Category Archives: On the Writing Process

This past Saturday I was lucky enough to get to take a day to myself and head over the mountain to Charlottesville, my old grad school stomping grounds. Only I wasn’t there to visit the University of Virginia; instead, I was participating in the annual Virginia Festival of the Book.

Although the Festival has been around for 20 years, this was my first time attending. I picked a great one. I heard Jane Friedman speak on changes in publishing, especially on the digital front, and then laughed along with Sabrina Jeffries, Cathy Maxwell, Lauren Wittig, Deanna Raybourn, and Gail Barrett, all of whom spoke intelligently, engagingly, and hilariously about Hell on Heels: Bad Girls, Feminism, and Rebellion in Romantic Fiction (those women are a hoot, y’all). I attended a second session specifically on romance and publishing, and finished the day with an agents roundtable question and answer session.

All in all, it was a marvelous day. I learned a lot, laughed a lot, and took copious notes. By hand. Just like back in grad school (yes, I’m old). Best of all, I got to meet one of my romance novelist idols, the fabulous Ms. Sabrina Jeffries, who was warm and engaging and just seemed a delight to be around. In fact, all of the romance novelists in the Hell on Heels panel struck me as women I’d want to hang out with. They were witty, smart as heck, well-spoken, and truly seemed excited to be there and in love with their craft.

I felt… at home. Sure, at times I was nervous, wondering if I weren’t a bit of a poser, trying to hang out with the cool kids. That’s O.K. I hear anxiety is common among writers. But mostly I felt as if I were where I ought to be, talking (well, listening) about things I was really interested in, and just delighted to be surrounded by people as drawn to words and language and books and writing as I am.

I know the road ahead is still long. I remind myself of that as I gear up to send out my first query letters this coming week. I realize that most likely a great deal of rejection lies in my future – it’s a given in this industry. I’m sure it will sting, but I will keep forging ahead, writing, editing, revising, submitting, researching, plotting, outlining, writing more, rewriting, doing it all over again…

Because it feels right.

My cousin Joy told me once years ago, “You are a writer!” She’d said that in response to some long emails I had sent her while abroad working on dissertation research in Germany, in which I apparently waxed somewhat poetic about life. She told me she didn’t know what I would do with the skill in the future – whether I would write for others or just for myself, but it was clear to her that a large part of my identity could be found in writing. I’ve never forgotten that. It was powerful to hear someone label me as a writer, and powerful to be able to open myself up again to that idea. Sure, it took another ten years before I actually wrote a book. But I did it.

I realize the path forward to publication will likely be longer, windier, and more labor-intensive than I can imagine, but I’m still taking that step. One foot in front of the other. One word after another. Just keep writing, just keep writing, just keep writing, writing, writing. Or, as author Laura Kaye reminded us on Saturday, BICHOK, people! (Butt in Chair, Hands on Keyboard.)

I’m still learning the ropes, stumbling along a steep learning curve of balancing family needs alongside writerly needs. I’m still battling inertia and procrastination and anxiety and sometimes just sheer frozen panic in not knowing the right next step to take. The siren song of the internet certainly derails my best intentions on many a day.

It’s all good.

Malcolm Gladwell tells us it takes 10,000 hours of experience/hard work/practice to become an expert in any given area. Sometimes that’s overwhelming to think about – when/where am I going to come up with that many hours to hone this craft? Other times it’s freeing. I’m nowhere near 10,000 hours (although I probably have more under my belt than I know given that I’ve written stuff, sometimes even good stuff, off and on since, what, high school?). Which means I’m nowhere near an expert, which means I don’t have to be perfect and it’s fine to be a newbie because then I get to have the joy of soaking up tons of new knowledge as I figure it all out. Right?

This long, rambling blog post is actually a love letter. It’s a love letter to the people in my life who support me, who’ve told me to go for it, who’ve read my book and provided feedback, who encourage me when I hit those walls of self-doubt. It’s a love letter to my husband, who’s O.K. with me pursuing this dream, even though it means I’m not out bringing home any bacon (yet). It’s a love letter to all the romance novelists who’ve inspired me over the years – and I will be naming names soon as I chronicle my favorites in an upcoming blog post. And it’s a love letter to me, for finally doing what I’ve said I wanted to do since the age of 12: write romances.

Thank you, Virginia Festival of the Book, for such a fabulous day. Woo hoo to Sabrina Jeffries for continuing to be an inspiration to me. And whee haw to whatever comes next in my writing future.

My Writing Process (or… Wait? What? You Mean There’s Order In This Chaos?)

Many thanks to fabulous author of dark romantic suspense Angel Nicholas, who invited me to participate in this #mywritingprocess blog tour. I admit, it feels odd to talk about my writing process when I’m not yet published, but hey, we all started somewhere, right? Even 1st books have a method to their madness. Or so I hope.

1)     What am I working on?

I’m currently writing my first draft of my second novel, A Matter of Time. I wrote a large chunk of it during NaNoWriMo last November, so I’m delving in to see what of that effort is worth keeping and what is not, and then will be writing the final third of the book. I’m also researching literary agents and publishing agencies, as I will submit my first novel, A Man of Character, for review/publication by my self-imposed deadline of March 2nd, since that’s my birthday.

2)     How does my work differ from others of its genre?

I write time-travel romance with wit and spark, with characters who aren’t as alpha, fearless, or flawless as some, and with occasional tongue-in-cheek references to the romance genre itself, in a way I hope appeals to readers.

3)     Why do I write what I do?

I love romance. I have since I picked up my first romance novel at the age of 10 (sorry, mom). I love the idea that no matter what twists/turns/improbable scenarios pop up, two people are destined for a Happily Ever After. I’m most interested in the Regency period because I love the Cinderella fantasy of dukes and debutantes, rakes and waltzing. Adding time travel in several of my works has allowed me to explore my endless fascination with the question of, “What would it have been like to live in such-and-such period?” mixed with the tantalizing idea of “How would I cope? How would someone from that period feel if they were suddenly dropped into the 21st century?”

4)     How does your writing process work? 

I generally start with a premise. For the 1st book, it was, “What would happen if fictional characters came to life?” From there, I jot down a rough outline, more-or-less a scene-by-scene version of the story in quick words (I tend to envision it in my head as a movie, and make notes as if I were watching it). With the first book, I learned how helpful and important it was to create an actual timeline, to keep track of events in the story, and have since completed character sketches as well, to get to know these people in my head (who’ve become so real to me it’s hard to remember they’re not). Then I write – usually in one to two hour stretches. I wish I could do more, but the brain doesn’t always cooperate. I’m often surprised and delighted by the verbal word play that emerges from my fingertips, even if it later gets axed. What I’m focusing on now, however, is becoming a more scheduled writer. I need to sit down at my computer every day for a set amount of time, rather than waiting for the muse/energy/inclination/chocolate to kick in.

NEXT WEEK:

Emma Barry is a novelist and full-time mama and graduate student. Her first novel, Brave in Heart, a historical romance set during the American Civil War, is available now. Special Interests, a contemporary romance about political staffers, will be released on April 7. When she’s not reading or writing, she loves hugs from her toddler twins, her husband’s cooking, her cat’s whiskers, and Earl Grey tea. In addition to her website, you can also connect with Emma Barry on Twitter.

Olivia Kelly‘s historical romances are filled with fun, and just the proper amount of angst. She also writes urban fantasy as D.B. Starler, because who doesn’t love, guns, magic, and fast cars? You can find her (too often) on Twitter, Facebook, Pinterest or Goodreads. Visit her website blog, Confessions of a Mad Scribbler, today!

So back at the end of December, I blogged about my writerly New Year’s Resolutions. I basically promised to do this:

1. Write an hour every day.
2. Blog 3 times a week.
3. Read an hour every day.
4. Publish a book in 2014.

I also joined the Shenandoah Valley Writer’s Group 31-Day Challenge, because, well, those people rock and I wanted to rock with them. There I pledged, in addition to my goals above, to do this:

1. Finish the first draft of Book 2 (A Matter of Time).
2. Make a list of 5 agents to whom I’d like to submit.
3. Draft a query letter for A Man of Character.

Yeah, well, I think you know where this is going. I failed. Big time. Days passed in which I wrote nothing beyond a FB status update or an occasional tweet. I did apparently blog 13 times in January, but considering 2 of those were cartoons and most of the rest were Flash Friday Fiction entries, I don’t think that counts. I haven’t touched my 2nd book, much less drafted any sort of query letter for the 1st one. I made it through the As and Bs of the RWA list of agents before I freaked out. And while I HAVE managed to read significantly more than I did in the fall, it’s not been any hour a day.

There a lots of reasons. A few legitimate, most not. I basically fell into a funk, into the familiar cycle of Not Do It – Beat Self Up – Feel Cruddy – Eat Chocolate – Not Do It Some More.

You’d think at 41, I’d know how to stop that cycle when I recognize it. I’m getting better at it, I suppose, in that at least I’m willing to see it for what it is and acknowledge it. I’ve been beating myself up for weeks. But guess what? Beating oneself up is just another form of procrastination, and a terribly useless one at that.

The temptation is to set forth a million new, more stringent goals. That’s what I always did when trying to lose weight, at least: I binged this week and exercised not at all? Well, next week I’ll only eat 1200 calories every day and I’ll walk 5 miles, etc, etc. The size of my tush will tell you that’s never been effective, either.

A wise group of people once told me if I’m not meeting goals, the trick is to make them EASIER, not harder. Break them down. Make them so accomplishable that I cannot fail. That keeps me out of the cycle, rebuilds my confidence, and allows me to make actual progress. It doesn’t matter if I’m moving at a snail’s pace – anything is better than standing still. And after all, I did subtitle that resolutionary post “Progress, Not Perfection.”

So let’s go back. I did not achieve every goal I set forth for myself in January. But perhaps stating I failed big time is not only unhelpful for my mental state and desire to move forward, but inaccurate. I did continue to write weekly Flash Fiction stories. I did read 4 books this month. I did look at agents at least a little. I did not stand still. There were days, perhaps, where I was stuck in a rut, but there were others in which I managed to crawl ever so slightly forward toward the goal.

Yes, I want out of the rut and back into super-productive mode. Yes, I need to face the demons that are dancing on my shoulders and keeping me from challenging fears and racing ahead. Yes, I need more sleep and less time playing that stupid Hay Day game.

And to get there, I need to make some smaller goals, not bigger ones. I need to be nice to myself. And I need to remind myself daily that ultimately my focus really is on progress, not perfection.

February is my new January. But I’m taming the goals a bit. Let’s focus on 3:

1. Write. Write. Write. Let’s write 2 hours a week. That’s not much. But it’s more than I’ve done in January, and if 2 hours leads to 3 or 6 or 15, awesome. If not, 2 is better than zilch.

2. Of that writing, let’s at least make some of it on the 2nd book. Let’s aim for 30 minutes a week.

3. Keep looking at agents. Get a list of 5. This is doable within a month. And simple.

And if I come back in March and report I didn’t make those goals, well, I’m going to get up and try again. And you are welcome to kick me in the derriere, because ultimately, of course, if I want this, I. Have. To. Do. The. Work. Fears and procrastination tendencies and lack of sleep and real-life obligations will ALWAYS be there. I’ve got to do it anyway.

I can do this, right? Write.

Tell me, what do YOU do to get yourself out of a self-defeating funk?

A friend stopped by yesterday, one whom I hadn’t seen in a long time. We exchanged the typical pleasantries, gushing over how well we thought the other looked, etc. Somehow I came to confess that everything I was wearing was new, and that the Chucks on my feet were just one of several pair I’d purchased for myself in the fall. “I don’t know what’s up with me,” I said. “I hardly ever buy new clothing for myself, and here I am in all new duds.”

“You’re blossoming, aren’t you?” she said with a smile. “Because of and through your writing.”

I sat nonplussed for a moment. I hadn’t thought about it that way. But she’s right – I AM blossoming. That’s not to say I’m where I want to be, writing career-wise or physical appearance-wise, but I am happier. And I owe that to the outlet writing has given me, as well as to the positive feedback I’ve received from my wonderful Flash Friday Fiction community and those few people who’ve actually taken a gander at my novel.

I have something all to myself. Writing is my own; I’m not wearing any other hat except that of storyteller when I’m deep in the words. And I’m apparently good at it. I hesitate to even say that – I want to add all sorts of qualifiers in there lest anyone think I have an ego. Believe me, like many writers, most of the time I think my work sucks, and I know I have a heck of a lot more to learn. But there are times – and, boy, do they feel wonderful – when I’m absolutely delighted with the words dancing across the page, words I put there, words others read and respond to warmly. Every bit of praise, of encouragement, of success, is like soil and air and water to a baby plant striving toward the sun. It nurtures my soul.

It’s not just outside elements that are helping me to unfurl. It’s something deep within myself, too – something that feels, in spite of and in the midst of all the anxiety and self-doubt, that I’ve found who I am, that I’m being who I’m supposed to be. And that’s a writer.

So thank you, friend, for your most excellent choice of word. It fits. And it reminds me of one of my very favorite poems ever, by the marvelous W.S. Merwin. I quote it here and hope that doesn’t get me into copyright trouble somehow (told you I still have a lot to learn). The last five lines in particular have echoed through me ever since I discovered this poem as a teenager:

A Contemporary

What if I came down now out of these
solid dark clouds that build up against the mountain
day after day with no rain in them
and lived as one blade of grass
in a garden in the south when the clouds part in winter
from the beginning I would be older than all the animals
and to the last I would be simpler
frost would design me and dew would disappear on me
sun would shine through me
I would be green with white roots
feel worms touch my feet as a bounty
have no name and no fear
turn naturally to the light
know how to spend the day and night
climbing out of myself
all my life

– W. S. Merwin

 

I don’t feel like writing today.

I have a headache. The house needs cleaning. I’m grumpy. I feel as if everything I write sucks, particularly the story I’m working on. I want to bite people. The cats need snuggling. And so on and so forth.

But of course I’ve heard and read many, many things about successful writers over the past year or so. These two always leap out at me:

1) A professional is an amateur who never gave up. 
2) A real writer sits her butt in the chair and writes every day, even when she doesn’t want to.

Today I don’t want to.

The good news is, it’s January, so I’m feeling freshly resolved to keep the commitments I’ve made to myself and to the Shenandoah Valley Writers Group, of which I am a proud member. I pledged to finish the NaNoWriMo novel I was working on in November, and I promised to write an hour every day on something, whether it was the book, this author blog, or journaling about mundane-alia (Facebook status updates do NOT count, however).  So while I’d rather spend the day grouching and grumbling about chocolate withdrawal and lack of sleep and all the other things that could use my attention, I need to just shut up and type.

Shut up and type.

This job is a luxury – at least for right now. For if I do get published, I know I’ll be working to true deadlines, not just self-imposed ones. This job is a luxury. I’m doing it because I want to, because I get to, not because I have to. This job is a luxury – I’m not working 80+ hours a week trying to support my family, or digging through sewage pits, or cleaning porno booths, or any of the other many, many less-than-ideal jobs people do to earn a living.

And even those who are working in jobs they love, in careers they love, have off days. I’m sure there are many, many times doctors and lawyers and architects and professors and artists just want to spend the day in the theater, or sleeping on the couch, or listening to rap, or whatever tickles their fancy. Anything but working, even when they love their work.

It’s a matter of discipline. It’s a matter of practice. It’s a matter of self-control as well as impulse control. These are not my strong suits. Is it O.K. to admit that out loud?

This job IS a luxury, but it’s still a job, and one I have to do, day in and day out, if I want to make it a career instead of an occasional hobby.

The truth is, I LOVE writing. I love words coming together in ways that feel beautiful (at least to me), I love discovering what characters are going to do and say. I love language and phrasings and expressions and humor and wit. I love to write. I’m just not good at challenging the inertia and fear and self-doubt and, well, preference for ease that underlie attitudes like the one plaguing me today. Especially when a headache is pounding through my temples and sinuses.

But hey, look – in just admitting and writing about my desire NOT to write today, I’ve already put in time. I’m already sitting in this chair, already having to decide what will appear next on the screen, already debating what to work on after this writing-wise, and reminding myself that the ultimate goal, in writing as with so many other things, is progress. Not perfection. Just progress.

One step at a time. One word at a time. Just shut up and type.