Eat, sleep, write, repeat.

 

    The title for this entry is stolen. It’s the theme from the 2020 Utah Valley University Writers Academy. Since I am among the workshop presenters, I will not be indicted for the theft.
    Owing to the coronavirus, covid-19, the worldwide pandemic, social distancing, and other related considerations, UVU opted to put this year’s conference online. So, what was scheduled to take place October 9 and 10 will, instead, be spread from October 9 through November 6, with a selection of (mostly) Thursday evening online workshops along with other events on other days. You’ll find more information on the UVU Writers Academy web site, and you can register online. And there’s this, #UVUWriters2020, if you know what it’s for. I don’t.
    If you write, want to write, hope to write, or wish to write, you’ll find the UVU Writers Academy helpful. Register, and you can access the online workshops and presentations live, and the sessions will be recorded for viewing or reviewing afterwards.
    My contribution to the event, “How to Build a Book without a Blueprint,” is scheduled for November 5 at 6:00 pm. By then, I hope to have figured out how to pull it off.
    I’ll send a reminder. See you (sort of) there.

What are you working on?

That question, I suppose, is asked of writers more than any other. At least I get asked quite often. You might think it’s an easy thing to answer.

But, it’s not. At least for me.

Right now, for instance, I’m working on this that you will be reading soon, I hope.

At the same time, there’s a novel that’s mostly finished that I am working on finishing.

There’s some publicity material I need to send to the host of an upcoming speaking engagement, and I’m working on that.

And I’m working on what I am going to say to those people when it’s time to stand up in front of them.

There’s information to gather for a magazine story, and I’m working on that.

I have a magazine column that will be coming due and I’m working on that.

I’ve been invited to sit on a panel discussion at an upcoming writers conference, and I’m working on that.

I will be presenting a couple of workshops at another writers conference a bit later, and I’m working on that.

I’m working on an idea for a poem that keeps rattling around in my head.

I promised to read a manuscript for another writer, and I’m working on that.

I’m working on publicity material for a movie that was released recently.

There’s a history book I want to write that I need to be working on. I should get to work on another short story. There are books of mine out there that could use some sales support and I should be working on that.

And I need to mow the lawn.

Lies They Tell Writers, Part 44: Editors Love Enthusiasm.

Once upon a time I wrote a short essay about passion—being passionate, following your passion, lack of passion being a fatal flaw, that sort of thing—rendering my opinion that the whole notion is overblown.

It caused something of a stir. Some agreed with my ruminations, others did not. One reader (and fine writer) opined that passion was a prerequisite and that fire and enthusiasm for the work were important considerations for editors.

Perhaps. And there’s certainly nothing wrong with being passionate about your writing if that’s what butters your biscuit.

But it ain’t necessarily so.

A reliable—but not precise—accounting of editors I have worked with includes some 15 or so with magazines and periodicals, at least two dozen on anthologies of short fiction or poetry, and somewhere north of 20 in the process of getting books, both fiction and nonfiction, into print. Some editors I have worked with on only one or a few occasions; several of them many, many times.

None ever asked about, commented on, or required enthusiasm—passion—on my part.

But I have absorbed a few notions about what seems to be widely regarded among the red pencil set. Here’s some of it.

Good ideas are valuable. Not just ideas that are good on their own, but good ideas that fit the nature of the editor’s requirements. It should go without saying that they expect quality writing—well-structured and readable and all that, with a certain amount of flair. Research—when applicable—should be thorough and your facts should be straight; even fiction should feel credible. Your manuscripts should be clean; as free of typos as possible with proper grammar and punctuation and spelling and such.

Finally, and probably most important, editors like reliability. If you meet deadlines, keep your promises, and do what you say you will—and are asked to—do, you’ll be doing everyone a favor. Including yourself and your career.

If you’re passionate on top of all that, fine. But don’t plan on enthusiasm alone getting you through.

Woody Allen is credited with this little bit of wisdom: “Eighty percent of success is showing up.” In the broader sense, that advice certainly applies to writing.

Lies They Tell Writers, Part 41: Plan on Rejection.

You hear the stories all the time: How famous author so-and-so’s first novel, which went on to become a best seller and a classic, received forty-eleven-hundred rejection letters from publishers before finally getting published.

Don’t plan on it happening to you.

Your book may go on to be a classic, but it’s unlikely you’ll get many rejection letters along the way.

That’s because what once was true is seldom the case anymore. In days gone by, publishers routinely sent rejection letters to aspiring authors. Some were boilerplate one-size-fits-all form letters, others offered actual criticism of the book, reasons why it was not a good fit for that publisher, even encouragement and advice.

But, except on rare occasions, those days are gone.

Queries and submissions today are met, more often than not, with silence.

Most large publishing houses are staffed by a fraction of the number of people they were in the past, and those still on the job don’t have—or won’t take—the time to respond to—reject—your work. Smaller publishers are often shoestring operations and the owner-publisher-editor-designer-distributor-chief cook and bottle washer has too many pies and not enough fingers to reject every (or any) submission that comes along.

This is true for unsolicited queries and submissions, but also, in many cases, applies when you’ve been invited during an interview at a conference or workshop to submit. You’ll get much the same treatment from literary agents. Unanswered queries are also the norm nowadays at periodicals.

Still, if you don’t submit or query, you’ll never get anywhere so you’ve got to do it. Just don’t bother steeling yourself for the heartbreak of being rejected. More likely, you’ll simply be ignored. Which I find even more disheartening.

Lies They Tell Writers, Part 39: Believe in yourself.

People who attempt to write a book (or a short story, magazine article, movie, poem, or song) harbor the belief that they can pull it off. They’ve convinced themselves they can spend the requisite time in a chair, are confident they can string together the necessary number of words, and trust they can slog through the revisions and rewrites required.

Believing in yourself is a good thing. An essential thing. Without that belief, no word would ever get written.

But believing in yourself is only half the story.

If that.

It is equally important, perhaps more important, that you doubt yourself.

I think that bears repeating: If you want to be a writer, you must doubt yourself.

You must question every word. Is it the best word? Would another word say it better?

Would a metaphor, a simile, an allusion, or other indirect way of telling something work better than saying it straight out?

Is that the way this character would say that? Do you really think that character would do this?

And so on.

Writing—at least writing well—is a continuous process of self-doubt. And that’s just as important—if not more so—than believing in yourself.

Lies They Tell Writers, Part 37: Two (or three or six) heads are better than one.

There’s a term in vogue among writers these days: beta reader. I don’t know where the phrase originated or why (or what they used to call it), but all it means is that someone (or several someones) is reading a manuscript you intend to publish, or submit to a publisher.

Sometimes a “beta reader” is a spouse or another family member. Sometimes a friend. Sometimes a colleague from a critique group or other writing organization. Sometimes all of the above, or someone else altogether.

The idea behind beta readers is the notion that two heads are better than one—that they will point out pitfalls in your plot, cracks in your characters, lapses in logic, problems with prose, and so on, and perhaps offer advice on repairs.

Things, it seems to me, a writer ought to find and fix while writing and rewriting.

But many writers find beta readers helpful. On occasion I have been asked to be a beta reader but I doubt I was of much use since all I can offer is my opinion, which may be at odds with what the writer thinks.

In the interest of full disclosure, I confess that I don’t use beta readers. Here’s why. First of all, the people I want reading my manuscripts are publishers and editors. People whose opinions really count, in numbers preceded by dollar signs. 

Next, as mentioned earlier, any glaring weaknesses in a manuscript should have been found and fixed already, by me. (Or not, which may well be the case.)

Sometimes, comments and criticism are more related to style than substance, and style ought to be the writer’s province.

The advice offered may not be bad—but it may not be good, either. You could do something a different way based on their advice, but different may just be different—not better.

Also, readers have differing opinions, so the advice of one is sometimes at odds with the advice of another—even downright contradictory.

Most of all, I suppose, there’s the question of who’s right and who’s wrong. Criticism from beta readers may lead to your doubting your work, even your ability. When you set out to write this thing, you must have believed you could do it. You can’t let someone who has no horse in the race convince you otherwise. As the late, great author Kent Haruf once said: “You have to believe in yourself despite the evidence.”

It’s all up to you, of course. Use beta readers if it helps. Maybe two heads are better than one. On the other hand, it could be equally true that too many cooks spoil the broth.

Lies They Tell Writers, Part 23: Word count counts.

Lots of writers will tell you that you should write every day if you want to be a writer. Some go so far as to assign a daily number—500 words seems to be a popular sum, but certainly not the only one. You hear 1,000 words. Or 750. Or some other figure.

Some writers get downright obsessive about it. They say they’ll sit at the keyboard until they get their 500 words no matter what. If word number 500 happens to arrive in the middle of the night, fine. If word number 500 happens to arrive in the middle of a sentence, they will stop right there and shut it down.

Other writers, if they’re “blocked” (which is a delusion, to my way of thinking) or fresh out of ideas, will tap out 500 completely useless words just so they can say they made their number. It doesn’t much matter what those words are—they can be a detailed description of the desk lamp, some stream-of-consciousness nonsense, a reminiscence of a trip to the grocery store, or a make-believe letter to Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

If such writers find this sort of thing helpful, invigorating, inspiring, or whatever that’s fine. It makes no difference to me.

But do you really have to write some magic number of words every day to be a writer?

No.

Some days, I don’t write much. Other days—rare ones—not at all. Some days, I’ll hammer out a few thousand words. I might spend the better part of a day (or several days) sorting out 200-or-so words to make a poem. If there’s a deadline looming, I will write however many words it takes to make the deadline.

The thing is, if you’re a writer you have to figure out what it takes for you to write. The way anyone else does it is irrelevant. Their rules don’t count.

Nor does their daily word count.

At the end of the day—any day—I would much rather have written 173 words that say something, and say it well, than 500 worthless words I wrote just to keep my hand in.

Lies They Tell Writers, Part 22: Vomit on the Page.

Our last effusion, outpouring, gush, upchuck of “Lies” talked about the physical process of writing.

Here we go again.

I cannot count the number of times I have heard writers and writing instructors advise other writers that when writing it is important, imperative even, to write write write write write write write.

Do it quickly. Don’t slow down (hence, the absence of commas above). Don’t stop. Don’t worry about spelling, grammar, punctuation, word choice, or anything else. Just get it on the page (or screen) as fast as you can. You can always fix it another time.

A popular way of putting it is, “vomit on the page and come back later to clean it up.”

That doesn’t work for me.

It could be because I have written advertising copy for so many years. When you are confined to a fraction of a page or a half-minute of air time, you don’t have a lot of words to work with. Every one has to work hard on its own and play well with others. So, you carefully consider and contemplate every word, often before you write it.

Writing poetry is much the same, which is where I went next. Then short stories and magazine articles. By the time I got to novels and history books it was too late. I was already trained to examine each word, mull over every phrase, and think about every sentence. If something isn’t right, I am not capable of moving on. (Which is not to say everything I write is right; anyone who’s read my stuff knows better.) I can try, but it nags and niggles at me like a burr under a saddle blanket and I have to make it as right as I can before I can move on.

It’s more like playing with your food than vomiting on the page, I suppose.

The point is, writing is something you do by yourself. You have to do it your way. If that means barfing verbs and nouns and adjectives, fine. But if ruminating over every jot and tittle works for you, that’s fine too.