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Writing. It’s serious business.

There’s nothing like a good, long meet-up with a writing friend to get the creative juices flowing. Yesterday, I drove the ninety miles headed west to sit with Victoria Flynn for several hours and talk shop. We worked up some big plans, exchanged story ideas; I drove home with thoughts for a new post.

Everybody wants to be a writer. Or, at least, plenty of people say they want to be a writer. But, the craft doesn’t come easy. And, rest assured, it is a learned craft. I will never forget a quote I read by Margaret Atwood in her book, Negotiating with the Dead:

A lot of people do have a book in them – that is, they have had an experience that other people might want to read about. But this is not the same as “being a writer.” Or, to put it in a more sinister way: everyone can dig a hole in a cemetery, but not everyone is a grave-digger.

Yesterday, Victoria and I poured over notebooks and clicked on a laptop or flipped through the iPad, taking notes and pulling up information from books on the craft and working out the structure of workshops and novels. We’re not taking this writing business lightly. And, neither should you.

1. You, the writer.

If you’re new to serious writing, or if you’re getting back into the craft after a long hiatus, a few questions from Melissa Donovan’s new book, 101 Creative Writing Exercises, may help guide your vision and point you in the right direction:

1. What do you write or what do you want to write? Think about form (fiction, poetry, memoir, etc.) and genre…. Be specific.

2. What are your top three goals as a writer?

3. In the past year, what have you accomplished in working toward your goals?

As Donovan says, “For those who intend to succeed, to finish that novel, get that poem published, or earn a living wage as a freelance writer, staying focused is imperative.” This is true for me. My big goals are solid, clear, but I consider questions like these when approaching smaller projects as well. If I’m struggling with a story or a chapter in a novel (or a blog post), I ask myself what I aim to do? What am I trying to say? What’s the big picture? Once I find that focus, I move forward.

2. Your Characters.

Say you have the story, but the characters – or atleast some of them – are still fuzzy. What’s a writer to do? There are plenty of character development worksheets out there, but those structured forms don’t always work for someone like me. Surprisingly. In real life, I need plans, lists, a timeline. In creative writing, not so much. So, when well-thought-out forms fail, I can always turn to an exercise that Roz Morris and Joanna Penn discuss in their Webinar series, “How to Write a Novel“: discovery writing. This type of free writing brings your characters into a better light, uncovers the mystery of their world and their thinking, reveals if that character would stand out as a strong antagonist or end up playing the part of a catalyst. Doing this type of exercise early on in the writing process, as Morris says, gives you “plenty of opportunities to use your creative urges . . . . to make the book better, instead of getting lost” in the middle.

3. Hidden Prompts.

When you decide you must write, have to, can’t stand it a minute longer, suffer from that “Dadgummit-why-have-I-waited-so-long” drive, where do you start? There are so many books and websites that offer daily writing prompts (stop by Patricia McNair’s website for starters), but there are also writing prompts everywhere around you.

  • Find a seat at a restaurant. We overhear conversations all day every day. Practice in the exercise of listening, pick out a snippet of conversation nearby, grab your pen. Go with it and write a whole new story for the couple two tables over.
  • Read the paper, and not just today’s paper. I’ve mentioned the fun of flipping through old microfiche before, how they are hidden treasures for character names and how they are just plain fun. But I’ve also discovered that snippets of those old stories become great prompts for flash fiction. Here’s one example from a paper dated 1889:

Mr. Cates returned from Iowa convinced by personal experience that Iowa prohibition does not prohibit.

Mr. Cates has a tale untold. Will you write it?

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Guest Post: Alvina Lopez on Writing Fiction

Please welcome my guest blogger today, Alvina Lopez.

The Golden Rule of Writing Fiction

People much smarter than I amEvery writer has their own set of rules and philosophies that governs their writing style and work ethic. For some writers, consistency in their schedule is key: these are the disciplined writers that work every day based on a very specific schedule. Other writers thrive on spontaneity, writing their work whenever they’re seized by erratic bursts of creativity. Most writers work under some hybrid of these two extremes, tempering methodical practice with sudden energetic jolts of inspiration. I tend to approach fiction and professional content with the same hybrid approach. I have a firm schedule that keeps my writing on track, but I’m also prone to write outside of my schedule when the mood seizes me.

There’s only one “rule” that governs my writing when I work on fiction. It’s a deceptively simple rule: write what you know. It’s a mantra that I repeat whenever I get too deep in the woods of the unknown, a gentle reminder that writing from a point of familiarity isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It might seem obvious, but your strongest writing occurs when you draw from personal experiences and well-researched material.

When I talk about my golden rule of “writing what you know”, I don’t mean that your writing can only be limited to the mundane experiences of your day to day life. There can only be so much fiction about the quiet life and domestic dramas. Writing from a point of familiarity shouldn’t limit your ability; rather, it should provide you with a compass that will help you navigate the wilderness of your imagination. In other words, you can write about outlandish settings and atypical characters, as long as they’re fleshed out in dimensions that you can fully understand.

Let me be more specific. Say that you’re trying to write a fantasy story set in another universe in the distant future. You can (and should) pour all your imagination into describing vibrant alien landscapes, exotic creatures and novel personalities.  But unless these fantastical settings are rooted in some sort of relatable conflict—whose nuances you can fully describe—your story will fall flat. If your tale covers some intergalactic war, be sure that you’re well versed in combat and armed conflicts either on a personal or a scholastic level if you want any of your story to ring true. If your fantasy story features an epic romance, even one between a fictional species, you had best be equipped to talk about the complications of love.

Essentially, to “write what you know” means that you must apply universal truths as you know them or have experienced them to produce fiction that will resonate with the reader. The more familiarity you have with a subject, the sharper and more descriptive your writing will be when you write about it. True, there are some writers out there who don’t need any point of reference in order to write a masterpiece. But for the rest of us, and particularly for those writers just starting out, this golden rule helps navigate the perilous waters of fiction.

Editor’s note: How does “write what you know” fuel your fiction?

Alvina Lopez is a freelance writer and blog junkie. She welcomes your comments at her email Id: alvina.lopez @gmail.com.
* photo credit: mpclemens on flickr.com
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Three Lessons for the Traveling Writer

Even though we knew we couldn’t get into the onsite events at AWP, Victoria Flynn and I went to Chicago last weekend anyway. We had a hotel. We had ambition. And, my goodness, we had a great time.

Lesson One: Whenever you can, take the train.

There’s something romantic about boarding the train, about climbing the narrow, metal stairs, suitcase in tow. About following the pull to your left and turning into a cabin full of rows and promise. You take your seat, gaze out the window, and float along with a landscape enveloped by the season. On this day, by a heavy snowstorm; the city streams by in a soft, white glow.

Quiet. Like a dream.

The conductor asks for your ticket. He punches twice, smiles once, nods and moves on. You take a picture to mark the moment.

Lesson Two: Whenever you can, take a friend.

Certain bits and pieces of life are best experienced in the presence of someone who puts you at ease, as you move through new spaces. Someone who’s traveling that same journey with you, who shares in your excitement about the future, about the things you want to do and the stories you want to write. Someone who looks you straight in the eye after you’ve said there’s no way you could apply for that two-week writing residency. Ever. Life would never allow for such extravagance, you say. To which she says, Maybe not right now. Reminding you that now isn’t the same as never.

Lesson Three: Whenever you can, take risks.

Say Yes to a late-night dessert. Order the gelato drizzled in salt and olive oil and find yourself saying, “Oh, my. Who knew.” Stay up until two-thirty in the morning, even though you know what “tired and over forty” feels like.

Soak up the fancy of a hotel you might never have visited before, except by the random choice of an online reservation site. A hotel dressed in straight lines and sharp angles and silver and lights and – somewhere in your room – hidden disco balls. A hotel with mirrored tiles that fracture your image and make you believe for a second that you really are living out a dream.

Make a list of all the things you will do this year, ignoring the committee in your mind that presses you with “impossible” and “come on!” and “who do you think you are?”

Write about “gasp-able moments”, sage advice learned from a writer friend’s young son.

And on the ride home, when you realize the train will travel backwards the whole way, sink into your seat and take in the irony of it all, how you’re being pulled out of the dream and back into the day. As if to say, Grab hold: of the energy, of the inspiration, of the call to take risks. Why not, you think. Here we are, only once, There’s no guarantee you’ll succeed just by trying, but there’s promise to fail if you don’t.