So here’s what you do: take your memories and present them to the reader. Take your passions. You take as much guilt and as little total depravity as you can safely mix in. You read. You steal. You want desperately to be a writer. You volunteer to nail your soft parts to a tree. You soak up everything. You take notes. You retire to your garret or your study or your office and you tie yourself to the chair with the belt of your bathrobe. And you write. You slowly go crazy, but you write. You drink lye, if that is what it will take, and you remember the nights and caves in Granada. Because you desperately want to be a writer. You do. You write. You write. And you write.  ~ Bill Brashler, The Total Writer

 Like some of you, I don’t really like to sit down to write all the time. As a famous wag once said he enjoyed having written more than writing. In fact, some days I detest it.  I avoid it by eating, reading, emptying the dishwasher, answering e-mails, pulling dead leaves off my plants, chatting on the phone—in fact, my list of avoidance tactics is too long to enumerate here. However, like you, I also love to write and some of my most contented moments come while I’m writing. It’s a kick. It makes me feel alive and passionate. It forces me to analyze my ideas and improve my craft. It also makes me feel comforted and safe and like I’ve found a home within myself and also a home within this vast, spinning world. Like you, I also know that I’m called to writing. Because when I don’t write, my life is flat. When I don’t write, I feel nervous, empty and unfulfilled.

So the writer who hates to write and the writer who enjoys the process, lives within me, as I suspect he or she lives within most of you. I work at understanding where my strengths and weaknesses lie, and I suggest you start there too. In my first book Writing out the Storm I wrote that we begin writing by first knowing ourselves a little better. And I still believe in that advice.

It’s important to know what kind of writer you are, and then to find ways to capitalize on your strengths and override your weaknesses. For example, I’m an idea person. I’ve got ideas for at least five nonfiction books, a few screenplays and about a dozen essays bouncing around within me. My problems are managing my time, fleshing out ideas, completing and marketing them.  Some of you might struggle with WHAT to write. You don’t know if you should write nonfiction, essays or fiction, so you drift and your dreams fizzle. Some people struggle with structure–they cannot shape their vague ideas into a format, a plot line, a screenplay, or an essay; so they never try. Some writers get stuck because they don’t have faith in their basic skills such as grammar, style, and spelling. Some writers don’t know how to begin. They have an idea for a novel, but have no concept about how to flesh it out.

Start with where you are now

Start with your where you are now and if you have a lack to be overcome, make concrete plans to fill in the gaps. If you want to write fiction, but need more information about structure, then research every source you can find on the subject. After you’ve read the advice, taken notes, and analyzed your favorite novels, apply what you’ve learned, then practice the exercises here.  BEFORE you write your novel. A lot of us read books on technique, but we don’t practice or experiment based on what we learn. Your brain will not file, store and process new information without practice. It takes action–the muscles of the hand connecting with the idea to improve your voice, style or how you shape a story.

Face your fears

Next, face your fears. There is no such thing as writer’s block, but fear wears many disguises in order to keep us from writing. Some of us worry that we’re not REAL writers; we’re frauds and if we try, eventually we’ll be discovered. Some of us are afraid we’ll never get published, so why bother? Some of us fear that we don’t have enough to say. Some of us worry that our writing will offend our family. Some of us are afraid that we don’t have the discipline to accomplish our goals. I could go on and on with this tragic list, but that’s not my point here. I mention these fears because I’m sure that your particular monster is a big factor in why you’re not writing regularly. Stand up to your fears and understand that we all afraid of some aspect of this process.

But the first kind of fear that you need to acknowledge and then wrestle with, is anxiety. Most writers experience some form of anxiety when they sit down to write. For most of us, the first 15-30 minutes of writing are the worst− we’re nervous, restless and unfocused. This is a common occurrence and you’ve got to find a way to outsmart your anxiety. Set an alarm, or promise yourself a chocolate after you’ve written for half an hour. Play soothing or upbeat music. I begin a writing session by lightly editing the section I’ve worked on the previous day. I’m usually so engrossed with tweaking sentences, trimming flab from my paragraphs and searching for perfect verbs to replace wimpy ones, that I forget my anxiety. Before I know it, my twitchiness has diminished and I’m engrossed in the process. Another trick is to end each writing session at a place where you know what’s going to happen next so that it’s easy to slip into the flow when you begin again.

I believe that many beginning writers imagine that published writers succeed because they’ve somehow overcome their anxieties and fears. This is simply not true. Although the pros might still be plagued with nerves or writing-induced neurosis, they write anyway. Then, with knees quaking, he or she mails a manuscript off to a publisher. It means that even if the pro is still haunted, worried and stressed, these demons do not paralyze him or her.  They keep going despite these uncomfortable feelings. There is no big secret here.

Anxious writers are everywhere

There have been many successful, yet anxious writers: Raymond Carver, Joan Didion, Raymond Chandler, and Frederick Exeley, to name a few. But they used their fears to lend the writing intensity. James Cain said that if the writing doesn’t keep the writer up at night, it won’t keep the reader up either.

However, perhaps one aspect that experienced writers work at is not feeling vulnerable about their writing. When I was the writing coach at iVillage.com, not a day passed without a member posting at a message board or admitting during our live classes that she was afraid to post her work because she was terrified of criticism. I believe that some writers mistakenly assume that THEY, not their WORK are being evaluated. Your writing is the sum of your skills TODAY. Next month or next year your skills will likely be honed jewels, while now they’re more like clay or some other raw element.

The other thing I’ve noticed over the years, but was especially made aware of when working as an on-line writing coach, was that many writers mistakenly believe that praise and adoration makes us a better writer. Now I’m all for encouraging writers. BUT we learn best from writers who are more skilled than us, who will take the time to TACTFULLY make recommendations and point out our failures. We cannot fix our mistakes until we see them and for most of us, at least in the beginning stages of writing, this sometimes requires another person’s perceptions and discernment.

Years ago I wrote articles for a community newspaper where the editor was a friend of mine. She returned her edited drafts of my articles and those startling red marks, lines, arrows, deletions taught me more than many semesters of sitting in a journalism class. Of course I was alarmed, even horrified the first time I saw all that red ink. But her editing notes were amazingly enlightening and I’m still grateful to her. Now that I’m in the editor’s chair, I only hope that my marks and comments can be nearly as helpful.

Another fact that is inescapable is simply this: the nature of this business is that you send your words out into the world for others to scrutinize. If it’s published, the critics, your uncle, your ex-boyfriend, your sister who was always jealous of your successes and your high school English teacher might make judgments or possibly tear apart what you wrote. There are two issues here. One, they’ll judge the quality of the work. Two, they’ll judge the content and how it reflects on the person who wrote it. Readers might assume that if your character hates children or sex or cats or Brussels sprouts, that you do too.  Or if the father in the short story is vicious and violent, that your father must have been a horror also.

 Safety zones

Chances are that there are specific people who you are most afraid to show your work. When I was a kid, I made the mistake of showing my parents my writing, mostly poems. Their reactions were far from positive, so as an adult, I was still wary of my family’s reactions to my work. So, living two thousand miles from my hometown, I started sending my writing to them. At first it was an essay about Christmas that was broadcast on Public Radio, then an essay about the Green Bay Packers that had been published in a daily newspaper, in other words, safe subjects. I never asked them what they thought about my essays, but somehow the act of mailing them killed a phantom and put right a long-held hurt

I also discovered that while I am afraid of publishers, editors and other big bad wolves; that the person I’m most afraid of is myself. I’m never completely happy with what I write. It’s never good enough, even if I’m reading it in front of a sold-out room. I can spot every weak verb or tangled metaphor AS I read my words. I’m working to silence my inner critic every time I write and I want to suggest that you face that obnoxious force too.

I often laughingly describe my theories about writing to my students explaining that while the process of writing can be difficult; finishing and evaluating your efforts is harder yet. I’ve compared reading my finished manuscripts to giving birth to an ugly baby. So it is that likely YOU are your harshest critic, the one who labels your completed works ugly. You must face the fact that your writing will never be perfect; will never be as grand or polished as the story that lives in your head. Forgive yourself for being human; have compassion for yourself and your attempts; and keep going.

Write what must be written

So how do you stay motivated in this midst of this turmoil? The answers sound simple, but of course it’s fraught with dangers: Show your work to someone you trust in order to conquer your vulnerabilities. And no matter how vulnerable you feel, write about what calls to you—what MUST be written. If you want to write about a character who hates men or women or gays, do it. If you are called to write about secrets such as, incest, bulimia, addiction, or suicide, do it. The truth is that the most embarrassing, gruesome and hidden topics are often the most interesting. In workshops sometimes I notice that students write around the truth, taking their piece to a certain level, expose only a bit of themselves because they’re afraid what other students will think of them.  Half-formed or evasive writing is not the answer. Clarity, honesty and mining the depths of our emotions will bring reactions from readers and also earn self-respect.

So write with honesty, but not from a bitter or vengeful heart. Instead write with compassion and if possible, some distance.  And then rehearse answers so that when your readers or critics ask probing questions you can sound glib and assured.

Or write under a pseudonym.

All writers are vulnerable, since our words are always naked out in the world without us. But if your motives are pure—even if you’re writing to understand yourself and your past—and your approach is balanced, and your work is polished and original, some day, someone will buy your honest words. No matter what they cost you.

©Jessica Morrell

There is no mystery to turning pro. It’s a decision brought about by an act of will. We make up our minds to view ourselves as pros, and we do it, simple as that. ~ Stephen Pressfield

File this column under my annual pep talk. Something you might hear from a hard ass or an NBA coach. If you’re not aware, most of them aren’t mild or retiring types. I’m thinking of one of my favorite all-time coaches, Don Nelson when he was coaching the Milwaukee Bucks.  His passion for the game was like fire in his veins. He was a maverick in his coaching style (and yes, I know that term has been overused), so zealous about the game that  he once protested a penalty call by tearing off his jacket in frustration, ripping the sleeve from the garment.

When a professional athlete hits the court or playing field he or she is expected to leave everything on the court. No complaints about how the deck is stacked against him; no cursing at the rules of play; no griping at the refs if you’re smart. Pros put on the uniform and play their hearts out. After years learning the fundamentals, years of practice and more practice, of drills and more drills.  Listening to their coach when they need to change course. Refining a technique or switching up the defensive or offensive strategy.

In Stephen Pressfield’s marvelous little book on the creative process The War of Art he explains that the way to succeed in any art is by turning pro. He explains: “The professional respects his craft. He does not consider himself superior to it… The professional dedicates himself to mastering technique not because he believes technique is a substitute for inspiration but because he wants to be in possession of the full arsenal of skills when inspiration does come. The professional is sly. He knows that by toiling beside the front door of technique, he leaves room for genius to enter by the back.”

So while learning all they can about craft and the publishing or movie business, writers need to be consummate professionals. When you meet an editor or agent.  When you turn in a manuscript (honoring the deadline), and in all your correspondence and public appearances.

Pressfield’s expression turning pro has a specific connotation, and about a third of the book is dedicated to explaining the professional mindset and habits. Turning pro is a state of mind; it’s a mental shift from weekend-warrior amateur to hard-core, self-disciplined professional. If you really want to conquer resistance to doing creative work (or any other major thing that you want to achieve, whether it’s running a marathon or starting a business) get serious about it. Accept that you’ll wage a daily battle against the forces within you that would rather take the easy way out and keep you safely within your comfort zone.

What distinguishes the professional writer? A pro shows up for work every day; a pro is patient; a pro endures adversity. A pro doesn’t take success or failure personally; a pro accepts no excuses; a pro plays hurt. A pro learns to be objective about their own strengths and weaknesses. Here is how you do it:

1. Treat other pros with respect and gratitude. Especially the gatekeepers of the profession—agents, managers, editors, and authors. Say ‘thank you’ a lot. Recognize the busy schedules of these specialists. They don’t owe you their time or respect until you’ve earned it.

2. Dress the part. You’ll be in the presence of anyone who might further your career. Comport yourself with grace, ease, and humility. Notice: desperation wasn’t in that list. Be ready to chat about yourself and your work in an engaging manner, without sounding like you’ve been scripted or like you work in call center in Mumbai. Be yourself, ask questions, tell a story, and smile.

3. Show up with a ‘lunch pail’ attitude toward the work.  Day after day, year after year. Punch in and treat the task at hand with commitment and consistency. At the conference, attend every session you can on craft, but also sit in on the panels featuring agents and editors—taking copious notes at all times.

4. Follow up. At the conference, after you’ve networked and gleaned information, follow up on the contacts you’ve made by sending out manuscripts and thank yous. Then comb though your notes for gems and further inspiration. You might want to type up your notes if they’re handwritten, which anchors them in your memory. Don’t forget to touch base with the writers that you met at the conference, either.

5.  Keep the fire burning. After hobnobbing and learning, don’t let the creative fire you’ve been exposed to die. Keep your passion for writing alive by reading what inspires you and staying connected to other writers.

6. Stick with it no matter what. The pro lives and works in the no-excuse zone.

Not until your back hurts or your ideas start fizzling. Just write through the pain and through the dead zone of a faltering draft. Then write some more.

6. Pros keep learning over their lifetime, gaining skills and mastering techniques. A writing pro must read work far better than he or she can write the learning process.

7. Pros face rejection like a warrior, not a wimp. Professional athletes lose all the time, often while disappointing their fans and with multi-million dollar stakes and world championships on the line. After the loss, they swallow their frustration and pride, suit up and try harder.

8. Pros endure. They play injured, they play tired or scared. No matter what, no matter how long it takes to finish a draft or revise a draft, or sell a manuscript.

9. Pros are humble. We know we’re lucky to be called to this art, to dictate the voices and ideas that whisper in our heads.

10. Pros are always ready when called off the bench. Your opportunity just might be arriving soon so be ready for it.

11. Pros are authentic. Our stories are fiercely illuminating–true in the sense that they reflect our perceptions, imaginations, and hopes.

So get into the game. Play with stamina and grace. As Steven Pressfield said, “Better to be in the arena getting stomped by the bulls, than to be up in the stands or out in the parking lot.”

Line by Line: How to Rewrite, Rework & Reword
March 24, 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. For some this can be difficult because writers are extremely close to their work and read what they meant to write, not what’s actually on the page. This workshop will give you perspective on all 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. We’ll be line editing examples throughout the workshop. 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:
• Definitions of developmental editing, copy editing, line editing and proofreading.
• The five steps of line editing and ways to analyze your work with an impersonal eye.
• How to keep a close eye on word usage, looking out for misused words, overused words, crutch words, and words which do not belong.
• We’ll 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 smooth out clumsy narrative and clunky dialogue.
• How to correct basic grammar and punctuation problems.

contact me at jessicapage (at)spiritone(dot)com

“And yet, words are the passkeys to our souls. Without them, we can’t really share the enormity of our lives.” ~ Diane Ackerman

The best advice on writing I’ve ever received is to take it seriously, because to do it well is all-consuming.
David Guterson

Bad Advice? Good Advice?
©Jessica P. Morrell
“You write to be read. That is the bottom line.” ~ Jane Yolen

While teaching and working with writers I’ve heard them parrot all sorts of advice by well-known authors, experts, and cranks. And I’ve concluded that there sure is a lot of lousy advice aimed at writers. You’ve got to wonder: do plumbers or dentists or professional baseball players hear a lot of bad advice also? I doubt it. I want to weigh in on some dubious advice I’ve heard over the years.

The advice that’s probably heard most often is write what you know. I couldn’t disagree more. Now, if you’re writing a memoir, sticking to the facts is essential, but for fiction writers the advice should be write what you don’t know. After all, if you’re writing science fiction, how can you travel to Mars fifty years in the future to create the details of your story? Likewise for stories set in 17th century Scotland, the Pentagon, or those which are littered with corpses. Most writers have never even seen a corpse, much less murdered someone. Or at least I hope not.

Instead, we write based on research and imagination and emotion. All writers need to write about what ticks them off, fascinates them, or keeps them awake at night. Write about emotions you’ve felt, motivations you understand, character traits that you can bring to life, and themes that you believe are important.

Now, for writers who craft articles it would seem on the surface that you should write what you know. If you live in a small town and stay home raising kids and keep your friends in stitches, that advice might work. Your town might be brimming with quotable misfits, your children’s antics might be hilarious, and your slant on life entertaining. But most free-lance journalists write based on research and interviews and follow their curiosity.

Advice I cannot disagree with more is to never use flashbacks. I believe this one came about because often editors see premature flashbacks in a manuscript. A novel can start lots of ways with a stranger coming to town, a letter arriving, a bad guy sliding a knife into his victim’s spleen. Fiction requires an inciting incident that yanks the protagonist and the story world off balance. An opening introduces threat or suggests conflict to come. Unless you’re writing a frame story that starts with the ending, and then backtracks in time so that readers understand why the ending came about, you don’t start with the past. You begin in the present at the brink of change. You immerse the reader in the story world so that he can unpack his suitcase and walk around and come to know a dangerous or troubling situation.

Now, once the reader has his suitcase unpacked, including his dental floss and travel alarm and has checked out the neighborhood and the hotel’s amenities, then you can start introducing aspects from the past. After all, without a few journeys into the past, or the delving into the protagonist’s memories, how will the reader understand why the characters do what they do and say what they say?

Recently I worked on a fiction manuscript for a client that was riddled with problems. One problem was that the protagonist, who we’ll call Daniel, had inherited a strange mix of messages from his mother. In the story, Daniel’s father died while trying to escape from a Viet Cong prison. His mother, embittered about his death, told Daniel that his father was irresponsible and he should never be like his father. Now, I thought the logic of a man trying to escape being called irresponsible made no sense—call him plucky, brave, or determined, but not irresponsible. So this subplot focused on how Daniel was burdened by his mother’s bitterness at her husband’s death. Problem was the reader never met the mother in a flashback, never heard her words, or witnessed a sharply-drawn memory. The manuscript needed excursions into the past for proofs. Backstory illuminates the front story of fiction and without it a story is often thin and confusing.

The other advice I hear from fiction writers is never write prologues because editors hate prologues. The truth is editors hate stories that begin twice. But a well-crafted prologue can cast a shadow of danger or intrigue or excitement over a story, especially if the past is complex. It can also explain some crucial information that would weigh down the story’s opening. In the aforementioned manuscript I suggested that the client create a prologue that introduces the father in the POW camp so that we can understand what Daniel has lost and how he shares traits with his father. [He already had written a prologue that started two weeks before the inciting incident and didn’t add to the story.] I suggested he use Colin Harrison’s Afterburn as an example—it’s also about a character captured during the Vietnam War, but he’s rescued. Harrison’s prologue also introduces one of the themes of the book—torture and asks if torture works as a method of terror and control.

Advice you can toss out like yesterday’s fish is only write about likeable characters. I’m currently finishing a book that is about how to write about edgy and unlikable characters. In fact, I’m postulating that fiction doesn’t need to be about heroes and feature Hollywood endings. It needs to resemble more of the grit and creep factor of life with antiheroes, unlikable protagonists, sociopaths, and emotional cripples in starring roles. But if your protagonist is a jerk or a less than sympathetic, you need a firm reason for his starring role, and consequences from his actions. Perhaps the story teaches him lessons or a comeuppance. Write stories that include deeply knowable and fascinating characters.

Writers are also advised that they shouldn’t quit their day job. Good advice since it’s hard to write when you’re worried about keeping the lights on. Recently I was talking with an author who hasn’t been published in years. He’s a good writer and has a terrific concept for a manuscript. However, he’s not working, is living on credit, and is anticipating being offered a more than 6-figure advance and lucrative movie deal. When I gently suggested that his aspirations might be a tad unrealistic, he was not dissuaded. I left the meeting feeling worried about him.

A free-lance journalist might be able to quit his day job if he’s columnist or already has a regular freelance gig or a book deal. If you’re writing fiction you need another income in the family, a sizable pension, or enough money to live on for at least three years. Success can happen overnight but for most of us it takes time. Lots of time along with luck and contacts. The truth is most first and second books are written while the author is working full time. It’s fairly typical that a writer cannot quit his day job until his fifth or sixth book is published and even then, royalties and advances might not be enough to live on. Learn to put writing first in your life and stick with it while your friends are at the mall, the beach, the block party.

Write all the time and if you’re most happy when writing, that’s a clue that you should keep at it. But at some point you need to turn your manuscript over to the gimlet eyes of the publishing world or a knowledgeable reader. I’ve met plenty of writers who have been working on manuscripts for five or ten years and what they’ve produced is drek. It’s so sad but some people will never be published or will only enjoy modest success. So don’t bank on writing a best seller unless you’re in the middle of a bidding war.

You can also ignore advice that claims that there is only one way to approach writing. There is no right or wrong way to write or plot or edit. Some people need to outline, some people need to wing it, and some people need to write while wearing a beanie with a propeller on top and listening to the Elvis in Vegas CD. However, there are a number of skills you need to acquire to be the best writer possible. You need to understand your characters or subject deeply. You need a flair for language and ear for dialogue. Immerse yourself in craft, build habits of strength, and let the story come out, staying close to it, always staying close to it.

But It Really Happened

Jessica P. Morrell©

“With any kind of fiction, there are basically two ways to incorporate your real-life experiences. Either you write a story based on something that happened to you, or you write a largely imagined story, with snippets from your life woven into the fabric of the story.” Robin Hemley

Being a writer can be a wonderful excuse for our less-than-noble tendencies to snoop, eavesdrop, and stand on the sidelines and report on the fray. But all this curiosity and awareness can lead to a particular catch-22 that exists for many fiction writers: do you write a story based on real events and people, and if so, how much can you borrow from reality? The short answers are sometimes and as little as possible except for creating a believable sense of place.

The urge to write from the raw materials of our lives can be overwhelming. After all, we all had a unique upbringing and most of us have witnessed or starred in events that have Technicolor™ vibrancy. We’ve met lovely people and oddballs and sociopaths and losers. We’ve traveled, taken risks, and fallen in love and also had our hearts mangled, our trust betrayed, and our hopes smashed. In fact, many writers are downright fascinating and have had experiences that would make Dickens weep.

But none of that adds up to fiction nor does it mean that your life story should be shaped into autobiographical fiction. While real life seeps into fiction—and should—writing fiction brings life into sharper focus than reality. The fictional world and its inhabitants are more closely examined, more entwined, more enchanting, and in more trouble than in real life. So what’s a writer to do when he or she is convinced that his or her life story can be the basis for a novel?  Lately I keep meeting writers struggling with this dilemma and based on what I’ve observed, want to make a few suggestions.

First, it is entirely possible to write from life and that doing so doesn’t mean you have a limited imagination. Second, just because an event happened does not mean that it can be honed into interesting fiction. And interestingly, often bizarre real life happenings can seem too far out on the page. In fact the “ but it really happened” defense is one of the weakest in all of fiction writing.

What seems to work best, instead of trying to merge reality and fiction, is to allow life events to spark a story instead of struggling to capture the whole tapestry of a life or a situation. Since there are several pitfalls that arise when writing from life, let’s examine them. The biggest problem with writing based on real events is that it can be constraining. As a writer you’ll be struggling to report with accuracy on events, people and places and this sort of reportage squeezes out creativity and all the possibilities that can happen when your imagination is given free rein. When you write from real life you are often stringing together a series of anecdotes and moments instead of weaving themes and causality into a large and pulsating whole. Writing from real life can also lack focus since you’re trying to capture generalities and memories.

When you write about yourself or real people you also miss the magic that happens when a character takes shape in your day dreams and starts whispering her secrets, urges and fears. Fiction in essence is a record of threatening changes being inflicted on a character or group of characters at a particularly interesting or dangerous time. When we shape our own lives into fiction it’s often difficult to hone in on the most interesting segment, to know when exactly we changed, when the turning points occurred, and when we were most threatened. In fiction the stakes for the character are high and unless you’re an astronaut, brain surgeon, or top-level spy, it’s difficult to make the stakes from reality as compelling.

There are other dangers too—fiction readers simply don’t trust stories that stem from life as much as they trust stories born of creativity. Writing from real life also tempts us to seek revenge on people who wronged us and in this vengeance we might not be able to see the persons clearly or understand their motivations. Writing biographical fiction also tempts us to not reveal how lonely, depressed, broke, cynical, gullible, or desperate we were. It’s tough to admit to our weaknesses and foibles, all the more reason to create characters who make mega blunders and missteps while you duck for cover like the wizard behind the curtain.

Here’s another consideration: a storyline must be unified and balanced but life isn’t. Life is random and chaotic with moments of calm interspersed. Fiction is structured on ever-increasing threats and momentum with all the parts creating a unified reality.  Writing from life also risks that the writer will spend too much time ruminating, too much time looking back instead of forward. Another problem is that often our daily lives contain large swaths of boring or humdrum happenings. We spend a lot of time at our desks, or smothered by the demands of others, or watching television, or running errands or struggling to make a decision. Fiction leaves out the boring parts of life and when you write from facts, that can be difficult.

So what do you do with the stuff from life? Obviously you don’t want to toss it out like dirty dishwater—you want to use it somehow. Real life events and people can imbue the fiction world with depth. If you live in New York and your story takes place there, you want all that honking vibrancy to show up on the page. The trick is to sort through it, searching for what to keep and what to discard. Just because an event happened doesn’t make it believable on the page or guarantee that it stirs emotions in the reader.  And while you’re sorting through the truth of a life, always handle life events and real people with extreme caution. You’re cautious because you don’t want to get sued for libel and because fiction writing is artifice and smoke and mirrors.

After all is said and done, if you still insist on writing from life experiences, here are a few tips for contorting the truth. If you’re writing a coming-of-age story based on your own experiences, make sure that enough time has based so that you can the past clearly and then twist the truth. If you want to write about real people it works best to create an agglomeration based on several people and to capture the flavor of their speech, gestures and mannerisms. If you have based a character solely and closely on a real person, inform your agent and publisher of this fact so that libel issues can be worked out before the book is in print. Or, if you use a real person, transform him or her into someone their mother would not recognize, remembering that you mostly want to capture his or her inner world. If your character is a celebrity you might want to research how other writers have handled this technique or consider writing about someone who is, uhm, no longer with us. Perhaps this one is obvious, but if you’re writing to avenge a wrong, rethink your strategy.

The bottom line is that when you write from life you’ll want to exaggerate, disguise or bend the truth. Create characters whose behaviors you can understand with the emotional truths your readers can relate to. And while behaviors and emotions in characters you write about can reflect some of your own past, vary their experiences from your own as much as possible.

Registration for Summer in Words  (June 15-17) will open in March, but you can already reserve your rooms (at a discounted rate) at the Hallmark Inn & Resort.

   Theme

Jessica P. Morrell €

 To write a plot  or story,   you have to be clear on what issues you want to present and then think of the events that will present those issues in action…I had to find that which was essential to the issue and then build an event around it. Ayn Rand

I don’t know about you, but during high school and college Lit courses I dreaded writing papers about the themes found in novels and short stories. Usually finishing the final labored sentence late Sunday night (it seems they were always due on Monday morning) I turned the paper in feeling like a fraud because it seemed written from both guesswork and arrogance. After all, Chaucer has been dead for centuries and did I really know what he was trying to convey in Canterbury Tales those many years ago?

Now that we’ve dredged up those assignments of yore, forget that tortured definition of theme, along with all its angst. In reality, theme is a fairly simple concept: it is what your story is about. This central idea serves as a unifying element and your characters’ actions and story world reflect it. Theme works as glue in the story, adds to the unity, and provides connecting threads that lend it significance and cohesion.

Theme is not the message, it is more like the soul of your story. But here’s the trick to theme that I want you to remember: It provides the boundaries for your story. You make decisions about your story based on your theme. It’s like when you are packing to move into a new house. As you sort through your belongings, you decide which objects to move, what to toss out, which items to sell at a yard sale.

Here’s a quick list of the benefits of working with theme:

• It lends the story emotional depth.
• Themes also add perspective to drama, especially tragedy, loss, death, grief, and sorrow.
• It gives cause-and-effect actions or results in stories meaning.
• It helps the writer explore his or her beliefs.
• Themes help the reader understanding the ramifications of the story events.
• Themes can focus and sharpen extended metaphors.
• Theme is one of the devices that breathes life into a story.

Here’s another trick for tracking down themes in your own work—it can be compared to the themes found in real life such as in holidays or cultural markers. The theme of Mardis Gras is merrymaking and outrageous celebration. The theme of Thanksgiving is gratitude, while the theme of Memorial Day is remembrance.

Likewise, in fiction and memoirs, theme can be stated in a single word or simple phrase. Novels always have a major theme and then often have one or two subsidiary themes. The themes in the film Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner are racism and intolerance. The premise, by the way, is “Love conquers all.” In To Kill A Mockingbird themes are about racial intolerance, injustice, and innocence lost. Alice Sebold’s memoir Lucky is about the trauma involved with rape and her novel Lovely Bones is about regret (although both have subsidiary themes).

Theme is unavoidable if you want to tell an interesting tale. Jerome Stern in Writing Shapely Fiction explains: “Though many writers like to think of themselves primarily as storytellers, yarn spinners, and fabulists, themes and ideas are inevitable. Every work raises questions, examines possibilities, and imagines the consequences of actions. You can’t avoid making meaning if you want to.”

Theme in memoir keeps the work from rambling, or being a mere collection of memories instead of a richly explored life. Without a theme a memoir can be thin, or on the other hand, tedious, and strictly autobiographical,especially if the person tries to list every major life event.

Judith Barrington, in Writing the Memoir explains the importance of theme: “Memoir, on the other hand, makes no pretense of replicating a whole life. Indeed, one of the important skills of memoir writing is the selection of the theme or themes that will bind the work together. Thus we discover, on setting out to read Patricia Hampl’s Virgin Time, that her chosen theme is the Catholicism she grew up with and her later struggle to find a place for it in her adult spiritual life. With a theme such as this laid down, the author resists the temptation to digress into stories that have no immediate bearing on the subject….”

Two schools of thought exist about how theme works in the writing process. The first is that themes evolve naturally, emerging somewhat magically from the characters’ actions and story line, or perhaps the writer’s dream world. Or, in writing nonfiction, the tug of memory and passion will somehow provide the connections, which in turn will produce their offspring—theme.

The second approach to writing with theme postulates that since theme is the glue in a story, you need it as the starting point from which the story unfolds. However, this approach has its own set of problems. Working with a predetermined theme might close off options for your plot and constrain the story. You’ll be so busy trying to squeeze a story around a theme that it might not have the logic, flow and causal relationships necessary.

If the theme of your story nags at you from the beginning, don’t worry, but also don’t allow it to act as a cruel dictator. If it doesn’t, trust that your story and its characters will whisper to you, just as when you write memoir the past whispers low and insistently. Trust too that as you work on your later drafts and spend time mulling over story events that the theme will appear.

When it comes to themes to base stories around, you have so many choices, but an easy place to start is with human weakness, fallibility, vulnerability and imperfections . You might want to also explore the rich territories of base instincts such as fear, greed, as well as powerful traits like loyalty and patriotism.

If you’re feeling stuck about finding the theme for your story, don’t try to wrestle it to the ground. Instead, return to your characters and think about the truths they’re revealing in their actions and choices. Notice how your story reflects on your own life, how all you’ve learned about love or death or greed is coming through.

While theme can be implied or plainly stated, it is never heavy-handed, shrill or trite. Thus don’t editorialize, and don’t stage your characters giving speeches about the theme.

Subplots are another means to amplify themes, but again, make sure the reader doesn’t feel ganged up on with every aspect of the story pointing to themes. An example of this is Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible. Kingsolver is a gifted and thoughtful writer, but the themes in this book seem applied with cement.

If you focus too heavily on themes, then some of the capriciousness and chance of writing is lost. After all, you don’t want everything in the story preordained or outlined. Since your right brain functions are often associative, finding connections and harvesting inspirations, you want to grant this brain function room to roam. If you focus too hard on milking the theme, the magic that happens when writing might fail. You want to walk amid your story world with your characters winking at you, suggesting additions to your scenes. Or while writing nonfiction, letting the past and meanings you have discovered create a profound reality.

On the other hand, if you write without themes, you might end up with a mere pile of episodes. A few last tips: While the final chapters will emphasize theme more than earlier ones, be careful about trying to tack on themes onto your endings or forcing characters to clamor atop a soapbox to deliver lectures. Be careful also of shifting themes during the story unless the reader can instinctively follow your change and make sense of it.

It’s official–Chelsea Cain is going to our Keynote Speaker at Summer in Words 2012 .

Dates are June 15-17

Cannon Beach, Oregon

Stay tuned for more updates.