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Three Reasons to Workshop

Maybe because it’s Monday and the start of a fresh new week, or maybe it’s the way my coffee kicked in with that handful of M&M’s I just ate, but either way, I’m excited.

Last week, I signed up for a Novel Workshop. The workshop speaks to writers who “have a good portion of their novel on paper and want some constructive feedback…instruction, support and discussion.”

Perfect.

Perfect for me for three reasons:

1. I’ve been all talk lately about rewriting the first draft of my novel — talking on my blog, talking in my morning pages, talking out loud to myself in front of the laptop too late at night. But now, this workshop guarantees firm deadlines, and there’s nothing like accountability to force the issue and say, “Rewrite. Or else.”

2.  Ann M. Lynn commented on my post on patience about the fact that beginning writers often spend the majority of their time studying the craft and less time writing. She said:

New writers are slowed by learning activities: studying published works, experimenting with techniques familiar to the old pros, fumbling with prose in search of an understandable or unique style, squeezing writing time into already busy schedules (or developing the habit or sitting down to write), and working through emotional blocks (all those mountains and sinkholes we create for ourselves).

I have sat in that place of more contemplation and study and less writing for months. Now, I want to ride the pendulum back to center and apply some of my new insights. I want to write stories as often as I study the craft of storytelling.

3. One of the peripheral reasons for taking this course is connection. So far, all my writing and learning has happened online where “face-to-face” means interacting with avatars. The internet is a great security veil for me. I’ve taken more risks than I thought I could, and I have been rewarded with new writing friends and great resources.

However, I’m still hiding. If I want to be taken seriously as a writer, then it’s time I show up in the real writing world. In “Close, but No (Literary) Cigar” (from the Writer’s Yearbook 2010), Rachel Estrada Ryan says:

“…Universities, bookstores, libraries and the occasional coffee shop often bring in established writers and agents…I highly recommend showing up to such events; they offer a great way to meet (and, with hope, endear yourself to) successful people who might be able to help further your career” (p. 31).

I doubt I’ll meet any agents in this workshop (though you never know). But, I’m sure I’ll meet other local writers, some of them established writers with their own – local – connections.  I can’t wait for the chance to sit among them, listen and discuss, and introduce myself. Not as a “writer on the side.” Not as a “writer- wanna- be.” But, a Writer.

If you signed up for the same workshop, you’ll recognize me even before introductions. I’ll be the one holding a strong cup of coffee, wearing a giddy smile, and sporting a brand new fancy pen with paper.

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Hoffman, Scott and Ryan, Rachel Estrada. “Close, but No (Literary) Cigar.” Writer’s Digest, The Writer’s Yearbook 2010. Special issue: 28-31. Print.

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If I Get Lost, the Story Falls Flat

There’s been a lot of talk online* recently about craft and voice and when to know if your work is publishable or best kept in a drawer.

Linda Cassidy Lewis posted about the fact that everyone can write a story, but a writer hopes to craft one.

Jennifer Stanley and Donald Maass posted separately on voice. If you stay true to your voice, the work, according to Maass, will read “authentic and passionate.” The story, Stanley believes, will “outshine” all the others.

Rachelle Gardner said that rejection after rejection may imply a writer needs more than just good grammar skills. That writer should sign up for a class on the craft of writing with a good teacher who isn’t afraid to say, “This doesn’t work. At all.”

I wrote a story a while back that was a good story. I remember sitting in a diner watching a scene unfold across the restaurant in a way that I thought, “somebody should write about that. That’s crazy!” So I did. I made up a story that paralleled the scene I witnessed, but I didn’t tell the story well. I wrote it with a particular literary magazine in mind. And, I wrote it in a way I imagined a particular famous author would write it. My voice was lost, along with the passion. The story read flat, no matter how hard I infused it with vivid details or realistic dialogue.

I know better now, but I still have much to learn. I do recognize when a story is becoming my own – when it’s a story that I enjoy reading myself. That sounds narcissistic, but when I read my own story and think, well, I might pick it up, but I hope they will pick it up, then I need to go back, rework it, and find the place where I got lost.

There’s still no guarantee my well-crafted story will get published. But, I can lean on the belief that if it’s authentic to me, it will at least stand out next to another writer’s tale.

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* If you’re on Twitter, consider following Debbie Ridpath Ohi @inkyelbows. She rolls out tweet after tweet of great links, resources, and retweets.

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Purge the Plastic, Not the Paper

You’d think I was pregnant, the way I’ve been rummaging through drawers, sifting through papers, and filling garbage bags full of “unnecessary plastic objects” (to quote one of my favorite singers, Nanci Griffith).

The need to purge came on strong just before the holidays. We moved furniture to open up a room downstairs and uncovered a host of lost toys (not missed once), and I found myself dreaming of a dumpster. I even considered tossing some of the writing magazines and literary journals I’ve accumulated in the last year.

But, I knew the garbage bin wouldn’t see draft, nor final, of any of my earlier writings: old essays, true stories, and short shorts.

When I got serious about writing and heard that old adage – a writer should never throw out anything, even if she think it stinks – I wondered, how can you possibly keep everything?.

Still, I saved each story and every quick write in more than one place. I printed a few cherished essays and placed them in a big binder that’s secured between my nightstand and my bed.

Mine.

The first few pieces I wrote were all memoir, too risky to publish, that pried their way out of my mind’s dark corners. When I shared them with other writers and got great feedback on one or two, I thought, what if I publish them? But the purpose of those pieces was not to show up in glossy print on the white pages of a literary magazine. My earlier writings de-cluttered my brain and cleared the way for new narratives to take shape.

And, as writers who came before me predicted, bits and pieces of those earlier essays have bled into other stories. An old familiar figure became the face of a new character. The real-life moment I walked into a nursing home wove its way into a fictional short story where my emotions as memory gave way to imagined conversations.

Isn’t that how fiction works? We write what we know. Our experiences and memories interact with our imagination. We give new life to an old character, reshape the insides of an old house.

We write a new ending.