Category: writing process (Page 3 of 14)

Make Dreams Happen

A little while ago, my husband bought me two notebook covers for my spiral notebooks (which are my preferred type of writer’s notebook). One of the covers is made of leather and has a little loop for holding my pen. It’s beautiful, but I haven’t used it yet.

Instead, I started with the cloth one, made of green and yellow cloth and stamped with the words, “Make Dreams Happen,” on the front. I don’t know why I started with this one and not the other; I guess because I felt like the leather one was too “special” to start with (listen, my brain is weird and makes up weird rules, okay?).

I love my cloth notebook cover. Everyday, when I sit down to write in my notebook, I see that message and I remember why I’m writing: because it’s always been my dream to write stories and essays and books. The notebook is the “dream-making” machine, the place where I seed my dreams and help them grow.

When I see those words stamped on the cloth cover of my notebook, I remember what is possible within the notebook space. It almost feels like a secret pocket world that I can enter at will and in which no one else has access. I mean, that’s the allure of a private diary, right? But the notebook isn’t a diary in the classic sense where I’m recording my day-to-day activities and feelings about my day. It’s much more of a playground. A dreamscape.

I go to this dreamscape often. I really like the work-play I get to do there.

(Maybe I should just call it “play,” but I don’t think “work” needs be a dirty word, either. I grew up on the edge between working class and middle class, so work sometimes has a negative connotation for me. Work is what you do for money, to feed your family. It’s often not something you enjoy but something you must do. But work excised from money-making and Capitalism is not drudgery, nor is it a bad thing, nor is it something to be avoided. If it’s work-play or play-work, then I see it as akin to real leisure — not just relaxation — in that it helps us live the good life and contemplate more deeply what it means to be ourselves. Notebook writing is work-play in this sense. It IS play, but it’s play mixed with a kind of rigor that hues closely to what we’d associate with work. It’s the work of being more human, and in order for that work to bear fruit, it must be approached like play. Anyway, that’s what I mean.)

I write in my notebook as much as I can. It feels like I’m doing my main work in my notebook, and all the other projects — whether blogging, writing fiction, teaching, gaming — are just a network of limbs extending out from the notebook. The notebook is the heart, pumping blood to the various appendages.

I feel guilty writing in my notebook sometimes (especially on days when I write five or more pages), as if the “writing” I do inside the notebook is an elaborate form of procrastination. But what I have to remind myself of is that the notebook is the dream-field, and my scratches across its surface are the furrows that house the seeds. Without such planting, I won’t have stories or essays or other creations to share with the world.

It’s all happening under the surface, between the green and yellow cloth.

The No-Surf Files

I check my email way too often. I don’t even really want to check it most of the time, but it’s just something *to do*, something to click on, something to tap on my phone. Most of the time it’s pointless. I mean, has anyone really emailed me between now and the five minutes prior when last I checked my inbox?

No. No, of course not.

But I check anyway. “Who knows?” my addicted brain always says. “It’s possible a new message came in.”

So I click and suddenly I’m not just checking email but surfing the internet in general, clickity click click clicking away.

Ugh.

I decided I need to commit to checking my email TWICE a day, once in the morning and once in the late afternoon, and beyond that, nothing more. But it’s not enough to quit doing something. I need to replace the itchy email urge with something better. Something that will make me *feel* way better than the yuck feeling I get from wasting the day checking email and surfing the web.

I thought doing something analog, something with my hands that wasn’t clicking a mouse or tapping a keyboard, might be the way to go, thus was born my idea of doing “The No-Surf Files,” aka a mini zine about whatever random thoughts are in my head when I’m trying to avoid the internet.

I did Issue #0 yesterday, and it was pretty fun and got me away from the computer. I have yet to do Issue #1 because I haven’t really been tempted to surf the internet aimlessly, and because I’m sticking pretty closely to my “check email twice a day” rule. I did check my email three times yesterday, but that’s only because I was trying to figure out the time for a school fundraiser event, and they hadn’t yet emailed the information to us. But besides that, I’ve kept myself off the email merry-go-round.

I already have several blank mini zines folded and ready to go, so now it’s just a matter of waiting for that icky internet urge to start itching, and voila! I will have my no-surf mini zines waiting for me to fill.

Get Back in the Saddle

I haven’t blogged for a few days, failing (you might say) in my attempt to blog every day. I set the challenge, and I fell short, and thus I failed.

Or…

Maybe I can never fail. Maybe the old cliche is right, and the only way to fail is to give up. Missing a few days blogging last week is nothing compared to giving up right now. And I don’t want to give up. I want to keep blogging. I want to try and post something every day.

I know I’ll fall short at some point. But that’s not the point of all this. The real point is to keep going.

I’ve been here before with my writing. I’ve gone through stretches where my fears and my perfectionism made it hard for me to write ten words, let alone a thousand. I went through periods where I could only write when I had the “perfect time” to write (what a joke I was playing on myself then), and I went through periods where I thought the reason I couldn’t write was because my life had conspired against me to rob me of my inspiration or my time or my energy (this was also a joke, but not one I played on myself… it turns out the joke came from others, from gurus with “advice,” which was that in order to write, one had to write a certain amount of words each day, and every day, and if one didn’t meet these quotas, one wasn’t a “real” writer… boy, did that put too much pressure on what was supposed to be something fun!).

But each time, whether I did it to myself or believed what others said was true, I never gave up. Not completely. I still kept writing, even after long stretches of not-writing. It would have been a lot easier to stop writing, when I felt so much like a failure, only it wouldn’t have been easier. Not really. Because, for whatever crazy reason, I really, really, really need to write. I need to put my thoughts and ideas and stories into written words, and if I don’t do that, I get cranky. I get all bent and sharp-edged. If I go too long without writing, I get angry. Out of sorts. I never realized that my compulsion to write was tangled up in my emotions and sense of self, until I started noticing how I felt on days when I wrote and how I felt on days when I didn’t. Kinda like the difference between days when you exercise and eat well versus the days when you don’t.

It’s the same with blogging (which, obviously, is a kind of writing). If I don’t write down my ideas and work through my thoughts as I write, I feel off. I feel strange. Not myself. All bottled up, and at the same time kind of fuzzy, like my very self is going out of focus on an old TV set.

So, I can’t give it up. Even if the internet melted down tomorrow (which… maybe not a bad thing…?), I would still write down my thoughts and put them out there for others to see. I might make more zines, I guess. (Which, come to think of it, is probably something I should do anyway.)

But regardless of the delivery system, I would still want to write stuff and show it to people. Not because I think what I have to say is so great or important, but simply because I feel good when I write, and I feel good trying to connect with other people through my writing. Why do any of us make stuff and share it with others? Because it’s fun and makes us feel good.

Missing a few days in my “daily blogging” challenge doesn’t change anything. I haven’t failed. I’m still “blogging every day” because I’m here right now, typing these words and posting them, and I’ll keep “blogging every day” no matter how many future days I miss. Failure only happens if I give up. And I’m not going to.

Finally Feels Like Spring

Today, it finally felt like a real spring.

We had a false spring — a false summer, really — in the middle of April, when the temperatures got up into the 80s, but after that it was cold, colder than normal, and snowy too, a few days.

Now, it’s finally warm enough to go out with only a sweater or light jacket, warm enough to feel the breeze against your cheek and it feels good, not biting or cruel.

I went for a walk, my usual route down the main road near our house, and the smell of freshly cut grass and wet earth and lots of running stream water was everywhere. And I listened to Van Morrison’s Astral Weeks and got ideas for a couple of stories, one a new idea, the other a wrinkle to add to an idea from last week.

Spring is the best walking weather (maybe autumn is tied with it too) because it’s usually never too hot, and the coolness is bearable with the right jacket and accessories. And everything is coming alive, so for me, story ideas seem to come alive too. I just hope we get a few more weeks of real spring before summer’s heat descends and makes afternoon walks too scorching.

Soundtrack of My Write

My morning fiction writing habit continues, and today, I wrote a tense scene where my main character is fleeing from a ghoul in a misty, frozen tundra.

I have a playlist for this particular work-in-progress, a mix of Led Zeppelin, Nordic garage rock, The Cramps, 1950s rock & roll oldies, and some jazzy tunes from mid-century, and for my scene this morning, I queued up Kay Starr’s “Wheel of Fortune.” On the surface, it was incongruent with the scene I was writing, and yet it really helped me get in the mood.

I can’t explain it exactly, but something about the contrast between the big, brassy song and the cold, tense atmosphere of the scene felt right.

The lyrics helped too. My main guy is running for his life, and it’s somewhat funny to think of lyrics like, “The wheel of fortune goes spinning around. Will the arrow point my way? Will this be my day?” as my guy is trying to outrun a monster. The languid pace of the song mixed with the quickness and fear in the scene also makes a nice contrast.

I often try to find a song that matches the mood of the scene, but in this case I went with opposites, and a bit of irony, and it really made the scene a blast to write.

Pretending to be Prolific

Been thinking a lot today about my fears and the critical voice that constantly tries to stop me from writing. I wrote quite a bit in my WNB this morning, trying to figure out what my fears really are and brainstorming ways to combat them.

I’ve always admired prolific writers. Ray Bradbury. Neil Gaiman. All the old pulp guys like Robert E. Howard and Clark Ashton Smith (and so many others). And there are women too, like Andre Norton, Leigh Brackett, and Ursula Le Guin, who were incredibly prolific in their lifetimes. Jane Yolen is a writer today who is incredibly prolific and one I admire.

So, if I admire all these prolific writers, how do I combat my fears and get more writing done?

While writing in my notebook today, I decided to try a technique that will hopefully kill my critical voice and get me into the right headspace for writing.

That technique is visualization. If I can visualize myself as a pulp writer, as someone like Andre Norton, who loves to tell stories and doesn’t care what anyone thinks, then maybe I can let go of my perfectionism and fear of writing something “wrong” and just let the words flow.

You might be wondering, why the need for visualization? Why not just force myself to write more?

But this is where my critical brain is so deadly. The negative thoughts and fears keep me from “just writing.” I get hung up on worrying what people will think. I’ve tried “just writing more,” but critical voice always sneaks in and stops me.

Not necessarily in the moment of writing, but in the off-hours, when I’m thinking about what I wrote and start questioning everything. It’s in the in-between times when my critical voice is most ascendant, when it starts judging my writing and making me doubt myself. These off-hours ruin my energy and enthusiasm for the story. They make it harder and harder to sit down at the computer and write. I’ll force myself to do it, but critical voice has sucked all the fun out of it.

But the prolific SFF writers? I don’t know if they really didn’t care what others thought of their work, but I suspect they had a healthy dose of “don’t give a fuck.” And that’s the attitude I need to channel.

So my solution is visualization.

I like pretending. That’s why I like writing stories in the first place. It’s all make-believe. Like when I was a kid. Telling myself stories while I ran around the backyard. My kids do this too, all the time, and they are so engrossed in their make-believe epics, they have zero time for worrying what others will think. That is the key.

Since I like to pretend, since playing make-believe is where it all started for me, I’m going play make-believe now. I’m going to pretend I’m a prolific writer. I’m going to pretend to be an Andre Norton-esque fantasy writer who writes fearlessly and doesn’t care what people think.

Dean Wesley Smith often talks about how writing should be fun. His advice: “Make it play.”

Well, this is part of my play. I’m pretending to be prolific. Playing make-believe as I sit to write. I’m playing around in the story world even as I’m playing a part at my desk. And if I pretend enough — if I visualize myself as a prolific writer — then perhaps the make-believe will bleed into reality.

Visualization is one of those popular techniques for achieving goals and establishing new habits, and there’s a bit of a hippy-dippy quality to it, but I remember a teacher training we did at my old school several years ago, and the instructor was a professor of psychology, and he told us about the studies they did with students who visualized themselves taking a test and doing well, and he said that students who visualized themselves being successful on the test before they studied did better than the students who just studied. And there’s a bunch of research on how visualization coupled with practice can help basketball players improve their free throw shooting. It’s not unusual for performers, athletes, and others to imagine themselves on stage or on the field doing their thing and having success.

So why not visualize myself as a prolific pulpster who is having a blast writing all the stories of her imagination? To some, this might seem like a crutch, but to me, it’s just an extension of the fun to be had writing stories in the first place. If I can make-believe a story and write it down, why can’t I make-believe I’m someone who has a prolific career and writes with abandon every day?

The visualization has to be coupled with practice, of course. Which means I still need to sit at my desk and write. But when I sit down, I’ll imagine I’m a pulp writer, bursting with stories, fearless, ready to spin a yarn. It’s the fun of the masquerade, of playing dress-up, of pretending. I don’t write under a pen name (well, most of the time I don’t), but I can see how a pseudonym gives one the freedom to be someone else for a little while. If I pretend to be someone else when I’m at my writing desk, perhaps I’ll unlock some of that freedom.

What I hope will happen is that over time, I won’t need the visualization exercise. I hope I’ll simply BE a prolific writer who doesn’t care what others think and who has banished her critical voice. Until then, I’ll use my imagination and pretend.

It’s what writers do.

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