read something or visit your favorite social media sites or walk around a little. Then set another goal and make sure that you hold yourself to it. Don’t let yourself take a break until you’ve met that goal. And so on and so forth.

As for my final point, it may seem a little counterintuitive to a lot of you, and again, it might not work for everyone. But my advice would be to make sure that you get enough sleep. In fact, during NaNoWriMo, I let myself get at least an extra hour of sleep each day if I can manage it. The reason for this is that your brain will start losing some of its ability to function properly if you’re depriving it of rest. Even if you manage to snatch a few more writing hours by delaying bed time, you may not be able to accomplish much more than you would have if you had let yourself recharge. And let’s not forget that your word count won’t seem as shiny and awesome at the end if you don’t even survive NaNoWriMo.

When it comes down to it, whether you get a super high word count or a rather low count, if you have put the time into writing this month, I wholeheartedly applaud you because you are amazing.

 

So what about you, my little coffee beans? Any tips or tricks of your own that you’d like to share? What is your target word count for this month?

That Really Deep Writing Post, Part Two

A few weeks ago, I wrote a post comparing my housekeeping job at a classy inn to what writers tend to go through, and if you haven’t read that one yet, you should. Or else.

Currently, I’m in the middle of packing, and I’m switching gears as I prepare to move to another state, so I’ve finished up with that job (don’t worry, I wasn’t fired—this was the plan all along). But, since I really enjoyed working at the inn and I know that I’ll miss it, I wanted to write a second comparison post. You’re welcome.

Treat Your Housekeepers/Writers Well. (This idea was actually suggested by one of my fellow housekeepers, so I can’t take credit for it.) Housekeepers work hard to make sure that the rooms you stay in are clean and presentable. They have to run back and forth, swapping stained sheets for unstained sheets and stained towels for unstained towels, all the while cursing the easily-marred whiteness of the linens and the terrycloth. They get down on their hands and knees to clean the toilets and the mop boards and the scuff marks on the walls from careless luggage handling. They go into trashed rooms and turn them into livable environments (even when they’d rather just call a Hazmat team and get it over with).

Writers, too, work hard. We spend hours and hours pounding out our first drafts, and even more hours turning those into something vaguely readable. We chop words and kill darlings and torture our characters, and we drink copious amounts of caffeinated liquid in a desperate attempt to remain sane. We endure the embarrassment and the disappointment and all the other negative emotions that come with receiving critiques from beta readers. And very many of us do this, not for money, but because we want to.

Without housekeepers, you wouldn’t have clean hotel rooms, and without writers, you wouldn’t have books. So treat your housekeepers and your writers well, and they won’t plan your death. True story.

Judgements. Both housekeepers and writers must deal with the opinions of others, whether good or bad. We like it when people recognize our hard work and tell us how much they appreciate what we do, but there will be times where we must endure harsh, often unwarranted criticism. Guests might complain about nitpicky details that are beyond our control. Irritated customers might call us lazy and misconstrue our actions, even when we’re working our bums off and following policy (I’m speaking from experience here).

Likewise, writers will have fans, however many, but they will also have not-fans. Sometimes those not-fans will have legitimate reasons, and sometimes they will share those reasons nicely and rationally, but often it seems that people find fault because they want to find fault. And they won’t necessarily by polite when they point out those faults. Readers will question a writer’s motives and make judgments about that writer’s character. They will misinterpret stories and react far too strongly for the situation, and they will give less weight than they should to the author’s intentions.

Unfortunately, that’s all part of the job. At least the bad experiences make the good ones seem so much better, and at least we can use the negative feedback as a chance to learn and improve.

Advice. In a similar vein, people will offer advice, whether solicited or unsolicited. And no one seems shy about sharing their opinions.

Often people will tell my boss what they feel she could do differently—that she should add such and such a feature to her rooms or her lawn or whatever. Some of this advice might be helpful, but for the most part it’s better to just smile and nod and ignore all the fiscally irresponsible feedback. People tend to be far too eager to run other people’s businesses, anyway.

Likewise, with writers, we face all sorts of input. If we have shared our work in any way, shape, or form, people will tell us what they think. And they will also tell us what they think we could be doing better, even if we have not asked for their opinions. They will offer us story ideas and character ideas and whatnot. They will inform us the ways in which both our writing and our style can improve. Again, some of this input can be valuable, but authors have to throw out most suggestions in favor of sanity.

All in all, it’s a matter of personal discretion, and hotel owners/housekeepers/writers must find their own style and stick with it, even if it means ignoring much of the unsolicited but generally well-meaning advice. Once you put yourself in their shoes, you’ll understand what it’s like.

Interaction. Last, but not least, both housekeepers and writers face customer reviews. Some people seem eager to point out all the good qualities of our work—others seem far more eager to find the faults (whether real or imagined). While we can benefit from facing up to the ratings and the reviews, at times we also need to distance ourselves. To the customer, our services are a product to be evaluated, and that’s fine. But to us, our services are a matter of pride and joy, and it can be difficult to watch people tear us down for all the world to see. Likewise, it can be similarly hard to process good feedback (yes, we are rather interesting creatures, are we not?). In the end, it boils down to a matter of personality—do we benefit from the ratings and the write-ups, or do we benefit from walking away and avoiding the outside voices. Does the input help, or does it drown out our own inner peace or creative muse? No two housekeepers are alike, and no two writers are alike, and what works for one won’t necessarily work for another.

Well, that’s it, my little coffee beans. I probably won’t come up with any other housekeeper/writer comparisons now that I’m moving on to another job. But I’d love to know if you have any work/writing parallels of your own.

That Really Deep Writing Post

A few weeks ago, I started working at a classy inn, and from the start I knew that this would be great for writing research. After all, what better way is there to observe the oddities of humanity than to clean someone’s messy room? And let’s not forget the added prestige points you get when you straighten up after a semi-famous person and help give them directions to the nearest post office.

But in all seriousness, every day I go to work and think about the parallels between housekeeping and writing. So, I figured I should share some of those with you.

Tidiness. People tend to notice tidiness as a general concept, but they’re much more likely to clue in to individual mistakes. For instance, we could spend half an hour sweeping the floors, making the beds, sanitizing the bathrooms, and dusting every single surface. But if we miss that one little hair on the pillow, we’re probably going to hear about it the next day. (Okay, I’m exaggerating, but you know what I mean.)

It’s the same with writing. You can comb your manuscript a dozen times and catch almost every typo and inconsistency and awkwardly phrased sentence. But the few mistakes you miss are going to stick in people’s minds a lot better than the overall neatness of your prose. As the writer (and the housekeeper), you can think of hundreds of errors you’ve fixed, but your audience isn’t going to know about those. And because most people don’t realize how much work goes into a finished manuscript, they won’t be as forgiving of mess-ups as you, the writer, will be. Unfortunately, that’s life.

 

Pickiness. At the inn where I work, we’re very picky about cleanliness. This means we’ll often dust stuff that isn’t dusty and wipe down surfaces that aren’t dirty. Likewise, in writing, it’s a very good idea to give your manuscript at least one last read through, even when you’re certain it’s finished and ready for other eyes. You’d be surprised by what you find when you make that final, seemingly unnecessary pass.

Minimizing Distractions. In cleaning a hotel room, the goal is to make the area seem almost unlived in, as though your current clients are the first people ever to use those facilities. It’s not that we want to dupe our customers into thinking they’re being given extra special treatment when they aren’t, but it’s nice for them when they can forget that they’re sleeping in a bed dozens of others have used before. The general neatness and freshness creates a relaxing atmosphere of renewal and comfort.

With your writing, you want your prose and grammar and spelling and all that fun stuff to be so tidy that nothing distracts your reader from the story. Essentially, as a writer, you want to disappear, because you aren’t describing the world, you’re creating a window to it. Sure, it’s important to leave your own special touch, just as it’s nice when we make flowers out of the tissues and fold the towels into pleasing shapes, but you don’t want your presence to be so overpowering that the reader can’t really focus on creating their own experience.

 

Attending to all the Little Details. Tidying up a hotel room can take a team of three anywhere from fifteen to forty-five minutes, depending on our energy levels and the extent of the mess we’re dealing with. There are lots of little details that need our attention—the above-mentioned towel folding and tissue origami, the little soaps, the coffee tray, the dusting and glass cleaning and furniture polishing, the sweeping and mopping and bed-making, the shower and toilet and sink, the rug, the smudges on the walls from careless luggage lugging, the fingerprints on the door paint, the stray hairs on the fresh duvet covers and pillow cases and towels, etc… While it’s possible for us to move quickly and efficiently, we can only do so to a point, and the more we rush, the more we’re bound to miss something.

In writing, you don’t have to force yourself to go slowly, but you don’t want to jump the gun, either. As you edit, especially, you want to make sure you take enough time to notice all the little details, and you want to make sure everything gets its fair share of your attention before you move on.

The small things may not be that important on their own, but added together, they make the difference between a messy room and a clean room, a messy manuscript and a clean manuscript.

Popularity. Last but not least, when it comes to hotel business, the more popular you get, the more work you have to do. Lately, the inn has had a steady string of no vacancies each night, which means we have to clean every single room every single morning. So, while that means more money for us, it also means more labor. You really can’t have one without the other.

Writing, especially blogging, can turn into a give-and-take relationship like that. The more comments you get on your blog, the more time you have to invest in answering them and, possibly, visiting your commenter’s blogs. As your page view counter begins to rise, you’ll be happy, but you’ll also have the added stress of knowing that if you blow it now, you’re blowing it in front of a larger audience. There’ll be that greater pressure to provide interesting and original content so as not to let your readers down. (I imagine this is much the same for popular, published authors.) And you’ll probably find it rather disappointing if your success rate plummets for a time.

 

Well, there you have it, my little coffee beans. I’m sure I could dig up other parallels (co-workers and characters, for instance), but I don’t want to bore you. If you have any work/writing comparisons of your own, I’d love to hear about them. In the meantime, to all my writer coffee beans, best of luck with your novel editing. I’m off to clean some rooms.

Unsolicited Advice: Passive Writing

The more I write—and specifically, the more I edit—the more I realize I still have a lot to learn. (Who’da thunk?) And I’ve noticed one particular issue both in my own novels and in published books.

Passive Writing.

Now, for those not in the know, an author uses passive writing when he or she relies on “to be” verbs such as “am”, “is”, “are”, “was”, “were”, etc… Also, just so we’re on the same page, active writing employs verbs of action rather than verbs of being. Did I make that confusing enough? Good, okay, moving on.

For starters, passive verbs perform many great jobs, but they have one great flaw. They tell rather than show. If I were to say, “The cow is angry,” it would be a statement of fact. By my word choice, I have conveyed the necessary information to you, and that would be fine if I were writing an informative article (I think). But novels deal with the imagination, and that means the reader should get involved as well. So that’s where active writing comes in. Rather than simply telling you what you need to know, it’s my responsibility to go deeper than that. Instead of saying, “The cow is angry,” I could write, “The cow snorted, lowered its head, and gouged the earth with its hoof.”

In the first example, I took the easy route—I simply told you what was going on. But in the second example, I gave you three vital (and hopefully interesting) bits of information, and then trusted you to come to the proper conclusion on your own. By using the passive verb “is”, I wasn’t necessarily trying to communicate that I think my readers are too stupid to look at the evidence and then figure out the cow’s emotional state, but I wasn’t trusting you to figure it out yourself, either.

Here are some more examples that (hopefully) show why passive verbs make for weaker writing:

 

The woman was old.

With her grey hair pulled into a bun above her wrinkled face, the woman shuffled along, her joints creaking.  

 

Once the horsemen were through, the gate was shut behind them.

Once the horsemen had ridden through, the gates swung shut behind them.

 

He was tired.

His shoulders sagged, and he struggled to keep his eyes open.

 

The rope was frayed.

The rope had begun to fray.

 

There is a dresser on the other side of the room.

A dresser stands on the other side of the room.

 

As far as words go, passive verbs are boring. With them, you serve as merely an onlooker, watching from the sidelines as the drama unfolds—you become the audience in the theater, the person flipping through the photo album. Like the verbs, your role is passive. But with active verbs, you enter into the story as though you belong to it, as though you can take part in the narrative. Which option would you prefer?

That’s not to say you should never use passive verbs again. They do have their place as well. When I stumble across something passive in my story, though, I have to ask myself whether a more active word choice would work better in its place. And, nine times out of ten, I find the answer is yes.

Just to drive my point home, let me show you how passive writing effects, not only individual sentences, but the entire flow of the story:

 

"There is a dog. I see it out the window. The dog is big and brown, and his ears are perked. I am sure he is listening to something, but I cannot hear it myself. Maybe there is a rabbit in the brush across the road. Maybe the rabbit is sitting with its paws up and its nose twitching. Maybe it smells the dog. If it does, I’m sure it’s afraid."

 

Now see what happens when I make this active:

 

"When I lean out the window, I see the dog, sitting there all big and brown with his ears perked. He must hear something I can’t. Maybe he senses a rabbit hiding in the brush across the road, sitting with its paws up and its nose twitching at the sharp canine scent. I can only imagine how the poor critter’s little heart must be racing."

 

Now it’s your turn. If you’d like, try rewriting the paragraph below in the comments section using active verbs—and feel free to think outside the box and tweak the sentence structures if you have to:

 

"The princess was sad. The halls were dark, and the sound of her feet was loud as she walked toward the exit. On the other side of the door was her destiny. Or maybe it was her doom. To her, the two were the same thing. She wasn’t happy to be here, and every moment she lingered was torture."

Unsolicited Advice--Part Three: In Which I Further Abuse My List-Making Rights

Fun Fact of the Day:  Check out Black Ivory and see what horrors are enacted on the face of this earth. I may be a coffee enthusiast, but even I wouldn’t go that far. To each his own, I guess.

Folks, the blessed month of November is almost here, and if you’ve followed me for any length of time, you know what has me so excited. NaNoWriMo!!! *cue the excited happy dance that leaves people questioning my sanity.* Relax, no need to worry—we already know I’m crazy.

During the lovely month of pumpkin pie, pumpkin spice coffee, pumpkin muffins, and even more pumpkin (October for short), I have drawn anchor and set sail across the perilous ocean of NaNo prep. For the sake of consistency, I will once more arrange my thoughts in a list.

1)      Since I harbor some ambitious goals, I need to warm up my writing muscles. I recently finished editing my last work, which means I haven’t drafted anything in a while. Jumping into NaNoWriMo cold turkey might not be the brightest plan. So I’m gathering all the ideas that sprang into my head as I wrote The Interesting Book, and I’m recording them in short story form. Maybe then they’ll leave me in peace.

My only problem here is that I am notoriously bad at keeping short stories short. Once upon a time, I started a brief piece that transformed into a trilogy and ate me alive. Which is why I must practice this skill. Granted, an accidental novel isn’t a weakness—it simply means that you have more meat to work with than you thought.

 

2)      Since I plan to generate an obscene amount of fiction in just thirty days, I should make sure I have all my ducklings in a row. Now, I’m not the planning type. I can outline until I’m blue in the face, but I invariably wander off on tangents. However, it will help if I have a theme in mind, as well as characters, some idea of the world, and definitely the conflict. This will be easier for me, because I’m going all NaNoRebel and finishing a draft I’ve already begun.

But even if I were to start NaNoing with no conflict in mind, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. I’m a panster, so I’ll think of something. Probably. But I run the risk of losing traction and time if I’m not even sure about the inciting incident. Plus, if I have at least a vague notion of where I’m headed, then I won’t have to backtrack so much when I’m editing later on.

3)      Since I will be relying heavily on caffeine during November, I am…cue drumroll…quitting coffee. Say what? I know—you are free to admit me to the nearest mental hospital at your convenience. But remember how I talked about moods and taking care of myself? Well, I’m not quitting coffee for good. But after a while, those customary two-plus cups a day become commonplace—no longer quite so satisfying. And half the effect of coffee is its surprising newness—at least for me.

So I’m quitting for the rest of October, because I want November to be a clean slate. And I want my handy brewable muse to be fresh and exciting, (but not like Black Ivory.) I need to take care of myself, and part of that is training my body to avoid addictions and hang-ups. Frankly, I want to drink coffee because I love it, not because I need it. Since I stopped four days ago, it’s been difficult. But I never want to slip into a rut where life is boring and nothing sparks of energy. That said, you are free to judge my sidewalk philosophy at your leisure.

 

Like working out, writing is hard and demanding, and though I don’t always enjoy each moment, the exertion is always worth it—no matter the outcome. But I also need to avoid overstressing myself and pulling a muscle. If I’m not careful, I could cause serious damage. November is a crunched month, whether you aim for 50K or more (or less). Which is why I made a list of ways to remind myself that sanity and health are also important.

(Oooh, another list!)

1)      Exercise—every day. I don’t have to run 7.3 miles or do 56.8 jumping jacks or 391.4 sit-ups. But extricating myself from my recliner every now and then is a good idea. If you find you’re sitting and staring blankly at the computer, sure that some virus has turned your brain into a piece of slimy, wet duct tape, you might as well take a break and get your blood flowing. I’ll read or listen to music while walking, or I’ll wander outside in the fresh air. If I don’t stay active, I get depressed, and ideas don’t come, and words don’t flow, and writing is pointless. Don’t be a slave driver. Remember why you loved writing in the first place, and work to hold on to the warm fuzzy feelings.

2)      Take breaks. I realize this sounds redundant. It isn’t really. Sometimes, I’ll be writing, and I’ll think, Hmm, fudge would be delicious right about now. Granted, it may be my inner procrastinator taking a dive for the steering wheel. But sometimes I get my best inspiration over a pot of fudge that is destined to be either too mushy or two hard or too granular, but never too perfect for words. (I also like cookies—but who doesn’t?) Go to the sea shore, smell the salt, and imagine you have wings like the seagulls. Or take a drive. Paint a picture—maybe one of your characters. (I drew a storyboard for TIB.) Live.

3)      Read. I know that seems irrelevant, just a bit of no-brainer advice inserted like steroids to bulk up this list. Writers read—it’s why they write. But I personally forget, in my excitement over my own words, to glance over another’s. Partially, it’s because my inner editor does not discriminate and will tear apart anyone’s work, not just my own. But how can I be expected to produce anything exciting if I’m not feeding my mind? (Be careful, though, that you don’t accidentally plagiarize.)

4)      Watch movies. Maybe I’m the worst writer ever to suggest this. Others will tell you not to. But here’s the thing. If you’re working hard for however many hours a day, pounding on your keyboard and drinking far too much caffeine for your own good, reading a book can be miserable. It takes too much thinking when all you want to do is veg. Movies give you a chance to see, in a couple hours, an entire story arc with all the themes, moods, plots, and subplots. I call it intravenous inspiration because it’s so effortless. And I can’t say enough about cramming your head with brain fodder to keep the writer’s block at bay.

Well…that concludes my outpouring of unsolicited advice. Thank you for bearing with me. I wish you a very happy and productive NaNo prep.

As an aside, I feel I need to apologize for the formatting errors that keep popping up. Rest assured, I have done my best to correct them and will continue to do so. Please bear with me, though, if glitches persist. After all, I am only human, and the internet is indomitable. *smirk*

Unsolicited Advice--Part Two: Spock

Status:  Cooked breakfast for the loveliest couple—and had to break out my French. Why should I travel to Europe when Europe will simply come to me?

When I was younger, I spent approximately three years writing DSS (which does not stand for Dumb Stupid Story), and like I said before, it was chock full of tiresome clichés, overworked metaphors, and loads of pretentious foppery. Of course, during that time, I spent hours poring over writing advice and editing advice, and I loved learning about what I hoped would one day become my job. But my research hardly made an ounce of difference. All those well-meaning words—they passed through me like souls on their way to the other world.

 

I did tell myself that I wanted to make my book as good as possible—my problem was that I didn’t see any faults to begin with. How could I perfect something that was already perfect? My maternal feelings crushed my inner editor. When I got feedback, I invariably disagreed. Every line struck through one of my beautiful sentences was hateful, written by someone with little literary taste and questionable parentage. How could a mere reader know anything of writing and art? Believe you me, Spock would not have approved. (And yes, I realize he’s not a real person. There’s no need to rub it in.)

 

For those of you who aren’t Trekkies (for shame), Spock is Vulcan—a race known for its logic. He sees everything as black and white, and is not prone to sentimental human error. Why does this matter? you must surely be asking by now, as you slide your cursor toward the exit button. What on earth does this have to do with writing?

Well, I’m getting there.

After I realized DSS was going nowhere fast, I decided to take a temporary hiatus from fantasy and revive an old science fiction flame that had been brewing in my mind since birth (or something like that). In the space of a single, highly-caffeinated NaNoWriMo, I wrote TIB (and no, it does not stand for The Interesting Book). It clocked in at 160,060 words, and it was both ungainly and imprecise, much like this sentence. At that point, I had two choices:  I could go ahead and edit—polish the sentences without touching the structure—or I could gut the unseemly creature then and there. For such an obvious decision, it was surprisingly difficult.

In order to progress, I had to sit down and write a list, which I will share in modified form because I love lists.

 

1)      My dearest Lizzie, if you are not pleased with the bulk of your work, even after preliminary edits, maybe there’s a reason why. Never pass up on the chance to doubt yourself.

2)      My dearest Lizzie, this isn’t the time to be lazy—hard work now means less work later. (Yes, I’m just full of pithy quotes.)

3)      My dearest Lizzie, cultivate a logical viewpoint, like Spock. Recognize your story’s weaknesses, but don’t be overwhelmed by them. It doesn’t matter how much you’re in love with a given scene—if it doesn’t add any value, then it has to go. To borrow a Spockism, “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.”

 

I know it’s hard—it’s wicked hard to take criticism, to find fault with your work, to look at your best and realize it isn’t good enough. (All aspiring writers should have their heads checked—we are undoubtedly insane.) Under all the pressure—under all the strain of destroying my darling—I almost snapped. I almost cut my losses and moved on. But what helped me was a child’s game. I slipped out of the role of proud author and into the role of Spock. I played pretend. Hewing my manuscript down to size became a game (which makes me sound a lot more violent than I actually am). Now, I’m not recommending a total break from reality—but swapping my viewpoint with another for that brief space of time was the best choice I could have possibly made. Sure, my sentimental side screamed in agony…until I stuffed her face with chocolate. And my distractible side was ready to write something newer and shinier. All in all, though, holding the nine-millionth draft of my manuscript—after seemingly endless bouts of searching for those nasty little typos that go around adding themselves when I’m not looking—was well worth the agony. And now, my mind to your mind, my thoughts to your thoughts. 

Unsolicited Advice--Part One: My Two Personalities

So today I’m going to talk about the artist’s temperament, and I know some of you may look at me funny, with my chipper posts and my tomato-scented hands, and wonder what on earth I have to say. Maybe not too much—but I’m going to say it anyway. And here’s why. This is stuff I learned the hard way when I was younger, stuff I had to figure out myself. And maybe even if I’d been told, it wouldn’t have made any difference—maybe it’s something that people only incorporate through experience. But why turn up an opportunity to offer unsolicited advice? That said, here goes. *takes deep breath*

Writers live on a spectrum of emotion apart from normal people, which is why others look at us like we’re crazy—they just can’t relate. Frankly, even last year I didn’t understand myself well enough to care for Liz Brooks as well as I could have. Long hours would pass unnoticed as I stared at my shelves, imagining my book crammed in between Ally Carter and Ray Bradbury. Seriously, though, who could really blame me if they cared to stand in my shoes? Creating a world and peopling it with characters—it’s intoxicating. It’s no wonder I was drunk on my two thousand plus words a day. I would lovingly print my work at the end of each session—snatched between classes and supper—and I would add those sheets of paper to my binder. As the days went by, I developed more and more endurance—I could write larger quantities at a stretch. It was exhilarating. So I’d reread and make comments and revisions and plans; and I’d track word count and thickness and page numbers. Truth be told, I wasn’t committing any great writerly sin—after all, I hardly think you can call shooting yourself in the foot a sin. But you still wouldn’t do it on purpose.

Here’s where I went wrong. I spent those moments reveling, letting the pumpkin spice coffee get to my head, letting the achievement get to my heart, letting the future get to my nerves. I had a countdown (and I’m not dissing countdowns, but more on that later). I had a count-up. I measured weekly progress and monthly progress. For someone who hates math, I did an awful lot of calculation. This much closer to getting finished. This much closer to revising, and querying, and publication, and sequels. *hyperventilates* It wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t healthy for me, it wasn’t healthy for my mind, it wasn’t healthy for my career. Because the more I got myself all worked up before supper, the harder I crashed before bed. It took me the longest time to realize that I was making those natural emotional swings that come with being a writer much worse.

And you know what happened? You know what the end result was of all that calculating and measuring and rereading? I burned out. Summer came, and I was done. I’d so well acquainted myself with the flaws in my book, I couldn’t see any hope. Like a kid given a barrel of candy, I had eaten myself sick. Fortunately, I was working away from home for the summer months—I wouldn’t have had time to write anyway. But still, it was the principle of the matter. It was the way I left it. Because I told myself that I would get back to DSS—that after three plus years of dedication, I was not going to restart that old cycle of quitting. I had lasted this long, I couldn’t fail now. But all the while I knew deep down that the same pattern would reassert itself just like it always did. I would reach a point where I could go no farther, and I would give up and start again, and I would never succeed. Never ever succeed.

What it boils down to is that I let my personality—I let my weaknesses—control me. I didn’t know how to fight it—I didn’t know to fight it. I just knew that it got harder and harder every day to ride that roller coaster. And I knew that I was miserable.  Writing was like a sick frantic joy that wasn’t a joy at all—like the high you get from drugs that leaves you lower than when you started. Was there something wrong with me? Was I going crazy?

And I don’t remember at what point I realized I could change my circumstances. But somehow I figured it out before it was too late. I needed to do (or not do) several things. (And here’s where I get to break out my dubious list-making skills.)

 

1)   I needed to take a step back from my work. I didn’t need to stop, I just needed to remove myself emotionally. Fine, write for a while. Print your work even. But then file it away and forget about it. Eat supper, enjoy your family, read someone else’s novel instead of your own WIP (without comparing the two in your head), and then get to sleep at a decent hour.

 

2)      I needed to not over-evaluate my work. Enjoy it, yeah. And be honest with yourself about its merits and faults. But don’t go around telling yourself you’re a genius and you’re bound to be a bestseller. It may happen—it may not. You don’t know the future. So don’t set yourself up for a harder fall than you have to. But also don’t be too down on yourself. If people tell you you have talent, then believe them, whether you see it or not. One thing I learned about singing that really fits here is confidence. When I’m singing and I’m nervous, I sound bad. But I hit notes I don’t even know I have when I just act like I can. Look at your work through the corner of your eye, but never straight on, if that makes any sense. (If it doesn’t, just pretend I said something about puppies.)

 

3)      I needed to not compare my work. DSS is fantasy, so I mostly spent my time appraising Eragon and Inkheart and similar volumes. But I wasn’t limited to those victims. I think I can safely say I spent at least thirty minutes a day reading snatches from just about every novel I own, telling myself that I was just as good as them (or better). And most anyone who has read DSS would agree that I wasn’t.

 

So this is me—this is what I wish I had known. And you might be very different. Perhaps what I said is irrelevant. To which I say, good on you. But remember that your opinion of your book is going to change more often than the position of the minute hand on one of those maddening analogue clocks—you’ll do better if you remain objective.

But there’s something else you should know about the artist’s temperament. It may seem like the worst Achilles’ heel out there, like a curse that every creative person is doomed to bear. Here’s the reality though:  it’s not a curse—it’s a tool. (And I learned that this year, so I’m sort of reminding myself as I prepare to query.)

When I’m writing a rough draft, my first instinct is to keep reviewing my progress. And I inevitably get down on myself. But if I blithely plunge ahead through the tangled jungle of my thoughts, remembering scenes the way I intended them and not the way they stumbled onto the screen, I begin to grow arrogant, convinced that my work will be the best and that it will hardly require any polishing. And if I keep this arrogance in check and don’t indulge it, it masks itself as confidence and insulates me from the truth that I’m merely producing junk that will take eight times longer to polish than it did to spew out.

If I work in a quick enough time frame, say NaNoWriMo, I can ride those arrogant fumes and avoid major bouts of writers’ block as well as the times when I question my sanity in choosing a career I’m no good at. But then, once the novel is finished and I set it aside to let it rest, the arrogance fades and I am ready to be a little more objective about my intellect. I reread my word-puke and notice all those glaring faults right away. Right then and there is the hardest part, because I can literally feel myself sinking, and no matter how much I see it coming, it’s still terrible. So once I’m finished rereading, I take a step back, wait a day or two until I level out a bit, and begin revising.

Chopping and fixing and restructuring aren’t fun at first. It takes a while to get used to tearing my baby apart in order to make it better. But my low gives me the objective view point that my high cannot. Suddenly my beautifully crafted sentences reveal themselves for what they are—what I couldn’t see before past my pride—ugly little bits of pretentious foppery. Out they go, replaced with something better. (Hopefully.)

Writing is a lot like surfing. You ride the waves of your natural emotional highs and lows. You learn to predict them by feel, like Bethany in Soul Surfer. Even though they are incredibly dangerous and some literary shark is bound to chomp your arm off (sorry), it can be a wicked great ride if you do it right. And like Miss Hamilton, you start at a disadvantage, but you don’t have to stay that way. But believe you me, it takes ages of practice and hard work. In fact, I’ve been at this for ten years, and it’s only clicking now. So be patient.

 

Note:  About graphs—I am in no way implying that they are evil. So you can put away your pitchforks—they’ll be no tar-and-feathering today. In fact, I recommend graphs. They can be very encouraging, and I really enjoy visualizing my progress. My problem with DSS was that I was obsessing over the graphs, on top of other things. Basically, just remember, all things in moderation except moderation.