By the time we get to middle school, we're already indoctrinated into a whole host of "rules" that serve mainly to keep the status quo alive.
Boys are supposed to act, think, dress, and talk one way. Girls another.
The life you should seek is one which includes fistfuls of cash.
Don't take risks.
Don't question authority.
Look cool.
Fit in.
Wear the right clothes--even if they cost five times as much as the not-right clothes and you don't even like the way they feel.
And there are thousands more, over and over again pressured into our heads and hearts. But the trend can be stopped.
Reversed even--and it begins when we speak openly about the ways we've broken those rules in order to follow something deeper, more potent, more honest than a mob.
So I'm especially excited to share the news that a book entitled Break These Rules is going to be released by Chicago Review Press in Fall 2013. I'm immeasurebaly grateful to Joan Paquette, my agent at the Erin Murphy Literary Agency, for making the deal with editor Lisa Reardon at CRP.
All of the royalties from the projject will go to the Children's Defense Fund.
I'm also deeply grateful to the contributing authors whose essays and sage counsel on rule-breaking will appear in the volume: Kathy Erskine, Sara Zarr, Josh Berk, Carl Deuker, Francisco X. Stork, Matthew Quick, Olugbemisola Rhuday-Perkovich, Leslie Connor, Wendy Mass, Carol Lynch Williams, Gary D. Schmidt, A.S. King, Neesha Meminger, Lisa Schroeder, Mike Jung, Anna Staniszewski, Jen Nielsen, Lyn Miller-Lachmann, Jennifer Ziegler, Brian Yansky, Chris Barton, Tara Lazar, Natalie Dias Lorenzi, Jennifer Reynolds, Lynda Mullaly Hunt, Mitali Perkins, Margo Rabb, Lisa Burstein, Rob Buyea, Chris Lynch, Pat Schmatz, Sayantani DasGupta, Tamara Ellis Smith, and Thanhha Lai.
Here's the official announcement.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Thursday, February 16, 2012
The Perks of Living in a Brick House
Besides being a time-tested detriment to the Big Bad Wolf, living in a brick house has other fringe benefits.
Take, for instance, the fact that bricks are red. And red feels, somehow, deep. That reddish hue that escapes narrow definition as a Valentine's Day heart or a tomato. Instead, it's that deep kind of red that makes you think, Dude, if this deep kind of red was a live human being, it would quite possibly be one of those human whom you know is constantly considering profound information and uncanny wisdom as it applies to essential life questions.
Take, as well, the fact that brick is a word with which much can rhyme. Therefore, as people who live in a brick home, we can feel quite free to rhyme our home with lots of other words as we craft spontaneous couplets and sing them loud and far and wide with our windows open, such as: This home is made of brick; / Our flu is gone, no longer sick! / We dance in delight while holding sticks, / Because--yes!--we live in a house made of bricks!
And even though the two aforementioned benefits of living in a brick house are formidable and even hard to swallow on the first read-through (or at least fully digest), here is, perhaps, the greatest perk of them all--one for which pictures will have to suffice, since, as the old adage goes: a picture is worth a lot of words, maybe even one-hundred words, or even one hundred words plus an awful lot more words.
Take, for instance, the fact that bricks are red. And red feels, somehow, deep. That reddish hue that escapes narrow definition as a Valentine's Day heart or a tomato. Instead, it's that deep kind of red that makes you think, Dude, if this deep kind of red was a live human being, it would quite possibly be one of those human whom you know is constantly considering profound information and uncanny wisdom as it applies to essential life questions.
Take, as well, the fact that brick is a word with which much can rhyme. Therefore, as people who live in a brick home, we can feel quite free to rhyme our home with lots of other words as we craft spontaneous couplets and sing them loud and far and wide with our windows open, such as: This home is made of brick; / Our flu is gone, no longer sick! / We dance in delight while holding sticks, / Because--yes!--we live in a house made of bricks!
And even though the two aforementioned benefits of living in a brick house are formidable and even hard to swallow on the first read-through (or at least fully digest), here is, perhaps, the greatest perk of them all--one for which pictures will have to suffice, since, as the old adage goes: a picture is worth a lot of words, maybe even one-hundred words, or even one hundred words plus an awful lot more words.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
An Interview with Author Anna Staniszewski
I'm super-pumped (and in garlic-bread eating mood) to share this interview with author Anna Staniszewski. Born in Poland and raised in the United States, Anna Staniszewski grew up loving stories in both Polish and English. She was named the 2006-2007 Writer-in-Residence at the Boston Public Library and a winner of the 2009 PEN New England Susan P. Bloom Discovery Award. Currently, Anna lives outside of Boston with her husband and their adopted black Labrador, Emma. When she’s not writing, Anna spends her time teaching, reading, and challenging unicorns to games of hopscotch. Her first novel, My Very UnFairy Tale Life, was released by Sourcebooks Jabberwocky on November 1, 2011. The sequel, My Way Too Fairy Tale Life, is scheduled for Spring 2013. You can visit her at http://www.annastan.com/.
A few years ago, I was working on a dark, depressing story that was sucking the life out of me. I desperately needed something to cheer me up. So I sat down and wrote a scene about a girl named Jenny who comes home from school one day to find a talking frog sitting on her bed. Instead of being scared or excited to see a magical frog, Jenny was annoyed. In fact, she took that frog and threw it right out the window! I knew I had to tell her story.
Can you share a couple of the walls you hit during your writing process, and also a couple of the real full-speed-ahead parts of your writing process for this book?
I'm a total pantser so the story was all over the place in early versions. When I signed with my agent, she helped me to streamline the story, which involved cutting out two major characters and significantly simplifying the plot. She also suggested that I play around with the voice since it wasn't quite working. For years the story had been in third person, but when I decided to try rewriting it in first person, things really came together. I could practically hear Jenny saying: "Finally, you're letting me tell my own story!" Once the manuscript was in her voice, things really started to flow. 
Jenny is the person I wish I could be. She's fearless and outspoken, and she always manages to figure things out. Since I tend to be shy and wimpy, "becoming Jenny" for a little while gave me a chance to break out of my shell.
Can you share your own favorite line from the book?
My favorite line would have to be the opening: "You know all those stories that claim fairies cry sparkle tears and elves travel by rainbow? Lies. All Lies." This opening was the first thing I wrote when I changed the story to first person. Since Jenny was finally ale to tell her own story, this line feels the most like her.
What is one of your favorite books as a five year-old? Another as a ten year-old? Another of your current favorites?
When I was five, I was obsessed with a book of Polish Gypsy fairy tales that I made my parents read to me over and over. I was convinced that one day I'd grow up to be a Gypsy princess.
As a ten-year-old, I particularly loved fantasy and science fiction. One of my favorites was Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH.
My current favorites? Oh boy, there are so many! I'm still a huge sci-fi fan, but my love of fairy tales and fantasy is still going strong. I love anything that transports me to another time/place and makes me think.
How has the publication of your first novel changed your writing process--if at all?
Before I was published, my writing process was much less structured. I would write even when I had no idea where a story was going; this would often result in stories that stalled after fifty pages and never saw the light of day again. Now I approach projects a little more carefully. I'm still a pantser so I don't completely know where a story is going, but I try to keep the character's emotional journey in mind as I write. I also try to work out the character's main conflicts when I first start writing so I don't get stuck and give up after fifty pages. I'd like to think I make smarter choices as a writer while still giving myself plenty of room to play.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
The Sunflower Sword
Inspired by Mark Sperring's and Miriam Latimer's remarkable book, The Sunflower Sword, Jennifer and Tyler made good on Robert Frost's definition of poetry: "words that become deeds." See Jen's post about the book, on how she and Tyler brought it to life, and the awesome pictures here.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Creating from a Place of Compassion and Love
I first met my good friend Wade Austin when Jennifer and I moved to Flagstaff, Arizona from 2006-2008. One of those rare people who exudes both authenticity and joy, Wade has since been a remarkable friend, brother, encourager, challenger, and someone whom I deeply admire. In addition to many other talents and abilities, Wade is a gifted pianist and composer. Recently, I asked Wade if he could respond to some questions about his process of creation and creativity, as well as share some of his originally composed music (three YouTube videos follow the interview).
What inspires you most to create music?
Wow, great question: I would say several things inspire me. 1) Is hearing good music. When I hear good music, I ask myself and analyze what about that song do I like. For example it could be a good chord progression or an impressive melody, or excellent use of tension and release. Than I try to use it in my own music. 2) I also feel inspired when someone needs something. For example, if one of my friends needs a song for their wedding, or if they need a song to help them through a hard time. I feel very inspired to write.
When did you first fall in love with writing music?
I believe that in high school I first fell in love with writing music. While most people stand on the earth and watch the sun rise, I believe artists stand on the moon and watch the earth rise. It is a double edge sword, because artists get a unique perspective of the world, but they also tend to feel alone and misunderstood. Music allowed me to express hidden feelings and also share my perspective. In grief there is so much beauty. I believe that there is such a thin line between pure beauty and grief, and music walks that line perfectly. This is the aspect of music that I fell most in love with.
Can you share a story about a song you've written and the personal experiences out of which it arose?
There is a song I wrote for a wedding. The bride to be lost her brother and I felt like she really wished that her brother could be there. So, in this song I told a story about a woman/the bride who has a deep pain and she is embarrassed to bring this pain into the marriage. Later the fiance says I have pain of my own and I understand how you feel but with my strength I will carry your burden. In the future, the husband has his own burden, but the wife is free of her pain, but she never forgets. I can't play that song without tears coming to my eyes. It also reminds me of how God loves us. Despite whatever we bring to the relationship he loves us anyway. He also helps us get through our deepest grief.
What are your greatest joys and deepest lows when you work on music?
My greatest joy about music is seeing someone heal because of the music I was inspired to write. My greatest joy is when someone says, "I know exactly what that song meant," or "that song helped me through this hard time." My deepest low is when I struggle with feelings of inadequacy. I feel like the music I write is stupid, or people think that I am an amateur writer. It's difficult to compose when those feelings are haunting your mind.
What advice would you share with others who aspire to write music and share their work with audiences?
I would say never quit. Make sure that you always write for yourself. It is tempting to write something that will be popular or that people will like. I guess that is necessary sometimes, but always write something that you enjoy and blesses you.
Can you tell us about the song(s) to which the link or links go?
I put three songs on the web, and they are all songs that I wrote for my wife. They are all about different times of her life.
One of the songs is called "Orphaned Child." This song has special meaning because this is one of the songs to which we first fell in love. She asked me to write music to lyrics she wrote. After I shared the song with her, it blessed her tremendously. It was a crazy spiritual connection. We later walked down the aisle to that song.
The second song is called "Southern Belle." This song captures her experience as a missionary in Louisiana.
The third song is called "Celeste Movement I." This song captures a time in her life when she lost a good friend of hers in a car accident.
"Orphaned Child"
"Southern Belle"
"Celeste Movement I"
What inspires you most to create music?
Wow, great question: I would say several things inspire me. 1) Is hearing good music. When I hear good music, I ask myself and analyze what about that song do I like. For example it could be a good chord progression or an impressive melody, or excellent use of tension and release. Than I try to use it in my own music. 2) I also feel inspired when someone needs something. For example, if one of my friends needs a song for their wedding, or if they need a song to help them through a hard time. I feel very inspired to write.
When did you first fall in love with writing music?
I believe that in high school I first fell in love with writing music. While most people stand on the earth and watch the sun rise, I believe artists stand on the moon and watch the earth rise. It is a double edge sword, because artists get a unique perspective of the world, but they also tend to feel alone and misunderstood. Music allowed me to express hidden feelings and also share my perspective. In grief there is so much beauty. I believe that there is such a thin line between pure beauty and grief, and music walks that line perfectly. This is the aspect of music that I fell most in love with.
Can you share a story about a song you've written and the personal experiences out of which it arose?
There is a song I wrote for a wedding. The bride to be lost her brother and I felt like she really wished that her brother could be there. So, in this song I told a story about a woman/the bride who has a deep pain and she is embarrassed to bring this pain into the marriage. Later the fiance says I have pain of my own and I understand how you feel but with my strength I will carry your burden. In the future, the husband has his own burden, but the wife is free of her pain, but she never forgets. I can't play that song without tears coming to my eyes. It also reminds me of how God loves us. Despite whatever we bring to the relationship he loves us anyway. He also helps us get through our deepest grief.
What are your greatest joys and deepest lows when you work on music?
My greatest joy about music is seeing someone heal because of the music I was inspired to write. My greatest joy is when someone says, "I know exactly what that song meant," or "that song helped me through this hard time." My deepest low is when I struggle with feelings of inadequacy. I feel like the music I write is stupid, or people think that I am an amateur writer. It's difficult to compose when those feelings are haunting your mind.
What advice would you share with others who aspire to write music and share their work with audiences?
I would say never quit. Make sure that you always write for yourself. It is tempting to write something that will be popular or that people will like. I guess that is necessary sometimes, but always write something that you enjoy and blesses you.
Can you tell us about the song(s) to which the link or links go?
I put three songs on the web, and they are all songs that I wrote for my wife. They are all about different times of her life.
One of the songs is called "Orphaned Child." This song has special meaning because this is one of the songs to which we first fell in love. She asked me to write music to lyrics she wrote. After I shared the song with her, it blessed her tremendously. It was a crazy spiritual connection. We later walked down the aisle to that song.
The second song is called "Southern Belle." This song captures her experience as a missionary in Louisiana.
The third song is called "Celeste Movement I." This song captures a time in her life when she lost a good friend of hers in a car accident.
"Orphaned Child"
"Southern Belle"
"Celeste Movement I"
Thank You, Whitney
Growing up, my older brother Mike and I shared a room. I slept on the bottom bunk, he on the top. Four years older than me, Mike was always boldly himself. He never bowed to culture, never did something just because peers did it, or because it was supposedly "cool." Instead, Mike did volunteer work with Best Buddies--a program that paired a special education student with a student not in special education; Mike hugged everybody (read: everybody); Mike laughed like the wind; Mike always had time for children.
And Mike loved the music of Whitney Houston.
In our bedroom, Mike and I managed to cover the ceiling and walls with massive posters of three people: Whitney Houston, Martin Luther King, Jr. and Malcolm X. They were the ones we feel asleep looking at, the ones to whom we woke in the morning. They were constant reminders to us of boldness, courage, conviction, and the need to use your voice.
On timeless occasions, I would come inside from basketball practice to hear Whitney roaring from our stereo, "I will always love you" and even over and above Whitney's voice--though the stereo's volume was up to its highest decibel--there was Mike's voice: bold, believing, joyous.
Whitney came to represent something for my brother Mike--and she still does. She came to represent, in Mike's own words, "the importance of being real. Whitney showed us that your life doesn't have to be perfect. You sing with all your heart, and you love with all your heart--and your mistakes can never overpower the gifts you offer others in generosity and love."
And, through Mike, Whitney came to represent the same thing for me.
So it was a shock today when Jennifer came downstairs and told me the news of Whitney's passing. I felt this weird sort of stillness, and I was transported back to eighth grade. Mike and I, laying on our bunk beds, talking about life, and Whitney staring down at us from her perch on our ceiling, flanked by Martin and Malcolm.
As Mike and I talked on the phone today, Mike reminded me that her legacy lives on. "Remember to just sing a few lines of I Will Always Love You to everyone you see today, okay?"
And knowing my brother Mike--the effusive, love-giving, life-sharing person he is--he meant it. And the visions of Mike belting out Whitney's songs on family vacations, on crosswalks in public, and to friends and family are vivid, enduring.
So, from across the pond, I owe Whitney a big thank you. Thanks for meaning so much to my brother Michael and, by extension, to me.
And Mike loved the music of Whitney Houston.
In our bedroom, Mike and I managed to cover the ceiling and walls with massive posters of three people: Whitney Houston, Martin Luther King, Jr. and Malcolm X. They were the ones we feel asleep looking at, the ones to whom we woke in the morning. They were constant reminders to us of boldness, courage, conviction, and the need to use your voice.
On timeless occasions, I would come inside from basketball practice to hear Whitney roaring from our stereo, "I will always love you" and even over and above Whitney's voice--though the stereo's volume was up to its highest decibel--there was Mike's voice: bold, believing, joyous.
Whitney came to represent something for my brother Mike--and she still does. She came to represent, in Mike's own words, "the importance of being real. Whitney showed us that your life doesn't have to be perfect. You sing with all your heart, and you love with all your heart--and your mistakes can never overpower the gifts you offer others in generosity and love."
And, through Mike, Whitney came to represent the same thing for me.
So it was a shock today when Jennifer came downstairs and told me the news of Whitney's passing. I felt this weird sort of stillness, and I was transported back to eighth grade. Mike and I, laying on our bunk beds, talking about life, and Whitney staring down at us from her perch on our ceiling, flanked by Martin and Malcolm.
As Mike and I talked on the phone today, Mike reminded me that her legacy lives on. "Remember to just sing a few lines of I Will Always Love You to everyone you see today, okay?"
And knowing my brother Mike--the effusive, love-giving, life-sharing person he is--he meant it. And the visions of Mike belting out Whitney's songs on family vacations, on crosswalks in public, and to friends and family are vivid, enduring.
So, from across the pond, I owe Whitney a big thank you. Thanks for meaning so much to my brother Michael and, by extension, to me.
 |
| Mike and I on his visit to York, England in 2011 |
Saturday, February 11, 2012
The Heart of the Story
Today, I wrote a pivotal scene in a novel in progress. It's a novel that has seen two full re-writes already, and is now in its third round of reworking. It's the kind of scene that changes everything--redefines who's "bad" and "good" in the novel--makes the stakes higher, more tragic, more painful.
Why?
Why write a scene in which a central character has to endure something terrible? Something awful?
See, when I wrote the first draft of this novel, I avoided that kind of thing. It's a book about a ninth grade kid who wants to make his basketball team. (Kind of like...well...when yours truly was a ninth grade kid wanting to make a certain basketball team.) I wrote the original novel straight through in bursts and gusts like some kind of windstorm hepped up on the sound of catching, cascading leaves.
I wrote like fire on that first draft, all the while keeping my eyes on the finish line.
But in writing the novel like this the first time through, I only brushed the surface. I only threw a few minor obstacles in the path of my character (ahem, myself).
Okay: a minor bullying issue.
Okay: character locks up in basketball games, fumbles ball a a lot. Misses easy jumpers. Misses passes.
Okay: character has a crush on popular girl. Said girl does not, in any capacity, experience similar sense of crush-ness.
Resolution? Character's brother, teacher, father help character overcome these (minor) obstacles. Character makes team. Scores points.
Finish!
It was, essentially, 135 pages of if only.
The second draft saw more obstacles come to the character--more nuances personalities of others involved, more suffering, more confusion. But still, too easy. Too fast.
It was, essentially, 155 pages of maybe life could be like this, but it's not really that interesting or inspiring.
So then I did what any hard-working, determined, courageous novelist would do: I started a brand new novel. I didn't look at the other novel or work on it for another six months. I left that character (ahem, myself) stranded in a world without too many obstacles, without resolution or redemption for why he even wanted to make that team so badly, how his family was going to work things out, and a host of other confusing, plain-old-hard-to-forge-ahead dilemmas.
And the new novel was great fun! Such joy! Ah: the beginnings of things! Anything is possible, everything is possible.
But the other novel, when I was trying to escape it, kept doing small annoying things.
Like: when I'd be pumped about a great scene for the new novel, the old novel would whisper stuff like: Dude. Dude! You never even gave me a chance, did you? You wrote me up to a point, but just when you sensed that wall coming, you took cover and ducked out.
Like: when I'd think about other novel ideas to get brainstorming on, old novel would shake his head and say, And I was counting on you. Really. I was thinking we were forming a relationship built on trust. Commitment. Sticktoitiveness. At least I know how you REALLY feel.
New novel was fun. Brainstorming Novel was fun, too. There were (and are) some really neat ideas in both. But Old Novel saw right through me.
Then, something happened which made Old Novel's voice as loud as a Lion drinking five Red Bulls talking into a microphone attached to a state of the art sound system.
Francisco X. Stork came along and wrote a blog post which was beautiful, profound, moving, mesmerizing, and about one-hundred other adjectives. And one line in that one-hundred-plus adjective blog post took a walk off the screen of my computer, crawled across my keyboard, under my shirt, rock climbing up the many belly and chest hairs of my body, right up over my chine, lips, semi-large nose and directly in front of my eyes.
The novel you need to write is the one that scares you the most, the one you think no one will publish and if it is published no one will read and if it is read no one will understand, except perhaps another soul like yours.
The sentence joined forces with Old Novel and the two of them came at me like Mel Gibson and Danny Glover, like Milk and Cookies, like Dragons and Fire, like Laverne and Shirley, like garlic bread and more garlic bread.
I could no longer resist.
So I gave New Novel a few loving, tender words, and promised I'd return soon, and I opened up Old Novel and dug back in.
This time, however, I wrote intothe fear. I wrote into the places I didn't want my character (ahem, myself) to go. I wrote into the darkness and the confusion and into the pivotal scene I mentioned at the start of this post.
I cried.
A lot.
My heart was pounding, and I experienced a minor allergy attack, and the three people to my right in the computer lab kept looking over at me like, Why is that guy crying and sneezing and DOES HE HAVE TO TYPE SO LOUD?
Yes.
Because in this last month of Old Novel's third re-drafting, I am finally writing into the heart of the story. And it's scary and painful and wonderful and incredibly gooey in there. Nothing makes a whole lot of sense (yet). And nothing is easy. And no redemption is going to be possible without a lot of learning, one hefty character arc, and loads of transformation, from outside and from within.
Kind of, ahem, like my life.
When we write into the heart of the story, we're no longer writing with a publishing deal in mind, or with a certain audience in mind, or even with a goal in mind. When we really find ourselves getting into the center of the story, we're writing what has to be written--the words announce themselves and we're choosing to allow them the space to be who they are, show us what needs to happen even though it's scary and painful and all we want to do is say Surely there's got to be another way?
But there isn't.
(In writing, or in life.)
Without the pain, the redemption isn't real. Without the obstacles, the triumph isn't beautiful. Without the confusion and despair, the clarity and the hope aren't authentic.
And we we were somehow able to all get together under the guise of having a Jimmy Stewart movie marathon or a garlic bread-eating contest or something typical like that, but instead, we arrived at the wide open space with no television and no oven, and instead we all started talking about the kind of lives we want to live and the kind of stories we want to write, I'd venture to say that we'd come to a pretty quick consensus.
We want to write and live the ones that aren't easy. Even though the surface of ourselves and our culture certainly claims otherwise, we know deep down that we don't want ease. We don't want clarity without confusion. We don't want triumph without despair. We don't want love without first moving through and past fear.
And the only stories worth telling and the only lives worth living are those whose words and arms open up wide enough to embrace the suffering and the joy--knowing that both are necessary to both forge and move our hearts.
Why?
Why write a scene in which a central character has to endure something terrible? Something awful?
See, when I wrote the first draft of this novel, I avoided that kind of thing. It's a book about a ninth grade kid who wants to make his basketball team. (Kind of like...well...when yours truly was a ninth grade kid wanting to make a certain basketball team.) I wrote the original novel straight through in bursts and gusts like some kind of windstorm hepped up on the sound of catching, cascading leaves.
I wrote like fire on that first draft, all the while keeping my eyes on the finish line.
But in writing the novel like this the first time through, I only brushed the surface. I only threw a few minor obstacles in the path of my character (ahem, myself).
Okay: a minor bullying issue.
Okay: character locks up in basketball games, fumbles ball a a lot. Misses easy jumpers. Misses passes.
Okay: character has a crush on popular girl. Said girl does not, in any capacity, experience similar sense of crush-ness.
Resolution? Character's brother, teacher, father help character overcome these (minor) obstacles. Character makes team. Scores points.
Finish!
It was, essentially, 135 pages of if only.
The second draft saw more obstacles come to the character--more nuances personalities of others involved, more suffering, more confusion. But still, too easy. Too fast.
It was, essentially, 155 pages of maybe life could be like this, but it's not really that interesting or inspiring.
So then I did what any hard-working, determined, courageous novelist would do: I started a brand new novel. I didn't look at the other novel or work on it for another six months. I left that character (ahem, myself) stranded in a world without too many obstacles, without resolution or redemption for why he even wanted to make that team so badly, how his family was going to work things out, and a host of other confusing, plain-old-hard-to-forge-ahead dilemmas.
And the new novel was great fun! Such joy! Ah: the beginnings of things! Anything is possible, everything is possible.
But the other novel, when I was trying to escape it, kept doing small annoying things.
Like: when I'd be pumped about a great scene for the new novel, the old novel would whisper stuff like: Dude. Dude! You never even gave me a chance, did you? You wrote me up to a point, but just when you sensed that wall coming, you took cover and ducked out.
Like: when I'd think about other novel ideas to get brainstorming on, old novel would shake his head and say, And I was counting on you. Really. I was thinking we were forming a relationship built on trust. Commitment. Sticktoitiveness. At least I know how you REALLY feel.
New novel was fun. Brainstorming Novel was fun, too. There were (and are) some really neat ideas in both. But Old Novel saw right through me.
Then, something happened which made Old Novel's voice as loud as a Lion drinking five Red Bulls talking into a microphone attached to a state of the art sound system.
Francisco X. Stork came along and wrote a blog post which was beautiful, profound, moving, mesmerizing, and about one-hundred other adjectives. And one line in that one-hundred-plus adjective blog post took a walk off the screen of my computer, crawled across my keyboard, under my shirt, rock climbing up the many belly and chest hairs of my body, right up over my chine, lips, semi-large nose and directly in front of my eyes.
The novel you need to write is the one that scares you the most, the one you think no one will publish and if it is published no one will read and if it is read no one will understand, except perhaps another soul like yours.
The sentence joined forces with Old Novel and the two of them came at me like Mel Gibson and Danny Glover, like Milk and Cookies, like Dragons and Fire, like Laverne and Shirley, like garlic bread and more garlic bread.
I could no longer resist.
So I gave New Novel a few loving, tender words, and promised I'd return soon, and I opened up Old Novel and dug back in.
This time, however, I wrote intothe fear. I wrote into the places I didn't want my character (ahem, myself) to go. I wrote into the darkness and the confusion and into the pivotal scene I mentioned at the start of this post.
I cried.
A lot.
My heart was pounding, and I experienced a minor allergy attack, and the three people to my right in the computer lab kept looking over at me like, Why is that guy crying and sneezing and DOES HE HAVE TO TYPE SO LOUD?
Yes.
Because in this last month of Old Novel's third re-drafting, I am finally writing into the heart of the story. And it's scary and painful and wonderful and incredibly gooey in there. Nothing makes a whole lot of sense (yet). And nothing is easy. And no redemption is going to be possible without a lot of learning, one hefty character arc, and loads of transformation, from outside and from within.
Kind of, ahem, like my life.
When we write into the heart of the story, we're no longer writing with a publishing deal in mind, or with a certain audience in mind, or even with a goal in mind. When we really find ourselves getting into the center of the story, we're writing what has to be written--the words announce themselves and we're choosing to allow them the space to be who they are, show us what needs to happen even though it's scary and painful and all we want to do is say Surely there's got to be another way?
But there isn't.
(In writing, or in life.)
Without the pain, the redemption isn't real. Without the obstacles, the triumph isn't beautiful. Without the confusion and despair, the clarity and the hope aren't authentic.
And we we were somehow able to all get together under the guise of having a Jimmy Stewart movie marathon or a garlic bread-eating contest or something typical like that, but instead, we arrived at the wide open space with no television and no oven, and instead we all started talking about the kind of lives we want to live and the kind of stories we want to write, I'd venture to say that we'd come to a pretty quick consensus.
We want to write and live the ones that aren't easy. Even though the surface of ourselves and our culture certainly claims otherwise, we know deep down that we don't want ease. We don't want clarity without confusion. We don't want triumph without despair. We don't want love without first moving through and past fear.
And the only stories worth telling and the only lives worth living are those whose words and arms open up wide enough to embrace the suffering and the joy--knowing that both are necessary to both forge and move our hearts.
Friday, February 3, 2012
Writing & Voice
Here's a three-minute video with some thoughts on writing with your authentic voice:
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