Enhancing the Amazing Ability to Take Notice

Can I tell you something? Sometimes when I sit down to write a descriptive passage, I feel like I'm going through my days blind and deaf. 

How else to explain the total blankness I feel, when I need to sketch out the elementary parts of a setting?

I start to worry about myself. About my vision. About my sense of hearing. Because all my descriptions come up flat.

Does this happen to you? 

Writing shows me, over and over again, how dull I get to the real world. How little I've actually paid attention to what's going on around me. How unspectacular my observations are.

This isn't a good state for a writer to be in. 

At least half of our job description must be: Pay attention. 

Right? 

I want to get better at this, friends. For the sake of my writing (who needs another lame description?), but also for the sake of my living: I don't want to be in a fog all the time. 

I'm pretty sure that paying attention is one of those "Use it or lose it" skills. My writing is begging me to get better at this!

So here's how I want to change, how I want to grow my ability to observe:

- No distractions. We all know that we're living distracted most of the time, yes?

While I technically understand that, I can too easily forget how much it's costing me, as a writer and an observer.

Writing flat descriptions? Having zero material to draw from when it comes to setting scenes? Not okay! 

So here's to putting down the iPhone and unplugging the headphones. Here's to actually looking hard at what is going on around me.

- Go slow. Racing around is basically the antithesis of noticing.

When I move quickly, when I operate on glances and quick snatches, I only catch the most surface details (if I catch anything at all).

If I wait out my first observations, if I settle in a bit, then I can catch the second wave of details, and then maybe the third. I notice the deeper things, the interesting things.

- Fight the blur effect. It's too easy for my brain to laze on autopilot and to report back: tree, tree, tree, (yawn) tree.

But if I ask myself to see specifically, to pull meaning out of the blur, I can do it. I can finally see: maple, pine, pear, oak. 

And since each word has its own personality, each detail its own connotation, those specifics matter.

- Wait for the telling detail. Observing gets so much more interesting--for me at least--when I come across something unusual.

The little detail that juxtaposes the rest of the picture. The one thing out of place. The note that jars, that stands out, that goes a different direction, that puts a new spin on the rest of the picture.

That contrast always draws me in: it gives my imagination something to wrestle with, intriguing blanks to fill.

And that's where observation fuels storytelling.

So that's how I'll be reframing my downtime in waiting rooms, in grocery store checkout lines, in my kitchen as I'm watching dishes.

I'm going to turn it into storytelling gold, honing my skills as an observer of the world.

How about you?

Making It Easy to Write

Yeah, I know. The words easy and writing don't usually belong in the same sentence.

And maybe writing will never be truly easy, but I think that we can all agree that--on the best days--it can be easier rather than harder.

When my writing is going okay, I lean deeper and deeper into this practice of staying connected to the work. 

Because isn't disconnection half of what's hard about it?

If my characters are strangers, if I can't remember the knack of their voices, if I've lost the atmosphere of their world, and the thread and threat of the conflict has evaporated...

That's when writing feels impossible. That's when I start giving up.

But when the world of the novel stays alive in my mind, when all my mental machines for writing stay on and humming, when the engine is warm:

Those are the enchanted times when I get three new ideas during dinner, when I step out of the shower with a paragraph written in my head, when I hear a chance phrase from someone else and solve a major plot concern instantly.

We want to keep that engine warm! It's a massive game changer in this whole enterprise.

We have to never stop writing. 

No, I don't mean we're tied to our desk, and I don't mean we never have a day off. I mean that we never let the engine get truly cold. 

In Chapter after Chapter, Heather Sellers describes the practice of "positioning," a term she got from her writing friend Eric. 

She says that he decides exactly what he'll be working on the next day. He makes a list, staying businesslike and professional about it. He sets out the files he'll need, getting everything ready for the next morning.

"Purposeful book authors ... lay out their things, mentally and physically preparing for the next writing day. ... Everything is set up for the next day, like dominoes, and in the morning [Eric] just has to get his butt to the chair, flick his finger, and the process immediately has its own momentum."

Heather describes her own positioning process while writing a collection of short stories: every evening she would review her notes, touch the printed pages of her draft, and glance over her outline.

Nothing intense. Just a nightly visit to her writing studio.. But this kept the book alive in her mind, day after day after day, in spite of massive changes in her personal life.

James Scott Bell, in Plot & Structure, describes his habit of writing 350 words in the morning, practically first thing.

He says it's a good jump forward on his quota of words. But I think it also keeps that story alive, by immediately connecting writer to words at the start of the day.

I've found half a dozen ways to stay connected to my story, and to keep that writing engine warm:

• When I'm in the thick of drafting, I always start the day's work by rereading what I wrote yesterday. (I'm not allowed to cringe too much.)
   

• If I'm drafting by hand (and I usually am), I also type the previous day's work. Usually, I tweak it a bit as I go, and this light editing gets my brain all kinds of warmed up.
   

• When I get up from my desk during the day (you know I have those dance parties!): I jot a few notes. Whatever I already know about what comes next: any details, any fragments. It's like a quick Polaroid of what I was writing toward. 
   

• If I have to leave for a longer time--doctor's appointment, coffee date--I'll take a much more complete snapshot. I layer in more details, roughing in a view of the rest of the scene. Even if a whirlwind of distractions follows, that next bit of writing is safe. And it doesn't take much for me to get back into the groove.
   

• At the end of the work day, just like Heather Sellers and her friend Eric, I make a plan. I'll look at my notes, my outlines. Maybe tidy up the clutter. Set out all the working pieces in places of honor. 
   

• ... And when I'm really, really working hot, when the days feel like I'm living more in the book than in the "real world," more in ink and paper than in oxygen and carbon, I do one more thing: I sleep next to the manuscript. It's right there next to me in bed. Yes. I do realize that this is TOTALLY weird. But there's something about the notebook sitting there, with all those words. It feels like the book is truly alive, like my brain is still connected. The last thing I want to do is break that spell. So instead, I try to put a huge sign on my subconscious, saying: I'm Still Here. (It's a little less weird if you think of a newborn baby sleeping in the same room as its parents. See? That's normal, right? And you never know when the manuscript might wake up in the middle of the night and need you to rock it back to sleep...)

If you've ever had a block. If you've ever had a rough day. If you've ever totally lost the thread of what you're working on because life showed up. If you've ever been in a groove and then so unexpectedly fell right out of it. 

If that's ever happened to you (and that's all of us, right?), then you owe it to yourself to lean in. To make the most of the good times. 

Learn how to stay connected to your work. Refuse to take the good days for granted. Don't start skipping out. Don't trust the sunshine to stay forever.

Keep the engine warm; keep moving forward.

Make it easy (or at least easier) to write.

Do you have strategies for staying connected to your book? I'd love to pick up some new tricks... Do share!

Superhero Your Writing

It can seem very heroic, can't it, to have an all-embracing sense of your flaws. To beat our critique partners to the punch by saying, I know it's terrible because of x, and y, and z. 

And because drafts have flaws, and because we aren't perfect (yay!), we have a point.

There will always be weaknesses in what we do.

But there will also be strengths.

I don't care how execrable your latest draft was: If you itch to write stuff down, then you have a strength.

Whether it's your point of view, your perspective, your sense of pacing, your grip on setting, your flair for unusual conflict, your lovable characters...

Face it, writer-friend: Somewhere, somewhere, your writing has some strengths.

Here's what I want you to do: Make 'em stronger. 

Work on your best points. Find where you glow, and become incandescent. Light it up.

"But no, no," comes the protest. "We have to focus on our weaknesses, right? Find all the bad places and make them better. Right?"

Well, okay. There's a time to focus on weaknesses and make them better. To build up those places.

But I want to introduce you to this crazy, revolutionary practice of appreciations, taken from Making Ideas Happen:

When Scott Belsky went to a storytelling workshop, led by Jay O'Callahan, he and the other participants took turns telling their stories. And after each story, the rest of the group would talk about what the teller had done well, what they appreciated.

They talked about the strengths. 

And then, the storyteller would take all that feedback, rework the story, and share it again. 

If you're like me, your first reaction to this is: But what about all the weaknesses? 

Here's how Belsky describes the effect:

"I noticed that a natural recalibration happens when you commend someone's strengths: their weaknesses are lessened as their strengths are emphasized. ... The points of weakness withered away naturally as the most beautiful parts became stronger."

So... the weaknesses get taken care of, when we bring out what was good? 

When we lean on our strongest and best points, the crappy bits fade?

BONUS: The storyteller is not writhing on the ground in tatters. I call that a win.

So here's what I propose: Next time someone reads your writing to give feedback, ask them to tell you the three things that they most appreciated.

And try revising based on that.

Belsky writes: "A creative craft is made extraordinary through developing your strengths rather than obsessing over your weaknesses."

Made extraordinary.

See, that's what got me thinking about superheroes.

Superheroes tend to have one specific extreme ability. And then there are a few strengths that support that, that help make that useable. (And they have a suit, maybe a cape. You can get those too if you like.)

Find your three top strengths (or more!). Nourish them. Exercise them. Make them stronger still.

And then you're basically a writing superhero. And that piece of writing you've been revising? Extraordinary.

Not because you've been focusing on a detailed list of all your failings, and trying to bring them up to par. Nope. You already have some gold there.

Get your readers' help finding it, polish it up, and make it the centerpiece.

Unleash your strengths. 

Give Yourself a Year of Writing Dangerously

Once when I was traveling and had to be away from my desk for a month, I happened across A Year of Writing Dangerously in Barnes & Noble.

I fell in love with the title IMMEDIATELY. I pulled it off the shelf, thinking that even if the inside of the book is a bust, I want the phrase WRITING DANGEROUSLY tattooed across my arms.

Yes???

Writing dangerously. I just love that, just completely love it. Yes! Push right to the edge, write from the brink, be brazen, dare.

Be bold in telling the truth, say how things really are, fend off apathy. 

Because when we're doing this, when we're really into the game, when we're playing for keeps: writing is a lot like scooping chunks of your heart out with a spoon, smearing it on paper, and hoping people like it, hoping it's useful, hoping it helps, hoping you told the whole truth.

It is dangerous to write. We're brink-dwellers, on the edge of so many things. Giving it all away. Saying every secret. Spending all we have.

So yeah. I fell in love with the title. 

And then the inside of the book was exactly what I hoped it would be.

She talks about the writing life: the spectrum we live in, from insecurity to daringness. She describes how famous writers write. (Which I love, b/c I'm so nosy about writing routines!) She shares anecdotes about famous writers, less famous writers, students, herself. 

If you're like me, you'll read this and you'll recognize your own funny self: over and over again. And you and I will both be sighing and saying I'M NOT CRAZY, I'M JUST A WRITER, WHEW.

It's good to know. 

She has tips on creativity, on how to keep a light hand with your work, or, on the flip side, how to lean in closer and be more serious. 

I LOVE that she closes each section with a quote. I love writing quotes, of course, and have collected so very many of them--and yet so so so many of these were new to me. 

It's just HELPFUL, guys. There's a whole community of writers represented in these pages. So many fellow scribblers in her text, in her anecdotes, in the quotes, that even if you're working alone, even if you're the only writer you know, you feel surrounded by others.

All of us picking our way forward with ink, with words. 

You're swimming in this stream with all these other writers! We're all foraging for ideas, dreaming up stories, creating little worlds that then run away with us.

All of us. Together. All year long.

The reading for each day is small enough that it's the perfect little idea snack before you dive into your writing day. Or it's the perfect closer at the end.

Or you can do what I did when I first discovered it: I picked it up that day, obviously, in the bookstore, and I brought it on my trip with me.

And whenever I could, I'd sneak off and just gulp it down, reading a chunk at a time, soaking it up, immersing in words.

It's wise and bright and funny, clever, insightful, and darned intelligent. It's just right, it's the very thing, it's the perfect fit.

One of the reviews calls this book a writing party, and I love that description, because yes. Yes it is. 

Phyllis Theroux says, "When you open [this book], you are in a house full of writers, each of whom wants to march you over to a corner to tell you something important about the writing life....Prepare yourself for a wonderful party!" 

If you or someone you know could do with a bit of courage, a bit of brightness in book form (and who doesn't need that?): then get this book.

And if you pop some champagne and toss some confetti as you read, as you celebrate writing dangerously... Well, I'm not going to stop you.

Today We All Get Permission to Play

We've all had the experience of reading a novel that made us envious, right? 

Jealous of another writer's skill, their way with words, their peerless grasp of imagery. Admiring all that they've done. Shaking our heads in amazement.

When I was working on my first novel, that happened to me. I picked up Andrew Peterson's On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness. And I was struck by longing.

Yes, the characters, the plot, the incredible storyworld he had built: all of that was wonderful and worth applause. But the thing that really got me, the thing that unearthed a huge amount of envy in me was this:

Andrew Peterson wrote as if he were having fun.

The stakes were still high. The painful moments were real. The evil antagonists were pretty dang evil. 

And yet. A glee bubbled beneath every paragraph. A delight in the words themselves, in wordplay, in the funny moments, in the perfect exchanges of dialogue, in the dangerous-yet-hilarious fantastical animals. 

How did he do it?

And why was I sweating and weeping and frustrated and hating the process of writing, while he seemed to be having fun.

It was a puzzle.

And yeah--we all know that you can write strong, compelling prose even when you're having a hard day, a rough time, a grumpy mood. So I'm not saying he did, in fact, write the whole thing in a state of bliss.

I'm sure it was hard. I have no doubt that he struggled while he wrote. Certainly he's human and works through off days like everyone else.

AND YET. 

I'm still convinced he was having a lot more fun than I was. 

And it gets me thinking: What if enjoying writing is as much a skill, a cultivate-able mindset, as much as anything else? 

What if we could all be having fun when we write? 

I love the movie Finding Neverland, and I especially love Johnny Depp's portrayal of J.M. Barrie. I don't know how scrupulously accurate it is or not, but either way:

I want to learn from his playfulness. How open he was to being imaginative. How he was willing to be silly. 

But I need a lot of help figuring out how to do that.

Obviously, children are the experts on knowing how to play, how to imagine, how to embrace silliness. It's one of the many things we need to learn from them.

Have you ever played with bubbles with a kid?

There's no reason to bubbles. There is no why with bubbles. They just ARE. 

They're not going to last, they do absolutely no good, everyone's hands get sticky, and inevitably the bottle tips over, and more than one bubble-making wand gets accidentally (or purposely!) licked. 

But bubbles delight.

And kids do things simply because they are delightful.

When did we lose the value of that?

We get so caught up with what we SHOULD do. We write the characters, the setting, the conflict, the genre that we SHOULD be writing.

Have we lost touch with what honestly, truly, deep-down, bubblemakingly DELIGHTS us?

I think we need to get in touch with our sense of play. 

And today is the perfect time for it. To learn to be playful.  And to play well.

To enjoy freewheeling rush of creation. To write things just because.

To create a character that delights us. To write dialogue that we find funny. To please ourselves first--and maybe ourselves only--with a choice of setting. To write paragraphs that will exist for no other reason than because we like them.

To write nonsense poems. To mimic E. E. Cummings or Ogden Nash or Edward Lear or Edward Gorey or whoever delights you with words.

We need a childlike attention to play. It's serious for them, at the very same moment that it's fun. Have you noticed that? There's a sincerity to their delight, a weight to the glee, a determination to the play. 

They're focused on getting delight right. It matters to them, deeply. 

Maybe because they know that delight is part of living well. 

And isn't that why we're writing, anyway?

The Goal When Things Are Going Well

When life gets extra hard, have you ever looked back at the calm before the storm--the bright times--and thought: Wow. I had it so good, and I didn't even know. I had no idea!

Yes? Me too. 

And usually I'm looking back at a time that was simply ordinary. Plain old normal. But normalcy takes on an extraordinary sweetness when life goes crazy, right? 

Wouldn't it be great if we could lean in closer to that normalcy, if we could appreciate the ordinary, while we still have it? If we could hold on to the days when everything is fine, when life and work are humming along?

And then--take it a step further. Because when things in our writing, in our lives, are going well, it's an opportunity.

It's a chance for us to run faster. 

To work without fear. To dive into the deepest places. To stretch further. To open our hearts wider. To risk more.

During the month of June, we're going to focus on where things are going right. And we'll take full advantage of them.

After all, it's the month of summer solstice (for the northern hemisphere at least! sorry, southerners!). The month of light and warmth.

Is there anything more ordinary and yet more wonderful than full summer sunshine?

So we'll celebrate the goodness, the richness.

And then we'll focus on strength. Building on what's going well. Taking advantage of all that solar power, turning light and heat into good power.

Because when you're strong, when your writing muscles are all warmed up, you are primed to cover some serious ground. When life is calm, you have a chance to become more flexible, to try more things, to attempt flight.

It's a month of brilliance and optimism. 

Let's talk about the bright times. Let's make much of the sunshine. And then let's get crazy strong.

When Writer's Revenge Backfires

When I was in college, there was a girl that I, um, didn't get along with.

We were thrown together a lot, and she made me crazy. Almost literally.

She had a constantly demoralizing effect on me, reducing me from a happy-enough, confident-enough student into this ... mess. 

(One day I saw her coming down the hall of the science building. Before she could see me, I ducked into a nearby bathroom, and as I waited for the coast to clear, I watched in the mirror as my face broke into hives. I don't think anyone else has had that kind of effect on me.)

So, fast forward two years, when I wrote my first novel. And needed to put a minor antagonist in. Her personality suggested itself instantly.

AHA, I thought. Finally. All that suffering can have a purpose! 

I can put every character trait of hers right into my novel. She'd be the perfect disruption of the plot, the perfect wrench in my protagonist's plans.

And THEN, I can give my protagonist all the things I should have said. I can let her do all the things I should have done while this girl made my life a living hell.

Writer's revenge. We all know about this, right?

If life hands you a jerk, you get to use them in a book. That's the deal.

And that's what I set out to do.

I got her physical appearance down to a tee. All her worst character flaws (which was all of them, frankly, because I couldn't see a single redeemable thing about her in real life): there on paper. Marching through scenes. Mucking up my protagonist's life.

And then--I got into trouble. A lot of trouble.

And it's probably not what you think.

See, I believe in good books. Good stories. And that means stories with three-dimensional characters.

I don't buy characters that are pure evil, pure good, all terrible, all wonderful. I try not to write them, and I don't care to read about them either.

Which meant that I had to explore this antagonist's personality. This girl that I skewered so wonderfully with my words: I had to balance out her character.

This is not something I wanted to do, but the book demanded it. The story needed her to live and breathe as a real, rounded character.

As I considered ways to make her character more dynamic, I had to graft in slightly less-horrendous character traits. I gave her a really decent line or two. I made her take a stand against a worse character. I gave her just the slightest bit of redemption at the end.

It was hard work. It forced me to scrape the depths of my writerly generosity. 

And that's when it all happened, when it totally backfired, when it blew up in my face:

It made me reconsider the girl herself. The girl I hated so much.

I still shiver when I think of her, honestly. I still think she was pretty messed up, and if you put me in the same room with her, you'd see me claw my way through an air duct to get out.

But. Thanks to the work I did with her in my novel, I can now imagine that there's more to her real story. There were probably some terrible forces in her life that made her the way she was. I'm guessing some pretty ugly crap must have happened to her. 

I'm even willing to believe--just barely willing, but willing nonetheless--that there is something redeemable in her. That somewhere in her scabby soul, she has done something good. That she isn't pure awful.

I might even be mustering up a wisp of forgiveness or two. I might be letting it go, all of it, all the infuriating moments, all the insanity.

Writer's revenge. Approach it carefully.

It just might change your heart a bit.

Bring the Awesome into Your Novel with These Resources

If you're writing a novel, and if you're committed to making it the best darn story you possibly can: these are the three books you need.

The Writing the Breakout Novel Workbook is simply the best resource I could possibly give you. Period.

... Although, if I'm handing out recommendations, then in the very same breath, I've got to say: Get the companion book (Writing the Breakout Novel) and also The Fire in Fiction (which also has exercises that are SUPER helpful: it builds on the other two books, without unnecessary overlapping). 

If you're like me, it's easy to read a brilliant book about the craft of writing. If you're like me, it's easy to nod and underline and feel very wise.

And then it's hard as heck to apply what you've learned. Yes? Turning theory into sentences and paragraphs... I tend to feel really inspired--and then I give up. 

Well, the concepts in Writing the Breakout Novel will convince you that this is exactly what your novel needs. I mean: it's written by Donald Maass, a massively experienced literary agent. And he's pulling apart the elements that make the great novels work. 

He knows what he's talking about. And as you read it, you'll find yourself nodding, yes, yes, yes, this is exactly what I love to read too, this is what I love in a story, this is what my novel needs--

And then the Workbook comes along, spelling out everything in very practical terms, and then stepping you through the application of each one. He tells you how to make your characters unforgettable, how to make your plot layered and complex, how to give your writing that resonance that readers love. 

He breaks it down to the smallest components, and then leaves space for you to jot down how to make it work in your story. (Your brain will explode. Mine still does, every time I go through it.)

The Fire in Fiction follows it up, with more transformative exercises, and more elements of the most powerful fiction: how to shape scenes so that each one moves the story forward in a powerful way; how to make the extraordinary plot twists feel realistic; how to get tension into every page of your book so that no one can put it down.

But for all that, none of this feels gimmicky to me. They aren't silly tricks. He's teaching the elements of unforgettable fiction. The craft of it.

Nothing has transformed my stories like these books.

No other resource has helped me feel this confident about what I'm writing.

If you were interested by the idea of a master class but you weren't sure where to go with it, then let me humbly suggest: This workbook plus you plus your novel. For a year.

I'm dead serious. 

It's far cheaper than taking a class. And I'm pretty sure it will have an equal--or greater!!--effect on your work.

You won't be sorry.

One Simple Way to Grow Your Creativity (and Generate Hundreds of Ideas!)

Being a writer means: Solving problems. Generating ideas that fill the gaps (in the story, the character, the setting, in the writer). 

Constantly. 

Sometimes--we don't know how to fill all the gaps.

Here is one easy trick to give yourself hundreds (and hundreds!) of new ideas: instantly.

CONSULT AN ORACLE. (I've seen this strategy a number of places, but it was Roger von Oech in A Whack on the Side of the Head who called it an oracle.)

This is a massively simple, widely applicable technique. Ready?

First, consider your problem. Whatever it is that you're trying to solve. Think of it as a question. Got it? Okay.

Grab a dictionary. Or encyclopedia. Or actually any book that would contain a noun. (Or even a picture of a noun.)

Open it at random. And the first noun at the top of the left page (or the bottom of the right page, or wherever your finger hits when you jab the open book):

That's the answer. 

Apply it to your question. No, really apply it. Find a connection. And then try to find several more.

Imagine that you asked a writing master how to solve your writing conundrum and they said that one word. How might you interpret it? 

As you struggle to see it as an answer, the creative sparks fly.

For example, let's say we're trying to figure out how our character--let's call her Clarissa--confronts an obstacle. Let's say she has to climb up the Mountain of Frightening Beasts, and we don't have any great ideas.

We state it as a question: How does Clarissa make it to the top of the Mountain? 

Then we grab an oracle. 

The nearest book for me is Collected Poems by Jane Kenyon. I open randomly to page 76 and the first noun of the poem is hemlock. 

So Clarissa might carry poison with her, and use it to drug the Frightening Beasts. 

Or, she ingests some kind of substance that makes her undetectable, unsmellable, invisible, and slips past.

Or--since hemlock is a plant--maybe she finds a tree with astonishing properties...

Hemlock is often confused with wild carrot, so maybe she makes a wild carrot salad and uses it to lure the giant saber-toothed rabbits away from the path... 

Or she meets a mysterious character named Hemlock who knows of hidden pathways...

See how this works? 

For a super tricky or complex problem, you can grab two or three nouns. 

And if you arm yourself with five to ten nouns, you could probably dream up an entire scene, a whole chapter, maybe an entire plot.

So there you go: Face those gaps bravely. You can fill 'em all.

Borrow the Best Advice from Another Discipline

One of the loveliest ways to grow as a writer: Listen to a talented non-writer talk about what they do.

It's amazing how your sense of creativity expands. How you get new ideas for ways to solve problems. How your appreciation for other art forms helps you write more dimensionally.

This is why TED talks are so great. I've only listened to J.J. Abrams talk about mystery boxes seven hundred times. And then there's the amazing designer Kelli Anderson and her pursuit of disruptive wonder. (Listen as she talks about "the hidden talents of everyday things," and see if that doesn't get you rethinking what's possible in a novel!)

What about documentaries? (I'm not the only writer who was insanely inspired by Jiro Dreams of Sushi!) I just found Chef's Table and The Mind of a Chef on Netflix, and I'm thrilled. I can just feel the creativity bubbling: they're looking at ingredients from every angle, and I find myself translating, thinking about new ways to consider characters, settings, conflict...

What about learning from master pruner Marco Nucera? This man shapes trees for a living, and he's darned good at it. This except from the totally gorgeous book Educating Alice:

"He has a natural talent for seeing the shapes in trees and bushes," she said. "There is a poetic quality to his work as well as a theoretical one. Both are equally important." ... "I wanted to keep the natural shape of the tree, but bring out its line," he explained. "Trees each have their own strong character. Landscape pruning is like being a sculptor of trees." 

Yeah, they're talking about trees. But somehow, reading that, all I can think of is revision. Listening to the work, instead of just hacking away. Being a sculptor of words. Balancing the poetry with the theory. 

Or what about this--think about your writing life as you read these words:

"Don't overestimate the skill and wisdom of professionals. Take advantage of what you already know. Look for opportunities that haven't yet been discovered. ... Ignore short-term fluctuations." 

It's advice on evaluating the stock market, written by Peter Lynch. But I hear it as a way of trusting your gut with writing, as a way to investigate your own work, and to look for places to keep pushing it. And ignoring the short-term fluctuations of my I love this/I hate this reaction to the work. 

Isn't it about writing too? 

Especially this line:

"Stick around to see what happens--as long as the original story continues to make sense, or gets better--and you'll be amazed at the results in several years."

It's how he judges stock picks, but it's how I think of some of my revision projects as well.

It's so energizing, borrowing perspective from other fields of work. I'm pretty convinced that when we only listen to other writers, all our advice gets stale and reused and dull. 

Borrow from some non-writing creative thinkers this weekend. People who are talking about skills other than writing, other than story-making. 

How are other craftsmen solving their creative problems? How do other disciplines grow in their craft? 

Who can you learn from this weekend?