Christi Craig Archives - Page 11 of 68

July 31, 2013July 30, 2013

Taking It All In: Details in Writing (& a Prompt)

Lately, I feel like I’ve blathered on and on about how we incorporate details in our writing:

Their importance as we set the stage for story
The role they play in bringing a story to life for readers
And, the old standard, “Show, don’t tell.”

Enough is enough, right?

Or, is it?

Every time I come across a new article on the way details work in crafting a good story, I learn something new, or I am reminded of a forgotten element of the technique. Either way, how I use details keeps resurfacing in my work and in my discussions about the work, so I’d best keep listening.

In her essay, “Everything Has a Name (Or, How Gardening Made Me a Better Writer),” on Grub Street Daily, Celeste Ng hits on why writers must continue to hone this skill:

[Y]our job, at its heart, is to give everything—objects, events, emotions—its precise name. Not “flower,” but He was waiting for the geranium. Not “summer,” but Heat. A baseball field. Yellow grass, the whirr of insects. Not “beauty,” but this clean bare plane of the top of her chest down from the shoulder bones like a dented sheet of metal tilted in the light. . . .To be a writer, you don’t need to have the name of every plant, or every tool, or every bird, at the ready. But you need to find it, to point your finger and make the reader slow down, pay attention, look closer.

Slow down. Pay attention.

Your work will translate into a better read for your audience.

The Prompt

Lost or Found. Write about something you lost or something you found.

Consider the specificity of your details. Don’t dress them in adjectives but give them names.

* Photo credit: Microphone, doctor_bob on Morguefile.com; Kids, me.

July 24, 2013July 23, 2013

Writing Memoir: the Side Effects of Telling the Truth

“There is a ripple effect each time a memoir is published, and while the memoirist cannot fully prepare for it, he or she should expect it.” ~ Anthony D’Aries in Writing Lessons: Memoir’s Truth and Consequences

Several years ago, I was pushing my daughter in the stroller while on a walk, and I came upon a story. Near my house, I passed a young girl sitting on her front steps. She was skinny, maybe thirteen. She looked bored. Then, I heard people I can only assume were her parents yelling at each other inside the house, their voices loud enough so that every word resounded as clear as the intonation behind it. I slowed my pace and gave a tentative wave. When the girl glanced up at me, I thought I saw the faint trace of a black eye.

At first, I kept on walking, doubting myself but wondering. Then, I turned around and asked if everything was okay. She looked at me like I was crazy. Like everything going on around her, behind her, and in spite of her, was just another day in Normal. Parents argue, they yell. This young girl waits it out.

Impressed by the image and by her indifference (and maybe by a little of my own guilt in walking away), I wrote “Red Velvet Sunday.”

Later, I had the opportunity to read that story on the radio, and I shared the link to the episode with family and friends. Even though the story was fiction, someone close to me said they hoped the story wasn’t born out of real life experiences. “Not a bit!” I said, completely surprised, and I wondered what they and others might think if I did write bits and pieces of truth.

When writing memoir, facts are set down easily enough; it’s everything in between—and the potential effects afterward—that presents the challenge. Andrew D’Aries warns the memoirist in his quote above, but a write can only prepare for so much.

I’m talking truth in memoir at Write It Sideways this week in a post that’s generating some great discussion. I hope you’ll stop by and leave your thoughts.

Writers love dialogue.

Read it here: Telling the Truth in Memoir: More Than Just Facts

*Photo credit: biberta on morguefile.com

July 17, 2013July 16, 2013

Finding Time to Write: Old-School Technology Saves the Day

All I need is ten minutes. I’m notorious for saying those words after a late night, a long day, or in a moment of exhaustion. Ten minutes of sleep. That’s it.

And, it usually works.

I wake up refreshed, ready, and I don’t feel one bit guilty about taking that time for myself.

So, why can’t I apply the same philosophy to my writing: ten minutes, no guilt?

Just a few weeks into summer, I posted about how I was taking all my extra time, before my kids got out of school, to write. Before time got swept up in travel to and from baseball and gymnastics and swimming and Up North. And, never mind the grocery shopping and the laundry and Who’s planning on weeding the garden anyway? I swore, early on, I wouldn’t have a minute to spare for writing once summer heated up.

Funny enough, though, I didn’t worry about when I might find time for checking emails or updating my Facebook status or shooting off a tweet or two. Or that nap.

Cue Joanne Tombrakos‘ book, It Takes an Egg Timer: A Guide to Creating the Time for Your Life:

You do have enough time–for everything you have to and want to, and then some. It’s just a question of what you are letting get in the way.

I bought Tombrakos’ book ages ago but hadn’t cracked it open. Then, shortly after I wrote my “don’t bother me I’ll be writing” post, I rediscovered it. I was flipping through source material to use at my monthly writing gig with the Seniors, and I saw the Egg Timer book. I thought it might have some good tips, maybe a writing prompt or two.

I don’t remember bookmarking any prompts necessarily, but I do remember reading.
And nodding.
And taking A LOT of notes.

Old-school technology, exactly what I need.

Trombrakos’ concept is simple (and cheap): get yourself a regular egg timer and use it as THE tool to help you focus and to be wise with your time. Spend a good 20 minutes or 60 minutes on writing-related projects, be it social media or novelizing…or blog posts.

Sure, there are a million ways to time yourself, including the iPhone (which I have and have used). But Tombrakos makes a good point when she talks about her history with egg timers, how it’s not just about the simplicity of the mechanism but the meditative (and non-disctracting) qualities of it:

The gentle, unobtrusive tick, tick, ticking of an egg timer fell on my ears like the sound of the ocean. Soothing and calming, I grew to understand it as a set amount of time in which something could be created. In the kitchen it was food. On my desk it would be something else.

My iPhone pulls me away from writing with its easy access to all things online. If I really want to focus my time and attention, I have to put that piece of technology away.

How It Works

The point of using an egg timer is to busy ourselves with what engages us, not what distracts us from our purpose and our path.

MAKE A TO-DO LIST. Simple enough, you say, but don’t overlook the value of a list. It’s precisely when I’m overwhelmed that a such a list becomes my life-saver (or sanity-preserver). I write down the next several writing projects I have to do/want to do, even if I think, “There’s no way.” Just write it down.

SET YOUR PARAMETERS. Tombrakos suggests 20-minute or 60-minute windows of time. I set mine at 10, 30, 0r 60, depending. The numbers aren’t as important as how you use them. Look at your list and figure out which projects warrant more or less time. If you’re having trouble deciding, consider a couple of questions from the book:

How is this task helping to manifest my bigger intentions?
Is is worth setting the egg timer for?

For example, Twitter and Facebook are both a part of my writer’s platform, so I can’t ignore them completely. But I can limit the time I spend fiddling around with them. As Tombrakos says, “Social media never gets a sixty-minute window. NEVER.”

START THE TIMER. Really. Get going. I had to tell myself that the other night when, after settling my kids into bed, I felt beat tired. Beat. It was already close to ten o’clock, and I thought, Surely sleep is the better option. But, my egg timer–this little guy

–was sitting on my desk, looking all cute and what-not but ready to give me the fish-eye if I didn’t get moving.

So I did. For just 30 minutes. And, man, did I feel good afterward.

I don’t use the egg timer every time I sit down to write, and I’m not always as productive with the timer when I do. But, as Tombrakos says, “The egg timer alone is not your answer, but it sure helps.” Especially on those days when writing is the last thing I want to do or the one thing I think I can’t possibly squeeze into my schedule.

What would you do with ten minutes? Or twenty?