Category: writers notebook (Page 4 of 4)

Random Tables

January 18, 2021 / / 0 Comments

I’ve been stuck in a mire with my fiction writing lately. I’m almost finished with a short story, “The Wind Masters,” and I’ve started another story called “Things” (that’s a working title), but my imagination has been pretty dry recently. It’s been hard to conjure images in my mind.

So I’ve decided to practice a new habit: Creativity Hour. I’m pretty sure this comes from James Scott Bell in his book on plot structure; the basic idea is that a writer should spend some dedicated time each week coming up with ideas.

A few months ago, I made a list of activities that could help me with generating ideas and images (I’m like C.S. Lewis in that way: I start with a picture in my mind), and then when it’s “Creativity Hour” time, I can pick an activity or two to do for about an hour.

I usually work in my writer’s notebook for these sessions. Sometimes I’ll listen to evocative music and write down the images that come to mind. Sometimes I’ll do a “Try Ten” and makes lists. Other times I’ll just free-write, or ask myself, “What do I want to write about right now?” I might also look at cool artwork and get ideas from the images.

Today I tried using random tables from some of my RPG books to generate ideas. The fantastic Dungeon Alphabet, the Monster Alphabet, issue #2 of the Wormskin zine, the Lazy DM’s Cheat Sheet. After about 30 minutes of messing around, I ended up on the psychedelics table in Wormskin, and then the ideas started to flow. I thought about scenes for my Norse-inspired story, “Things,” and started the seedlings of other stories and characters (one that I particularly like is a dragon with piercing white eyes without pupils).

Anyway, it was neat seeing how these random tables for role-playing games could be used to inspire my fiction. I’m not particularly interested in using my homebrew DCC RPG campaign as fodder for a novel or anything; instead, it’s more about the randomness of the tables being a nice way to challenge my imagination, improvising and mixing together disparate elements. The randomness opens up my imagination, makes me think: How can I fit this into my current work-in-progress? How can I use this to tell a *new* story? How can I combine these two seemingly unrelated things into something whole?

Random tables serve as a kind of tonic for the imagination. They can give a jolt of energy to an over-tired, dulled mind.

Boredom

January 12, 2021 / / 1 Comment

The only way to become excellent is to be endlessly fascinated by doing the same thing over and over. You have to fall in love with boredom.

James Clear, Atomic Habits (p. 236)

I’m always blathering about practice, practice, practice. My students are probably sick of hearing me wax on about how “even professional musicians practice their scales,” or how basketball players “can never do too many free throws.” But even if they’re sick of my blathering, I’m not gonna abandon my mantra: writers have to write. And the only way to get better is to practice, to form the habit, to do the work everyday.

Often, when I conference with my students individually, I hear them express a sincere desire to get better at writing. But when I give them daily opportunities to write in their writer’s notebooks, many of them don’t seize the opportunity. They do other work. Some of them read a book (which I always encourage), while others try to get caught up on their homework (which I always discourage; do your homework at home, kids!). But the same students who say they want to get better at writing don’t use the time and space I give them in class to practice their writing. The reasons are usually some flavor of “I’m not inspired!” and I quietly remind them that it’s not a good plan to wait for inspiration. Inspiration is fleeting and unpredictable. We can coax the muse by reading a lot, listening to interesting music, looking at interesting cinema, going places, paying attention, taking walks, etc., but even if we feed our muse daily, she’s a fickle creature and won’t always come out to play.

James Clear’s quote about boredom distills a lot of what I’ve been trying to help my students understand. The only way to get better at writing is by doing it OVER AND OVER. The writer’s notebook is one tool that I’ve found immensely helpful; it’s a space where I can write every day. It’s an easy method for making something habitual. Those students who have embraced their notebooks, who have used them frequently, almost daily, are the students who have seen the most growth in their writing. I’m sure they didn’t sit and wait for inspiration. They wrote in their notebooks consistently, letting the routine snowball into something habitual, and eventually that repetition and consistency paid off: they developed the skills they were hoping for.

But for the students who were always waiting for inspiration, the habit never formed. They wanted to get better at writing, but they weren’t able to “fall in love with boredom,” i.e.: the work of writing everyday, even when they were tired or didn’t have anything to write about or didn’t feel inspired.

I can relate to these students, believe it or not. For many, many, many years, I courted inspiration and only did my work when the “heat” was in me. I had a lot of cool ideas and did some good work, but NOTHING ever came from it. And yet I kept waiting for the muse to carry me off into the wild night. I kept clinging to the idea that art couldn’t be forced or mechanical, that it had to be spontaneous and passionate all the time. And so I never really finished anything worthwhile until I realized — at long last — that waiting for the muse meant waiting my whole life.

After long years and many failures, I know now that I’d much rather write every day — even if I’m not inspired and the words are dross — than to write only in fits and spurts and never make any headway. I’d much rather do the same thing over and over, because it’s in the DOING that I derive my most pleasure. And it’s also how I’ve gotten better. My ability to write didn’t materialize overnight or just by wanting it “badly enough.” It happened because I practiced, and just like the musician and basketball player, I keep practicing. Everyday.

Yes, this means “falling in love with boredom.” Boredom means pleasure… when it’s practicing something you love.

For my students who want to get better at writing, they have to find a way to fall in love with boredom too. They have to be willing to play the scales, run the reps, shoot the free throws, and put pen to paper in order to improve. It’s not glamorous or thrilling. It’s not the muse dancing under starlight. It’s about doing the work, every day. And like a miracle or a magic spell, once the habit forms, it transforms boredom into love.

Poem #7

January 6, 2021 / / 0 Comments

[This poem was written using a prompt called “Talking Objects.” The idea is to find something in your purse or bag and write a poem from its perspective. My messenger bag had an old Kroger coupon, a pen, my busted wallet, car keys, house keys, and some tampons. I chose the busted wallet as my object and then considered the following questions: 1. What is the object’s favorite thing?  2. What is it scared of?  3. What is its secret?  4. What is its wish for the future? I spent some time thinking about how the wallet would answer these and then wrote the poem. The poem is told from the 1st person POV of the wallet.]

 

Busted Wallet

I was given as a gift, from husband to wife.

He said I was perfect because she loves books,

and I was made to look like one,

leather-bound, with a book-cover facade,

even though my pages would be filled

with coins and credit cards and receipts.

 

I was fat and happy in the old days,

before the broken zipper and the tattered edges.

When coins kept spilling out,

I was shoved deeper into the handbag trenches.

Now I’m forgotten, stuffed with refuse.

Bulging with unused gift-cards,

I am a mausoleum for bendable plastic.

No one can tell I’m a book anymore —

just faded green leather that’s somehow gotten sticky.

A natural process of decay.

 

The coins rattle around and hope to stay buried.

All the real money and credit cards

have been moved to a new home:

something sleeker, less solemn.

But she doesn’t get rid of me.

The wife still carries my hefty carcass in her bag;

I guess I’m a reminder of the gift.

Or maybe it’s inertia.

 

Either way, I’m happy to bear the load:

the old receipts and coupons past the date;

the Starbucks cards she knows she’ll never use.

They were gifts too. I’m happy to pocket them.

I’ll hold on to whatever has been forgotten.

Starting a new notebook

January 3, 2021 / / 0 Comments

My daughter watched as I began a new writer’s notebook today. She wondered if it was a new notebook because it was a new year. I told her it wasn’t; I just happened to finish my old notebook the other day, so now it was time to start a new one. I showed her my “guardian spirit” from the old notebook (I chose J.R.R. Tolkien last time, because I started the old notebook in September and therefore felt very much like an academic who’d rather be niggling around in my imaginary worlds than grading papers), so my daughter decided to make me a guardian spirit for my new notebook.

The first creation was made from recycled paper and was three-dimensional (which wouldn’t quite work on the inside cover of a spiral notebook), so she tried again and made a colorful picture from an old piece of paper towel. I decided it was perfect for reminding me to be playful and use whatever material might be lying around.

After adding the guardian spirit, I copied over my list of “Books to Read” from the previous notebook into the new one. This is a ritual I always do when starting a new writer’s notebook. My list of books to read is LONG, so it takes at least four pages to fit all the books, plus I leave extra room for new books that I’ll add as the weeks go by. I used to use Goodreads to keep track of my books, but when I said goodbye to social media, I also said goodbye to Goodreads.

Honestly, Goodreads made me anxious. I didn’t like people knowing about my reading habits; it made everything seem very performative, as if I had to play a part (“self-published fantasy author”) instead of just being myself. Not that I read weird books or anything; I have nothing to hide, LOL! But it was just stressful having my books-to-read and my currently-reading books all out in the open. I felt pressure to add books to my lists so I could been seen to have all the same books as everybody else.

(A lot of this was tied to my work as a self-published author. Goodreads was a marketing tool as much as it was a personal one, so all my interactions on the site felt driven by that marketing aspect. I felt compelled to keep up with the latest self-published books as a way to show my support for the community. I’m not opposed to supporting other authors — not by any means! — but my books-to-read list became more about that than about what I really wanted to read.)

Even more stressful was getting updates on other people’s reading progress. I have a bad problem with envy and jealousy, so I would get super envious when I saw other people reading more books than me, or when I saw other self-published authors getting all kinds of good reviews. It was not a healthy way to spend my time, and it wasn’t making me feel good about my reading (or my writing).

When I decided to keep track of my books using my notebook — and keep it private — everything changed. I started reading whatever the heck I wanted, and I let myself go down strange reading paths that had nothing to do with my public persona as a fantasy author. I’ve been much more prolific as a reader since I’ve stopped doing the Goodreads challenge thingy: I don’t set any goals for myself, I just try to read as much as I can. No longer is that little bar graph thing on Goodreads taunting me and reminding me that I’m behind on my goal. Now I can just read and see what happens, and be excited by all the reading I’ve done. After I finish a book, I mark it as “Read” and write the date I finished. It’s my big, beautiful, analog reading list, and I love it.

For the record, I’m not opposed to others using Goodreads or the reading challenge. My husband still uses Goodreads like a boss, and it’s a useful tool for him. I just know that it didn’t work for me.

So now every time I start a new writer’s notebook, I get to use the first few pages for my book list, and it’s a nice little ritual: I write “Welcome to the notebook” and the current month and year on the first page, then I start my “Books to Read” list on the second page. Four or five pages later, I have all these book titles calling out to me, and whenever I’m ready to start a new book, I go to my list and see what stands out. The notebook is no longer blank; it starts off newly-christened with a gloriously long list, and I feel as if I’ve accomplished something (even though all I’ve really accomplished is copying a list).

A new year, a new notebook. I’m ready for 2021.

Watering the garden

August 2, 2020 / / 0 Comments

What has been my “handmind” activity during “Covidtide”?  Baking, perhaps. Making homemade shrubs and hummus. Writing in my notebook.

But I think it has been gardening. Or, at least, watering the plants. (And harvesting the fruit.)

I love the ritual of watering the potted plants and turning the sprinkler on in the raised bed. I love when water squirts inadvertently on my legs and feet, soaking my Birkenstock’s. I love feeling the weather: heat, humidity, breeze, leftover rain, morning dew. I love lifting the big watering can, swelling with hose-water, and pouring its contents over the thirsty leaves until their pots overflow. I love the way the tomatoes smell after they’ve had their drink.

I love the short walk from the kitchen’s sliding door, down the steps of the deck, across the well-trod brown grass — a path I have beaten over these many weeks — around the garden and to the hose. I love that I once saw a squirrel sleeping in the long grass under the spigot. I love that I’ve seen garter snakes and rabbits and dragonflies (and damselflies). I love searching for fresh pea pods amongst the tangle of leaves and stalks that have been their home and their mother. I love eating just one fresh cherry tomato from the vine as I gather handfuls to bring in the house. I love watching the cucumber plants flower, counting the yellow buds and dwelling on the small fruit that have begun to fill out and grow — one end deep green, with white prickles bursting forth all along the length of it — willing each small cucumber to reach maturity, like a mother watching over her children. I even love seeing our almost-ripe strawberries disappear overnight, nibbled and devoured by hungry chipmunks. Someone else is being fed by our garden. I love that too.

Even when the rabbits (or maybe it was a deer) ate the tops of the Swiss chard, I could only be mad for a day or two, remembering that these creatures have no grocery store or supermarket in which to shop. What mattered was the growing: planting the seeds, watching them sprout, watering them and hoping it was enough, and then waiting — with all the uncertainty that comes with it — until one morning, on my daily pilgrimage to the backyard, the broad red-green leaves had unfurled, strong and bright against the brown dirt, and the chard had flourished: a living thing, guided — at least in part — by the work of my hands.

First Lines (a writing exercise)

August 5, 2018 / / 0 Comments

3019961773_d35178a75a_bThis is one I do with my students — and I do it myself. It’s just a great warm-up exercise, or a way to get ideas when a story or essay feels stuck. I did not invent this exercise (I think it might come from Notebook Know How by Aimee Buckner, or from some other, much smarter teachers than me. James Scott Bell has a variation of it, I think).

It’s called 10 Lines/Try Ten:

In a notebook, write ten opening lines for whatever piece you are working on (or just ten opening lines for ten potentially different pieces). Because you’ve got to write ten unique lines, you don’t labor too intensely over any single sentence, and it totally breaks the blockage that can sometimes happen when you’re starting a piece and staring at the blank page. By coming up with ten openings, you take the pressure off of having that One Perfect Line that can sometimes cripple the writing process. I encourage my students (and myself) to even try to go past the number ten — push things to eleven or even fifteen — and see what comes out. Often the best line is towards the end, when we’ve moved past cliche or the first, somewhat stale thought. Other times, I’ve found that it’s the third or fourth line that really grabs me, and I don’t bother with the other six. I just keep writing from the line that works and that gets me excited.

Here are some first lines I did as a creative exercise. None of these (as yet) are part of any larger story, but I just needed to work my imagination for a bit, so I came up with these. (N.B.: I didn’t even do ten lines, just five. But even these five did enough to get my creative juices flowing.)

1. Tetzi knew she should’ve hidden the body somewhere else.

2. Aoife knew she was adopted, and she never tired of telling their parents so.

3. I was once a bird. Uncle tells me it was just a dream, but he’s a liar.

4. It’s hard fighting duels when you’re drunk.

5. If Lao thought having two children was hard, he was in for a surprise once he had three. By the time he had five, he was ready to begin looking for a new home and a new wife to take care of them all. The five came to Lao not by the natural methods, but by the sign outside his door that said “Master,” and the reputation that preceded it.

Each of these opening lines gets me excited to keep writing, to find out who these characters are and what will happen to them next. Are they perfect lines? No, not by a long shot. But they help un-stick my mind, get me thinking about character, conflict, and the makings of a particular setting. Sometimes a First Lines exercise will be just that — an exercise, something to spur creativity — but it can also serve as a way to begin a new story or chapter. For me, #2 and #3 feel like they might be the beginnings of short stories. The other three openings are interesting, but my mind doesn’t really have anywhere for them to go. Yet.

What’s nice is that I can keep these lines in my notebook and revisit them. Maybe in a few months I might find a story behind one of them; I might have more inspiration to keep writing that story. Ten Lines/Try Ten is a great way to be playful and take the pressure off, and yet, I also find it fruitful for my actual writing; it can give me the start of a new story. Because beginnings can often be so hard, it’s nice to open my notebook and find a beginning ready-made, waiting for me to continue the tale.

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