Bright & Dark

I’m working on a short story this week. The idea came to me in a dream — exceedingly rare for me, that sort of thing — and I surrendered to the idea of waking up long enough to write it down on my bedside pad o’ paper.

The story is a mad wrangle. My critical voice, having been kicked out of my office for months upon months, storms the castle at least once every writing session, sometimes twice. Can we say annoying?

I can only come the conclusion that there’s something important trying to be expressed here (and by important, I don’t mean that I have or have not committed literature or an excuse for an award nomination, just that there’s something deep and imperative for me to express). In this case, important = dangerous.

As it happens, I’ve come across a link a few times in the past day or two on Facebook that leads to a letter David Mamet wrote to the writers of The Unit. The letter is specifically about writing for the screen, but IMO the text is a great refocusser no matter what medium you’re writing for. It’s certainly helping me with my current wrangle all of a sudden.

Thanks to my friend Thorn for sending the link directly to me so’s I could finally read it.

Here it is for your enjoyment and edification.

Back and finally settled some after having been on the Oregon coast for a week and a half in February. These trips have always been invaluable, and this one was no exception.

First up, novel workshop. I’ve been to these before, but this time there was a new method, moving from traditional Clarion workshop round-robin critique rules to more targeted comments about the marketability of the novels and spiffing up the proposal packages so that they really shone. It rocked. I found the whole experience eye-opening and very useful. And such a treat to read so many really great books.

I took The Heart of the World to this workshop. So well-received. And then mailed to editors, one of whom requested the full manuscript so far. Good stuff.

Next up, a couple of days off, which I mostly spent reading the first round of stories sent in for the second workshop and walking on the beach. Great reading, strenuous walking on that loop down to the beach and around to the inlet near Mo’s, then back up through the neighborhood via the Hill of Hell. Sunshine even graced us some.

And then the anthology workshop with Dean and Denise Little. This one, too, went as usual above and beyond my expectations as far as learning and networking. I wrote my first ever noir for the overnight short story at this workshop. What a blast! And I got to read and learn from the excellent overnight batch of stories and all of Denise’s and Dean’s comments.

Both my first and second story are out to markets.

Add to all this mix a shopping trip to North by Northwest Books and my first trip to Mo’s (no chowder for me unfortunately because of the glutens, but it smelled heavenly; and Mo’s surprised me with a bang-up bowl of chili) and lots of time with so many other professional writers and editors, and you have a recipe for amazingness.

So. Reading back over what I’ve just written, it strikes me that there is no real way to describe what I get out of these workshops and what it’s like to experience them. Because I’ve written about the logistics and mechanics, and that doesn’t include the way it feels to be among people who write professionally, who love it, who love story, who love learning. Or how it feels to completely immerse myself in writing and writing culture for at least a week. Or how it feels to bump up my craft and business knowledge in a way that fuels my work once I return home. You just have to have been there.

I’m betting you have a similar experience that’s hard to explain to someone who hasn’t been there. Feel free to substitute words and phrases.

I take “vacation time” from work to do all this, usually a couple of times a year. Everyone, including me, knows that it’s not a real vacation. Not in a million years. I work my butt off. I get very little rest. It doesn’t matter, though. What does matter? Doing what I love. That feeds me in a different way than sunning on the beach or curling up in front a peat fire on a rainy Irish night. Without all those different kinds of nourishment, I feel like a starving woman.

Do what you love. Find a way. That’s my prescription.

How did it get to be February?

January was a whirlwind of travel and writing — the travel to Austin twice for long weekends with friends and the writing mostly running through draft number two of The Heart of the World in preparation for workshopping at this month’s novel workshop on the Oregon coast. First Reader loved it and had such good comments. The book is so much better for them.

There has also been short story writing — the first assignment for the other workshop I’m attending in Lincoln City. The theme was loads of fun and the writing a continuation of the one scene at a time, focus on the emotion experiment. I’m very happy with the story, and happy it’s done and turned in on time.

Now there’s an enormous amount of reading to do — proposal packages from the novel workshop and one full novel, then the anticipation of a slew of short stories next week. And somewhere in there I’ll be on an airplane heading northwest.

In anticipation, I give you the Inn at Spanish Head’s sky cam, which updates every 7 minutes. Live, from the Oregon coast!

On Sunday afternoon, after a last push of 20,500 words, I finished the first draft of The Heart of the World with those happiest of finishing words: The End.

I was astounded that the experiment I undertook at the start held all the way through — focusing only on one scene at a time, focusing on the emotion in the scene. 120,000 words is a *lot* of scenes. A lot of emotion. I made a concerted effort to keep my critical brain out of my writing office during all of this, too, giving full reign to my creative brain and allowing my subconscious to be the boss.

The result was as I’d been told it would be but hardly believed. My bossy subconscious planted all the right clues at the right times without my having ever been aware of them.

Those threads of clues shone like gold all the way through without my ever having attempted to engineer them. Until I began to actually write the end sections of the book, I had no conscious idea as to how on earth I’d resolve the story. I mean, I had conscious general ideas, but I wasn’t married to them. The funny thing was, even my general ideas didn’t hold a candle to the ones my subconscious came up with. Twists and turns and where-the-hell-did-that-come-from. Those oh-so-important story points feel much more powerful and meaningful because of all that.

The book is now in my first reader’s hands. Then it’ll be workshopped on the coast in February and out into the world it will fly. The next story is on the horizon, and I plan to continue the experiment until it becomes not just an experiment but as natural as breathing.

Meanwhile, I give you some slam-bang motivation posts from the writer who started me down this particular road. This is number one. Read it and the next. And the next one after that. Great stuff.

Happy New Year!

If you’re not reading Dean Wesley Smith’s posts on motivation in writing, you should be.