It’s crucial that writers keep on top of what’s happening in the publishing world. Especially in these days of dizzying changes and wide-open opportunities. With this in mind, every January, the Making It in Changing Times Mini-Conference brings together writers and some of the Northwest’s most accomplished authors and teachers. Our purpose is to outline options for getting published, teach craft to improve your writing, and provide savvy to succeed in today’s fiercely competitive market.

Participants can expect encouragement, expertise, insights, and inspiration. The information provided is especially practical and can be immediately put to use.

Keynote address: Lidia Yuknavitch, The Worth of Risk

Also featuring Jessica Morrell, Deborah Reed, Gigi Rosenberg and Kevin Sampsell

Saturday, January 26th, 8:30-5:30

Tabor Space, 5441 S.E. Belmont, Portland, Oregon
Cost: $99 includes Continental breakfast and lunch

Complete schedule is at www.jessicamorrell.com/?page_id=45

Contact Jessica Morrell conference coordinator at jessicapage (at)spiritone(dot)com

About our keynote speaker: Lidia Yuknavitch is the author of the anti-memoir The Chronology of Water, the novel Dora: A Headcase: A Modern Farce, three books of short stories and a book of literary criticism on war and narrative. She is the founder of chiasmus press, she doesn’t see much of a distinction between genres any longer, she publishes widely and without apology, and she is a very, very good swimmer.

The Risk of Worth: What are the risks worth taking on the page and in the world? How do we evolve the art and practice of writing without losing heart? There are some risks worth taking and some risks that are merely a trompe l’oeil…from page to world and back again. Find out more about Lidia at lidiayuknavitch.net

   Bitter truth # 6:
Whereby I espouse cautionary tales about the writing life.

Balance might not be possible all the time.
For years now I’ve heard much talk about balance, as in work-life balance. For years I also pursued it and actually still do. Each person has his or her own definition of this oft-elusive quality. For some it might mean exercising more and fretting less. Or spending that elusive quality time with their kids. For me it means that whatever I’m doing, I’m not fretting that I should be doing something else. So that I can be present with the moment.

Most people I know are trying not to chase so much. They want to settle into themselves, slow down, relish each day.

If you’re a writer, all that lovely balance we long for, strive for, work towards, might not always be possible. Writing takes a lot of time. Hour after hour, day after day. Sometimes progress happens so slow that the frustration feels unbearable. The pain too large. The end too far away. And let’s not get started on how easy it is to obsess or fall into envy at other writers’ successes.

Meanwhile, while you’re holed up in your garret du jour, the world is shimmying past without you, horns blaring, parties jollying along. If you’re the kind of person who needs lots of downtime, parties, friends, vacations, and sleep…..well, writing might not work out for you. If you spend hours on Pinterest or Facebook or tweeting or watching television….you might need to rethink that time spent or the writing won’t get done. Writing has to come first before that stuff, including sleep. Writing needs the attention that you give a new love, a marriage, a baby.

It will be wrenching at times to miss the gang’s weekly gatherings or your favorite team’s home games. You will spend freaky amounts of time alone when you have a deadline or the writing is pouring out like a lava flow. You’ll look up from your computer and an afternoon or a season will have passed. One of my author friend lives in her pajamas for a month before a deadline. Another jokes that food needs to be passed under the door to her office.

Balance is lovely, juggling is normal. Perhaps a better wish for the writing life is flexibility. You develop a dailiness, a practice, a mindset. Then, if tragedy strikes, you take a bit of time away (while still taking quick notes on the rawness of your emotions) and you return. If the holidays mean nonstop commitment, you get up early and sit in the quiet and write before the day blasts off.

The bitter truth is that you will need to give up something fun in order to write. I would love to learn to knit. Cannot do it now—too many books and columns to write. I would also love to learn how to watercolor, and travel the oceans blue. Ain’t going to happen. Instead, I’m going to learn more about the birds in my backyard, I’m going to garden as a means to let my mind wander, I’m going to nurture a calm inward life.

One last thing: When you’re not writing, don’t write. Let the story or project you’re working on simmer below in your subconscious. Focus on what’s at hand. The imagination needs downtime in order to produce the most glorious stories.

©Jessica Page Morrell

      Sometimes you just have to trust the thing you claim to trust – and for me that is the shaping spirit of creativity. ~ Jeanette Winterson

     In long-ago times, as seems fitting, March was the beginning of the year and interestingly marked the resumption of war. In about 700 BC January and February were added to the calendar by a Roman king. January is named after the god Janus and he is the god of gates and doorways, openings and closings. Janus has two faces, back to back, which allow him to look both backward into the old year and forward into the new one at the same time. He is the spirit of the opening. Native Americans called January the wolf moon, the Anglo-Saxons called it Wolf-monath because wolves came into the villages in winter in search of food. Wolves howled loudest and searched furthest in January. With wolves about they hunkered down, kept the livestock close.

For me January will always mean the special beauty of snow and white and winter stars spangling the blackest sky. My child’s heart travels back again and again to those memories this time of year. Lacy, frost-etched windows and whisper quiet mornings. I remember most the deep silence, when every morning was a surprise: how much snow had fallen in the night? How cold was the morning? The blanketed world was far from colorless and rich in contrasts: the deep white  lit w ith flashes of cardinal red and black as birds flitted in the aftermath of storms , the bare-branched trees, and the winter silvery hue. And the smell of snow—part metal, part magic arriving on the wind. Icicles tapering, gleaming, more silver; beautiful and somehow cruel . Sleds, ice skates and toboggans.

There was something endless about the snow in my childhood. It was epic. Arctic. It was a hushed, buried world.

By January there were wind-swept drifts piled shoulder high and the snow kept coming, sparkling like diamonds under the streetlights. And, of course, mighty storms barged through, with drunken, wild winds and heaping drifts, burying landscapes. You knew that in the woods bears were hibernating and that knowledge felt as if you were in on the most primal and fabulous secret.

Ice was always underfoot no matter how hard you scraped with a shovel, and the cold wouldn’t lift. Snow prints crisscrossed the yard, the surface like lost maze walkers. Summer a far-off, distant land.

January required layers, endurance, and good humor. We were fueled with hot chocolate, oatmeal, soup, and casseroles.  The world within buildings was absurdly different from what lie outdoors.  Because of the cold we couldn’t tromp lost in our imaginings along a river or creek, because we’d get frostbite. And did.  When skating or sledding you were forced indoors at intervals because you couldn’t feel your fingers and toes. Really cold feet make it hard to stay balanced.

The cold like a force, our breath sharp in our throat and clouding high into the air.

Far from childhood, the Pacific Northwest’s climate is relatively mild. The wet–not constant with climate change–encourages books and blankets, maybe a puzzle, a pot of soup to assemble and nurture. Inward habits and pastimes. But still  the habits of winter.

Even we’ve recently unwrapped a calendar or planner or app, this month is designated for deliberate slowness. Almost everything we care deeply about, we accomplish with some nimbus of slowness and deliberateness, whether it is crafting a poem, tending a garden, or baking a pie. “The greatest assassin of life is haste,” said the poet Theodore Roethke. And yet so many of us feel rushed, overwhelmed, and time pressed.

For writers perhaps there is a lesson to be learned from a true January and a true winter. When the world is cloaked in mystery and time unspools in many hours of darkness, allow the quiet to sink in. Look inward as the season demands. And when the time is right, start anew, but with quiet and unhurriedness. As the stark midwinter dawns, you might want to begin the day with candlelight, silence, and solitude and end the day by tidying up, clearing away to face the next dawn with a clean desk, an empty sink, and fresh steadfastness.

When you’re rested from the din and rituals and richness of the holidays, the shock of another year gathering before you, then gently, gently start pushing toward what’s next. A book idea or editing your NaNoWriMo project, finishing a short story collection, or polishing and submitting essays or poems. Maybe you need to read more or submit more or create a blog. Let it come to you like a midnight snowfall; the kind that hushes everything.

And like midnight snow, trust it will nudge your interest. Perhaps it’s a new project or rethinking a discarded one. Perhaps you’ll imagine a character who you’ll bring into your heart.

Trust that your what’s next is waiting. Trust that creativity happens in the quiet.

Imagine the possibility of silence.

But since it is January, a looking back and forward time, also push yourself toward untouched emotional territory in your writing. Let yourself really feel when you’re writing. We all have emotions deep made over the years. And we all need to call on them to make the writing authentic. Write with recognition and memory and trust. Experiment.

Write in a notebook instead of your laptop. Write in bed, fresh from your dreams. Write as if you’re embodying your characters bone upon bone, with the gnawing grief or spite or rage or whatever emotion that needs to be channeled. Write from the body so your characters can be felt and known.

Find the intersections of theme and desire; push into the stream of a story.

If you neglected writing over the holidays–and who can blame you–invite your writing back like an old friend. It’s time to find inspiration using untried methods, to rejuvenate what has been set aside and invite in originality. And carve out time for nothingness. If possible let a fire roar, and simply sit and gaze into it and allow heat and time wash over you. Allow yourself to feel fragile or tender or soft. And then start writing.

It’s also the perfect month to try out and change your daily routine, to create new writerly rituals. You might want to think back to all the risks you’ve taken and how they turned out. What small changes can lead to big results? Should you vow to finish each project before starting a new one? Should you enter competitions? Dust off an old manuscript and determine if it’s worth reviving?

January is also a good month to dial down your time on social media sites. You don’t need to be so connected all the time. It will all be there in February–now that’s a month for bringing into being.

And yes, it’s a good time to make fresh resolutions, acknowledge intentions– but they need to be linked to your values.

What do you want to give the world and how will your writing accomplish this?

The rest of the year can be spent worrying about your kids, health concerns, distant wars, and hometown troubles.  This is the month for finding your original fire.

I wish you hushed and happy New Year.
No portion of this column may be reprinted without permission.

Line by Line: How to Rewrite, Rework & Reword taught by Jessica Morrell
November 10, 9-5 Tabor Space, 5441 S.E. Belmont, Portland, OR Cost: $75
Every good writer is also an editor. The tough thing about self-editing is learning what to keep, what to lose, and what to leave well enough alone. This workshop will give you perspective on all of that. We’ll cover the all-important level of line editing—or how to make each sentence and paragraph sing, how to choose words for potency and resonance, and how to transform clunky sentences and paragraphs into smooth beauties. You’ll learn how to tighten baggy sentences, turn weak verbs into strong ones, and use parallel construction. We’ll be line editing examples throughout the workshop including the participants’ first paragraphs since everything hinges on them. The aim is to polish so the pages are not only easy to read, but a pleasure to read. Generous handouts and cheat sheets will be supplied. We’ll cover:
• How to line edit for elegant, powerful sentences.
• How to edit so that your manuscript appeals to today’s agents and editors.
• What to leave unsaid and how context shapes our decisions about language and imagery.
• 10 ways to give less than perfect sentences a makeover.
• How to wrangle word usage, looking out for misused words, overused words, crutch words, and words which do not belong.
• When to chop clutter and excess prepositions, amp up language, learn where to place emphasis and word grenades.
• How to spot flatness, lack of variety and lack of verve.
• How to retool the language throughout so that it’s more evocative.
• How to correct basic grammar and punctuation problems.

Jessica Morrell has been teaching writers since 1991 and works as a developmental editor, instructor, and writing coach. She is the author of Writing Out the Storm; Between the Lines, Master the Subtle Elements of Fiction Writing; Voices From the Street, The Writer’s I Ching and Bullies, Bastards & Bitches, How to Write the Bad Guys of Fiction and Thanks, But This Isn’t For Us: A (Sort of) Compassionate Guide to Why Your Writing is Being Rejected. She’s been a columnist since 1998, contributes to The Writer and Writer’s Digest magazines and anthologies. Described by a writing conference attendee as “a torrent of information” and by Natalie Goldberg as “an incredible teacher” her workshops are filled with practical information that can be immediately put to use.

To register: Contact Jessica at jessicapage(at)spiritone(dot)com
Space is limited and registration is required.

If you’re going to make it as a writer, you probably won’t be able to read mediocre or lousy writing. Now, reading is a subjective experience. Thus, what one reader finds mediocre another finds dazzling. If you’re serious about writing and publishing, you’re aware that a lot of mediocre gets published, and a lot of mediocre writers hit the jackpot with best-sellers, movie adaptations, and homes in Provence. It just plain sucks. (And please stop me before I write again about the oh-so awful Shades of Grey series. Call me jaded but I just don’t think there are that many beautiful virgins meeting creepy billionaires with a penchant for abuse. Call me jaded but I prefer my books to contain gorgeous sentences not strings of clunk.)

Now I realize that some advise writers to read the bad stuff too, that’s there plenty to learn from bad writing. I just don’t agree. I’m more in the Stephen King school of thought In Stephen King’s book of writing advice, On Writing, he compares the tools a writer needs to those a carpenter uses. He differentiates among the tools stored on the top shelf of your toolbox with fundamentals such as vocabulary, grammar and solid nouns and verbs with those on the lower shelves as instruments like description, dialogue, and theme. Before King elaborates on these instruments, he proclaims: “Reading is the creative center of a writer’s life.” And so while we read because we love getting lost in a story and because it’s as if we’re living two lives while we’re reading a novel or memoir, we also read with our critic’s sensibilities fully engaged.

October 20, 9-5
Manzanita, Oregon, The Center for Contemplative Arts
Cost: $80

The task of a novelist or memoirist is to tell a story so riveting that it will hold a reader’s attention for hundreds of pages. This requires intimate knowledge of characters, their inner lives, and central dilemma. It also requires an understanding of plot, the sequence of events that take readers from beginning to end.
These events won’t hang together without a compelling structure that underlies the whole—the essential scenes that every story needs to create drive, tension, conflict, climax, and resolution. We’ll pay special attention to the architecture of scenes and the plot points and reversals that power stories forward.

Since scenes are those parts of your story where the excitement happens we’ll dissect the core ingredient of each scene: change. The anchor scenes we’ll cover are: Inciting Incident, First Plot Point, Mid-point Reversal, Dark night of the Soul, the Point of No Return, Climax, and Resolution. We’ll discuss how the protagonist stars in these scenes, how they’re emotionally charged, and build the plot. By the end of the workshop participants will have outlined these crucial scenes and know where flashbacks should be placed to deliver the most potency. As part of the lecture we’ll be discussing the anchor scenes in To Kill a Mockingbird, The Old Man and the Sea and the film Witness. Story maps provided as part of the comprehensive handouts.

Space is limited and payment is required to register. Payments can be made by check or through PayPal
Contact me for more  registration details.

©Jessica P. Morrell

A poem is a way of life. Eloise Klein Healey

        Writers are given myriads of advice: how to plunge into the deep water of writing; how to craft beautiful sentences; how fiction or film structure holds a story together; how voice must be distinctive; how in all writing every word counts. But the advice that I keep circling back to again and again, is how reading like a writer enhances your skills on every level.

In Stephen King’s book of writing advice, On Writing, he compares the tools a writer needs to those a carpenter uses. He differentiates among the tools stored on the top shelf of your toolbox with fundamentals such as vocabulary, grammar and solid nouns and verbs with those on the lower shelves as instruments like description, dialogue, and theme. Before King elaborates on these instruments, he proclaims: “Reading is the creative center of a writer’s life.” And so while we read because we love getting lost in a story and because it’s as if we’re living two lives while we’re reading a novel or memoir, we also read with our critic’s sensibilities fully engaged.

I’d been planning on writing this column about what reading teaches writers when I found a new book by Francine Prose, Reading Like A Writer, A Guide for People who Love Books and for Those who Want to Write Them. Prose writes fiction and her fourteen novels include Blue Angel and A Changed Man. She is also an essayist and has written nonfiction books and children’s books. There are many reasons why you might want to read this book. First, Prose is a passionate reader and gifted writer so the language is gorgeous. She knows her way around a metaphor and anchors understanding with solid examples from her life and dozens of excerpts from published works to make her points.

Second, she has taught a lot and the book is chocked full of techniques and wisdom she’s passed along to her students such as, “The two most important things I told them, were observation and consciousness. Keep your eyes open, see clearly, think about what you see, ask yourself what it means….in most cases the fact remains: the wider and deeper your observational range, the better, the more interestingingly and truthfully you’ll write.”

In her humorous chapter about what she learned from reading Chekov, she passes along fiction lessons from a class she taught in the late 1980s while she was reading Chekov’s short stories on her commute home. The chapter describes how his stories continually disproved the lessons she was teaching, until finally, she confesses, “By now, I had learned my lesson. I began telling my class to read Chekhov instead of listening to me.”

Third, she’s a brainiac, with thoughtful and in-depth explorations of topics. She’s also amazingly well read and quotes a diverse array of writers including the most enduring writers like Samuel Beckett, Jane Austen, Dostoyevsky, Flaubert and George Elliot. But she also uses a segment from J.D.Salinger’s Franny and Zooey to illustrate the importance of specific details, she quotes John Le Carre´ on using dialogue to advance the plot; a David Green story for how dialogue creates subtext, and a Philip Roth story for the effectiveness of a gestures.

There are so many things reading teaches us—the most important is how we should slow down and savor the author’s language and words for their raw power. It teaches us the impact of individual sentences and how we can build them to tumble out of control, meander, or stop us short with their brief and startling brilliance. We learn the many options available for viewpoint and distance and how a character’s voice rings true. Reading teaches us how to choose a few painstaking details to paint large canvasses. Sometimes it’s the exact color of an object, or a character’s bath robe, or a particular song convincing us of the story’s truth.

Or, we notice how an anecdote woven amid a larger world lends it veracity. Or, how small gestures speak volumes about a person or betray the unconscious. For example, in Amy Bloom’s short story Silver Water, I’ve never forgotten how Rose at 15 is exhibiting the first signs of schizophrenia and her psychiatrist father doesn’t want to believe it is happening even as Rose begins licking the hairs on her forearm, first one way, then the other.

Close reading teaches us how to use ordinary moments to ground a reader in a fictional reality or the memoirist’s past. By reading carefully you can observe how a writer implants tension in a scene by delaying a drink order and setting the scene in a loud bar.

By carefully reading dialogue we learn how regional expressions create authenticity and a sense of place; how characters sometimes hide their true thoughts and feelings; how dialogue can be a sort of choreography when difficult subjects are at hand; and how a character’s simple or poetic speech patterns create credibility for a living, breathing being.

In my workshops I often emphasize the power of details in fiction or memoir because if a reader believes in the kitchen with it’s stove top greasy with bacon spatters and a coffee mug with a cigarette extinguished in it, then when a meth addict shows up and starts ransacking the place for drug money, we’ll believe in the incident because we believe in the stove and mug. I’ve also learned from reading books such as Dennis Lehane’s Mystic River that whenever possible, to choose specific details not only for a shorthand into a larger truth or to characterize, but also to cause things to happen in the story and to evoke a reader’s emotions.

Sure you’ll read for fun, but reading is grounded in a study of technique since each novel, memoir, or short story that you read is a miniature writing course. So dissect and ask questions about secondary characters and subplots, surprise endings or prologues. Count how many chapters a writer uses and the time frame of a novel or short story. Ask yourself what you remember most from everything you read and try to emulate those techniques. And, oh yes, read Chekhov.

Finally, Prose tells us that reading like a writer lends courage. There are so many jobs that require real courage—firefighting, police work, oncology. Compared to facing an inferno or a shoot-out or telling a young patient that she has a terminal disease, writing is a tame pastime. Compared to nine months of pregnancy, then bringing a fragile baby into the world, well, writing is a cakewalk. Reading acquaints us with our community of scribes, teaches us that we too can conquer sentences, difficult topics, and time spans that zigzag back and forth between several decades. Often reading between the lines we note that other writers are afraid of writing badly, of being exposed, or discovering something about themselves that they’d rather ignore. Since the world is filled with brave and original and potent works we can borrow courage from this fact.

Reading like a writer is a treasure hunt where you’ll uncover gem after gem and veins of gold. It will also ignite in you the desire to write a book, an essay, a poem. Prose’s last words are: “If we want to write, it makes sense to read—and to read like a writer. If wanted to grow roses, we would want to visit rose gardens and try to see them the way a rose gardener would.”

Bitter truth # 5: Don’t pop that champagne cork too soon.
Just because you finished writing a book doesn’t mean it’s done. In fact, the real work of writing might just begin. Writing is rewriting, my friends. Fixing the pacing, tweaking the character arcs, scrutinizing the manuscript scene by scene, line by line, making sure that it all sings.
Once your first draft is complete (hurray!) approach revision with the same openness to inspiration with which you began writing the first draft.

I urge you not to become enamored of your first manuscript. Few of them get published. For most of us, it’s an investment in learning. Most published writers move on to their second, third or fourth novel to get published.

Here’s what works for me: edit briefly as you go along, while ideas are fresh. Begin each day’s writing process by editing what was written the previous day. You might want to print out each day’s work and revise on a print-out then make the corrections on the computer. Thus, when you’re printing out a first draft, it’s actually a second, fairly polished draft.

Once you have that draft ready for revision (seeing with fresh eyes) remember that revision has four parts: Read the manuscript. Find the mistakes. Correct those mistakes even if they seem to outnumber the good pages. Improve content, rational, and flow during your first run through.  Once you have a solid third draft, enhance style and voice.

Jessica P. Morrell©

“A strongly motivated need or desire sets in motion actions and revelations that return to dramatically affect a character, resulting in the final cry from Henry James’ The Wings of the Dove: “We will never again be as we were!” The plot has worked from disorder to order, from an unstable situation to one at least temporary rest, to success or renunciation.” Oakley Hall, The Art and Craft of Novel Writing

     Plot is perhaps the most often heard term when discussing fiction. It is also considered to be the essence of fiction writing. There are many definitions of plot: It is a unified, designed structure or arrangement of events. In most stories these events involved a protagonist facing some form of conflict.
I would like to add to the common definitions and suggest that plot is movement and a record of change. These changes—usually inflicted on the characters—alter their fortunes, emotions, and beliefs. Plot is also a push, a force, called narrative drive. This drive is the inexorable forward movement of related events that pile high until the whole teetering tower collapses into the final conflict, the climactic scenes that make the story worthwhile.
When considering a plot, ask yourself if there is momentum behind the elements you’ve selected. Here are seven key ingredients in an effective plot.

A plot begins when the status quo, the ordinary world the main character occupies is disrupted by a significant event. This event—called the inciting incident– pushes the story forward like a rocket launcher. Once this event occurs, there is no turning back, the character who is sometimes caught off-guard, is propelled into action, forced to make decisions often based on self protection.

The plot focuses on a character or group of characters who are worth following through the pages of your story or novel. Your characters can be neurotic or despicable, vain or shallow, but they must always be fascinating and believable and their actions, decisions and motives must propel the story to an inevitable conclusion.

A plot is made of a series of events that are somehow linked. A plot is not a line up of random or unrelated events. I like to compare plot to a pearl necklace where each pearl is a scene, linked to the next, which is linked to the next. Notice that you need a sturdy string to connect all the pearls—they are not scattered around the room, hiding under the sofa, tucked into a corner. They are strung together because fiction is causal—events cause other events, which cause more complications, which cause more events.

The plot builds by adding on complications, surprises, and developments, and new elements that add more tension and forward motion. Plots are not drawn as a straight line; instead there are zigzags, dead ends, sidetracks and crooked paths. Each of these elements adds more obstacles, more decisions to be made, paths to be chosen. At each turn, chaos, disorder, arguments, struggles, bewilderment, dilemmas should result.

At the heart of a plot the protagonist has a goal that he or she is pursuing throughout the story. No matter where the plot veers, or how complicated the story becomes, this goal is always clear, compelling and forceful. The goal forces the character to act, react and fumble.

A plot simmers, boils, and then finally explodes in the final scenes. You cannot write a story where the plot is merely simmering –their needs to be increasing tensions, terrible pressures building, options disappearing as your character is thrust forward.

A plot satisfies. The final scenes, when the tensions are red hot and the character has reached a point of no return, must deliver drama, emotion, yet a logical conclusion. This is not to suggest that every plot ends with a shoot out or physical confrontation, because some stories are quieter, more thoughtful. Sometimes much of the conflict is internal, not external. But nevertheless, the ending delivers a payoff; the tension and conflict are resolved. Decisions are made, goals achieved, plans drawn for a new life, a victory achieved. Something important has happened and the ending is like pressure released from that simmering pot. The release is real, palpable, and most of all, pleasing.