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Here and Now.

I had a totally different post in mind for today, one in which I would go blathering on about the great weekend I had working on my novel, how I was lucky to have spent two nights away with little to worry about except the story and getting all those flash cards of scenes into a workable order, how traveling with a writing partner and a kindred spirit made the weekend even nicer and the work a lot less painful.

I planned to share photos: pictures of coffee in pretty cups that made me feel pampered and plate-fuls of sustenance that fueled my energy, and a snapshot of blooming flowers that were a sign of promise on a cloudy day.

But, this week’s tragedy in Boston left me in a quiet state of mind. Grateful to be in the here and now, surrounded by the people I love. Comforted by reminders that there are so many good souls  counteracting the crazy in this world. And, glued to this message from a very wise man:

You must not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is an ocean; if a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become dirty. ~ Mahatma Gandhi

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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.