The Wishing

“One writes such a story [The Lord of the Rings] not out of the leaves of trees still to be observed, nor by means of botany and soil-science; but it grows like a seed in the dark out of the leaf-mold of the mind: out of all that has been seen or thought or read, that has long ago been forgotten, descending into the deeps. No doubt there is much personal selection, as with a gardener: what one throws on one’s personal compost-heap; and my mold is evidently made largely of linguistic matter.”  – J. R. R. Tolkien

To put it simply, the question at hand is: What influences you, and what are you doing with the product of that influence?

We can’t know all of it, there’s too much to take in. But, in our fiction there are a great many references to our lives, intentional or otherwise, because we can only write what we know. I laugh a little, quietly of course, every time I hear someone say, instructionally, ‘Write what you know.’ I laugh because that’s as ridiculous as saying, ‘Speak using words you’ve learned.’ Kind of unavoidable really … if I don’t know the word, how can I know to use it? Similarly, if I don’t vaguely, in some form or fashion, know what I’m writing about, then how would I be aware enough to write it down at all?

I suppose the problem stems from people misinterpreting that advice to mean that one should write about things one is familiar with, or well-versed on.

That’s not the point.

Oh, I’m sure some who say it mean it that way, but that’s a narrow way of thinking and we don’t encourage that sort of thing here at the asylum. When you hear ‘average’ advice, we want you to think about what’s being said. Really think about it. Don’t just shrug and accept it at face value or immediately jump to the easiest explanation. In other words, spend time and interpret the words yourself. What does that guidance mean to you personally?

This brings me back around to why writing is so deeply connected to our personal lives … this compost pile, this mold that Tolkien referred to, is part of our whole being, not just our writerly selves. We are more than authors, you know. In a sense, we are the truest kind of human beings because we take all of our experiences and we catalog the liveliest, loveliest, darkest and most beautiful pieces and then file them away to be examined and picked apart and appreciated later. I suppose artists are the same, but still there remains something visceral in the sheer monotony of words. I say monotony because they all use the same letters (OK, not if you’re comparing Japanese to say, English, but you get the drift). The stark sameness of our materials, those letters and words, forces us to get our hands dirty in the muck and mire of our past and of our imagined future. Usually, if we write fiction, this is through the exploration of someone else’s past and future, an imaginary someone, but someone else nonetheless.

As fantasists, we are not exempt from writing what we know, even if we’ve made a great majority of it up. It’s still patchwork pieces of the life we’ve lived. Things we create are kind-of-like-but-not, everything we’ve ever touched or tasted or screwed or slapped or kissed. Sensory tools are all we have in gathering our materials from the compost heap in order to form them into a deliverable story.

The story is there, to us, from the very beginning … from the moment we pull the little scraps and clippings from the pile, the leaves from the mold, but our task as authors is to weave enough of a foundation around those things to give the story a reference point and to make it understandable to others. We’re, in a sense, telling the onlookers what all the pictures in our scrapbooks are of; where the tuft of fur is from, what the golden thread means, what the feathers are for.

Our novels, even the most outrageous ones, are like giant scrapbooks of our lives. Sometimes we lie about what’s on the pages and why … but those things are still ours. They belong, utterly, to us in ways that can only be explained through emotional and physical attachments.

And they say it isn’t personal.

The author, clutching her book of scraps, those bits of bone and shreds of soul all bound up, laughs at this too. She laughs because she knows better. The only things that aren’t personal are the blank pages of the book, the glue in the binding and the leather of the cover. But, the contents … oh the contents are the very definition of personal. Pity those who cannot see it this way, for they truly cannot understand the deeper meaning of art and I wonder, since they cannot see the reasons, are they capable of seeing life as a personal experience at all?

I suspect not. They’re the sort of people who take things at face value … they laugh at jokes they don’t get, comment on medical reports that they haven’t read, news stories that they don’t understand and they hate and love with equally blind devotion. They are not capable of making up their own mind on anything. And so, they bristle to hear that you’ve done so, to hear that you’ve claimed something not only for yourself, but as something that is uniquely and irrevocably yours. It is simply beyond their comprehension.

But … as authors, storytellers, it is also our task to keep that pile cultivated. We have to do more than just exist. We have to live … really live. I know it’s been said a hundred times before, to breathe deeply, love unconditionally, laugh hard, but don’t take this bit of advice at face value either. There is more to just living than reveling in the experience of it. Yes, laugh hard. Yes, love deeply. But, more than anything, don’t waste your time. You only have a limited amount of it, and unfortunately most of us aren’t aware of just how much time that is. So, spend every moment you can of that time you’ve been given either cultivating things to go into your scrapbook later, or weaving what you’ve already saved up into whatever tales you plan on telling.

You’re the only one with that particular compost heap … that forest mold … those leaves … so, that story, the one that’s been placed in your hands and in your pile, can only be told by you. No one else on this earth has your exact set of experiences. You are, despite however much you might have in common with others, unique. So, if you don’t tell that story … if you don’t gather up your scraps and bravely set forth to show them to others, then no one ever will.

No one ever will.

Every moment you waste in fear is a sentence that will never be crafted. Every afternoon you fritter away by worrying about whether or not your writing will be read and loved by others, is a scene that dies an untimely death. Every week that you don’t grab hold of, is a character or plot arc that will never get a chance to breathe. Every month you spend not writing, is a story that fades into nothingness. Every year you allow to pass by, is a world you’ll never create. Every decade is a career milestone that you’ll never reach. Eventually, you’ll run out of things to forego and there will be nothing left but the wishing.

You will not get better by thinking about it. You won’t progress by stalling and crying and hoping or pleading with others to share their secrets. There are no secrets, there is only the act of putting words onto a page, one letter at a time. Your ideas won’t come to life just by remaining in your head unseen and unheard. Fads will come and go, trends will wax and wane. Your style won’t improve just because you get older and mature. You won’t suddenly wake up one day, miraculously inspired, and find that you’ve finally become a writer. It doesn’t work that way, but you’d think it did judging by the sheer volume of ‘writers’ who are … well … not writing. They’re wishers, not writers. And they’re excellent at it. They’ve hoarded an absurd amount of materials in their compost pile, their mold is fermented and ready for use. They are some of the most talented people I know, if only they would brave that first step. There’s nothing there but the dirt to step on … no hot coals (those don’t come till later) … just moss and leaves.

So, what are you waiting on?

Step out. Stop wishing. Start breathing. Start living. Start writing.

Harvesting Engineered Fiction

Harvesting Engineered Fiction: By Vanessa Cavendish

“When we blindly adopt a religion, a political system, a literary dogma, we become automatons. We cease to grow.” –Anais Nin

In her July 7 post, “Wholistic Writing, Part 2,” Breanne posed a slew of questions to get us thinking about our own writing. I personally think each of those questions deserves a post unto itself. I’m working my way through them as best I can.

Question #: What genre do you prefer and why? Would you ever try a different genre on for size?

It’s hard to know, these days, what kind of hybrid vegetable you might find at the grocery store unless you shop organic. Same thing at the fiction store. One hellofalotta genre-splicing going on. Dubya Tee Eff, as they say. What don’t kill you only makes you stranger. A genre is a label, like the sticker you can’t peel off a piece of fruit. We got some engineering yet to do before that bar code is embedded in the double helix of a watermelon, but you can write your elevator speech and start marketing your novel before it’s written, provided you know how to pick a genre and stick to it.

We don’t grow a lot of elevator speeches locally. They are a big city variety of conversating. Out where I live, the only elevator in town has CO-OP painted on the side of it in big blue letters. Red winter wheat might talk a good game as it thrashes to and fro in the wind, but once the custom cutters roll through, it don’t have a whole lot more to say. I’m kind of the same way, being a flatlander. Twister might take you by surprise, but people ought not to. Them you can see coming for miles. Gives you time to size a person up.

We are a reticent people until we get to know you, which might take all of five minutes or five years, but we don’t speak blurb, and what we’re interested in about you has got diddly to do with your unique selling proposition. We might ask who your momma and daddy is and if they’re still living and whether there’s a chance we might be remotely related. Pretty quick after that, we’ll get down to which church you belong to. If you’re me and you see that one coming, you can sometimes head it off with a comment on the weather and then, quick, pretend you got your cell phone on vibrate and you can not afford to miss this call.

Genres are the denominations of fiction. You can talk all you like about how we all serve the same Lord, but the minute you start in like that, we’ve got you pegged as a Universalist Unitarian, which means three things:

  1. Not from here.
  2. Don’t have a clue about Jesus
  3. Fair game for proselytizing

So you better come up with something quick, Vanessa, and quit your stalling.

I write American Gothic. I might could say Country Horror or Rural Fantasy or Farm Punk, but what I like about “American Gothic” is right away you get that image of the couple with the pitchfork that everyone knows is brother and sister but is too polite to come right out and speculate on what the Keerist is going on out there in the wilds of Indiana or Iowa or wherever the hell that is. The other thing is, is I like to think it sounds a little bit less like something I made up. I can point to my “American Gothic” antecedents, which is a fancy way of answering where your folks come from.

Children of the Corn, I might say. Or Frailty or Cape Fear. Because, look here. If you say Flannery O’Connor and Joyce Carol Oates, you risk sounding like a poor relation putting on airs.

So what is my point, exactly?

If I identify with an established fictional religion—let’s say horror, for the sake of argument and imagery—then I begin to feel like I have to toe the line, adhere to the doctrines, the esthetics, the rules of that particular genre. I even get to feeling like if I don’t dress a certain way I won’t fit in, and somebody sooner or later is going to say something to me about my target audience and reader expectations. I’m not going to let it get to that point because, deep down, I can’t bring myself to believe that the only way to get to Writer Heaven is to scrub-a-dub-dub in the blood.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not opposed to human sacrifice, I just think we can leave room for the Romantic Comedites and even the adherants to certain forms of Literary Fictionism, if they will but give up their excesses and repent their moral torpitude.

I am more goat than lamb, is all I’m saying. Still sacrificial but a touch less complacent about it. A herd animal that likes to butt heads with the fencing. The meek will always feed low to the ground and where the shepherd lets them, figuring that’s where their inheritance lies. They’ll graze a field down to the stubble, and that’s fine by me. There’s a certain resourcefulness about it that, in a more generous mood, I might admire. Being goatish, I’ll give most anything a try, but I do like to rear up on my hind legs every now and then and, you know…reach?

A Walrus in an Octopus’ Garden

A Walrus in an Octopus’ Garden, by Vanessa Cavendish

“She gave the fragile-looking bag a little shake and it echoed like a cargo hold as a number of heavy objects rolled around inside it.” – J. K. Rowling

In her July 7 post, “Wholistic Writing, Part 2,” Breanne posed a slew of questions to get us thinking about our own writing. I personally think each of those questions deserves a post unto itself. I’m working my way through them as best I can.

Question #2: What POV do you prefer to work in? First? Third? Would you ever try a different POV or tense on for size?

What I like best about this second question—it reminds me of Hermione Granger’s purple beaded handbag. Pick it up, look it over; just a straightforward drawstring affair with some neo-Bohemian bling. When you write, who tells your story? Are you a part of it yourself, or do you stand outside, directing and commenting but not, in terms of your writerly perspective, directly involved in the same way that a narrator-character would be? The more you rummage around inside, though, trying to pull out an honest response that makes sense of just who the who is that’s doing the telling, the more you realize the question’s got no bottom to it. Because of the mind-expansion charm embedded in the phrasing, almost any answer will appear to be several times larger than the question, a literal impossibility that leaves me scratching my poor, muggle-brained head. That’s the magic of a provocative question.

When you’re little, you practice who you intend to become. No shock there; we see it all the time in kids at make-believe and dress-up. We may come loaded with certain genetic presets, but the things we make up about ourselves mostly get pulled out of thin air and limited experience. You can set out to be Wonder Woman, but that doesn’t stop you from turning into Lady Di or Barbie or Hillary Clinton. Or King Tutankhamen, either. We feel completely free to mix and match elements of our personalities for what seems like an eternity, until one day, the world—or maybe it’s something biological—toggles a switch marked “conscious awareness” and one bank of stadium lights after another goes dark, accompanied by a sound-effect groan like a dying-generator. For some reason beyond my understanding, we each decide to wander down a single poorly lit corridor with damn few doors left open to us—and to call it who we are.

As if to compensate for such a self-imposed limitation, the MFA-approved fictional default POV is omniscient third-person. If I had to guess I’d say that every story I’ve ever written has cycled through that mode in at least one of its iterations. It rarely satisfies me. In this I know full well that I do not represent the norm among writers. I’ll grant you, there might be a flaw in my circuitry. I like the first person. You might call me narcissistic; I say it keeps me honest. Then again, the way I was brought up, “telling stories” means lying through your teeth, and I was a hard case to rear.

Friend of mine once pointed out the fact that most of human communication consists of pointing out the obvious: Looks like rain. Them little puppies is so damn cute! These hiking shorts make my ass look gigantic, don’t they? You get my drift. So forgive me if I repeat what you’ve read in practically every third issue of Writer’s Digest—that first person narration limits you to the perceptions and other information available to a single individual. But just let me ask you one thing: How much of a hardship has that been for you so far in your grown-up life?

I am a nosy and presumptuous individual and I will snoop around in your mental drawers the minute your back is turned. Don’t take it personally; it’s not about you, and I do recognize it as a problem, so I only have but eleven steps of the program left to go. Point being, when I try to tell a story from what I call (referring once again to my own condition as a writer and not to yours, necessarily) the third-person obnoxious, I feel I really ought to have a search warrant.

Therapists have been telling me for decades that I have boundary issues. You, me, Jesus and John Lennon, if the truth be told.

Look at it this way: when you blog, do you write in the third person omniscient? Some do. I’ll make you a promise, though. If I ever get around to replacing “This is an example of a WordPress page, blah, blah, blah…” under my About tab, it will not read, “Vanessa Cavendish began writing tales of the rural American gothic experience at the age of…” because nowhere in any of my files will you find a diagnosis of dissociative personality disorder.

So let me set this up, and you can have all the fun you want knocking it down.

You and I are fictional onions. I might dress plain but I think gaudy, and I will never tire of shopping for and accessorizing my personality. People who say, “I know who I am,” bore me to frozen freaking tears, because everybody needs a makeover, and I am not talking two or three times in your life as some sort of psychic overhaul brought on by midlife crisis. Some folks, first thing when they wake up, they go put on a face. Me, I sit down to write while the coffee’s making. But it’s the same process. The day begins with, “Who the fuck did I wake up this morning?”

For me, there is continuity enough in the question itself, in the persistent asking of it. When I talk to myself, I don’t want to sound like the voice coming out of my radio that spent all that tuition and studied so hard to sound like the signal coming from every other station. When I write, I might grate on your ear, I might sound like home sweet home, or I might come off every bit as exotic as you do to me.

But no, I will not know who I am. Not today, not tomorrow, not from one day to the next. I will keep my foot in as many doors as I can down all those dark, other corridors. I will reincarnate one story after another as I call into that creaking-hinged darkness, asking, “Anybody in there?” And my answer will probably always be the obvious.

“Why, yes; I believe it’s me, Vanessa. Do come in!”

Alarm, Foredoom and a Ripped-open Bag of Metaphors

Alarm, Foredoom and a Ripped-open Bag of Metaphors:

Vanessa Cavendish

“There is nothing as mysterious as a fact clearly described. I photograph to see what something will look like photographed.” — Garry Winogrand

In her post, “Wholistic Writing, Part 2,” Breanne posed a slew of questions to get us thinking about our own writing. I personally think each of those questions deserves a post unto itself. So if she’s game, I’d like to start with the first one and see how it goes.

Question #1: Does suspense play a part in how you reveal information to your readers, or do you lay it all out on the table in the beginning?

I’ll go first. Feel free to interrupt me if you can or talk over me otherwise.

You should know two thing about me before I get going: First, I got a mind like a pack of neighborhood dogs. Seems like anything I toss into this lidless bin of a brain will end up strewn across the yard like a ripped open bag of writing metaphors. Second, I got a poster rolled up and stashed in a closet somewhere of a portrait by the photographer Garry Winogrand. In the space below an indescribably plain-faced and therefore highly mysterious woman, is that quote I led off with. To my mind, writers and photographers are the same degree of dog. We tell our stories primarily through a combination of imagery, manipulation and disregard for your landscaping. For some of us, like Winogrand and (I wish I could say with less reservation) myself, life is so full of suspense already that we see little harm in showing the cards we deal. The black-and-white school of photography that Winogrand associated with apparently felt that even color film allowed too many opportunities for cheating. They had a profound, zen-like appreciation for the world as it was handed to them through the aperture of a camera. They held sway in the late sixties and seventies. Photoshop I don’t think was even a noun yet, never mind a verb.

There’s something classic about a just-the-facts-ma’am approach to any art form. An old-school journalist will tell you to lay down your who, what, where, when and how in the first sentence of a story, if you can do it, and to get the why nailed down before you call it a paragraph. Say the word “classic” and my mind makes a beeline for Greek tragedy. Oedipus Rex in particular. If you lived in Athens back in the day, or if you got your Sophocles from a college textbook like I did, you already knew the whole story before the actors took the stage. Oedipus killed his father, answered the Sphinx’s riddle, became king and married his own mother.

Got that? Okay. Now we can get to the good stuff.

See what I mean? The introduction to the play reads like a headline from the point-of-purchase rack at the grocery store.

What follows—and what mystifies me more than anything in human literature is that the play itself—is a freaking detective story! The murder mystery to end all murder mysteries—an entire genre killed off some two millennia before it was born. I don’t know of a single thing written before or since that’s more of a nail-biter. Not Psycho, not Jaws,  not nothing. Reason being? Sophocles hid not one thing from his audience. He only withheld information from his protagonist. What we know that Oedipus doesn’t keeps us on the edges of our seats.

My life’s ambition is to tell a story that good. Which means, I have to learn to write like a journalist. Which goes against my nature.

It’s hot where I live. I can’t wait for summer to get over and be Halloween again. I like to hide in the shadows around the corner of the house when kids come to ring my doorbell. Leave the lights on inside and the curtains drawn just a little, the TV playing, everything looking copacetic. Make the little bastards think it’s all cool as shit, like they themselves are the scariest thing ever to set foot on my porch.

I’ll show them.

Why do I, a grown-ass woman, take such delight in scaring the bejesus out of defenseless children? Is it because one or the other of their mothers has probably slept with every decent-looking man in town, and I haven’t yet?

(I don’t have to answer that.)

Is it because those same uptight prisses have the gall to smile and say they missed me in church last Sunday—every Sunday of the year, in fact?

(I will answer that one: Yes, maybe.)

Is it because those kids shriek and run off, but you and I both know they’ll come back for more and bring their friends, since a terrified fit of the gibbering giggles trumps a bite-size Butterfinger every damn time?

Absolutely. But the real reason is simpler than revenge, simpler even than rotten good fun.

It is my nature to be powerful.

How do I know this? Because I pay my “authentic movement” coach good money to tell me so. And to make me repeat it out loud and promise to repeat it again to the mirror when I get home. And every morning when I crawl out of bed, looking way too much like a fact clearly described.

Repeat after me, Vanessa: It is my nature to be powerful.

It is my nature to wear big, ropy gorgon hair and to spread a look of alarm and foredoom across my brow, to carry a big stick and to scream bloody murder and, like the pop-up monster in the Tunnel ‘o Terror, to fold myself back into the darkness once you pass by, and to wait in suspense for the next opportunity. To hide. To bide my time. To keep secrets. I make it my modus operandi to obscure the facts of life from small children, the better to make them shriek and run away and turn to the Lord for deliverance from the likes of me.

It is my nature to be powerful, because I am very, very afraid of what I’ve got coming. It is my nature to be mighty, because I am brief and everything I care about is temporary. It is my nature to say, “Would you look at that bloodshot moon?” and to distract you for as long as possible from the fact clearly inscribed on the headstone of one more friend this year than last.

It is my nature to pull my punches. Not because I don’t want to hurt you or because anybody is paying me to throw a fight, you silly ass, but to soften you up and to blind you to the sledge hammer sneaking up from behind us both. Don’t look now!

Okay, too late.

My nature and my ambition have gone to war with one another. I mean to write like a Garry Winogrand photograph. To tell a story because I want to see how the world looks through the lens of a deliberate fiction. When instead, because I’m not feeling my powerful nature, I attempt to cheat the mystery out of a situation by gaming the distribution of information, it is (in my case, I am quick to italicize) either unnecessary or an outright error in judgment, like wearing a disguise in the dark room, camoflage to a debutante ball, my best poker face to a tarot reading.

I would like to step with greater authenticity into the shadows at the corner of my front porch, not in order to hide, not for the sake of a special effect or a good scare, but because I know what’s coming. Because I am and you are and those adrenaline-and-sugar-stoked children are going to die one day. I want to describe that god-awful gorgeous fact clearly while I still can, through image and the gods’ honest manipulation of light and angle and timing, because I want to see what the everyday mystery and foreknowledge of inescapable doom looks like in a fiction plainly told.

Holistic Writing Pt.2

“Write from the soul, not from some notion of what you think the marketplace wants. The market is fickle; the soul is eternal.”  ~Jeffrey A. Carver

Take any ordinary shirt and a pair of pants, picture them in your mind, and now picture them on you. Picture that same pair of pants on someone else you know. Then someone else. Quickly, the obvious truth becomes that they look absolutely different on each person. The craft of writing is the same way. We use similar words, most of us. All of us who use the same alphabet use the same letters. The same characters that make up the words of ‘Macbeth,’ make up ‘The War of the Worlds.’ The writer makes all the difference.

I don’t expect this to be a shock to anyone, rather I intend for that simple illustration to be a lead-in to the purpose of this post: What you do as a writer defines your fiction. Let me expound on that a little. As an example, there are certain things that I naturally tend to do as a storyteller. I never, ever, show all of my cards to the reader. Some authors do, and some readers love them for it. I don’t. I am fascinated by the idea of perception and the power of assumption and how those things play into the daily lives of my characters and their relationships with others. I’m equally transfixed by the utility of a reader’s assumptions about what will or won’t happen in a story. That seems to be the driving force, not  behind how I plot, but how I show that plot … how I reveal the events. I love the gentle unfolding of things, be they awful, terrible or beautiful. I write, in a sense, how I like the stories I read to be told. ‘The Village’ is one of my favorite movies for a reason.

Consider your favorite authors and your favorite stories told by them. What are their tendencies? What is the foundation upon which they craft worlds? It’s easier to detect someone else’s ways than our own. We aren’t able to see ourselves as accurately as we see others. Why is this important? Well, for starters, it helps ground you. When things like, reviews for instance, come around … if you know who you are as an author, and what your cornerstone is, then your internal structure is less likely to come crashing down around you.

Do you write with a lot of description, or do you prefer to leave a lot to the imagination (I’ve been told my work is woefully bereft of detail)? Do you excel at dialog, or is your best work done in conveying the subtler aspects of human interaction … the slight turn of hand, or bodily gesture? Do you like drama or do you show all your cards to the reader from the very beginning?

These things are important because when they come into question later, you’ll know in advance that regardless of how the critic felt about it, you did them on purpose. They are part of your signature, per say. I was talking with a friend earlier and it came to light that as authors, we’re trained emotionally in a similar way to how our bodies are physically trained to deal with homeostasis. Right now, are you aware that your left foot isn’t hurting? If I randomly picked a part of your body that was hurting, then pick another part of your body that wasn’t and bear with me. Why weren’t you aware of it? Because nothing was wrong. Your body is designed to only send signals for things you need to pay attention to … to problems that need to be addressed.

As authors, we see criticism much in the same way. Suggested “solutions” automatically equal problems in our manuscripts. We’re trained to only pay attention to the negative, because our sense of balance and literary homeostasis tells us to do so in order to fix what’s “wrong.” Even if nothing is wrong at all.

As authors, we never believe the good reviews. There is a dark side of us that believes those people must be lying. Even the mediocre reviews are suspect. Yet, when the negative reviews come around, we cling to every sentence as if … not only is this person unquestionably a literary authority, they are suddenly keenly educated on the ins and outs of not just stories in general, but our story and all of its intents and purposes. We grant these nameless voices titles and power that they, frankly, don’t have. We’re built this way. We’re wired to see things this way. Those few of us who thrive and flourish under scrutiny should consider yourselves blessed because you are the exception. You’re able to appreciate that your left foot isn’t throbbing right now.

Never mind that you wouldn’t spare this guy a second glance in line at Wal-Mart. Once they’ve penned something about your work of love, they’re deemed “knowledgeable.” Or worse, “educated.” Sometimes they will be just that. Educated. And in truth, it depends on your definition of the word. But in reality, I’ve known an awful lot of quasi-intelligent morons. You know exactly what I’m talking about. The kind of people who still say certificated like it’s a real word.

And that’s part of being a holistic writer—understanding and being familiar with how we are interdependent on our writing and the worlds we create. In a sense, we’re not just what we write, but how.

Now, on another note, assuming what I’ve said is true and holds water, this means that we’re keenly apt to feel threatened when our writerly constructs are under fire. When someone says that how we’re writing is wrong, or lacks skill or interest or any number of things, we fold first. Emotionally anyway.

“Remember: Writing can get you fed to a lion whose teeth draw your whole face into its foul wet breath and cut your skull with knives. There’s no soft way to put this. A black hole swallows you up. Willpower’s no help. Getting in print is like beating cancer but losing a lung, staying in print is hopeless. Your best work goes begging…..Today’s paragraph comes, a word from the heart of the universe, and shines in the darkness, unquenched. And you ask for power, wisdom, and love as you make the anvil sing.”   ~Donald Newlove

Bottom line: Writer, know thyself. It’s the only protection you have against the instant gratification of this fast food world … this five minute mass … this three minute throng of misguided souls who are only passing through your worlds, the ones you create. They don’t live there. You do.

Bonus Round:

Here are a few questions to ask yourself. And keep in mind that your writer identity may change over time … and that’s perfectly normal. But, you’ll go a long way on that path just by knowing who you are right now.

1. Does suspense play a part in how you reveal information to your readers, or do you lay it all out on the table in the beginning?

2. What POV do prefer to write in? First, third? Present, past? Why? Would you ever try a different POV or tense on for size?

3. What genre do you prefer and why? Would you feel comfortable trying on a different genre for size?

4. Do you give lots of detail, or do you leave it up to the reader?

5. Do you plot in advance, or wing it?

6. How do you feel about sequels?

7. What kinds of themes do you weave into your work? Religion, politics?

8. What kinds of things do you incorporate into your writing that are only for you? If you don’t put anything in your work for yourself, why not?

9. Are happy endings important for you? If they are, are you capable of writing a tragedy?

10. What are your pet peeves? Do you like chapter titles, etc?

11. Are there issues that you tackle repeatedly in your narratives (child abuse, etc)?

12. Are you a social author who likes to hear the public’s opinion, or are you private? Do you read reviews or avoid them?

13. Do you work within the familiar or do you stretch to be original (both are OK, so be as truthful with this one as you can. Some authors excel at the familiar)?