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| Revision was the topic in #kidlitchat this week, as you can tell. |
 When the tour arrived in Plimpton, Angus found his venue was a crumbling barn hardly large enough to accommodate the trapeze. Stone walls buttressed each end of the building. A sagging roof spanned the gap. “These buggers expect to see someone fly,” Angus grumbled, leaving Joanna and Marcus to produce some semblance of their regular show. They worked late, and by the following day Joanna was certain of two things: one, that a miracle was required to pull off their tricks, and two, that she was, to her great satisfaction, with child. As the sun waned, weak beneath the upland clouds, Joanna’s joy at the gentle nausea in her stomach gave way to a deeper, biting pain at the thought of confessing to Marcus. When he’d selected her six months ago, the prospect of roaming the countryside with a circus had seemed a dream. Joanna had risen to every challenge, she’d soon found herself rising from Marcus’s bed in the mornings as well. But he had no need of a wife, as he’d made clear from their first stumbling fall into the straw. Still, Joanna hoped that a child might make a better prospect. She held her confession taut on the tip of her tongue until moments before their act. “Marcus,” she said quietly. “I’m pregnant.” He ceased wrapping his ankles momentarily, then continued as though she had not spoken. She wondered if he’d heard her at all. Angus passed, clapping Marcus on the back, and Marcus responded with a wry remark about barns. At this, Joanna became certain he hadn’t heard, and resolved to confess during a gentler moment. She tied her last ribbon, rubbed chalk into her palms, and climbed to the eaves. As Angus bellowed below, Joanna set off, sweeping through the air to meet Marcus. They flowed through their routine, arms and legs meeting as one, and yet Marcus avoided her eyes. A pit formed in Joanna’s stomach, a hard little thing that grew sharper with each turn. The finale arrived, a long, arcing throw, which they had planned dramatically close to the stone wall. Joanna’s body swung back, and as she turned to face Marcus, his eyes met hers, and she knew then that he had heard her. Her legs whipped away, towards the uncompromising stone, and she reached for him, but instead of gripping tightly to her fingers, Marcus let her go. _________________________________________________
 I’ve read a bunch of different interviews with established authors lately about their daily writing habits. Haruki Murakami blew my mind with his intensely physical daily routine, which includes running 10K or swimming 1500m every day! Seriously, click through and read about it. Murakami takes discipline to a whole new level. For me, writing happens every day in one of these forms:
So, I give myself a few choices. Some, like working on a first draft of a WIP, are pure creative indulgences. I write and write until my eyes are so sore I can’t stare at the screen. I try not to edit as I go. I just let the words pour out. Other tasks, like beta reading or revising take more of a critical mindset. And when I’m feeling chatty, there’s always the blog. What I like about having a lot of choices at hand is that I know I will accomplish my goal of writing something every day, because I’m not locked in. Some of the writing tasks are longer, some are shorter. Some are more intense than others. But if I open up my WIP and am not immediately ready to type, I’m far more likely to move on to another writing assignment than hammer it out. They all need to be accomplished, after all. The schedule is up to me. And every day, no matter what I end up writing, I do one other critical task: I read. Again, I try to have options, but always, every day, I put something new into my brain (even if it’s only one page of a book), so that tomorrow I’ll be able to spit something else out when I sit down to write. Reading is like homework for writers. Don’t skip it, or there’s no way to ace the writing test. So. I bet you’ve heard about a little niggling problem called passive voice. Simply put, a passive sentence is . . . well, actually, that’s my problem right there. Passive voice is generally considered a bad thing in writing because it puts the action at arm’s length, thus sucking the life from your MS. Most sources agree on that point, but not everyone agrees about whether or not passive voice should be eradicated in every instance, or what construes a passive sentence in the first place. Wikipedia has pages and pages of info about passive voice, including lots of examples of when passive voice is an appropriate construction. The Elements of Style by Strunk & White illustrates passive voice in several concise paragraphs, while making it clear that passive voice must be avoided at every opportunity. And then there’s Steven King, who wonderful little book On Writing contains some of the best writerly guidance I’ve ever read–he hates passive voice. He seeks to destroy it at every turn, and recommends that I do so as well. And yet, I’ve read an article that claims three of the four passive voice examples used by Strunk&White are not passive constructions, and that the authors actually mangle the guidelines for sentence construction quite thoroughly. And I’ve certainly dealt with a fair number of critique partners who seem determined to eradicate every form of the verb “be,” even though its presence alone does not indicate a passive construction:
So. Lots of people are worried about passive voice. Most are convinced it’s not the way to go. Some are comfortable spotting it; others are clearly confused about how to identify it at all. And I’m left staring at my MS, wondering if I should chop up my sentences and force them into forms that I’m not entirely sure are warranted. I mean, an obvious passive is easy to shoot down:
But what about trickier forms of passive voice? Longer sentences with prepositional phrases sprinkled in and questionable subject-verb relationships. I stare at those sentences, fiddle with them, and then go back to what I had before. For me, the answer to those questions will come with beta reader feedback. If and when my critique partners see evil passive voice messing up my story, I’ll fight the good fight. Until then, may your verbs be active, and your sentences clear. As Steven King said (paraphrasing here):
If an agent tells you “sorry, we’re not a match,” what they’re really saying is: you’re better off swinging by Walmart, picking up a 10lb bucket of sherbert and parking it on your couch for the rest of the year watching old Roseanne re-runs than writing another word.  The truth is, no matter how nicely an agent tells you that they are not your match, a rejection hurts. This isn’t news to anyone, really, but if you look more closely at how I wrote that sentence you might notice something: the agent is telling you they are not your match. Not that you aren’t good enough for them. Not that your novel sucks. But that they are not right–them! This may seem like a super trivial distinction to draw, but it matters. A lot. Think about it this way: how many times has your book club, or circle of friends, or extended Italian family, or whoever, read the same book and had completely different opinions about it? All. The. Time. I don’t think my book club has ever given a unanimous thumbs-up for a book. And we’re just twelve lovely ladies who like to drink wine (shout to The Novel Bites!). I have so many good friends out on sub right now. So many twitter buddies are out there climbing the same mountain, and generally feeling terrible about each rejection. Or rather, each pass. I’m calling it a pass, because, really, that’s what’s happening. You are being passed on to the next agent. And that next agent might just be your match. What does that mean, exactly? Your match is an agent, or editor, or publisher who reads your novel and gets it. As in, if they had attempted to write your novel, it would’ve come out similarly to what you wrote(except better).
Your match will love your novel. They will say they loved it. They will be full of ideas which make total sense to you, and are an evolution of your own thinking. Working with your match will be like working with you, only a better you who’s done this many times and has the experience to push your novel to its absolute best. Chances are, you do not have this quality within you. That’s why you need the right match. Note, not a good match. Not a thank-God-they-want-me match. But the right match . . . and there are only a handful of agents out there who will match you. So if someone says they are not your match, it’s really okay. There is absolutely NO WAY that any one writer could be every agent’s match. We’re all different flavors. Only the right pairing works.  For more wonderful cartoons about a writer’s life, please hop on over to one of my very favorite sites, Inkygirl! Seriously awesome illustration and writing awaits you. If you need help finding a match, check out Agent Query, Publishers Marketplace, and my personal favorite, Literary Rambles, which offers in-depth info on each agent’s profile. And if you’re working on a query, check out this post on query resources.
I’ve been in one of those gaps for the past week. I completed a work, began querying it, and did not know what else to do with myself. So, I waited. I read the entire internet. I fussed with my website. Then, yesterday I found out what’s next! Well, what several things are next–and they are all firsts. Yummy, delicious, creativity-inducing firsts! My plate was woefully empty just a few days ago, but now my to-do list reads:
Yes, I am a crazy lady–that says screenplay! Do I know anything about writing for the screen? No. But I am learning at the speed of light. I’ve realized that every time I attempt something new, one of my firsts, I am so invigorated by the newness of it all that I gobble up information like a squirrel sucking down birdseed. Perhaps the learning, and the growing, are what I love the most about writing. Have you had a first lately? Do you need a new one? I recommend diving in head-first, just don’t get stuck like this unfortunate fellow.
I imagine you’re reading the title and thinking, huh and huh? These are terms from my product design past. They’re vital components of the creative process. They help you understand what solution you are trying to generate before you generate it. And they’re useful in writing as well. Feature Freeze: A list of components that you MUST, SHOULD, and COULD have in a solution.
Design Intent: A list of qualities that your solution MUST, SHOULD, and COULD possess.
Here’s an example:
If I were designing a dishwasher, I would first list the feature freeze items. It must hold dishes, it should be easy to customize, and it could be used for washing clothes as well as dishes. You can see that the “must” items are a requirement, whereas by the time you get to the “could” items they are questionable but interesting options. The feature freeze items tend to be physical features. Then I’d plan my design intent. Intent focuses on what I want the user’s experience to be like. I want the dishwasher to be easy to use, quiet, simple in appearance, attractive, and modern. These are qualities, and they influence HOW I will execute the various features of the design.
A writing example looks like this:
First, I list the physical features of my goal–for writing, they’re usually plot points. I plan the plot points for each chapter or scene. For example, my main character must end up at the museum (or he must learn/discover/go XYZ). He should accompanied by character B. He could visit the snack bar (and progress a sub-plot) on the way. Of course, there are usually many plot points listed for each scene. My design intent would be about what I want the reader’s experience to be like. The chapter should be fast or slow-paced, or sad, or lighthearted, or informative, or scary. The design intent is about the tone and the underlying message of the work, and therefore what the experience of reading it will be like for the user. Feature Freeze and Design Intent can go by different names, those are just the terms I used as a product designer. But the goal is for the two planning methods to work in concert, and produce a solution that both reaches the goals you require, and provides the experience you desire. Today’s guest post is about taking the leap and attending your first writing conference. It’s certainly something I’ve thought about doing. I live a stone’s throw from NYC, so I really have no practical excuse not to pick one and go. But therein lies the problem: how do I pick one?
Well, I met fellow writer Jessica Vealitzek a few weeks ago, and heard she was attending the Backspace Conference in NYC–something I’d failed to pull the trigger on. I asked her if she wouldn’t mind giving us some insight into how she picked the conference, and what it was like to attend. Without further ado, here’s Jessica! Hello, everyone!
I attended my first conference last week and lucked out. Backspace provided exactly what I was looking for–a welcoming “formal” entrance into the (physical) literary world. Why a Conference?
Last January as I was writing my first novel, The Rooms are Filled, I wanted to have something to aim for. Backspace not only provided a deadline, it offered a place to meet other writers, agents, and authors, and, in a sense, celebrate the completion of my novel.
Why Backspace?
I’d never heard of Backspace until a fellow writer mentioned she was going. I researched it and other conferences online and this is what sold me: rather than speed-dating agents in 1-minute pitch sessions that, I gather, agents hate as much as authors, Backspace provides a workshop setting. You bring your query letter and the first two pages of your manuscript, read them aloud to a small group of writers and two agents, and listen to the agents critique it. The hope is that one–or heck, both–of the agents will ask to read more of your manuscript. But even if that doesn’t happen, the workshop gives you the chance to start a relationship with agents interested in your genre. Plus, wouldn’t you rather have an agent read your actual writing than try to sell it orally in an elevator pitch? Beyond the agent workshops, there were panel discussions led by agents and published authors on the craft and industry of writing, such as, “What Literary Agents Want,” “Self-Publishing vs. Traditional Publishing,” and “Developing Characters Readers Care About.” Writers also had the option of adding, for an additional cost, a one-on-one session with an agent for ten minutes (and ten pages). On Saturday, the third and final day, I attended the afternoon group workshop with agent Donald Maass, who is a recurring participant. The four hours flew by faster than any MFA class I ever had and included an incredible amount of smart “Shoot, why didn’t I think of that?” advice.
The Downside
Backspace, as I understand it, is more expensive than most conferences ($500-600). On top of that, the hotel is in the middle of Manhattan )better access to and for agents), which means just about everything else is expensive. Backspace organizers do a good job of providing as much info as possible on cheap alternatives and they will also pair people who want a roommate. The Best Part
I suppose a literary conference in New York could have been intimidating, filled with snobby literati (dressed all in black, of course, and carrying their own copy of Ulysses). But from the authors to the organizers to the agents, the people were friendly and laid-back, helpful and interested.
Which leads me to what turned out to be one of the best parts: meeting other writers. the atmosphere was supportive, not competitive. I received encouragement that I will forever be grateful for, and I found an online critique partner. I left the conference not overwhelmed, but inspired. Which, as eery writer knows, is worth gold. About Jessica:
Jessica Vealtizek is a former statewide political communications director, exhibit writer, and reporter who was recently certified to teach high school English. But all of that was an excuse to avoid doing what she always wanted to do: write a novel. Lucky for her, she got pregnant while student teaching and is now at home raising her two young children–while writing her first novel, The Rooms are Filled. She also writes for Rebellious Magazine.
Read Jessica’s fascinating series, Monday Morning Meetings, on her website, True Stories. First of all, let me say how much I have enjoyed reading everyone’s comments on our fears as writers. If you haven’t read the original post, you can do so here. I asked everyone what they feared most as writers, and here are the results:  Are you surprised? Let me tell you, early on the poll was leaning towards the fear of never being published. Heavily. And I thought, man I’ll be surprised if that’s what we all fear the most. It turns out meeting our own expectations outweighs that more material fear. Who wants to be published if the work sucks? Really? It might feel super wonderful to see your name in print, but not if you aren’t proud of what’s between the covers. Craft. Craft is what we study, and covet and fight for. If you’ve written anything, and you know it’s written well, tightly crafted, it finds a way into the world. You share it. You smile when you go back to it years later. Your style may evolve, your tastes may change, but good writing is good writing. It turns out what we fear most is never producing it.
Hemingway often equated fear of failure with fear of death. Writing was a crucial matter–a matter of life and death. To fail at writing was to fail at life. And yeah, he wasn’t the most chipper of guys. He struggled. He fought and clawed to write what he wanted to write. I take two points of comfort from this: one, I’m not alone. Never have been. Two, look at what facing your fear can produce! Only some of the best works of fiction of the entire CENTURY.
Ralph Waldo Emerson, the 19th century father of Transcendentalism, wrote on the topic of fear regularly. He believed we are all, every one of us, part of divinity, and thus able to achieve anything. ANYTHING. That is one heck of a way to take your frown and turn it upside-down. He took the fear of possibility and turned it into the gift of possibility. Potential surrounds us as writers. Only by writing can we find it.
The great writers had one thing in common when it came to fear: they kept journals. Most of them journaled obsessively. Hemingway produced hundreds in his lifetime. They put their fears down on paper, and then kept writing. Determination is what led to production. That is what led to the works we so admire today. So, we may fear not being published. We may fear criticism. We may not be able to control those facets of writing. But we can keep writing–whether on a blog, in a journal, or on works in progress. And with time, I think we can overcome our greatest fear, because it is in and of ourselves. We can live up to our standards if we do the work. Thank you again to all who participated in the poll and shared such thoughtful comments. I’ll close with a most favorite poem of mine, a photocopy of which I have carried in my wallet since high school.
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