Upstate 8 Literary Festival: Keynote (Part 4)

In Part 3 of my keynote address, I described my writing process yet emphasized how this will vary for everyone. I also recommended reading as essential to writing, and then questioned why we write in the first place. So, in attempting an answer to that...

Anaïs Nin once said, “We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.” 

That’s a lovely sentiment, isn’t it? Tasting life twice…what a sweet gift that writers get to enjoy.

Whether we’re writing fiction or non-fiction, we draw from life experience in some way to fuel our work with authenticity and heart. Who we are impacts what we write as well as how we write it. You and five of your friends could look at the same tree and each describe it differently.

It’s meaningful, not egotistical, to consider how your sense of self informs your writing. And it’s when you stop being yourself in your writing that it can start sounding inauthentic and cliché.

Because, they always say, “Write what you know.” And I agree with that, even though we have to write what we don’t know. I mean, I don’t know about you, but I’ve never been suspected of murder or haunted by a ghost. I haven’t lived in Victorian London or 1920s Chicago. I’ve never been a twenty-five-year-old man or an eighty-year-old woman. For that matter, I’ve never been a panda or puppy lost in the forest! But I’ve written characters who are, which means I rely on research, observation, and imagination as much as experience. I have to know what I don’t know, and then make the effort to know more about it. 

Writing what we know isn’t about writing our autobiographies. We can draw from events in our lives, but what we know is more about what we feel, how life experience has shaped us emotionally. We can harness that emotion to help us empathize with experiences outside of ourselves, and we can express it in a way that helps others empathize with us, too. The best way to engage our readers is to make them want to take the journey with us, inserting themselves into the experience even if they’ve never lived through anything like it either.

So, in tasting life twice, why not spice it up with more flavor? Why not challenge yourself to know what you don’t know and expand on experience? In many ways, my real life has offered the inspiration I’ve needed to get started, yet the story inevitably evolves from there, trekking into terrain unlike anything I’ve personally known. I simply fit true elements into fictional contexts to communicate something entirely new. It’s like dismantling a clock and using its gears to build a time machine.

Ernest Hemingway similarly said, “From all things that you know and all those you cannot know, you make something through your invention that is not a representation but a whole new thing truer than anything true and alive.”

We also infuse authenticity into our writing through our powers of observation. For most folks, the world becomes too familiar as we age, losing more and more of the wonder it once held for us as children. Back when we questioned everything, were so curious about all of the things.

Writers, though, are blessed with the ability to hold on to that wonder. We notice subtleties, noticing people and how they behave, wondering where they’re going or coming from, how they got that scar above their eyebrow or why they’re smiling to themselves when they think no one’s looking. We might notice a tree and think it looks kinda sad and lonely, or maybe something about it seems hopeful and safe. We notice with a painter’s eye that clouds aren’t just white or grey, or how the mood of a room shifts as the sun rises and sets. We notice what a gust of air feels like in our lungs, through our hair, and what it smells like, and what memories those scents can conjure. How the rustling leaves sound like a waterfall.

We behold the world with wonder, and not only are we richer for it, but we’ve been called to write it down so that others can see the world through our eyes and maybe notice it as if for the first time. 

There’s not always beauty in this awareness. We might instead reveal the darker side of humanity through gritty poems or prose. There might not be a happy ending. But there will always be Truth, so long as we write what we wonder at, and do so through our genuine voices and ability to empathize with what others might have to say, too. That is what makes our writing authentic and universal.

Unlike the negligent Dr. Frankenstein, however, we do need to be mindful of what we bring into being. Our writing inspires us, speaks to us, surprises us, yes, but it also relies on us to nurture and shape it, to find a suitable place in the world for it.

So, when you finish drafting your work, you’re really only just beginning. 

Sorry to break it to ya. But luckily, editing is a creative process, too.

More on that in Part 5, the conclusion of this keynote series...

Upstate 8 Literary Festival: Keynote (Part 3)

In Part 2 of my keynote speech, I shared my meandering path to becoming an author, from corporate consulting to teaching to moving across the ocean and finally writing in earnest. But like any job, writing is WORK. So, to continue...

Films would have people believe that we writers are reclusive, brooding creatures, feverishly scribbling with ink-stained fingers by candlelight, dashing off masterpieces in a burst of inspiration as our Muse sings softly in one ear and her sister strokes a harp in the other.

I know friends have found my life very Hemingway and romantic, the expat writer crafting stories in foreign cafes when I’m not at my typewriter up in a garret or a turret or something...when, in reality, I’m most often in my flat at the computer, wearing yoga pants—maybe a sock-monkey hat—squished into the tiny second bedroom that also triples as my office and my husband’s closet. Writing is my work, so sometimes I just have to do what it takes to git ’er done. No frills.

Never mind getting published and marketing books after the fact—the writing and revising alone is work. All of it.

And that does psyche a lot of people out. Understandably so! What’s more intimidating than staring down a blank computer screen or sheet of paper?

But whenever I’m asked for advice on how to start writing, my response is pretty basic: “Start writing.” The only way to do it is to, you know, actually do it. You can’t sculpt anything without the clay. There’s nothing to polish and perfect without a first draft. A really rough, rambling, rookie first draft. That’s what you cut your teeth on.

So, just write. Write about everything; write about nothing. Watch people and things; observe behavior and sensory detail. And when you first write something down about it, don’t put the pressure on yourself to make it perfect. That all comes in due time. For now, just let go.

Getting in the habit of writing a little something every day warms you up and gets you into a groove. Stretching and flexing your creative muscles is just like exercising—the more you do it, the more energized you feel and the more you want to do it and inhibitions drop away.

I’ll admit it: My own process isn’t pretty. (Definitely not any prettier than me in a sock-monkey hat.) My creative process is messy and mental and just plain mean to me sometimes. Because all of my stories originate from a very scattered place: my brain. And the only way to get them out of my head is to kick up a windstorm in there and blow the ideas out onto paper.

And I do mean paper. I write my manuscripts on the computer, I do, but they always start as pen-to-paper. I don’t know why, but something about the physical act of handwriting dislodges ideas in a way that typing at the computer does not. And, honestly, I don’t even try to be organized about it—as soon as I have the bud of an idea, I go all-out brainstorming—writing any and all thoughts that come to mind onto any and all scraps of paper I can find—so then I can eventually look back at them from a bird’s-eye view and begin connecting the dots.

From there, I tidy it all into an outline. Granted, nothing neatly divided into tiers of A, B, C, 1, 2, 3 like I used to teach my students for five-paragraph essays. They’re more like back-of-the-envelope bullet points, but guidance nonetheless. Just enough to give me a sense of the story’s shape and direction without confining my creativity.

It’s definitely different for everyone, but I personally need to allow for some organic flow, balancing structure with spontaneity. I wouldn’t enjoy the writing process nearly as much if I plotted everything meticulously in advance. That gives me the breathing room I need to change my mind if I end up wanting to head somewhere else.

It also allows for those odd-and-wonderful moments of pure writing magic, when it’s almost like the characters are whispering the next scenes in your ear. As if the story already exists on some level, independent of you, but you’ve been chosen to tell it. When this happens, it’s a little haunting but so amazing. When, truly and almost inexplicably inspired, you just write without knowing where it’s going and end up creating something better than it ever would’ve been if you’d thought about it too hard.

Those are the moments when writing feels easy. But since you can’t force the magic, you need to enforce the method. 

Ultimately, you need to find the method that works best for you, and surely your process will evolve with experience, just as mine continues to. But even setting our own expectations requires discipline as we make time for our writing and revise it until it becomes the best version of itself.  

I wish I could say that I write every day, but I don’t. At least not creatively. Otherwise, sure, I’m writing. I write emails or text messages or social media posts (or keynote speeches). But creatively, some days I just don’t feel it. The story goes quiet and the characters don’t speak to me.

Those are discouraging times, and I always feel guilty. Because we can’t just sit around and wait for inspiration. We need to try to show up on the page in some way. 

Sometimes I do so by revising what I’ve already written. Or, I take to pen and paper again to brainstorm. Or I don’t write anything at all but still think through my plots and characters away from the computer. I’ve had some great revelations hit me while I’m shampooing my hair in the morning or falling asleep at night. I’ve even gotten pages of material just from walking through the old Victorian cemetery near my flat and reading the gravestones.

So, whatever works. Go for a walk. Ride your bike. Sketch or color some pictures. Just because you’re not literally writing doesn’t mean you aren’t still “writing” in your mind—just as long as you do at some point jot down your thoughts before you forget them. Even writing just five minutes a day is better than none. You wouldn’t train for a marathon by running twenty miles your first day. You start small and do what you can to show up on the page.

Still, at those honest-to-goodness times when I feel too tapped out to create anything—well, then I show up on someone else’s page.

I read.

I sincerely believe we cannot be good writers unless we’re good readers. Every time we read, it’s an investment in our writing. On one level, we can observe how other writers structure and develop their work and craft their language. On another level, we can simply lose ourselves in the experience of someone else’s written world, rediscover the joy to be found in words and imagination to remind us why we’re writing our own pieces and recharge us for when we’re ready to return to them.

Because, why do we write? Why should we? 

I'll explore that next in Part 4 of this keynote series...

Upstate 8 Literary Festival: Keynote (Part 1)

This past April, I was tremendously honored to deliver the keynote address at the Upstate Eight's 2017 Literary Festival in suburban Chicago, Illinois. I still have a ways to go on my journey as a writer, but what a privilege to share what I've learned so far with the next generation. I'm in awe of the creative students I met that day and can only hope that I encouraged their own journeys in some small way. 

I'd like to finally share this speech with you, too, dear readers. But since I yammered on for at least a half hour, I'll post in installments. Without further ado, here is Part the First...

Good morning, everyone! I can’t even begin to tell you what an honor it is for me to be here with you all today, in the presence of such talented writers, and in the school where I used to teach.

My career path has admittedly been a rather meandering one, but St. Charles North was one of its most important destinations. I owe so much to this place. And to the Upstate Eight overall, as I grew up in Bartlett (go, Hawks!), but since there wasn’t a Bartlett High School back in my day, I received my education at Elgin High School. (Any Maroons here? Go, EHS!). 

I’m an old-fart forty-year-old now, but believe me, I remember being your age…the fun and the uncertainty and the whole career path still ahead, not yet sure where it’ll begin. Maybe you do know what you want to do, or maybe you’re still figuring it out like most folks. Maybe you’ll seek publication one day or maybe writing will remain a happy hobby. 

These days, all of you write for class assignments, but, if you’re here today, you likely also write privately as a creative outlet. Maybe you submit work to your school’s literary magazine, or maybe you write flash fiction or fanfiction online. Or perhaps you just keep it all to yourself in a well-worn and trusted journal. We all write for our own purposes, but the main point is that we all write. 

When I think about my own writing life, I can’t help but look way back to grade school, to the Young Authors contest at Wayne Elementary. I don’t like to brag, but…I won that contest when I was in sixth grade. I’d written a gripping coming-of-age tale titled The Kid Next Door. I not only wrote the story, I illustrated it. Double threat. And after I won, I did a school-wide publicity tour, visiting different classrooms and reading excerpts. 

But never fear, it didn’t go straight to my head. I didn’t start out on top as an eleven-year-old. That wasn’t my first go at writing and setting myself up for acceptance or rejection. Oh, no. I had first entered that contest in second grade, when I submitted a short story called The Panda’s Lost Mother. It was a dramatic piece about a panda who gets lost in the forest. And I gave it this big twist at the end where the panda gets found. I know. I thought I really had something there.

Needless to say, the story didn’t win. Not even close to a runner-up. Because, big surprise, it was a really terrible story. The dialogue was stiff, it told more than it showed, the conflict was severely underdeveloped—and, quite simply, it didn’t deserve to win. I hadn’t given it much effort.

So, I tried again the next year with a story called The Lost Puppy. 

That story was about—wait for it—a puppy that gets lost in the forest. I know! This stuff writes itself! I drew pictures for that, too. And though this third-grade effort offered better description and a more heightened sense of tension, it didn’t win either.  

But I would not be deterred.

The next year, I challenged myself in a different genre altogether and decided to write poetry. And I illustrated that as well. Because, apparently that was my thing. And that year, I made it as a runner-up. 

So, my morale was back. Yet I sat out the contest in fifth grade—regrouped, I guess…waited for inspiration. I’m not sure. All I remember is that the following year I wrote The Kid Next Door and tasted greatness.

Okay, so, in retrospect, that story was pretty terrible, too. But that’s not the point. When I wrote The Panda’s Lost Mother, I was a seven-year-old hack. I didn’t want to write that story; I wanted to win the contest. It’s like when I tried out for badminton freshman year at Elgin because I wanted the satin team jacket. And I got rejected for that, too!

But by the time I wrote poetry in fourth grade, I wanted to. I found actual joy in it. And then I didn’t force myself to enter something the next year. I didn’t write another story until one came to me that I actually wanted to write. And I think that’s why, ultimately, the third and fourth times were the charm.

At the time, of course, I was just having fun. I wouldn’t know what an important lesson I had learned until twenty years later when I began writing in earnest. But looking back on it now, I appreciate how every time I wrote and submitted a story to that contest, I made progress. I also failed, but then I tried again and got better. 

I’m no stranger to rejection in my adult life either, but the more I’ve written and submitted my stories, the more rejections have turned into acceptances. It’s a bit of a numbers game, but also a matter of growing in the craft. The greatest acceptance we could ever experience, though, is our own acceptance of our work. We, first and foremost, need to love it and feel proud of it. And if others don’t love it, well then, we have to accept that, too.

I think it took me a while to learn that. As I outgrew my childhood moxy, I became more self-conscious as a writer. As of middle school and high school, I’d stopped entering writing contests, though I’m not sure if it was mostly lack of confidence or motivation. Probably a combination of both. I wasn’t proactive like all of you seated here, contributing your lovely literary work to this festival, which is so admirable. I’m so proud and inspired by what you’re accomplishing today.

What I can at least say for myself at your age is that, insecure as I was, I never stopped loving to write. I mean, yeah, I usually moaned over English assignments like everyone else, but whether it was a poem, short story, or essay, I truly did enjoy the challenge of crafting sentences in a way that would clearly and effectively communicate my message. I enjoyed figuring out what my message was in the first place. And I enjoyed playing with language, experimenting with turns of phrase. English is such a word-rich playground for that.

Which is why I loved, loved when my teachers would assign creative writing. My favorite task was when my sophomore English teacher gave us time in class to conduct freewritings. We had to keep a notebook solely for that, and she would give us something like five minutes to just write without stopping. Without caring about grammar or spelling or how weird our train of thought was getting. We just had to run with it, and it was the most liberating sensation, unlocking parts of my brain I didn’t realize I had.

Twenty-five years later, I still distinctly remember Mrs. Morrison commenting in my notebook, “You have a poet’s instinct for imagery.” That’s stuck with me. As does a professor’s comment on one of my graduate-school essays. He’d said my writing was good, but it could be great if I just relaxed it a little.

And it did need relaxing. I always tried too hard, speaking more from my head than my heart, trying to sound intellectual, and saying in two words what I could’ve said in one. I hope you take your teachers’ feedback to heart like I did, be it their compliments or criticism. Both are invaluable and neither should encourage you to either rest on your laurels or give up. Keep. Writing.   

To be continued in Part 2 of this keynote series...