There is a famous quote about writing:Write drunk, edit sober.
Though it’s been attributed to Hemingway (whose name lends gravitas to quite a few things), Hemingway never said it. We probably attribute it to him because of his tough, whiskey swilling image. Those who have researched this say that the quote actually came from humorist Peter de Vries.
The career of writing tends to pick up more “image” language than most other profession. Writers are hard drinking and mentally unstable. Out there living life brazenly and defiantly, like Jack Kerouac, drinking, driving and womanizing alongside Neal Cassady.
The fact is, most writers I know are hardworking rather than hard drinking. They work day jobs, persevere through MFA programs and take care of young children. They squeeze their writing into precise, regular pockets of time. While carefully curating their social media platforms in their spare time.
They persist through rejection, sickness and financial pressures like a protagonist fighting her way through the rising action of a novel.
You can’t do this drunk. Let alone edit with a hangover the next day.
Here’s my take on it. This quote lives because there is some truth in it. As writers, we wear many hats. When you write a first draft, you need to ditch the inhibitions. Let the words flow. Follow the dark, twisting paths of your imagination, and don’t stop to censor or rewrite. Then when you do go back to edit, look at what you’ve written as a critic.
After you’ve had your coffee: Does that awesome metaphor you wrote about relationships even make sense to you this morning?
In a way, this quote is a metaphor. Write without inhibition. Edit with common sense.
Today I did something I’ve always wanted to do: I saw this year’s reel of Oscar-nominated shorts.
I love animation. It brings out the kid in me, the one who used to get up way before my parents to watch Saturday morning cartoons like Scooby Doo, in pre-cable days. Animation is the medium of whimsy, wonder and the joy of the impossible. The narrative is limited only by your ability to draw/digitize it.
When I teach creative writing to kids, I use Pixar shorts. These tiny stories have a beginning, middle and end. And they’re especially good at something that every writer honing their craft needs to learn: showing and not telling.
This year’s nominated shorts included Pixar’s “Bao,” the story of a traditional Chinese mother whose “dumpling” grows up and finds his own way in the world, to her dismay. She takes the disturbing step of devouring him before he can run off with his blonde girlfriend. It’s a startling image.
You see the despair of this mother, desperate to keep her child “safe” from his own (non-traditional) choices at all costs. No words here, only the fears of a empty nest mother and her son’s fierce desire for independence.
“Late Afternoon,” from Irish animator Louise Bagnall, starts off with an old woman named Emily drinking her tea, helped by someone who looks like her caregiver. When her biscuit falls into the tea, she follows it, transformed into the little girl at the beach with her dad. She falls into other wells of memory when the caregiver (who we learn is her daughter) brings her some old books and pictures. Scenes from her life are shown amid bursts of bright colors that fade as she grows older.
At one point, Emily returns from an old memory and stares at her wrinkled hands, shocked that she could be so old now. I remember my mother, who has dementia, doing the same thing. It’s a beautiful, seamless way to tie the sea of memories back to Emily’s present self.
Watching these reminded me that words are flexible and wonderful tools to tell stories. You can use them to simply tell what happens or you can invite the reader in deeper. I’ll show you something – What do you think is going on?
You’re crediting the reader with intelligence. The reader’s takeaway is greater. They will be more invested in the story, since they were part of the revelation.
I’m inspired now to revisit what I’ve written on this current book, to see how I can envision and write my scenes as an animator or filmmaker would.
2019 Oscar Nominated Shorts is playing for at least the next two weeks (up to Oscar Sunday).
What happened when I decided to read a book by my mother’s literary love
My mother was the source of all stories for me. She told me stories. She read me books. When she got bored of reading me my favorites, she’d add silly details, mix the story up, and get me to laugh hysterically.
I love stories because of her. Reading them and writing them.
At 83, my mother still hangs on, three years after she was first put on hospice and given ten days to live. In the last stages of vascular dementia, she is confined to a hospital bed in the family room. She sometimes smiles, but usually I barely see her eyes behind her eyelids. She speaks only a few words, which have all the right sounds and inflections, but make no sense.
I reach for her hand, because then she turns her head to me. I tell her about my students and what we’re reading. I am a high school English teacher now, like she used to be years ago. I want to share these things with her. I don’t know if she hears or understands anything I say.
This month I made it my mission to read a book by her favorite author, William Faulkner. Maybe it’s because I can’t know what’s in her head now. I want to understand what she thought about, what used to be important to her.
Years ago, with a look in her eyes of distant remembrance, she told me: Nobody writes like Faulkner.
This month I got my hands on a copy of Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom.A book that has been compared to James Joyce’s Ulysses, for its complexity and the way it breaks the rules. Not an easy read. Some sentences are just strings of adjectives. The narrative often switches abruptly to a part of the story mentioned earlier.
To understand everything, I had to read chapter summaries in Spark Notes. And look up the meanings of words I’d never heard before. Suppuration, anybody? (It means the fluid produced by an inflammation.)
I’m a quick reader, but it took me a week to forge my way through the muddy wilds of Absalom Absalom.
My mom is not a southerner like Faulkner, but she loved the way he told a story.Absalom is told in an unconventional way:by multiple narrators, most of whom can’t be trusted. Like an impressionist painter, Faulkner paints layer upon layer, filling in the outlines of events again and again, making the picture deeper and sadder each time.
The book reads like a mystery, even though the first chapter tells the novel’s entire plot. Thomas Sutpen—a man who grew up poor in Virginia—comes back to the south from Haiti in the 1840s to build a mansion on a hundred acres of mud in Mississippi. He gets rid of his Haitian wife, along with his first son, when he finds out she is part African. He marries the daughter of a local merchant, to get some instant middle class respectability. It’s all part of The Design, the plan he set in motion when he left rural Virginia.
The man’s sins and his broken children come back to destroy his family. In the same way slavery and racism came back to destroy the pre-Civil War way of life and made the south an apartheid for the next century and a half. Absalom turns into a pretty depressing story for all involved (And I read it the week before Christmas!)
The mystery that drives the story is, we find out years later that there’s something hidden in Thomas Sutpen’s house. It’s evil, it’s scary. But what is it?
Several years ago I was in a class with a writer who grew up in the south. I remember teasing him that he had an advantage over the rest of us. “You have all the eccentric relatives and complicated history.”
I’ll need to read more of him to judge, but I don’t think Faulkner’s work was good just because he had rich material on his home turf. He dug into why all human beings make the choices they do, how people living through the same events interpret them so differently.
And how a person’s actions inevitably ripple down the generations. Like a father passing racism down to his son. Or my mom giving me her love for stories and good writing.
Almost a week later, the poetic cadences of Faulkner’s writing are still echoing in my head. As a writer, I want to capture some of his style (though maybe not the long sentences).
Many images from the book stick with me, especially one in particular. Faulkner describes the women of the south as “ghosts” after the civil war. I picture southern belles and tough old matriarchs, wandering the dusty streets of Jefferson, Mississippi, in their faded ball gowns, powerless and poor ghosts, far from what they used to be.
As I sit with my mom, whose eyes flicker almost imperceptibly between open and closed, it’s hard not to think of her as one of those. ♥
Nine days after the start of the most destructive fire in California history, the Bay Area is filled with smoke. When you walk out of your house, you smell it. There’s ash on your car in the morning. The parks, normally filled with kids, are eerily empty. Our air quality index has been between 160-180. Unhealthy.
In our western part of Silicon Valley, you can barely make out the hills a couple miles down the street. The scenery around us is grayed out, like an unavailable option on a computer screen.
We’re staying at home. Inside.
I’m trying to write for NaNoWriMo, so this has worked pretty well for me. When I get antsy, my go-to is usually a hike. Since I can’t do that, I write. I research. I dip into that stack of unread books spawned by my serious book buying addiction. More than usual, I’m getting stuff done.
In the evenings, we’re watching movies and playing games. My youngest is obsessed with 1980s movies, which is amusing to me, since these are the movies of my youth and young adulthood. She’s obsessed with the Back to the Future series, which has made for lots of deep discussions. The kind that you hope for and don’t easily get. What events in your life caused you to be who you are today? What if things had happened differently? And, more importantly, was Biff Tannen really modeled after Donald Trump? (Yes—confirmed by screenwriter Bob Gale in a 2015 Rolling Stone Interview).
And we’ve played board games, one of my husband’s favorite things to do. As an introvert, he socializes more easily when he’s doing something. And occasionally, I do win a game.
Our bad air quality is expected to last through Tuesday (four days from now).
Indoor life has been less frustrating than I thought, a reprieve from busy Silicon Valley life. The sad thing is to go outside, smell the air and think of the cause of all this. Two hundred miles away, people’s lives are going up in smoke. I have nothing to complain about. I have my family around me and a house to be indoors in. The people in and around the town of Paradise, California do not. And their situation is heartbreaking.
The jet lag has worn off, but two weeks ago I got back from a wonderful trip to England.
I walked through London in the footsteps of my favorite writers. I ate lunch at the pub in Oxford where Tolkein and C.S. Lewis met on Tuesdays. I got to see the hangouts and graves of the classic writers who gave me my love for the English language. The weather and the people could not have been more congenial.
London was busy and energetic, full of so many people under 30 that I felt pretty damn ancient. As Harry Potter fans, our first stop in the city had to be Platform 9-3/4 in King’s Cross Station.
We saw Westminster Abbey, on a tour led by a bossy, hilarious verger who rolled his eyes at the new, abstract David Hockey stained glass window. I got to see Poets Corner, and the grave of my literary crush, Samuel Johnson. As a Californian, the history awed me. The site has been a religious gathering place since 960 AD.
It was a relief to get away from US politics, but we did catch a brief glimpse of British Brexit drama, when streets were shut down for the Wooferendum, a protest in which dogs and their owners marched against the travel quarantine that their dogs will have to endure when they vacation in the EU after Brexit.
In Oxford we ate at The Eagle and Child, where the Inklings (C.S. Lewis, Tolkein and friends) met. Our friend Ruth then took us over to the Bodleiean Library where we saw an exhibit of Tolkein’s drawings and heard recordings of him speaking the languages he invented for Middle Earth.
Ruth drove us (very fast, on incredibly narrow, twisting country roads) up to the Cotswolds for a roadside picnic.
After leaving our gracious hostess, we headed for Stratford-upon-Avon, a tourist town but in a good way. Shakespeare’s birthplace and the associated sites are well kept up and the tour guides are knowledgeable. The town had even more meaning for me since I’ve been teaching Shakespeare and watching the hilarious BBC show, “The Upstart Crow,” a comedic version of Shakespeare’s life as a struggling playwright.
We finished off our trip in Bath. I love this city! A beautiful abbey, the Roman Baths, the site where Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein, and the Jane Austen Centre. We ate Sally Lunns, Bath Buns and many, many scones with clotted cream. I drank Samuel Johnson’s favorite tea.
I’m still feeling a pleasant buzz from the scenery, the history, and the friendliness and dry wit of the British people.
As I corral myself into my daily routine for NaNoWriMo, I’m dreaming of my next trip.
The door closes. There is that beautiful sound: silence.
The sound I’ve longed to hear, through years of being a mom to three children. No video game boss battles. Nobody banging away at musical instruments (which I admit I enjoy). No requests for food or money.
I’ve made up my to-do list. All I will do with this time. Clean the bathroom, read that new magical realism novel I downloaded. Pay a bill. Write my book.
With the house to myself, with no interruptions, I should be able to write literally THOUSANDS of words. I should be able to sit at my desk and nail down the scene that’s been coalescing in my head.
The characters in my book—the young police detective, the unhappy wife, and the grieving family of the murdered ex-Nazi—are breathing sighs of relief and exchanging grateful glances. Finally, she’s alone! Now we get to do something.
It’s our time. Our time down here, my book’s cast of characters chant as they launch into Sean Astin’s speech from The Goonies. They can get on with their investigations, conversations and illegal/sketch activities! At least they are motivated.
I have my special coffee mug and hot water in my French press. I have a healthy, Whole30 compliant snack. I turn on the MacBook, open Scrivener and I sit.
A phone call interrupts my thoughts and now I’m out of my seat. I remember I haven’t watched the latest episode of The Great British Baking Show. And oh, my God, it’s Cakes! If I watch it, fold the clothes from the dryer and maybe think about that scene some more—that wouldn’t be so bad, would it? At least I’d be getting somethingdone.
And so the rationalization begins. If I do sit back down and write, my time is short and full of distractions.
After a few of these frustrating sessions, I decided to work with myself and my distractible tendencies. Just as I would with students I teach or one of my kids. Let’s strike a deal here, make this work.
My thought process went something like this:
Realization #1 I don’t get much time to myself. I am alone-time deprived.
Realization #2 My self discipline fails me when I feel deprived, whether it’s a diet or schedule I’m trying to adhere to. (If you’re an enneagram person, I am a Self Preservation 4, which means I’m a creative type with a high priority for self care.)
Brilliant hypothesis! If I indulge myself for a set period of time, I will get rid of those feelings of deprivation.
My latest tactic:For an hour, I allow myself to relax and enjoy the quiet house. Watch that Great British Baking Show episode. Prepare myself something that tastes really good. Maybe put on a Spotify playlist of my favorite songs.
Then I sit down in front of my computer. I have fully savored my alone-ness, given in to any desire to dance around like Tom Cruise in his underwear in Risky Business. I am ready now.
And so I write.
Thankfully, this is working pretty well for me so far.
If you’re a parent or spouse who doesn’t get much time by yourself—how do you stay focused when you get your alone time?
If anything is a test of your will as a writer, it’s resisting the distractions that curl up a ghostly cartoon finger and lure you away from the page. They’re evil, I tell you. Evil.
And the rationalizing that goes on in a writer’s head could fill volumes.
Everyone has their own temptations. Mine are food and the internet. I’d love to hear yours in the comments. Wait–maybe I could do some research on the subject of distractions! Now that could be interesting.
Let me just pop onto Google and look this up (disappears into bottomless void).
Distraction #1 What’s for lunch?
What’s in the fridge? It’s only 10:30 am, but it wouldn’t hurt to get something started. Rationalization: Food is necessary to sustain life. Nobody disputes this.
Distraction #2 I need another cup of coffee.
Making coffee will take maybe ten minutes, but it will make me write faster. Rationalization: So I’m actually creating time if I take a break to make coffee.
Distraction #3 What’s Trump doing right now?
He’s up to something, that’s for sure. I’ll check my news feed and find out what it is. Rationalization: If it’s nuclear war, I want some notice so I can revise my less-than-perfect first chapter. It may be found in the Cloud someday, after the apocalypse.
Distraction #4 Let me go online to check something. It’ll only take five minutes.
If I go online, I will head down a rabbit hole and emerge 40 minutes later, knowing a lot more about gopher traps and French property laws, but completely derailed from my story. Rationalization: But if I don’t check, the mistake will end up in a published book because my revising self and all my beta readers will miss it. Readers will write me mean letters.
Distraction #5 Because…cute pet
Look what Fur Ball just did! This is so going on Instagram. Rationalization: The little guy is adorable. Posting a pic of the cuteness will make people happy. After all, nuclear war could break out at any time. Don’t we all need joy?
Since I currently don’t have any pets, the members of my writing group have kindly sent me these pictures of their adorable distractions:
What are your big distractions, writing friends? How do you overcome them to stay focused?
I am a writer and a writing teacher. So I deal with my own writing motivation issues, then I turn around and help high schoolers with theirs.
My personal catchphrase and what will inevitably be engraved on my tombstone is: No one should have to dread writing.
But I do, sometimes. If I take the time to analyze why, there are usually two reasons: 1) I’m afraid I’ll fall short of my own expectations; and 2) I’m not excited about what I’m writing.
There is a great quote by public radio personality Ira Glass about the gap that creative types experience, between what they churn out initially and what they know in their hearts to be really good. Here’s a short, creative video rendition of the quote: https://vimeo.com/85040589
As you hone your craft, you will be painfully aware of how short you fall of your own expectations. The only way to close that gap is to practice more of your craft. The more you write, the better you will get.
There’s one magic solution to this–don’t quit. If you keep writing regularly, closing that gap will be inevitable. One thing that encourages me is to go back and re-read an old draft or a story I wrote a few years ago. Then I see the truth. I’m getting better.
The other reason why I and so many of my students dread writing is, we’re writing about something we’re not excited about. So here’s my oh-duh solution: write your passion. Write about something you daydream about. Or about what you fear most. Write about something that’s stuck in your head, that you’re trying to come to terms with. Write about something that pisses you off.
Last year I had a freshman who hated to write and did the very minimum on his writing assignments. When I asked him what he loved to do, he said, “Play the video game Fortnite.”
I asked him what he liked least about the game. He said, “Bush camping. It’s unfair and I hate it. Players hide in the bushes, and they ambush you and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
That next week, he turned in the best piece of writing he’d done in the class, a persuasive essay arguing in detail that bush camping should be taken out of the game!
If you’re writing something you’re not passionate about, write about something else. If that’s not an option, research angles on the subject till you find something you do care about. Pick at it. Find something that gets your emotions going, for good or bad.
Here are two books that have inspired me and some of my students:
Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life by Anne Lamott
Tips and encouragement for any writing process, whether it’s fiction or an essay for school.
If You Want to Write by Brenda Ueland
A sparkling and encouraging book for fiction writers, filled with the author’s sense of humor. Gets to the heart of why we want to write and how to move forward doing it.
My siblings and I have been cleaning out the house we grew up in (see previous post), as my dad prepares to sell it.
A lot of the stuff we’ve gone through is already in the dumpster or the local Goodwill truck. Whew.
At times throughout the process, I’ve found a treasure. Something that jabs me in the heart when I pull it out. A memory hotspot.
Forget efficient clean up and packing. I pull up a chair and take a breath. Let the memories wash over me.
These are my horcruxes. In the Harry Potter books, horcruxes are pieces of a dark wizard’s soul. Keeping them intact ensures the wizard’s immortality. But in my world (and my parents’ house), these are pieces of my story, and they are now assembled in a Home Depot box. Unlike Lord Voldemort, I didn’t have to murder anyone to create them.
Here are a few. My dad’s light meter. He used it to measure light for taking photographs. When I was six, I firmly believed he used the dial to control the sun. I watched him develop the photos in his basement darkroom, under the glow of a red light. When the images appeared in the developing liquid, it was my first sight of magic.
A photo of my Japanese-born grandmother, who babysat me while my mom worked. In the photo, she’s eating a goodie on her front porch on a Nebraska summer evening. I remember her as very strict, but she always had time to sit down and tell me a story.
My mom’s old silver flute, which she’d played in band through college. In fourth grade I threw it against the wall in frustration, when I was learning how to play it. Then I hid it. She cried when she saw the dents. Then she forgave me, which made me cry.
A post card of Mao Tse Tung that I sent my parents when I was in college. I told them I’d run off to become a communist. I made up an elaborate story as to how it happened. They took it well.
A photo of my middle child at the age of three, with Shirley Temple curls, wedged into the bowl of a sink. One of many photos of my child happily sitting in a sink. It seemed to be AJ’s happy place.
Each one of these has power for me. Chapters in a story of family. A story of beauty, redemption, loss and many, many plot twists. A story that will live on, either through my children or through what I write.
That’s how horcruxes work. They’re pretty hard to destroy.
Disclaimer: Oh, dear. The blogger was clearly not in her right mind while writing this post. She was last seen logged into Amazon, buying up every book she could on plot structure, suspense and character development. Please accept our apologies.
Lately I’ve been reading whatever I can get my hands on that will make my novel better. Blog posts on how to create characters flawed in just the right way—enough to draw in the reader but not enough to get the book thrown against the wall. Books on how to create micro tension, so that your taut sentences are filled with that soupçon of contradiction that beckons the curious reader to read on. Articles on how to write your first five pages so that an agent will not be able to put them down.
At a meeting of one of my writer groups (see previous blog post), I told my patient and supportive friends: I want to write a really bad book.
I have the urge to write something that completely veers off the road of good taste into the murky pond of self-indulgence. I want to pour out my wildest dreams into a story of forbidden love that I publish myself and put the six-packed torso of a man on the cover, drawn badly by my best friend.
Last school year, I taught a creative writing class to middle schoolers. Middle schoolers get bored easily and have short attention spans (hormones). So they write about people murdering each other on camping trips, about unicorns appearing in their backyards and mermaids having a babysitting service.
They aren’t usually well written, but they’ve got passion and chutzpah. The stories are filled with relentless action. The kids write with confidence, because they don’t know any better.
I can use words to tell this crazy story that’s in my head. So I’m going to do it.
That’s what I want.
I want that sense of fun, that reminder that I’m the only one who can tell this crazy story that I made up, so you’d better listen. I want to write with a confidence that I don’t deserve to have. Because ultimately, while rules are important, every one of us can name a rule-breaking book that became a bestseller—or just near and dear to our hearts.
Writing is not a game you “win” because you follow all the rules. Creativity doesn’t work that way. But despite my frustration, I realize knowing the rules helps. My dad is a painter and when I saw my first cubist painting, I asked him if Picasso always painted that way. How did the guy get away with painting like that? My dad answered that Picasso studied painting for years–and had been painting for years. He knew all the rules before he decided to break them.
Maybe I’ll take a break from reading the rules now. And try some writing.