Look.
This is my farewell post for this blog. I've started repeating myself and I'm going to move on to a new less-Lesli-centric blog. (Not quite up and running, but it will be www.onceuponascotland.wordpress.com )
But before I go, let me just sum up what I've been trying to tell you since 2007. The only way to get past whatever it is you think is blocking your ability to write, is to take action. Write. Write crap you'll toss in the rubbish bin later. Write a list of things your character really hates. Write why you hate this blog, or anything else. Just as long as you write! Losen your typing muscles and your own writing goals will insert themselves while you're trying to remember where the q is, without looking down.
If you've spent a couple of years studying the craft, there comes a time when you should stop studying and start applying. If you've written a piece of crap and need to figure out how to fix it, pick up some books and start experimenting. Get off the internet and work.
If you thought writing a novel would merely be a long drawn out version of your free verse class, you were wrong. It's work. Back breaking, tendon swelling, sleep depriving work. Don't want to do it that way? Then go back to writing free verse and leave real writers alone. Don't come to our parties, our conferences, or our bbqs and claim to be one of us.
(If you are one of us, then by all means, come. Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we publish!)
So do what I always tell you to do. Piss, or get off the pot.
We writers are funny creatures. We're suckers for other writers. Need help? Just ask. We're full of all kinds of free advice and brotherly love. But if we smell a faker, we're going to pinch our noses and point at the culprit. Every time. Don't want to smell like a faker? Make a schedule and write at least a few times a week. We're not Nazis. We're artists. Some of us write pure crap, but it's not from a lack of trying. We're like nurses; a fart is as good as a bm. It's all about the trying.
And on that happy note...pthththththththththt!
Showing posts with label hard work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hard work. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Monday, November 22, 2010
BAD PENS and BRASS RINGS
Breakthroughs in thinking are very fine things. They are the free dessert on your birthday, a thank you from your too-cool-for-school child, a freebie for getting up far too early on Black Friday.
The problem with a breakthrough is remembering it. Having a Swiss cheese memory wherein the holes can't be predicted, I write everything down, just in case. I have baskets and decorative boxes filled with little scraps of paper that hold years of ahah moments. I sift through them now and again to remind myself what's there.
And thus, the problem: keeping three-by-five cards on hand, and finding a damned pen. This morning, it was all about the pen. Where my dozens of free-flowing pens have gone, I can only guess. I had only one option, which was just a smidge better than a carving tool, and only if I dragged the tip around v e r y s l o w l y.
The upside was, by the time I was finished chiseling my 'Sherry Lewis Bit of Wisdom' onto a card, it had been carved into my brain as well. In fact, I could probably toss the card-gasp!-and still remember, years from now, that I must compel my hero or heroine to make up their bloody minds, and that something else must be put in jeopardy if he or she reaches for that brass ring.
The first point, Newanda, is that we must slow down if we are to truly improve, be it brain function or writing craft. Not easy to do on the fast track to anywhere.
The second point, dear Newanda, is the whole idea of jeopardy. It's compelling stuff. It's what makes a simple movie about a run-away train an absolute thrill to watch.
But lets get back to that brass ring before I turn movie-critic...
When I lived in Spokane, Washington, a real-life merry-go-round operated in the middle of the city, left-over from the World's Fair if I remember correctly. Growing up near an amusement park in Utah, I thought I knew about merry-go-rounds. Not so.
The point of this ride was to get the brass ring. THE brass ring. Lots of people talk about grabbing the brass ring; this is where you learn where the term comes from.
A thin metal chute reaches like an arm toward the merry-go-round. Metal rings are loaded into the chute. At the end, and most importantly, JUST OUT OF REACH, of the horsey riders, a single ring hangs, ready to be plucked if the rider is quick enough, accurate enough, and bold enough to hang on in spite of their arms being nearly ripped off.
Yes, timing is everything, and luckily, the merry-go-round lifts the outside horses at just the right moment. But luck is also a player because sometimes, the ring isn't silver, but brass. If your ring is silver, you've still done a brave thing, but you try to toss the ring in the clown's mouth on the far side of the ride, then hope your next one is brass. If your ring is brass, you get a free ride. At least that's what I remember after #@*!? years.
The way your heart jumps when you see gold at the end of the chute, knowing it could be yours, is a great rush, I don't care how old you are. Everything has been put into the anticipation of this moment. The rise of your pony, the incredible wind-in-your-hair-speed of the merry-go-round ('cause these guys aren't there to entertain enfants), and the number of passes it takes to warm up your arm, practice your accuracy, and suffer the disappointment of coming away with the silver--all combine to make you feel like an olympian with victory within your reach when the gold ring slides into place.
BUT, it's not. It's not within your reach. Even if you're tall enough, old enough, to ride on the outside lane and try for the rings, the chute is never within your reach. It's just a few inches too far. And if you are ever going to get off your butt to do something amazing in your life, the time to do so is on this merry-go-round.
You must stand up, stretch, and let go of the pole j u s t e n o u g h t o s c a r e t h e c r a p out of you, to be able to touch it. And then touching won't do it. If you approach it like a jouster and think you can poke your finger in the hole and just follow-through, you're wrong. There is no easy. There is no safe. There is only commitment.
Commitment is this:
You must hook your finger in the hole, clamp it tight, and then whip your arm behind you with all your might and yank it out just before your arm comes out of it's socket. That's commitment. That's the real follow-though.
How committed are you charaters to their goals? Will they get enough of a payoff if they do the daring deed? Or will they get a silver ring to chuck into the clowns mouth, maybe make the clown's nose light up? How fun is that, really?
I don't know about you, but thanks to a slowly carved lesson from SL, I'm going to make that goal a little harder to reach, a little harder to hold, a little more risky to reach for, and a little more important to obtain. All that has to pay off in a great read, doesn't it?
Thanks Sherry!
The problem with a breakthrough is remembering it. Having a Swiss cheese memory wherein the holes can't be predicted, I write everything down, just in case. I have baskets and decorative boxes filled with little scraps of paper that hold years of ahah moments. I sift through them now and again to remind myself what's there.
And thus, the problem: keeping three-by-five cards on hand, and finding a damned pen. This morning, it was all about the pen. Where my dozens of free-flowing pens have gone, I can only guess. I had only one option, which was just a smidge better than a carving tool, and only if I dragged the tip around v e r y s l o w l y.
The upside was, by the time I was finished chiseling my 'Sherry Lewis Bit of Wisdom' onto a card, it had been carved into my brain as well. In fact, I could probably toss the card-gasp!-and still remember, years from now, that I must compel my hero or heroine to make up their bloody minds, and that something else must be put in jeopardy if he or she reaches for that brass ring.
The first point, Newanda, is that we must slow down if we are to truly improve, be it brain function or writing craft. Not easy to do on the fast track to anywhere.
The second point, dear Newanda, is the whole idea of jeopardy. It's compelling stuff. It's what makes a simple movie about a run-away train an absolute thrill to watch.
But lets get back to that brass ring before I turn movie-critic...
When I lived in Spokane, Washington, a real-life merry-go-round operated in the middle of the city, left-over from the World's Fair if I remember correctly. Growing up near an amusement park in Utah, I thought I knew about merry-go-rounds. Not so.
The point of this ride was to get the brass ring. THE brass ring. Lots of people talk about grabbing the brass ring; this is where you learn where the term comes from.
A thin metal chute reaches like an arm toward the merry-go-round. Metal rings are loaded into the chute. At the end, and most importantly, JUST OUT OF REACH, of the horsey riders, a single ring hangs, ready to be plucked if the rider is quick enough, accurate enough, and bold enough to hang on in spite of their arms being nearly ripped off.
Yes, timing is everything, and luckily, the merry-go-round lifts the outside horses at just the right moment. But luck is also a player because sometimes, the ring isn't silver, but brass. If your ring is silver, you've still done a brave thing, but you try to toss the ring in the clown's mouth on the far side of the ride, then hope your next one is brass. If your ring is brass, you get a free ride. At least that's what I remember after #@*!? years.
The way your heart jumps when you see gold at the end of the chute, knowing it could be yours, is a great rush, I don't care how old you are. Everything has been put into the anticipation of this moment. The rise of your pony, the incredible wind-in-your-hair-speed of the merry-go-round ('cause these guys aren't there to entertain enfants), and the number of passes it takes to warm up your arm, practice your accuracy, and suffer the disappointment of coming away with the silver--all combine to make you feel like an olympian with victory within your reach when the gold ring slides into place.
BUT, it's not. It's not within your reach. Even if you're tall enough, old enough, to ride on the outside lane and try for the rings, the chute is never within your reach. It's just a few inches too far. And if you are ever going to get off your butt to do something amazing in your life, the time to do so is on this merry-go-round.
You must stand up, stretch, and let go of the pole j u s t e n o u g h t o s c a r e t h e c r a p out of you, to be able to touch it. And then touching won't do it. If you approach it like a jouster and think you can poke your finger in the hole and just follow-through, you're wrong. There is no easy. There is no safe. There is only commitment.
Commitment is this:
You must hook your finger in the hole, clamp it tight, and then whip your arm behind you with all your might and yank it out just before your arm comes out of it's socket. That's commitment. That's the real follow-though.
How committed are you charaters to their goals? Will they get enough of a payoff if they do the daring deed? Or will they get a silver ring to chuck into the clowns mouth, maybe make the clown's nose light up? How fun is that, really?
I don't know about you, but thanks to a slowly carved lesson from SL, I'm going to make that goal a little harder to reach, a little harder to hold, a little more risky to reach for, and a little more important to obtain. All that has to pay off in a great read, doesn't it?
Thanks Sherry!
Sunday, October 31, 2010
PILE ON, BABY
I'm running a 500k, kinda. It's a NANO times ten.
The finish line is 500,000 words by midnight, October 31, 2011.
Who wants to play?!
Rules:
1. Every word you write counts, weather or not it is edited out. Even if it's on the page for a second, it counts. If you write a freaking blog post, it counts. If you write a long email, it counts.
The first point, Newanda, is to make writing as much a part of your day as breathing. The second point is to have a pile of manuscripts to show for it. Imagine! A PILE!
2.If you make it to half a mil, you get to buy yourself whatever you want. It's a RULE!
You may copy the widget to the right. (I suggest not leaving it too visible. Watching time slipping away is a little unnerving.)
THE AFTER-PARTY IS GOING TO BE A CELEBRATION...TIMES TEN!
The finish line is 500,000 words by midnight, October 31, 2011.
Who wants to play?!
Rules:
1. Every word you write counts, weather or not it is edited out. Even if it's on the page for a second, it counts. If you write a freaking blog post, it counts. If you write a long email, it counts.
The first point, Newanda, is to make writing as much a part of your day as breathing. The second point is to have a pile of manuscripts to show for it. Imagine! A PILE!
2.If you make it to half a mil, you get to buy yourself whatever you want. It's a RULE!
You may copy the widget to the right. (I suggest not leaving it too visible. Watching time slipping away is a little unnerving.)
THE AFTER-PARTY IS GOING TO BE A CELEBRATION...TIMES TEN!
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Work, Damn You
Tell me, are you happy being a writer?
Are you, by chance, in it for the opportunity to tell people you are a writer and thereby appear mysterious and intriguing to them?
Do you imagine great writers are found the same way great actors are found, stopped by some movie director in a coffee shop who forces his or her card into said actor's palm with super-exclusive cell phone numbers scribbled on the back and claims said actor is just what he needs for the movie he's starting and please drop the boring life and be on location by 6 am the next morning?
Is an editor haunting your town with the 2010 version of Manuscript Detector hidden in the back of a utility van, holding oversized earphones to her head, waiting for that 'ping' that will tell her that somewhere in your house is the Cinderella of all writers just waitiing to be discovered, locked up in the attic with only a pen and paper to keep her company and no singing mice in sight, and therefore forced to write amazing stories of literary genius for a little escapism?
Really?
I'm telling you now that if you are Cinderella look around.
Harder.
Those singing mice are somewhere. And the story about you is much more interesting (which is not saying much) than the story you wrote and you should stick with playing princess and leave the writing to the people who...
WANT IT BAD ENOUGH TO WORK REALLY HARD AND THEN POUND THE VIRTUAL PAVEMENT TO MAKE PUBLICATION HAPPEN!
To those of you whose talents have been discovered by an agent or editor while sipping your Starbucks and typing with one finger, or discovered because Aunt Serina knew someone who knew someone who owed her a favor, the rest of us have a message for you.
Miss on you, Pister.
Remember: Luck without Work is DUMB luck.
Work rewarded with Luck is Karma.
And to my friends who have recently been so rewarded with agent contracts, I dance the Evan Almighty Dance in your honor. Don't watch, it's not pretty.
Ainsley
Are you, by chance, in it for the opportunity to tell people you are a writer and thereby appear mysterious and intriguing to them?
Do you imagine great writers are found the same way great actors are found, stopped by some movie director in a coffee shop who forces his or her card into said actor's palm with super-exclusive cell phone numbers scribbled on the back and claims said actor is just what he needs for the movie he's starting and please drop the boring life and be on location by 6 am the next morning?
Is an editor haunting your town with the 2010 version of Manuscript Detector hidden in the back of a utility van, holding oversized earphones to her head, waiting for that 'ping' that will tell her that somewhere in your house is the Cinderella of all writers just waitiing to be discovered, locked up in the attic with only a pen and paper to keep her company and no singing mice in sight, and therefore forced to write amazing stories of literary genius for a little escapism?
Really?
I'm telling you now that if you are Cinderella look around.
Harder.
Those singing mice are somewhere. And the story about you is much more interesting (which is not saying much) than the story you wrote and you should stick with playing princess and leave the writing to the people who...
WANT IT BAD ENOUGH TO WORK REALLY HARD AND THEN POUND THE VIRTUAL PAVEMENT TO MAKE PUBLICATION HAPPEN!
To those of you whose talents have been discovered by an agent or editor while sipping your Starbucks and typing with one finger, or discovered because Aunt Serina knew someone who knew someone who owed her a favor, the rest of us have a message for you.
Miss on you, Pister.
Remember: Luck without Work is DUMB luck.
Work rewarded with Luck is Karma.
And to my friends who have recently been so rewarded with agent contracts, I dance the Evan Almighty Dance in your honor. Don't watch, it's not pretty.
Ainsley
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)