Posts Tagged ‘The Muse’

But it isn’t enough to write a story. There has to be a reader for that story, and it can’t be just you.

“A story is a collaboration between teller and audience, writer and reader. Fiction is not only illusion, but collusion….Without a reader there’s no story. No matter how well written, if it isn’t read it doesn’t exist as a story. The reader makes it happen just as much as the writer does.”

Writer, story, reader: it’s an abstract dance that requires all to participate. If you write a story and stuff it into a drawer when you are finished, without letting others read it, you have slapped words on a page that may or may not have recognizable form or recognizable meaning. To be valued, to be a story, to be a work of art, your baby has to be SEEN. That means letting it out of the hermetically sealed bubble at least a little bit. Being read by others is like oxygen for humans: your story needs read to live.

However, you have to write something someone will read or you haven’t done your job. This means making your story interactive. To be successful, your reader must identify with the situation, characters, and emotion in some fashion. Your reader must be able to follow the plot with all of its twists, turns, and arcs. Your reader must desire the entertainment you attempt to provide. You have to make them desire it more than dinner, and make them go after that extra cup of coffee at the breakfast table because they want those precious extra minutes in your world. You have to engage them, transfer your vision to them, and let their imagination fly. You have to make them willing to suspend their disbelief and soak in the magic you have created.

It all comes down to a matter of trust. You have to trust your gift is sufficient to tell a story, and it won’t fail you at an inopportune moment. You have to trust the story enough to even begin writing it, and then allow it to evolve beyond your initial ideas and plans to develop into that masterpiece everyone wants on their shelves. You have to trust your readers to see your vision, to interact with your story and commune with it. You have to trust your gift and the story to show the reader the looking glass, and trust the reader to want to be led to the other side.

It is hard, this trust. It is hard to overcome the fear of failure, of rejection, of harsh critiques. But the rewards of that trust—in your gift, your story, and the reader—the rewards of overcoming that fear of failure, rejection, and harsh critiques, can set you free, can make you soar.

“A Matter of Trust” in The Wave in the Mind: Talks and Essays on the Writer, the Reader, and the Imagination. Ursula K. Le Guin. Shambhala Publications, Boston, 2004. ISBN: 978-1-59030-006-0 (or 1-59030-006-8)

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Action, high emotion, and those scenes which are being PITAs (pains in the ass) cause me some writer’s block usually because I want them to be perfect. It is also called stage-fright and over-rehearsing, the bane of every performer. I CAN force my right brain on stage at gunpoint, under the lights, and edit the results later. This is shooting six rolls of film to find one or two gem-quality shots.

But most times, I let the right brain slip its leash by closing my eyes and writing the scene as I see it in my head, like I’m watching a movie. This isn’t a new idea, but it DOES work. Blanket the eyes of the panicked horse, and the horse will trust you to lead it from the burning barn. In other words, what you can’t see (the blank page) can no longer scare you.

With my eyes closed, my imagination and fingers have wings. I word-paint what I see in my mind’s eye: broad strokes, tiny details, and splashes of color; all emotion, and what caused the emotion; action, movement, any words that leap clear and stick in my head. I get the essentials, the bones of the scene.

I open my eyes. It might look like ten miles of mud fence, but it’s a million times easier to edit the ugliest prose I have ever written, than to agonize over a blank page full of nothing but air. And I don’t have to keep this melodramatic drivel. I hit replay and slow it down. I find more details, cut the stuff that doesn’t work, flesh out the bones, layer in what makes the scene live on paper. Right brain. Left brain. Right. Left. It’s slow, but it gets me beyond the block.

I think the worst thing an author can suffer is overweening pride and blindness to new opportunities to learn, which lead to hubris and stagnation. Throughout the essay, Ursula reminds us to keep an open mind, especially in reading others’ works, and learning about our craft. Learn, practice, and hone your craft until it gleams in starlight. There is always more to learn, but don’t let that stop you from writing. You have to practice and show off what you have learned.

“I must trust my gift, and therefore trust the story I write, know that its use, its meaning or beauty, may go far beyond anything I could have planned.”

Trust your gift, trust your story; give both freedom. Freedom to use the skills you have to tell the story, and freedom for the story to express itself through your gift, with or without prior planning. This trust, this freedom, can lead to unexpected surprises, both delightful and troubling, which weren’t in the original synopsis or outline. The delightful ones are seen as immediate improvements. The troubling ones might require more extensive readjustments because you’ve painted yourself into a corner; get paint on your shoes, or build a window. Changes, delightful or troubling, can make your story deeper, more meaningful, the tension and emotion more vibrant, turn it into a prose work of art, simply because you allowed your story room to move.

Again, it boils down to trust. Trust in you, trust in the story.

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But what is this about trusting the story? You’re the one writing it, for pity’s sake, how much more trust is there to give?

“…to trust the story….means being willing not to have full control over the story as you write it. First you have to learn how to write English, and learn how to tell stories in general—techniques, practice, and all that: so that you are in control. And then you have to learn how to relinquish it.”

Relinquish control? Surely she jests. Yet there is light at the end of the tunnel; it isn’t a train.

“Deliberate, conscious control, in the sense of knowing and keeping to the plan, the subject, the gait, and the direction of the work, is invaluable in the planning stage—before writing—and in the revision stage—after the first draft. During the actual composition it seems to be best if conscious intellectual control is relaxed. An insistent consciousness of the intention of the writing may interfere with the process of writing. The writer may get in the way of the story.”

We have to strike a balance between the knowing part of our brains (the left) and the actual act of creation (the right), a balance between the technician and the artist.

“Lack of control over a story, usually arising from ignorance of the craft or from self-indulgence, may lead to slackness of pace, incoherence, sloppy writing, spoiled work. Over-control, usually arising from self-consciousness or a competitive attitude, may lead to tightness, artificiality, self-conscious language, dead work.”

I am a plotter. I spend months or years on set-up work before I start chapter one. I must have a written plan in order to write smoothly and more consistently. I have to remember the only perfect plan is the one not yet implemented; the plan is nothing more than a good suggestion. In the first draft I should primarily create, not dissemble, so I must remember to shut my left brain (planning, editing, logistics) in the dressing room because the right brain needs the whole stage.

I pursue perfection; my left brain escapes the dressing room frequently. I meddle and muddle and masticate; I over-analyze, tweak, add, remove, adjust—all red-sign flags that my left brain needs to be shut in solitary confinement for disturbing the peace. Planning, editing, self-critiquing, self-doubt, procrastination, and fear are ALL left brain activity, and all can be the root of dreaded writer’s block. So, yes, the left brain derails telling the story.

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Ursula K. Le Guin says in her essay, “A Matter of Trust,”

“In order to write a story, you have to trust yourself, you have to trust the story, and you have to trust the reader….Before you start writing, neither the story nor the reader even exists, and the only thing you have to trust is yourself….the only way you can come to trust in yourself as a writer is to write….To read, to write, to practice your trade, to learn your job, until you know something about it, and know you know something about it.”

To write, you must read. Everything you read has value: articles, classics, research material, how-to books, the modern greats in all genres, even the worst piece of fiction a publisher ever had the disgrace to put on the shelf. Great, good, mediocre, and horrid, all that reading shows you what is good writing, what errors to avoid, and clues to how you can improve your writing through literary devices, facts, ideas, and simple common sense in grammar and spelling. Be open to those lessons. Some will sink in by osmosis. Some you’ll have to revisit constantly. The trick is to practice a lot. You’ll learn to apply these lessons, eventually, without overdoing or flubbing.

Ursula comments further that at some point, early on, you may think you are ready for agent and publisher. Don’t be hasty even if you think your first novel will be the best thing since flush toilets. Take a minute. Stand back and reevaluate with a critical eye, talk to a friend, a writing professor, a critique group, other writers. You think it’s good enough, you might even be correct, then again no one wants to believe their story desperately needs a hatchet and an early grave, do they?

However, knowing you don’t know anything can be just as bad as NOT knowing you don’t know anything.

“I know some very good writers who never finish anything, or finish it and then destroy it with over-revising to meet real or imagined criticisms, because they don’t trust themselves as writers, which means they can’t trust their writing. Confidence in yourself as a writer…you earn…by doing, you build it up slowly, by working at it.”

I trust my writing between blinding moments of self-doubt. I am my own worst critic. Then I read a published author’s work, and notice that though they were published, their writing is on par with an eighth grade education, and their editor must have been smoking crack even on the most basic of grammar points. Books like those give me hope, not only because I think that since they were published there is hope for me, but because I KNOW I can do a better job than that published author. I don’t think this is excessive pride; I think it is self-confidence in what I know I know, and in my knowing how much I don’t know still, which is just as important.

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Any attempt to give writer’s advice should be prefaced with McIntyre’s First Law, “Under the right circumstances, anything I tell you may be wrong.” What works for me, or for that star writer you want to emulate, might not work for you. If the advice you’re following doesn’t work, doesn’t help get the words out, doesn’t lead you to a publishable manuscript, dump it. Unceremoniously throw it in the trash bin and move on.

Let me give you an example. One standard rule of writing is Second Draft = First Draft minus 10%. Sounds like good advice and you’ll see this everywhere. It doesn’t work for me. My first drafts are like a very detailed outline, but it’s missing about 15% of what’s needed to make a good story. So my second drafts are always larger. I go back and put in all those things I see with my minds eye, all the scents, the emotions, the taste of pennies, the exact shade of grey the clouds were. I do this because I forget to include those in my first draft. I am getting better with that, but I still add more with every draft (even if I end up with fewer words). 

Another piece of advice is “Butt in chair, hands on keyboard. Write everyday.” I’ll first say, this is very good advice. I wish I could follow it. However, with my schedule I don’t get butt in chair time everyday. So if I followed this advice I’d never get any words out, because I would be trying to carve out time everyday, and that’s not practical. Instead I grind out words at every opportunity I can find. Certainly, because I don’t have a daily routine, sometimes I stare at the keyboard for twenty minutes, waiting for my internal writer to engage. Sometimes I can jump start my brain by editing old text, or keying in some of the many scraps of paper that hold the gems of the muse. 

There’s two ideas in the last paragraph I’d like to expand on. The first is carving out time. Unless you’re already writing everyday at the same time (and good for you), or you have a day job, or multiple jobs, you’ll never “find the time.” There’s an old joke that used to get passed around when jokes were passed on through photocopies and faxes. This was back when we ran our businesses with things like ink, paper, bearskins and flint knives, before the internet in other words. The joke had a circle and inside were the words, “This is a roundtoit. A coupon to be redeemed for all those projects where you say, ‘I’ll do that when I get a round-to-it.'” You’ll never get a roundtoit in real life. You must carve out the time. You must cut other things out of your life.

As I type this my wife is watching a DVD called “Mythos I” which are video lectures by Joseph Campbell. I would love to be watching them (and taking notes) right now. Instead I’m typing at the kitchen table. I’m carving out writing time. When I get together my friends and family they tell me about all the great TV and movies I’m missing. I’ve cut most of that out to get time to write. Now, I keep up with reviews and things to I can keep somewhat culturally relevant, but that takes less time that watching the latest Burn Notice or CSI. There are some shows I still watch, because I find them very entertaining, but what I’ve given up to be a writer is watching TV for more than a few hours a day (I try to watch the news, and the Daily Show repeats). 

The other item is the Muse. Some writers wait for the Muse to inspire them to write. They never get much out. The Muse, or at least my Muse, doesn’t work that way. If you have a standard writing time you’ll find your muse will show up. Muse like regular working hours. Since I don’t give my Muse such times, she shows up when she feels like it. It’s my job to catch what she throws when she throws it. Normally I’m no where near my keyboard, so I end up with multiple scraps of paper. Some just have a few lines, some are pages long. There have been times that I’ve need to pull over into a parking lot as I’m driving home and write out a page and a half. And, if this happens to you as well, you must write them down. Even if they have nothing to do with your WIP. The reason for this is the Muse doesn’t like to be ignored. If she is, she will go away. You don’t want that. Feed and care for your muse, and she (he, or it, everybody’s muse is different) will be good to you.

Now, some writers don’t believe in having a Muse because they see so many wannabee writers waiting to be inspired. I could explain all of the previous paragraph using modern psychological terms and functions about how the interior voice, the connection to the subconsciousness, drives the creativity, can process at 15 times the speed of conscious thought, etc. But isn’t that boring? For me it’s much more pleasant and functional to think of the Muse.

But the final advice, for anybody, is to write. You must write to be a writer. There’s no getting around that fact. If you write by dictating into a speech-to-text program you’re still writing. If you write your first drafts in crayon, you’re still writing. Do what you need to do to write, to get the words out (you know, within the bounds of the law). First rule of write club is everyone must write.


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