The Worst Thing I Ever Did for My Writing

This post is all about me trying to keep you from getting hit by a bus. Okay? So if I get my serious voice on, that's why. I love you and I want to keep you from being writerly roadkill. All right?

This is one of the absolute worst pieces of writing advice that I ever received. And, I'm ashamed to say, I acted on it:

Just before I started writing full time, an acquaintance of mine--a talented, experienced writer--told me that I should be able to write a novel in a year.

Okay. Here's the truth in that: Many professional novelists can and should create a novel in a year. If novels are what put food on your table, it's a really good idea to write one a year at least. 

But for someone who is just starting to learn about novel writing, this is HOWLINGLY TERRIBLE advice. 

Especially if that new writer is also a high achiever, perfectionistic, Type A sort of person. One who is full of terrors and insecurities about her own legitimacy. Who isn't sure she should be "allowed" to write full time. 

This is very bad advice for that sort of person.

This is one of the beliefs that most crippled me as a writer.

I started writing full time in an absolute panic. I was desperate to prove myself. And I had that advice of hers hanging over my head. I had to crank out this novel.

It took me much too long to let go of that belief. Embarrassingly long. 

And as a result, I've been learning to write a novel completely backwards. 

I can't tell you how badly I wish I could time travel back to see my terrified pre-graduation self.

I'd sit that version of me down in a chair, probably pour some coffee down her throat, and then force her to take notes while I tell her this: Don't try to write one word of an actual novel for at least six months. Maybe even for a whole first year.

Instead, do a bunch of quality writing exercises, I'd say. Give yourself a starting time for your work day, and stick with it. Write exercises for an hour each day. Work up to two.

Fill the rest of your writing days like this: read books on craft, read about how novelists think, and how to build a writing life. Read hundreds of novels.

And then jot down great and crazy and terrible ideas for novels and characters and situations and settings. IDEAS. Don't try to write the novels themselves.

I would tell her, very seriously: Give yourself time to adjust. Time to learn about this life. To learn about novels. Learn about the underpinnings of structure, about the crazy mystery of it all, and how full-time writers think.

Learn about creativity, get yourself a good non-fiction reading habit, become a kind boss to yourself, and start getting rid of your perfectionism and your envy. 

GOSH.

That would have transformed my writing career. 

Instead, I wasted years and years trying to create a publishable product before I understood the basics of how novels actually work.

Before I even knew--truly knew, not just assumed--what kinds of novels I even wanted to write.

I bolstered my belief in this lie every time I heard about publishing wunderkinds, about writers my age or younger who were publishing quality stuff.

I'd go back to what that acquaintance said, stare at a calendar in despair, and then go back to my study and thrash around. 

Nauseating, right? 

YEARS. OF. THIS.  

Well, I can't go back and change that terrified kid's mind and convince her that she needed to grow into this.

To tell her--convince her!! brainwash if necessary!!--that by trying to cut to the end, she was actually giving herself a lot more work, heartache, despair, and bitterness. 

So can I at least convince you? 

Please, please, please. Take the time to learn about novels and writing and your own amazing mind. Do not aim, at the start of your career, at agents and publication. Not immediately. Not yet.

First novels are allowed to be terrible! They are allowed to be awful, wonderful, ramshackle things! They can take a long time to learn to write! They are supposed to sit proudly in drawers with all their battle scars, as proof that you are a learning, growing writer. 

They are not required to be written breathlessly in your first year. And first novels are not required to make you tons of money, fame, glowing reviews, screaming fans, and more money. 

They are only required to help you lay a solid, true, healthy foundation for your writing career.

Okay? 

If you think you're an exception to this: well, you might be.

But just so you know (and even though it makes me CRINGE): I was convinced I was an exception too.

And I stayed convinced in the face of a lot of warning signs. 

I thought that my job was to crank out my first (amazing, best-selling, award-winning, money-making) novel in a year. I thought that was what I was supposed to do.

But here's what I know now.

My job, for at least that first year, was to learn what made a great novel great, what made a bad novel bad, and how to work every single day. My job was to get into the habit of coming up with lots of wild and wonderful ideas and to write down those ideas.

My job was to create a system of habits that named me a writer.

Without reference to publishing, agents, reviews, or awards.

My job was not to write a novel in a year.

If you are new to this, please give yourself time to learn. A LOT of time. Plenty of grace-filled time.

Commit to learning deeply. Learn how your brain works, let yourself write a zillion exercises, explore the kinds of themes that bubble up. Surprise yourself.

Don't be driven by what you imagine you should write or how quickly someone else says you should.

There will be time, later, for professional speed. There will be time to write faster.

There will be plenty of time for you to prove yourself. You'll get there.

But it is silly, pointless, and so heartbreaking to try to do that first thing.

One Hundred Allies for Your Book-In-Progress

There's an extraordinary bit of advice in Heather Sellers' fantastic book Chapter After Chapter, where she recommends reading 100 books like the book you want to write.

No, my fingers didn't slip. 100 books. She calls it "The Book 100." 

... As in one hundred books. 

Sellers says:

The point is to read many, many examples of what you're trying to do. ...
Surround yourself with books. A hundred well-chosen books act as your base camp,
your buffer, your personalized M.F.A. writing program. ...
Notice what you like and what you love.
Writers learn more from reading than from all the how-to-plot books in the world. 
-- Heather Sellers

For someone like me who loves to read, this is a wonderful assignment. Super exciting.

For a recovering-perfectionist like me, this also seems fraught with problems. One hundred books?! I need to have them all read by, like, tomorrow!! I'm never going to be finished...!! 

If that's you, I promise you can relax. Sellers says you can take as long as you need to. Novelists are allowed to skim their 100 books. Or to split their list in half and share it with a friend--fifty for you, fifty for me, and we chat about them.

That said, it's still a pretty big project, so what's the point? Why do it? Isn't it a little ... overkill?

Here's what really convinced me about The Book 100: Coffeeshops.

Specifically, new coffeeshops that are also terrible coffeeshops. Created by people who, I suspect, have never been inside a good coffeeshop before.

Have you had this experience? A place that's trying to be a coffeeshop (or a café, or a bookstore) but it's just kind of--off.

Where they miss the mark on the most basic elements of a coffeeshop. And the customer is presented with mediocre coffee, crappy baked goods, apathetic baristas, and blaring music so that no one can talk, think, or work.

I stumble out of those places wondering--how did they get it so wrong? And when they go out of business, I'm not surprised. They make me wonder if the owners even liked coffee all that much, or if they liked coffeeshops, or if they'd ever actually been inside a great one?

I'm pretty sure of one thing, though. They probably didn't create that place thinking, "Let's make the suckiest coffeeshop that we can." I'm guessing that quality was part of their goal, somehow. 

And yet--they missed the mark. By a lot. 

I wonder what would have happened if they made a point to visit 100 coffeeshops before opening their store.

And to note in each place they visited: what does that particular shop do well, and where does it fail? What do they, as customers, respond to? What's off-putting? What does it look like when the basics are done really well? What innovations are delightful?

ALL those things. All elements of a good coffeeshop experience.

... Or a good novel.

You see what I'm getting at? 

As I worked on the Book 100 for my first novel, I discovered all kinds of things that I might not have realized any other way.

Like, shocking things. And really, really embarrassing things.

I saw that some of my plot moves had been done to death already in other books. I realized that my villain could be spotted miles off--and he was so covered in clichés! I realized that my protagonist's voice sounded like too many other protagonist's voices. 

Again and again, I saw what had been done too much, and where I had room to write something new. 

My Book 100 was a true education, in the very field where I wanted to be an expert. 

It is just too easy to have a mild familiarity with a genre. To know a few books, to trick yourself into coasting along with that little bit of knowledge. To think that you're writing something new.

It pays--it really pays--to know your genre much better than that. To be familiar with the very books that your fans will also have read. 

There's enough insecurity in this field already, right? Why not really learn our stuff, and to learn it by reading? 

As far as the number 100 goes: I think there's a lot to be said for going that big (and Sellers makes a really good case). ... But even if you just read and analyzed thirty of the best examples of your niche--think how much you'd learn!

It's one of the best educations, one of the best tools, we can have.

( ... As is Sellers' book Chapter After Chapter. If you're trying to write a full-length book, this is required reading for you! It has taught me the survival skills for living a book-maker's life like none other. ... I love it even more than Page After Page! Yes, really!)

Let's Be Matchmakers: Imagination, Meet the Reference Section

I thought it was going to be a wasted day. Really.

It was a "Get to Know Your Way Around the Library" kind of day, during one of the first weeks of an information/technology class in college. 

You know. One of those throwaway required classes; one of those throwaway required days.

My idea of a field trip to the library involves me hiding from the rest of my class, building a fort out of the children's picture books, and then reading my way through the MG and YA stacks.

(Can you blame me? No, of course not. You'd come join me and bring snacks. It would be AWESOME.)

Ahem.

Our professor's idea of a library field trip involved worksheets with a lot of blanks to fill; a required chat about the library filing system; and oh yeah, an extended amount of time to wander around the reference area.

All right, I thought. Fine, I thought. Let's get this over with.

... And about twenty minutes later, I was completely absorbed. Lost all track of time flipping through a massive listing of clothing styles from the last hundred years.

After that, I found a huge book comparing architectural details across countries and centuries. And then I found the animal encyclopedias...

And I became a convert. I fell in love with the reference area.

Not to find answers or cross something off a worksheet. Not to fill in blanks.

But to stoke curiosity, to let my imagination wander around and pick up whatever it wanted. To explore for exploration's sake.

Reference books!! Do ya love 'em?

I'm convinced that we writers need to be spending time in books that are full of facts, images, and odd details. And not just when our novels require the research.

No, what I'm talking about is a regular date with a nonfiction compendium-style tome or two. 

If you're already doing this sort of thing, cool. 

But if, like me, you tend to look at non-fiction with a "who reads THIS stuff??" attitude, then read on: 

This is how my pure-fiction novelistic imagination fell hard for encyclopedias.

1. I get a daily dose.

When I have a daily work-in-progress (like now), I don't have a lot of time to read widely in other directions.

But, without the continual input of new ideas, my writing dries up.

So here's the balance I've struck: Every morning, to kick off my writing day, I dip into my encyclopedia. I'm reading every 300th page. Just a single page, top to bottom.

2. I'm a writer, not a student.

This has been a hard switch to make, but it's absolutely key.

When I first started this practice, I couldn't shake my old habits of being a college student. I'd pick up one of these books and dutifully write down all the important FACTS about whatever I was reading.

I took notes like I'd be tested on it. Like I had an essay to write.

And guess what. It felt like homework (and my less-favorite kind). I began to dread it. I dragged my feet. I couldn't see how it was going to help my writing at all, and I chucked the whole thing.

This happened again and again and again.

Until I remembered this: part of my job as a writer is to turn my imagination into a FACTORY. 

An idea-making, story-spinning, dream-designing teller of tales.

In other words: this isn't for a research paper. This is to fuel creation.

So I don't have to take notes at all... 

Unless something nudges me.

Unless some stray little fact attaches itself to one of my characters. Unless a chance description makes me think of a new setting. Or a plot twist. Or a scene.

That is what I write down. 

Not the dates and names and details that I don't care about. I capture the images, moments, and descriptions that are already switching from fact to fiction.

I try to be a story-seer and story-breather when I pick up an encyclopedia. Whatever trips that internal story sensor: I write that down, as completely as I can.

With whatever imagery, whatever dialogue, whatever else I can.

And I keep alllllllllll those notes in my passive idea files. 

Trust me. It's a game changer. 

3. Run down all the rabbit trails.

Part of the point of this whole exercise is to keep my curiosity at a healthy, strong level.

(What's a writer without her "What If"? Blocked, that's what!) 

So, I do keep myself within a time limit. (Fifteen minutes each morning, or a longer session now and then. Or, between projects, maybe a whole day of exploration.)

But within that time limit, I can do whatever I want. 

If an encyclopedia entry mentions something that intrigues me for some reason, I track down more information.

If I can't visualize what they're talking about, I do a quick Google images search, or I chase down video footage.

My process: I always start with a physical page, a hard copy of the encyclopedia... But then I supplement it with the glories of the Internet.

4. And then I trust my crazy imagination. 

All this gathering of images and facts, all these dalliances with encyclopedias and random fact-full books: it seeds the imagination.

And this will save your idea-making bacon. 

The imagination can do a lot. It can get you out of every single plot problem, every dead end in your writing. It really is your super power as a writer. (That and a consistent words-onto-paper habit.)

But it can't do much if it's been starved to death.

So I've learned to lean in to these little explorations. I go deep. I read slow.

And I let my imagination glean what it will. I've realized that I can trust it: it's storing up more than I know.

Bits of my readings can resurface months later--tidbits that I didn't even write down. The imagination shows up and unlocks a plot problem with them and then... I feel like a genius.

Which is one of those times when it is lovely to be a writer.

5. And then this: It's super fun.

So recently I was looking at gorgeous, stirring images of the Cotopaxi volcano, and then pictures of barrows in the Cotswolds, and my imagination was having a FIELD DAY. Telling me all kinds of interesting things to write down. Creating alternative landscapes and filling them with people and plot twists...

THOSE TIMES. When you feel idea-rich and word-plentiful.

Those are the times when this writing life fits. When it feels good, when the work is pleasant.

And it's that much easier to hit the desk the next day and the next.

Isn't that a habit worth having?

---

So that's how it works for me. I kick off my work days with fifteen minutes in a 1965  Encyclopedia Britannica. (Plenty of that old-book smell.)

My imagination grabs ideas, cracks its knuckles, and gets to work.

This is one of the many things that keeps my writing practice healthy and alive.

Does Your Writing Life Need a Mega Makeover? (Here's how I transformed mine.)

In spite of all my inherent nerdiness, I was never much of a devotee of writing exercises.

I mean, come on. We all know it takes about a thousand years to write a really good novel. Why waste writing time dithering around with some set of practice pages that would never see the light of day?

If I was going to practice writing, I would practice on my novel, thanks very much. 

... But the writers around me kept praising writing exercises. So I picked up some books of writing prompts and tried a few.

But the prompts were a bit lame. And my resulting pieces were kind of dull. They felt false, canned, pre-packaged. Not the kind of work I enjoyed. Not pieces of writing that I respected. 

Exercises. Pffft.

What changed all that? Three things. 

This book. The concept of a passive idea file. And an eight-week experiment.

What happened? My writing life changed completely. For the much much better.

I was between drafts of my novel-in-progress. I felt tired and grumpy about writing in general.

I wanted to take a break from the long-haul drafting process, but I didn't want my writing habit to atrophy entirely. What to do?

My mom (also a writer) mentioned that she liked the book A Writer's Book of Days, by Judy Reeves. She said it was a book of writing exercises that actually felt doable.

So I picked up her copy and flipped through it, looking at the writing prompts.

They weren't lame. They didn't feel silly. They were actually ... intriguing.

And there was one for each day of the year. (Ooh. I love a good calendar system.)

Bonus: All these prompts were surrounded by wonderful short articles (and quotes, lists, challenges, cheerleading) about the writing life, the writing habit, tips from other writers, and other advice that was cheering, practical, and exciting.

And did I mention that the prompts weren't lame??

Like, here, listen to these: February 12: Write about an eclipse. February 13: What was seen through binoculars. February 15: Write about animal dreams. 

Or September 13: She left a note. September 14: A collection of lies. September 15: "Houses have their secrets" (after Yannis Ritsos).

See? Not the standard. Just enough direction to get the brain involved, but not so much direction that the exercise feels false.

So I swiped Mom's copy. I carved out eight weeks between drafts.

And because I love to do a thing with gusto, I spent those eight weeks writing my way through all of Reeves' 366 exercises. 

Nine or ten exercises per workday. Ten minutes per exercise. 

I filled a lot of spiral notebooks. My handwriting fell to pieces. 

And I became a whole different kind of writer.

Honestly? It's one of the best things I've ever done.

Here's what I found out. 

It helps--a lot--to bring an idea file to the game. 

Like I mention in this post, I keep files full of teeny little ideas. Names that I find intriguing. Phrases that get my imagination swirling. Concepts for settings, situations, relationships. Titles that are begging for a book.

When faced with a writing prompt alone (even one that isn't lame), my brain could still go blank.

But when I also swiped a few ideas randomly from an idea file, and combined those things with the prompt: Magic happened. 

The blank page doesn't have to be terrifying. Neither does "bad" writing.

After facing 366 blank pages? After getting into the rhythm of "ready, set, GO," day after day, time after time? No matter how you're feeling, no matter how creative or not creative, no matter how tired, no matter how many words you've been writing?

Yeah. The blank page loses its fangs and its big scary voice.

Instead, it becomes a means to something much better: a full page.

I also learned not to over-emphasize the importance of my own bad writing. 

With that many pages filled, you better believe that a lot of them were pretty crappy. And yet a lot of them were also rather brilliant. Some of those pages still give me chills, and I'm planning stories around them. 

And the crappy work existed right alongside the brilliant gems.

It didn't matter how I felt about writing each day: whether I felt up for it, or whether I didn't. I still could write total slop and the next minute write something incredible.

So all those feelings we keep feeling about writing? Yeah. They stopped meaning so much.

And I just got to work.

The imagination is a much, much, MUCH bigger (and weirder) place than I thought.

Filling that many pages taught me this for certain: that my imagination was up to the challenge. 

Those 366 pieces of writing covered all kinds of crazy territory. I wrote spy stories, historical sketches, action sequences, serene tea-drinking scenes, wild off the wall stories for kids, bizarre internal monologues... 

It made me realize that my three little novels-in-progress (at the time) weren't the only things I could write.

I got a clear look at my own creative agility. I saw that I could write in almost any direction, that I could improvise on almost any theme.

I stopped feeling so dang TIMID.

When you see what your imagination is capable of, the tasks of writing, rewriting, and revising become a lot less frightening. 

And oh yeah, the writing itself was a lot of fun. 

(See what I did there? I just used "fun" and "writing" in the same sentence. And it wasn't a typo.)

Judy Reeves recommended not planning what you were going to write for an exercise. She said to write down the first sentence that came to you, and go from there.

Rule-follower that I am, I tried that technique. And loved it.

It felt like holding a camera above your head, snapping a Polaroid picture, and then shaking it around, wondering what exactly you had captured. Excitedly watching it develop.

I never, ever knew where my pen would lead. I was half-writer, half-reader, racing over new territory. 

My only goals were: to keep writing, and to not be bored. So I threw in as many twists as I liked, riffing on whatever tangents occurred to me.

You GUYS. It was so much fun.

I almost couldn't believe it: I was writing my brains out, working hard, and yet having a blast.

Writing felt like playing again, like the kind of marvelous inventive play I used to do as a kid.

Every day of writing held dozens of discoveries. I never knew what it would be like.

I got hooked on it.

I began writing for the buzz of it, the glee of making something new.

Again, and again, and again.

---

So: I'm a writing exercise convert. Utterly and completely.

I don't do writing exercises daily, but when my writing life needs a jolt, or when my imagination is sagging, I pull out A Writer's Book of Days and dive in for a while. 

If you're in need of a boost (and who isn't!?), try it.

It will caffeinate your writing, change how you see yourself as a writer, and massively expand the territory of your imagination. 

Yeah. ALL that. It will totally make over your writing life.

... And here you were thinking it would be just another Thursday.

Re-Establishing a Writing Groove (Or, Back to School for Writers!)

This won't surprise you, but I'm a bit of a nerd when it comes to school. 

I was the kind of kid who spent the last weeks of summer daydreaming about long division. Who was itching to buy packs of college-ruled paper for all those assignments. Who loved bringing home a pile of new textbooks. 

You know. Definitely a nerd.

So September still means "back to school" for me, even though my last real "back to school" was--cough, cough--ten years ago. 

But that doesn't matter, right? It's still a great time to stock up on office supplies (hello and thank you, back to school sales!) and to get back to the good work habits that were blasted to smithereens during the summer.

(Or is that just me.)

It's time to refocus. To get back to basics. To get big mugs of apple cider (!!!) and then dive deep into work. 

Yes? Yes! 

But the first step of a re-committed writing practice is, oh yeah, remember this?:

You have to sit still, alone, in a room. 

For hours.

I've had so much going on lately, that I feel a little jittery, here at my desk today. ...

Okay, a lot jittery. 

A little too quick to jump up and do something else. My brain is pinging every which way, and the voices of my characters are pretty dang faint. 

Actually, I can't hear them at all.

... Remember your elementary school science classes? And learning about how some muscles work in opposition?

If not, here's a little reminder: When one contracts, the other relaxes (and meanwhile, your leg kicks out). And then the first one relaxes and the other contracts, your leg goes back down.

Right? Well, I've found that the same dynamic is at work in my writing life. 

I have the public, out-and-about, errand-running, meeting-for-coffee, smiling, chatting, pleasant version of Lucy: When the social muscle contracts.

And then there's the other version, the writing version of Lucy. Private, contemplative, inward-focused, and absent-minded: When the writing muscle contracts.

When I'm living as the social version of Lucy, writing feels like a distant daydream. That side of me is pretty well shut off. 

And when I'm going full-tilt at work as the writing version of Lucy, anything social feels like an unbearable strain. A shocking interruption. I can't remember how to behave, I forget to answer questions, I'm not really socially acceptable. 

(Any of this ringing a bell for you too? Or is this just me?)

It is absolutely possible to get into a rhythm of moving back and forth between these two versions, with a certain degree of elegance. It really can be done.

I can write well and then transition to being social and then transition back into deep writing. Definitely.

But when I've been focusing on one side for a long time, the other side feels foreign. Like it's shriveled up, atrophied. And using it at all is just really hard.

... Which is how it feels to come back to full-time writing, after a super busy month! 

It can be really difficult, after all that activity, to remember how to sit quietly in a room. To go from all that social work (with the writing life totally silenced), to the complete opposite: 

A strong writing life, and a quieted social life. 

Right now, my writing life muscle is weak and wobbly. ... Actually, it's gone nearly to sleep, and today I'm feeling all those prickles, the pins-and-needles feeling of it waking back up.

Ouch.

But you can remember how to stretch out a cramped muscle. And we all know that wiggling-stomping dance we use to get our legs to wake up (please say it's not just me hopping around!).

The same thing is true here: There are tricks to getting the blood flowing back through the writing life. So let's get that muscle warmed up, active, and strong!

1. Go "immersion camp" style.

It sounds brutal, but the best way to get back into a groove is to give myself no other options. To clear the schedule for at least a week, if not two, if not longer.

Beg off commitments, reschedule meetings, and just generally get a wide patch of time. Because basically, you need to be able to get back to your desk, every day, for a set amount of time. And the more time, the better.

2. Ignore all that screaming.

Pins and needles, right? If you're like me, as soon as you even look at your desk, everything in your brain is going to say that this is a bad idea, and there are a zillion things that are more worth your time than doing some writing--which is bound to be bad quality anyway. 

Any other form of productivity will seem more appealing. Doing the dishes or the laundry. Getting back to your exercise routine. Cleaning out your inbox. Reading a book about productivity. Anything else that isn't writing. 

I've realized that I have to steadily ignore all that. I don't even argue with it: I just tune it out. Let the dishes stack up, and the laundry accumulate.

This is writing time. And I've already decided that it's worth it.

3. Slow the brain down with some reading.

It can be a really, really good idea to re-establish a writing practice by re-establishing a reading practice. 

While it obviously doesn't take the place of writing, it still gets our busy, chattery brains to slow down, to start absorbing words, to tune back in to all things literary. (Sometimes I love novels for this, and sometimes poetry feels better. Look here and here for recommendations.)

I like to give myself about half an hour to warm up my brain with reading. 

4. Put your work-in-progress through its paces.

This is my favorite, favorite technique for this kind of situation. Here's what you do:

Get a piece of paper (yes, real paper), and a pen (yes, a real pen). At the top of the paper, write the name of your main character. And then grab a timer. Set the timer for five minutes. And then hit Start.

For five minutes, write--yes, longhand!--about your main character. 

Write anything. Describe her physical appearance, or write about what she does all day. Describe her room. Or detail all the things she likes. Or all the things she hates. 

Write down what she wants most in the story and how she wants to get it. Or just write about how she likes to climb trees. 

Your writing can be clunky. The sentences can be ugly and out of tune. That is totally fine. In fact, that means you're doing it right! You just have to keep going.

The point is: Write, by hand, about your main character, for five minutes. No matter what.

When the timer goes off, don't reread your work. But do be very, very nice to yourself, and celebrate the fact that hey, you kept your butt in your chair for five minutes straight, and you wrote actual words down! 

After a moment's celebration, repeat the exercise with a different character. Or instead of a character, write about one of the most important settings in your story. (Or heck, one of the least important settings!) Or about one of the main events. Or a minor event. 

Write about the beginning. Or the ending. Or the middle. Or whatever.

This is a way to gently re-claim your territory. To get back into the habit of writing, but to do it through very small, very doable demands. 

No matter how crazy your summer was, you definitely can scrape together enough focus for five minutes of writing.

And once you've done that--even if it was miserable, even if it was hard, even if all your sentences sounded lame--you've crossed the line. That line that separates a habit of not writing from a habit of yes, I'll write, no matter what!

Maybe you do three rounds of five-minute exercises. Or maybe you fill your day with them. Either way, you can get back into the habit, step by step.

5. Decide to do the same thing tomorrow.

This is where Step One comes back. It's immersion camp style. The main virtue of this getting-back-into-the-groove method is in its repeatability. 

If you do this, kindly, gently, day by day by day, then I guarantee: by the end of one week, you'll be feeling a bit more writerly.

By the end of the second, I'd bet that your story is up and running again. And you probably won't need that timer, and you'll be back to your good old writerly self.

Congratulations!! You're back in your groove. And now your goal--and mine--is staying in it! Right?

So we'll be spending the rest of September talking about this back-to-school mindset. Getting back to what we know how to do... and then growing from there!

I'm already feeling excited.

Long division anyone??

(Just kidding. Probably.)

Even a Pro Throws a Party at the End of a War (Celebrate Your Finish Lines)

There's a popular bit of writing advice out there that goes like this:

As soon as you've finished writing one story, start the next one.

Emphasis on: As soon as.

I think it was Trollope who modeled this, at least in what gets quoted to me. He had a quota of words to write each day, and if two of them were The End, then the next ones went right into a beginning.

I think that's admirable, in some ways. Impressive.

But much as I admire that kind of productivity, I've stopped wanting to emulate it. 

Momentum is important. Discipline is important. I'm a big fan of both.

But I just don't believe that we have to start a new project immediately.

In other words: Take a break, for goodness' sake! 

We can be professional-minded and still take a break, right? Of course we can! Because we want a sustainable writing practice, right?

Sustainability. It's my best friend when it comes to writing.

So this is what I've learned I need, after a storm of drafting:

1. Acknowledgment. 

I need to look myself in the eye--yes, literally, I do involve a mirror--and congratulate myself.

Creating a story out of your brain? Writing the whole thing down? Thousands and thousands of words? That's amazing. That's still amazing.

So whether I'm finishing a third draft or a first one, I think it's still important to take a huge breath and say: We did it! The characters and me! We wrote that thing!

2. Rest.

Literally. I try to catch up on sleep, if I've been staying up late to get it done.

But also, there are muscles involved with all that writing! It's easy to forget, when you're trying to keep Mr. Evil from destroying the planet, and at the same time, you're feeding clever lines to your Protagonist, and oh yes, also keeping all your details accurate for the secret lab underground.

But all that sitting and typing, or writing by hand--it takes its toll. You've got back muscles and neck muscles, bones and ligaments and things!

The body needs to recover too, and probably could take a bit of extra love. Maybe even a chiropractor.

And maybe some exercise. Some long walks in the park. (I do, after all, rely on some chocolate to get the writing done. A bit of movement is a good idea to balance all that!)

3. Human beings.

In the last stretches of a draft, I am at my least least least social. I become, necessarily, less available to the people around me, as the people in my head demand more time and space. 

Between projects, then, is when I love to catch up with friends, spend time with family, and be super-intentional about relationships. 

So I take some time to shed the writer-recluse habit. I schedule coffee dates, I Skype with my nieces and nephew more, I reconnect with the people I love. 

4. Replenishing.

Right after finishing a draft, I'm my least creative self. I have trouble completing the most simple sentences, or making any decisions at all. 

Why? Because I worked every single brain cell. Every last shred of mental energy has gone right into the draft.

Which means: The imagination needs some mega input.

I try to take a few days to intentionally browse new books, to visit museums, to wander around in new places.

I need to get back into the real world for a little bit. To be surrounded by real colors, real sounds, real textures.

It's dangerous for us to live in a world of text for too long. We need to remember that there are actually three dimensions.

We need to observe real life, and oh yeah, to live real life too.

5. And then yes, a bit of a party.

Completing a piece of writing warrants a celebration. No matter how short it is, how long it took you, how wretched this draft might be: if you've gotten to the end, you celebrate. Period.

Whether that means telling your dog you're brilliant (which it already knew) and treating yourself to a cupcake, or whether you get some champagne and caviar, or whether you have writing buddies over for coffee and cake--it's up to you.

But you deserve a celebration. Finishing a piece of work--sending a poem out, shipping a novel to beta readers, completing an essay--it's a BIG DEAL.

It should be.

I used to argue with myself about this. (Sad, but true.) I used to insist that finishing a piece was just part of the job. And if I wanted to be a professional, then it was all in a day's work. (See: Anthony Trollope.) 

I used to tell myself that to get all excited about it meant that I was an amateur, and just playing at it. That celebrations weren't the mark of a pro.

But I've totally changed my mind.

This is what I've learned: You fight a lot of battles, getting a story onto a page.

Internal battles, external battles, time management battles, word-craft battles, no-one-understands-what-I-do battles, this-is-taking-FOREVER battles.

It's work. A lot of work.

And getting to the end means that you've won this particular war, this war of finishing a piece of art.

And that means: You do a bit of dancing, a bit of crowing, a bit of cupcake-eating.

Sure, you'll start your next project soon. Of course, you're a professional. And nope, you won't let your writer abilities get dusty. You won't forget how to do this. 

But first you'll have this little party, this celebration.

Replenish what's been depleted, stretch what's been strained, stock up on what you need, take a deep breath.

And then--buoyed by the success, and cheered by declaring it good--then you can dive in to the next one.

Celebrate the Relationships that Make Your Writing Possible

When you're throwing yourself into your writing work, and putting every little bit of your brain and heart into it, you can get a little... how shall we say... self focused.

To an extent, that's a really good thing.

I will always champion self-care and self-awareness and grace and rest and all those things. You're the one most able to monitor how you're doing, how you're handling stress, and if your imagination needs some oomph. You have to pay attention to how you're doing.

But it's easy to let this self-focus thing get out of hand. Right?

It's ghastly to say it out loud, but after too many days of manipulating fictitious events, I can start thinking that I'm the creative genius at the center of the universe.

That's not a habit I want to develop.

And if you've ever met anyone with a runaway ego, you know how ugly this can get.

We can all see how disgusting it is when someone forgets how many people have helped them, supported them, sacrificed for them.

Yikes. But it's a cautionary tale for us writers.

Because it is so easy to get caught up in our work.

It's ultra absorbing, making worlds out of our brains! It's easy to take for granted the people we rely on--whether they're helping our households run more smoothly, or dishing out emotional encouragement, or helping us financially. 

It's so easy to forget what other people are doing for us. 

If you are fortunate enough to have a person, or a few people, or--let's dream big--a whole tribe who thinks that what you're doing is Okay, and who support you in any way--

Then how about celebrating them this weekend?

Whether with gifts and flowers, or a long coffee date that is not about all your writing dilemmas, or maybe some good old-fashioned public acknowledgement of everything that they've done to help you. Of what you owe them.

Thank them out loud.

Sound good? 

Here, I'll go first.

I know it's cliché to say that my mom is my number one fan, but, well...

My mom is my number one fan.

I'm super fortunate in that the rest of my family is awesome and extremely supportive as well. But my mom is the person who actually modeled writing for me. 

For as long as I can remember, she had a writing desk with story ideas posted above it, as well as a growing collection of books about how to write. She talked about her stories, her characters, and her work, which taught me that this writing thing was Normal and Okay to do.

She always encouraged my sisters and me to read, helping us haul our library loot home and back again. She read out loud to us at night. She made up stories on the spot when we were bored.

She gave me spiral notebooks and story prompts when I was in second grade, she read my first attempts at poetry (eek!!) when I was in fifth, she was one of my first readers of my honors thesis in college, and she's the first one I'll let read my ramshackle rough drafts now.

We share books, tips, conferences, and anything we're thinking through. We talk about process and structure; we share writerly woes and writerly joys.

We're in this together. 

I literally can't imagine what my writing journey would look like without her. Especially without her saying, from day one: 

• You can do this. You are a writer.

• Being a writer is a GOOD thing to be.

• And also, you always double the amount of chocolate chips in a recipe.

We add books and words (and maybe chocolate) to the difficult places in our lives.

So clearly, I owe her a lot. And I'm realizing that I don't say that enough, out loud. 

It's her birthday this weekend, which is partly why I've been thinking about how much she's inspired me and how much I still depend on her encouragement.

And how I'd probably not be sane trying to write without her.

Who is that person for you? Who is it who gave you encouragement during a hard time, or who modeled reading or writing for you, or who believed in you early on?

Let's be bold in our appreciation. Let's celebrate the people who have supported us.

I'll be making my number one fan a cake this weekend. How about you?

Why Cake and Confetti Should Be a Part of Your Writing Life

Here's the sad truth: Until a couple of years ago, I thought that if something was worth doing well, it was worth doing STERNLY.

Work ethics are not for being happy and enjoying life, I thought. They are for GETTING STUFF DONE.

So. I got a lot of stuff done. A lot of words written. 

But frankly, it wasn't a lot of fun. I didn't enjoy the process. And it made the writing life feel about a thousand times harder than it really needed to feel.

So I've changed my tune. I'm bringing a more celebratory attitude into my writing life!

And you know what I've figured out? It actually makes me a BETTER WRITER. Crazy, right? And yet so true. 

Wanna join me? Here are four ways that celebration makes us better at our job of making stories.

1: Enjoyment is a currency.

Let's be real: If writing is your gig, you're either a) not getting paid a TON, or b) not getting paid at ALL.

(If money is pouring into your lap, then I'm super happy for you. Cake is still a good idea, though.)

If you're not getting paid much for writing, then how much sense does it make to also have no fun when you write? How wise is it, really, to have an anti-celebration mindset? 

One of the ways that I "pay" myself for writing is by loving it. Does that make sense? 

I mean, I know plenty of people who get paid real money for what they do all day. And they hate what they do. Real money ... for a job they really hate. 

That just doesn't sound like a great deal to me. What's a better deal? Getting little-to-no money for a job I really really love. 

(I know, I know. The best option is for us to get a lot of real money for a job we really love. We'll get there one day, lionhearts.)

In the meantime, having a job that I love, a job that feels festive, that feels like a word-party and a story-celebration... that's my take-home pay.

2: An attitude of celebration makes us generous.

Have you ever read a book that felt like it was a gift? Like every sentence was crafted and given to you? 

Those are the reading experiences we dream of and long for, right? 

Think back to the last time you felt that way. The last time a book absolutely wrapped you up in delight. Remember the title, the feeling?

Okay. Here's my theory: I don't think the author of that book was the Ebenezer Scrooge of writing.

I doubt very much that the author was sitting at a desk, piecing the words together with an I-hope-you-burn attitude toward readers.

I'm guessing this author wasn't a miser with imagery, description, and the emotional force behind the words.

I bet they shared themselves with you, the reader. And that the book was born out of an attitude of joy for the work. 

Even if the book was hard to write. Even if the subject matter was difficult. Nevertheless: a deep joy for the process of writing itself. A sense that this transaction between writer and reader is worth celebrating.

This feeling was wonderfully expressed by a Pixar animator, in one of those bonus feature interviews on a DVD. (I can't remember which movie or which animator. Super unhelpful, I know. Sorry. Maybe it was Monsters, Inc. Try that one.) 

Anyway: He said that the work of making the movie--though long and hard--was like creating a surprise party for the viewers. 

A surprise party.

Every amazing frame of the movie, or the next twist in the plot, was like another gift that they were handing their audience.

And he was grinning as he said it. His excitement for the process: it was completely evident in his face, his manner. 

I love that. It's the ideal attitude for us story-tellers.

We should be writing surprise parties for our readers. And the process of putting those parties together? It wouldn't hurt for that to feel fun and festive as well. 

3: Celebration is anti-perfectionism. (You know I'm all about that!)

Where there is a real, healthy, hearty celebration, an honest-to-goodness party, perfectionism has to leave. It just does.

Because everyone can tell it's not enjoying itself. It's too busy freaking out about how the napkins aren't lined up exactly, and the cheeseball is slumping a little, and the frosting on the cake isn't QUITE the best consistency--

And yet. Everyone is having a good time, people are laughing, the kids are running around like little crazies, and the guest of honor can't stop smiling. 

There is no room at the party for perfectionism.

Everyone's having a great time. Even with the mess, even with the uncertainties, even when things don't go exactly perfect. 

Everyone's doing great. So perfectionism is out of a job.

And it's the same in the writing life.

When you are determined to enjoy the process, when you're tossing confetti at your story in spite of the way the plot doesn't line up, and even though there's a massive disconnect in your characterization, and even when you have millions of hours still to put in--

When you're still enjoying it, and when you're still treating it like a party, perfectionism gives up on you.

And that is the best news for your story. 

4: Celebration welcomes creativity.

When I'm really enjoying the process of putting together a story, I'm willing to stick with it even longer. I'll tease out certain elements that I would otherwise rush over. 

When I'm enjoying the brainstorming sessions, I'll push to keep searching for the exactly spot-on idea, instead of just grabbing the first workable one I think of. 

It all starts to work together! The generosity mindset plus a willingness to hang with the process a bit longer: that means more ideas to choose from, and a broader range of possibilities.

Which means more time practicing craft. Which means an all-around better and more creative story. 

And THAT'S the grand prize. That's the whole piñata! A wonderful story coming from a healthy writing life: that's exactly what we were here celebrating to begin with.

5: Um, also... my birthday is coming up!!

I turn 31 on the 31st! Gaaaa!!! 

Probably that's not going to make a difference in your writing life. (Though I'd hate to make assumptions or anything.)

But seriously. On my birthday last year, it dawned on me how profoundly bad I am at most celebration. Really. REALLY. 

I want to celebrate, I see the need for it, and it sounds like a good idea--but when it comes right down to it, I'm not awesome at this whole party-making thing. 

So I'm looking at this month in general--and the thirty-first in particular!--as a chance to get a LOT better at celebrating. 

Celebrating the birthday: yes. But more than that.

I want to get so much better at recognizing opportunities for celebrating everything else around me: The stuff I take for granted, as well as the chances that drop in my lap. I want to bake a cake for the things that are ordinary and mundane, and I want to rise to the occasion when something grand and spectacular is afoot.

This August = Celebration Rehab. 

Will you join me?

Let's go get some confetti.

---

If you want to get celebrating right away, here are a few ways to bring a more festive mindset into your writing life: Have a Dance Party, Make Your Office Awesome, and Give Yourself Permission to Play.

Whoa. You're off to a great start!

When Productivity Isn't a Good Thing

About a month ago, an acquaintance of mine--a good person, well-intentioned, who wants the best for me--asked how my novel was going. And I wanted to:

Multiple choice: choose the most appropriate answer: 

a) discuss the recent high points in my drafting process.
b) invite them to read my work-in-progress.
c) pass the question off with a super-vague answer.
d) scream. And just go ahead and keep on screaming.

To my deep mortification, the answer is d. I held it together at the time, and managed to squeak by with a combo of a and c, but oh my goodness. I had to go to my writing desk and sit down and have a very serious talk with myself.

I mean: What was my deal? It's one thing when someone's being a pain in the hindquarters. But this was a genuinely nice person. (Who doesn't read this blog. So don't worry, I'm not talking about you.)

It took me about ten minutes to realize that my near-meltdown was because I haven't been writing fiction lately. I haven't been working on my novel.

When I'm not working on fiction, two things happen. 1) I become restless and irritable, and 2) I'm much more likely to take the heads off innocent bystanders who are asking about it.

When I'm not working on a novel, I get a little unhinged.

But I know this about myself. I've known this a long time. In fact, my family is well-trained: if I'm getting a bit, um, difficult to live with, they know how to lovingly say, "Hey, why don't you go write."

So the real surprise on that day I did not scream was this: That I had no idea that this condition was creeping up on me. 

To tell you the truth, it didn't even dawn on me how much I wasn't writing.

What was I doing instead? I was having a mega let's-plan-the-rest-of-my-life festival.

For about a month.

Now, I have a bunch of good reasons. SO MANY REASONS. I'm taking new directions in my overall career focus, and shifting a few other things around too. (General life stuff. Big overhaul. Big plans.)

A lot of things are up in the air, honestly. And since I'm one of the 99% of people who have trouble with change, I've been feeling a teeny bit anxious lately.

And when I get anxious, I plan.

I try to stabilize my shaky legs on ideas that feel solid and sure. Like lists.

I've been looking at productivity strategies, making to-do lists, creating six-month plans, three-month plans, eight-week plans, next week's plans...

My days were full of words and paper and new digital documents. I felt so deliciously BUSY. And it was all to do with career stuff, and new mindsets, and a better outlook. 

Everything I was doing wore a big shiny "I'm Important!" badge.

But the truth is, I camped out way too long in Plan Making. 

I fought all the uncertainties with a blaze of productivity, of plans and activities and deep thinking.

And I stranded the imaginative side of my work. For weeks.

Funny how this is still so easy to forget, but as a fiction-writer, the imagination is my primary citizenship.

Not lists, but dreams.

What do you do when you get a wake-up call?

I didn't make a list. But I did make a few choices.

I plunged back into my fiction work, bringing my novel back to the front of my days. The top priority spot in my schedule. When my brain is best.

The novel now gets the bulk of my time. (Can you hear all my characters cheering?)

But the more I thought about it, the more I could tell that there are other places I've neglected too: There's my perennial cry that I don't read enough. It's been too long since I've nurtured creativity for its own sake. And there are places in my craft that I need to focus in on, with a master class or two.

What's a Lucy to do? 

I'm making a few other changes to my schedule, and one of them affects you, my lovely and wonderful readers. Here it is: Instead of publishing three posts a week, I'm gonna pull it back to just two. Is that okay?

I still love you, and I'm still rooting for you like crazy. We're still going to talk all things lionhearted, all thing writing life. We'll just be doing it on Mondays and Thursdays, instead of three days a week.

Is that cool with you? ... Okay. Thanks.

And my novel says a huge THANK YOU. (Also, it says: high fives to your current work-in-progress, if you could pass that along.)

So how are you doing? Have you stumbled across a wake-up call lately? Any acquaintances that may have been screamed at? Or is there just a slow disconnect, an unwinding and an unraveling in your work? 

Do you feel crazy-busy? Is it choking out all the quiet voices of your words, your writing? 

How's your imagination? Does it feel strong and healthy and ready to conjure up another world at a moment's notice? Or is it a little limp, exhausted, and drowned out by the productivity sirens?

Maybe for you, planning and list-making isn't the problem. Maybe it's all research and no writing? Or staying in the "idea gathering" stage waaaaay too long? 

What might be trying to get your attention? And what would it look like if you listened? If you focused in on it, and put all your attention on the most important thing?

Let me know in the comments, and I will totally cheer you on. 

Refuse to Feel Sheepish about How Completely Odd You Are

On a lightning-quick visit to Chicago last spring, I stumbled across an exhibit of Edward Gorey's works at Loyola University. Lucky, lucky, LUCKY me! I spent an age poking through the exhibit, reading every little blurb, staring at every illustration.

(...Okay, I really really love his stuff, so let's skip the part where I basically hijack this blog post and turn it into one long gush festival about how much I love his stunning and macabre illustrations, how I laughed till I cried at The Gashlycrumb Tinies, and what that says about my sense of humor. We'll skip all that. I love him, the end.)

The most important moment for me was when I read this one panel that listed all Gorey's influences. Everything that he liked. The stuff that had some effect or other on his work.

You guys. This list. SO LONG.

And bizarre. And ... varied. Edwardian architecture and Gilbert & Sullivan. The game of Monopoly and graveyards (obviously). Edward Leary and sitcoms. Ballet and Batman and cats. 

He was influenced by so many things that he became totally uncategorizable.

Completely original. 

I came back home, thrilled by all of the exhibit, but especially haunted by that list.

See, I have this temptation to ignore all my quirkiness. To override my creative impulses. To refuse to make time for all the things that intrigue me.

No, no, no, I protest to myself. I need to be efficient! I need to not go down all those other paths of what I'm curious about. I need to stay FOCUSED.

Productivity is all well and good, but we need to create room and time to be artists.

To chase down the things that interest us. 

Whether they're interesting to other people or not. Whether they "fit" our topic and our genre or not.

When I was little, I had this book about codes that I loved. I'd sit for hours with this reference book, pouring over the section on Morse Code, and Braille, and flag signaling. 

I also had these nature encyclopedias. I studied the detailed drawings of animal footprints, just in case I had to identify, say, a bobcat print. (You never know.) I memorized details about thorny lizards and carpet sharks and cassowaries. 

I was obsessed with the alphabet. I loved paper folding and weird little crafts. I named all the trees in our backyard and invented histories for what had happened there before we came.

... And then I guess I grew up. I watched reality TV in college and the same movies everyone else was watching, and I felt generally kind of ... dull.

There's a temptation to mimic everyone else's input. Right? To make it look acceptable and safe. But that doesn't breed creativity. Not so much.

What about you? What were you obsessed with as a kid? And what's inspiring you like crazy now? (Or what would inspire you, if, you know, you went ahead and let it?)

Are you making time for that? 

What would happen, if we explored those weird little curiosities we have?

I have this suspicion: that by giving ourselves time to do that, we might be feeding our creativity and stories in deeper ways than we can really know.

What do you need to do, to treasure your own oddities? To treat them like the creative GOLD that they are? 

What would it look like for you to pursue those funny little interests, that strange hobby? To be well and truly influenced by that thing that's not on anyone else's radar?

... Can I tell you something hokey I'm doing?

I'm dreaming up some kind of exhibit that might exist, decades down the road. You know. After my long and incredibly creative career, after I turn up my toes and am snoozing in a very comfortable grave somewhere.

Say, ten years after I'm dead.

And there's all these BOOKS. (A book exhibit. Sure. Why not.) And there's a panel on the wall, listing the many, wildly varied influences on Lucy Flint's life and career and stories.

All the crazy ingredients that seeped into my stories through the years.

And here's my question to myself right now: What's on that list? 

And then, next step: To totally own that list of influences. To give myself full creative license to dig into the things that inspire me. Unapologetically. 

Maybe I'll figure out that bobcat footprint after all. Maybe I'l let my inner geek out and study Morse Code again.

How about you? What's on your ultimate list of influences?

Or are you stuck trying to sound like all the other bloggers and Twitterers? Are you trying to make your Instagram feed and your Pinterest boards look like everyone else's? Do you feel somehow obligated to be inspired by certain things?

What movies do you really want to watch? What kinds of reference books would make you stay up way too late at night? What details make you crazy-excited? 

Don't water down your creativity by trying to use the "acceptable" influences.

Do not trade your dreams for someone else's idea of normalcy. 

Because you know what? The world does not actually need you to blend in, and write the same exact stuff as everyone else in your genre. It DOESN'T NEED THAT.

There will be pressure to make things that way, but trust me: That's NOT what it needs.

It needs you to be you. Your deepest, wildest, most unruly self. 

This weekend, set aside some time for a creative date with yourself. Pursue the quirky things that you love.

Refuse to feel sheepish. Just plunge headlong into your own craziness. Be TRULY inspired.

Okay? And let's be the writers we're supposed to be.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to find a book on codes.