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  1. Top Ten Tips to Survive NaNoWriMo

    October 26, 2014 by Diane

    hand opening red curtain on white.

    If you peek behind the writer’s curtain on November 1st, you’ll see novelists and novelist-wannabes around the world plopping down in front of their writing devices to begin the tortuous task of writing a 50,000-world novel in thirty days. This amounts to 1,667 words per day, or approximately seven double-spaced pages.

    Why do they do this?

    Because of the challenge.

    Because they are writers.

    Because it’s National Novel Writing Month. Otherwise known as NaNoWriMo.

    I have participated in this excruciating yet exhilarating task four times. I have “won” three times. To “win” means to write at least 50,000 words by November 30, email it to NaNoWriMo headquarters before the stroke of midnight, and receive in return a nifty graphic that flashes “YOU’RE A WINNER!” in bold letters on your computer screen.

    For this, I sacrificed  good posture, balanced meals, social activity, sleep, and any semblance of life beyond the day job and the writing of my novel.

    Or rather, novella.

    Let’s be honest. What you’ll end up with is less of a novel, and more of a work in progress.

    To be revised.

    And revised.

    And revised.

    Or stashed away in a cardboard box to be revised at a much later time.

    Don’t let that stop you! On November 1, open your laptop, or set out your pen and pad, and get ready to embark on an amazing journey of your imagination.

    As a seasoned NaNoWriMo finalist, I offer ten tips to get you to “The End” that I learned from my experience.

    1. The inner editor must go. Send the persnickety one on a vacation. If he (mine is definitely a “he”) refuses to leave, then write before he wakes up. Write quickly, so he can’t keep up if he’s leaning over your shoulder emitting noxious fumes. Do not pay attention if he leaps out of the closet and yells, “plot flaw!,” or whispers “your writing stinks” in your ear when you’re sleeping. Just lock him up again.

    2. Stock up on treats to keep you fueled. Or coerce your family  into providing them. My mother sent a weekly care package of power bars, dried fruit, and trail mix in an old Jif Peanut Butter jar. The jar held a place of honor next to my laptop.

    3. Every word counts. If you misspell a word, do not backspace to correct it. If you write garbage, do not delete it. If you can’t think of the right word to use, type a stream of words, and if none of them work, type FILL IN LATER which is three more words to add to your daily quota. If you write a scene and think of a better way to write it, write it again immediately. You can quickly italicize the weak scene so you know to cut it later. Trust me…if you backspace, your novel will flatline. Keep the heart beating in the piece and power on.

    4. Everything you encounter, dream, overhear, or recall is fodder for your story. Be open to these nuggets. The overweight man stepping out of an SUV will appear in the novel. You’ll notice the details: red sports cap, lumbering gate. The waitress with an attitude who serves you tuna salad for lunch will be your villain. You’ll wonder what drives people to behave that way. You’ll develop a novelist’s eye, a novelist’s mindset. You’ll gobble up details and turn them into a waking dream. It’s like making bean muck—opening the pantry and taking out a can of beans, a can of corn, a can of tomatoes, a carton of broth—whatever is on hand to fill the pot, adding a handful of cheese from the fridge. Sounds awful, but it all comes together in a weird way.

    5. Stay the course, but don’t fret if you wind up elsewhere. You will find yourself, somewhere around week three, veering off your plotted course. Don’t beat yourself up. Even Frank Sinatra veered. I saw him perform live, back when he was alive. He sang the classic “My Way” by Paul Anka, and at one point, he went his way, and the orchestra went another. Ol’ Blue Eyes meandered ’round the stage while the orchestra played gamely on and Sinatra’s bodyguards flexed their muscles. Eventually, he found his way again. You will, too.

    6. Your characters will take over. You can rein them back in, or let them take the lead. I say go with the flow. It will lead you to unexpected rewards. Remember: you can fix anything in the rewrite.

    7. Ideas will come to you in the shower. You’ll turn on the faucet and ideas will pour out. My advice: don’t power down your computer until after your shower, so you can quickly capture these thoughts.

    8. Move your body! Sitting for hours takes a physical toll. Be sure to get up now and then to stretch, squat, or walk around the block. Otherwise, when December 1st rolls around, you’ll be permanently hunched, blinking at the sun’s glare when you step outside.

    9. Trust that the words will come. Relax. The Muse will provide. And a nifty byproduct of all this wordsmithing is that it will improve your communication skills. Words will bubble up, and you’ll find yourself entertaining your coworkers, friends and family with stories, anecdotes and jokes. Milk it. You’ll be your boring self again come December. But you’ll be a novelist.

    10. Celebrate your growth as a writer. On the final third of this marathon writing madness you will find your writer’s voice. It’s a beautiful thing. Honor it. Treasure it. And celebrate.


  2. Writing: Why Do We Do It?

    June 14, 2015 by Diane

    hand opening red curtain on white.

    Why do writers write? What keeps us writing when the writing gets tough? For my own answer, let’s peek behind the writer’s curtain to the summer of ’95, to a writer’s conference held at a local college some five miles from my home. The cost was low, the caliber of guest authors was high, and I didn’t need to spring for air fare or a hotel room. Perfect. 

    He droops in the heat on his way to the English building: gray whiskers, black sleeves over pale arms, leather sandals. Any serious writer knows this man; we’ve heard his book reviews on NPR, read his tight writing, swallowed hard as he ripped through a student’s submission. At this writer’s conference there are other fiction manuscript workshops led by kinder, gentler authors, but I follow him, a man who is renowned not only for his writing, but for being the bad cop.

    From the front of the class he scrutinizes the room and we hunch forward as he discusses craft. “But enough about Nick Hornby,” he says with a clenched smile, “let’s talk about my work.” Meant as a joke, but the truest thing he’s said.

    When it’s my turn to read aloud, my voice trembles, my heart thuds. Halfway through the first page, he interrupts. “Too much nattering,” he says. Nattering? What does he mean, nattering? I ask another teacher after the workshop, who shrugs. “He probably means too much narrative.”

    Later, I’ll know: too much of nothing happening. No conflict. No drive. Too much nattering.

    At the dinner break I drive home and print out a short story from my archives—a story, I believe, free of nattering. I drive back to campus and linger in the courtyard, waiting. When he arrives, chatting with a fellow teacher, I make a beeline. “Would you mind?” I ask. “Would you take a moment to look over my work, see if I’m nattering?”

    He doesn’t say hello or ask my name. Behind wire-rimmed glasses his eyes rest on the page. He points to the first sentence. “I would have described the color,” he says, and his bent finger moves to the next. “Don’t tell me there’s no truck. I know that.” Next sentence. “This happened in the indeterminate past. You’ve pulled me from the present. Keep it positive.” For two paragraphs he shreds every word I’ve cherished, and then looks up and grins. “You’re taking the punches well,” he says. I try to pull his focus back to the page but it’s no use; the tears well up, and he notices. “Are you crying?” he asks, and I nod, covering my mouth. “Why?” His voice is bewildered, soft. “Is it something I said?”

    “I just want to get it,” I say. “I try so hard. I just want to get it.”

    “What do you read?” he asks. My mind goes blank. I’m an avid reader, but can’t recall a single title. “You need to read like a writer.” And I understand: writers are driven to read, not just for the pleasure, but to flower, to grow, to quench a thirst.

    We want to get it.

    So I read. Short stories. Poetry. Essays. Books about writing.

    I want to get it.

    I read literary stories for language and character; mysteries to analyze plot. I pick up a bestseller at the library.

    Popcorn, my inner critic says.

    “But people buy her work. A lot of people. She must be doing something right.”

    Bubblegum.

    I’m hooked by page two. Why?

    I want to get it.

    For a hefty fee, I enroll in an advanced fiction-writing workshop. We dissect each piece to uncover the beating heart, and I feel slightly sick afterwards. I write, draft after draft, as compelled as Sisyphus.

    I take the NaNoWriMo challenge and write a 50,000-word novella during the month of November—four years in a row. I learn to get out of my own way and pound out a rough first draft and emerge on the 30th, drained but high on the act of creating sinew and flesh from dialogue and narrative, the story unraveling as if I were reading it…a zillion times better than reading. Each year my voice gets stronger and my back gets weaker.

    In January, I unearth one of the skeletons from its storage box and read it.

    Not good.

    Not bad, either.

    Needs a rewrite.

    Many, many.

    How do I rewrite?

    More reading. Books on plot and structure and making fiction zing. More analyzing. More writing. And rewriting. Until I’ve written the life right out of it. Then it’s back to the lonely keyboard, pounding out even more words.

    I.

    Want.

    To.

    Get.

    It.

    But I’m ahead of myself.

    At the conference, after the tears, I rewrite my short story through the night, focusing on sensory details. In the morning, armed with ten copies, I stride past the bad cop (who’s really a good cop in disguise) standing outside the door to his workshop. “I’m back for round two,” I say, and he winces.

    When my turn comes, I read the first page aloud, then look up.

    He settles back in his chair.

    And smiles.

    “What a difference a day makes,” he says.

    Takeaways this week:

    Read. The good, the bad, and the so-so. Read to learn how other authors handle whatever elements of craft you struggle with in your own writing. Dialogue? Backstory? Character development? Plot? Whatever. Read.

    Write. The good, the bad, and the so-so. Keep your writing muscle strong. Like a trombonist who loses his lip if he doesn’t practice, we writers lose our chops when we get lazy. Five minutes a day, if that’s all the space you’ve got, but do it.

    Learn. From writing instructors, other writers, books on writing. Learn about story from country music. Learn about rhythm from jazz. Learn about form from dance, perspective from paintings, viewpoint from films. Learn about dialogue from listening, subtext from observation. Keep learning.

    Never give up. If writing is in your soul, don’t let anything stop you from creating. Not your inner critic, not your outer critics. No matter how many times you get knocked sideways, no matter how many rounds it takes, get back on your wobbly feet and keep plugging away.


  3. Rewriting: The Journey Begins

    July 14, 2014 by Diane

    hand opening red curtain on white.

    I’ve got this manuscript, fifty-odd-thousand words that I pounded out in thirty days as an exercise for NaNoWriMo…er, National Novel Writing Month. I’ve got this first draft of the Great American Novel sitting under my desk in a cardboard box from Kinko’s.

    Now what?

    I pull it out of the cardboard box and lug it down to Peet’s Coffee and order a Coffee-Free Soy Freddo without whip and I sit down and I start reading. And the novel stinks. The first two-thirds stink. But somewhere in the last third I sit up from my slump, my drink long since consumed, and something pulls me in. A voice. A new voice. A strong voice that emerges in the last third of the book. It takes me to the end, and I sit back and say yes, that’s my voice. I say: hello, voice.

    Now what?

    I rewrite the beginning. Six different ways. I bring one version to a writer’s conference and I’m told: “there’s too much nattering.” Nattering? I take it home and rewrite it again and take it to a workshop and I’m told: “I could read this writer for a very long time.” I’m told: “You must finish it, but write it exactly like this, all the way through.” Okay. Sure. Gulp.

    Oh, I try.

    Until I realize I have no idea what I’m doing, and stuff the manuscript back into the box.

    I read books on how to plot and how to revise and how to find the mind of the story and how to blueprint my novel. I pull the manuscript out of the box and cut it into scenes with a pair of scissors and I paperclip the various sheets together and write a synopsis for every scene and I stuff it back into the box.

    This isn’t rewriting.

    This is rearranging!

    The problem is—as ye perceptive ones have already guessed—I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. I’m spinning my training wheels. Here’s what I want: I want to spy on someone who’s engaged in the rewriting process and see how it’s done. I want to pull back the curtain and catch the writer performing whatever magic it is that writers do to bring the Great American Novel to life.

    And it occurs to me…nay, it grabs me by the throat in the middle of the night and shakes me awake…an idea:

    Why not cast yourself in the role of Wizard?

    “Um…because I don’t know what I’m doing?”

    But that’s the beauty of it! You record the journey. The flubs, the frustrations, the blocks, the resistance, the insights, the whole process from training wheels to “Look ma, no hands!”

    “That’s a terrible metaphor.”

    See? You do know something. Share what you know, share what you learn. Leave a trail like breadcrumbs for anyone heading in the same direction. Recommend books and blogs and websites. Stop complaining about the things that drive you nutty, and start blogging about this thing called Rewriting.

    So that, dear reader, is what I’m doing. Here, behind the curtain. I’m recording all the nutty stuff that this particular writer does to get from first draft to completed novel.

    Are you with me?

    Because I want to hear about your creative journey, too.