Yeah, I know. I wrote a post called Writing and Leisure, and then I disappeared. But I am not in Tahiti. Not even DisneyWorld. I’ve been parked on this couch writing, and the writing goeth swimmingly, and all is right with the world. More on this later.
For now, behold: This is me writing the first draft of a new chapter.
Step One: Read previous chapter to get the flow of the story so far. Resist impulse to change “just this one word.” That way madness lies. Not to mention the rest of the day.
Step Two: Sit in rocking chair with notebook (spiral, not computer) and pen. Jot down thoughts about new chapter: setting, action, conflict, characters’ motivations, brilliant flashes of insight. If no brilliant flashes of insight, draw arrows between notes. Arrows make me feel smart.
Step Three: Go downstairs. Heat mug of milk for Ghirardelli white chocolate drink. This is a Ritual and must not be skipped under any circumstances. If we’re out of milk, whine. Get over it and pour a glass of cranberry juice instead.
Step Four: Boot up laptop. Open new document. With great efficiency, format header and page numbers. Type chapter title. Realize with small shock that now I actually have to start writing.
Step Five: Go back to chapter title and underline it.
Step Six: Get up to let dogs out.
Step Seven: Type a paragraph.
Step Eight: Delete paragraph except one phrase that’s kind of cool.
Step Nine: Delete phrase.
Step Ten: Let dogs back in.
Step Eleven: Stare at laptop screen. Decide that what I really need to do is more research. Immediate burst of happiness. Realize that happiness means that research is, in fact, the last thing I need to do. Stare at laptop screen some more.
Step Twelve: Remove cat(s) from napping position across laptop and both forearms (an attractive position to cat because arms have been so motionless as to seem completely inert.) Push away when he/they try to climb back on.
Step Thirteen: Phrase in character’s voice floats through head. Scramble after it, pin it down. If dog starts barking or phone starts ringing and concentration is lost, woe betide. WOE. That means you, Ginny.
Step Fourteen: Write next sentence. Resist impulse to immediately delete. Repeat until manage to string together approximately 1000 words. When stuck,* go check email on upstairs computer. Come right back. Resist impulse to play “just one game” of Scrabble.
Step Fifteen: Save document. Savor feelings of achievement and virtue. Proudly report word count to spouse when he gets home from work.
Writing the first draft of a new chapter, Days Two to…? Step One: Read the previous day’s work. Delete approximately seven hundred of the thousand words.
Step Two: Drink most of hot Ghirardelli white chocolate drink. Feel marginally better.
Step Three: Repeat Steps Five through Fifteen until chapter is complete. Resist impulse to spend most of each day polishing first three pages to a high gloss while ignoring the fact that the rest of the chapter isn’t yet written. As needed, buy new tins of Ghirardelli. Try not to run out of milk.
Now that you’ve seen how to write the first draft of a chapter, the next stage is writing the first draft of an entire novel. Which you might assume would be simply repeating the above process over and over. But wait, grasshopper! Flaming eyes of danger lurk in that tall grass. Stay tuned.
*The varying levels of stuck are commonly recognized as: Level 1: Five minutes spent checking email or wandering aimlessly through the house is enough to achieve unstickage. Writer returns promptly and happily to manuscript. Some experts believe that this is not actual stickage, but simply a pause to refresh.
Level 2: Writer cannot resist urge to play Scrabble game. Writer vows to return to manuscript after one game. Okay, two games, because the computer opponent cheated. Writer wins. Order to universe is restored. Writer smugly returns to manuscript.
Level 3: Writer finishes Scrabble game(s). Realizes it’s been over an hour since last checking previous novel’s Amazon.com ranking. Writer checks. Writer becomes surly. Writer spends an hour reading blogs and/or updating Facebook +/- Twitter. Writer reluctantly returns to manuscript.
Level 4: Writer decides checkbook must be balanced without delay.
Level 6: Writer’s house is spotlessly clean. Lawn is mowed, dogs are bathed, bills are paid and this year’s tax receipts are sorted and filed. Oh look, it’s late. Time to make dinner.
Level 7: Some experts believe Level 7 stickage does not exist. (No doubt these are the same cockeyed optimists who doubt the validity of Level 1.) Among novelists, however, it is commonly believed that no one knows what happens at Level 7 because no writers so afflicted have successfully found their way back to their manuscripts. Keep a candle burning in the window for these lost souls. (Metaphorically, of course. No sense setting fire to the drapes.)
June. Roses bloom, strawberries ripen. Graduating seniors swelter in their robes while somebody important urges them to do, to strive, to achieve. Nose to the grindstone, shoulder to the wheel, as graduating seniors have been urged since time immemorial.
Unless they happened to be from Hiram College, Class of 1880. No fiery speech exhorting them to get out there and give it their all. No, what they heard instead was this:
“It has occurred to me,” said their commencement speaker*, “that the best thing you have, that all men envy, is perhaps the thing you care for least. And that is your leisure. The leisure you have to think in, and to be let alone; the leisure you have to throw the plummet with your hands, and sound the depths, and find what is below… I congratulate you on your leisure. I commend you to keep it as your gold, as your wealth…”
The leisure you have to think in. Even then, a scarce commodity. Scarcer now, what with those 15,000 applications for our iPhones. (Hey, I bet it takes hours to sort through all those).
But what does this have to do with writing fiction?
Fiction requires space. Fiction requires time. What non-writers don’t know—and what writers ourselves sometimes forget—is that the writing itself is only part of the process. An even greater part is simply thinking. Imagining. Listening. Seeing. Paying attention to the story in our heads, paying attention to the details of the world. (Oh, not practical details, like when the phone bill is due. Please. No, I mean like how spiderwebs gleam gold in certain slants of sun. Like how a dog’s eyes dilate just before it bites. You know…critical stuff.)
The leisure to throw the plummet with your hands, and sound the depths, and find what is below… Is there any better description of fiction writing than this? Sound the depths, and find what is below…
The novelist John Gardner once described a scene he wrote in which a character is offered a cocktail. The character had two choices: accept the drink, or decline. It was a simple, trivial detail, with no impact on the action of the scene. But Gardner couldn’t decide if she should accept the drink or not, and it paralyzed him. Unsure if he could even finish the book, he left off writing and plunged into physical chores. After three days, suddenly he knew exactly what the character would do…not only about the cocktail, but about everything else, too. He’d figured out the kind of person she really was. But in order to solve the problem—in order to even realize what the problem was—he had to give himself room and time.
Leisure. Kind of a dirty word in our culture. Brings up a mental image of beaches and funny-colored drinks with little umbrellas in them. In our anxiety to produce—so many words a day, so many pages a week, so many books a year—it’s tempting to hammer out any contrivance that will make the plot work, even if it means selling our characters short. It’s tempting to race to The End and call it done, and ignore the deeper threads and connections that beg to be teased out.
Embrace leisure. Keep it as your gold, your wealth. When the story is stuck, when you feel something isn’t quite right, when you hear whispers of something deeper lurking, step back. Give yourself the luxury of room and time, and let the story speak to you.
Your fiction will be all the richer for it.
* James Garfield, then a presidential candidate, soon to be President of the United States…for four months, until he was shot by an assassin. Not a novelist, but a great lover of books. And, apparently, of free time.
Jone MacCulloch, the fabulous youth librarian who is organizing the auctions for Bridget Zinn, interviewed me for her blog. Thanks, Jone!
Also, to all ye merry Portlanders: the live auction is tomorrow, Friday May 29th, 6:30-9 PM at the Lucky Lab Brewpub at 915 SE Hawthorne. More information here. (If you missed my first post about Bridget and why an auction is being held for her, check out my previous post.)
And for all ye merry non-Portlanders, the online auction runs until Saturday, May 30th, 11 PM PST. Check it out, great stuff is up for grabs!
I wish I could be at the Lucky Lab tomorrow night, but due to my work schedule I'll have to miss it. (The upside of working every Fri/Sat: I get to write Sun-Thurs. The downside: I have no social life. Wah).
And now, for no reason whatsoever except it's my blog and this video made me almost fall off my chair laughing, I present to you: Le Wrath di Khan. A Star Trek opera. In Italian, with subtitles. And stop-action action figures. And if that last seems like a paradox, then let your mind be free, my friend, and struggle not to comprehend, but instead admit that yes, you wish you'd thought of it first.
This was me a couple of weeks ago. You can’t tell from the photo, but I’m thirty feet up in the air, and I’m about to walk across this log to another tree.
Bear in mind that my natural habitat involves couches, novels, and central heating. At any given time, I have at least one knee or shoulder bruised from slamming into doorjambs and/or table legs. In my entire life, I’ve never been able to cross a log without falling off, and yes, this includes logs lying flat on the ground. Crossing one thirty feet up in the air on a cold Sunday afternoon is an act completely foreign to my inclinations, my sensibilities, and my talents (ie, anything requiring physical prowness and a sense of balance.) The number of people in this world who can induce me to do such a thing are few indeed.
Among those few, however, are my fabulous co-workers. So when it was announced that our annual staff retreat would involve a “challenge course” in the woods, I took a leap of faith. If anybody could make this fun, I thought, surely they could.
I was right. Little did I know, though, that the leap of faith would be literal.
First, though, the Camp Tillikum staff divided the forty of us into smaller groups, then led us into the woods to learn about teamwork and problem-solving. My group’s first challenge: move ourselves along a series of four small wooden platforms, using only two boards, neither of which was long enough to reach between any of the platforms. If a board touched the ground, we’d lose it. If any body part touched the ground, the person to whom it belonged would be penalized with a handicap. We lost one of the boards in the first five minutes. Then Rob’s foot accidentally hit the dirt, and his penalty was having to negotiate the rest of the course blindfolded. But we did it! Here are the eleven of us on the last platform, about a millisecond before we all fell off. Our challenge course leader told us we made it look too easy. And we were having too much fun, to boot. “My job is teaching people how to work together,” he complained. “You guys aren’t giving me anything to do.”
We’re a veterinary hospital, we told him. This is what we do all day long: solve problems as a team. As far as having too much fun, well, that’s the fault of the guy in the red jacket. He’s Dr. Don McCoy, boss of the whole dang outfit, and he has a couple of key philosophies:
1. Hire the best people and then get out of their way 2. If it’s not fun, why do it?
Dr. McCoy is also a believer in pushing yourself out of your comfort zone. So when, after lunch, we were led back out into the woods for the grand finale of tree-climbing, he was the first one in the safety harness scrambling up the pine. Then, one by one, the rest of us gave it a go.
...Climbing (that was the easy part.)
I’m not normally afraid of heights, but I’ll tell you—thirty feet in the air looks skyscraper-tall when you’re standing on a narrow, curving log with nothing but empty air below. Some of my co-workers strolled across that thing as if they were in the park on a sunny day, but me? Ha! After only five or six steps, I knew there was no chance I'd get across on my own two feet. So—bolstered by shouts of encouragement from my colleagues below—I reverted to quadruped form. Hey—if it works, it works.
But simply getting across wasn’t the end of the challenge. Leap of faith, remember? We were supposed to jump off the end of the log—yeah, that’s right—and grab a trapeze bar suspended about five feet away. So far, every else had fallen short (literally.) A few had been too nervous to try. I figured, I’ve come this far…and I thought maybe I could reach it, if I really jumped hard.
But I was terrified. My mind knew I wore a safety harness and that my team had firm hold of the ropes. I knew nothing would happen to me. But no amount of higher reasoning could quiet the racing heart, the shaking, the absolute gut-level conviction that I was about to plunge to my…well, if not death, then at least a whole lot of unpleasantness.
“You’ve got me, right?” I called down to my co-workers. Classic stalling tactic.
“We’ve got you!” they called back. “You’re doing great! Go for it!” Ten voices shouting with such sincerity and enthusiasm that even my gut believed them.
So I jumped.
And my fingertips brushed the bar.
And I fell. A second of sheer terror, and then the ropes caught me. Thirty seconds later, I had sweet, solid earth beneath my feet.
It took half an hour before I stopped shaking. Some folks have experiences like this, and they say, I couldn’t wait to go back up again! I knew I could do it even better the second time!
This was my thought process: I did it, yay, thank God THAT’s over. Is there any potato salad left?
But mostly, I was enormously grateful to my co-workers. Their support made all the difference. I’m incredibly lucky to work with people who are not only the best at what they do, but who are committed—every day, not just at a Sunday staff retreat—to pulling together as a team to get the job done right. Who look out for each other and care about each other. And who never let an opportunity for a good joke pass them by, because—as the bossman says—“If it’s not fun, why do it?”
Here’s to you guys, and to an outrageously fun staff retreat. And here's a suggestion for next year. I vote we push our comfort zones at sea level. Maybe even indoors. Surely, if we can just put our minds to it, we can come up with a challenge involving coffee. And doughnuts. And comfy couches. Don't you think?
Last fall, I had the good fortune to attend the 2008 Kidlit Bloggers Conference. That’s where I found out that Portland is practically teeming with very, very cool people who write young adult literature. (Seriously—teeming. Watch where you step.) And now, this fabulous community is stepping out to support one of its own.
Bridget Zinn is a YA librarian and author who recently landed an agent to represent her debut novel. Days later, she was diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer. On her blog, she writes: “...I am a super super healthy non-smoking, non-drinking, carcinogen avoiding young vegetarian who wears sunscreen every day. I looked at the list of risk factors for colon cancer and it turn out that I don’t even have one. Not one risk factor. So that was a surprise.”
I think “a surprise” might count as the understatement of the year.
AND, if you live in the Portland area, be sure to pencil in “Bridget Zinn Live Auction” for Friday, May 29th. There’ll be tons more items up for grabs, including—thanks to my fabulous coworker and certified canine massage therapist Tammy Moody—two gift certificates for canine massage! Got a dog friend who could use some pampering? Then be sure to show up at the Lucky Lab brewpub, bid early and often! (Oh, and there'll be signed copies of Ten Cents a Dance and Tallulah Falls, too.)
To Bridget and her new husband (did I mention she got married the same month she got her agent and her diagnosis? If you want to know how that came about, read here), we wish you much strength, health, joy, and big-time cancer-ass kicking. Many kudos to Jone for organizing the auctions, Lisa Nowak for creating the auction blog site, and all in the kidlit community who are pulling together. You all are amazing.
Three days on the Hawaiian island of Moloka'i with my sweetie.
I'd never been to Hawaii before. My sweetie has, but only to Honolulu and Maui. Moloka'i is one of the smaller islands--38 miles long by 10 miles wide--and has about 7000 residents. No stoplights anywhere. One small town. Lots of pickup trucks. Anybody looking for the hustle and bustle of a tourist resort won't find it. But if you want peaceful, rural, and unbelievably beautiful--which we did--well, that's Moloka'i. People we met there said, "We don't want to be another Maui." And they mean it. The residents of Moloka'i have fought off development for decades...most recently, a proposed luxury home development on their southwestern shore. They want to keep Moloka'i, Moloka'i. A picture being worth a thousand words, and all that, you can see why we hope they continue to succeed.
This is Papohaku Beach. Three miles long, one of Hawaii's longest beaches. And in the middle of a weekday afternoon, we were the only ones there. It was still too early in the spring for swimming--the sea was way too rough--but it was gorgeous. One weird thing, though: look at how clean that sand is! In Oregon and California, we're used to kelp, driftwood, the occasional dead crab...but none of that on Papohaku. No idea why, but it was amazing.
A few miles away we found Kapukahehu Beach (aka Dixie Maru Beach) and its calm cove waters. Perfect for the likes of me, who can't see six inches ahead--literally--and therefore routinely get knocked over by waves. (I made a lousy Californian.) This was the most crowded place we experienced during our stay...all of about ten people sharing the sun, sand and warm water. I'm not much into sunbathing (not only severely myopic, but also melanin-challenged--yeah, I made a really lousy Californian) but yeah, this was bliss.
Driving the southern coast highway to the eastern tip of the island, we passed a sign warning us of a nene crossing. Nenes are the Hawaiian state bird, and endangered; only about 800 still survive on all the islands. A mile or so later, we came across a group of nenes, and sure enough--they were crossing the road. Now that's an accurate sign.
Looking from the rocky Halawa beach deep inland to the Halawa Valley and one of its waterfalls. Halawa Valley was the location of one of the earliest known settlements in all of Hawaii.
Kalaupapa Peninsula, on the northern shore. This is where Hawaii's famous leper colony is situated. Beginning in the 1860s, people in the Hawaiian islands diagnosed with Hansen's disease (leprosy) were taken away involuntarily from their families and quarantined here. For much of the colony's history, patients were kept on this almost inaccessible peninsula, in virtual prison, for the rest of their lives.
There's a daily tour of the colony, and we were eager to go. But getting to the tour, we learned, is a whole adventure in itself. Even today, the only land access is a 3-mile trail that drops 1700 feet from the top of a sea cliff down 26 switchbacks to the peninsula below. (Did I mention that Moloka'i has the highest sea cliffs in the world?) Two ways to tackle the trail: 1) saddle up with Moloka'i Mule Ride, or 2) hoof it on our own two feet. Since we're idiots, it didn't occur to us to reserve mule saddles in advance. So we showed up at the trailhead early in the morning, got our state permits (required to enter the peninsula), and started hiking before the four-leggeds were on the move.
A section of the cliff trail. This particular bit has a railing; much of the trail doesn't. And yeah, the ocean at the bottom is as clear as it looks. Absolutely spectacular.
A view of the sea cliff and part of the trail cutting across it.
St. Philomena was the first church built by Father Damien, a Belgian priest who ministered to the colony for sixteen years. He didn't just give sermons; he dressed patients' sores, built houses and two churches, and lived and worked alongside the banished outcasts of Kalaupapa until his own death from leprosy in 1889. Father Damien will be canonized as a Catholic saint in a ceremony on Kalaupapa peninsula on October 11, 2009. Our tour guide told us, in what I think is an understatement: "That will be a big day on Moloka'i."
A view of the sea cliffs from the Kalaupapa peninsula.
The cottage where we stayed. Just the most beautiful, welcoming place. From it, we could see the south shore, the islands of Maui and Lanai and--most exciting of all--whales spouting in the ocean between.
The view from our cottage, our last morning on Moloka'i: a rainbow over Maui.
And then: back home, far too soon.
Mahalo, Moloka'i, for reminding us to take it slow.
All over everywhere, folks are squeeing about Freedom. Apparently, this is a computer program you download from the internet that gives you freedom from...
(wait for it)
...the internet.
Freedom from checking your email every few minutes. Freedom from checking the comment trails on your favorite blogs. Freedom from Twitter, Facebook, your book's Amazon.com ranking...
not that I ever look at my books...umm...hardly ever, I mean...*cough*
...in short: Freedom to do some actual work. The way Freedom works is, you set it for a specified time and during that time, the program prevents you from accessing the internet for any reason--even to check March Madness results (Cher bracket) on Go Fug Yourself. You can't argue with it...you can't reason with it. It knows no mercy.
If that's not a writer's godsend, I don't know what is. It's just too easy, when hitting a bump in the fifth circle of hell known as the First Draft, to say I must know, at this very instant, how to say "hurry up" in French! Before I even know it, Google is activated and I'm knee-deep in French-to-English translation sites. And then I remember that I wanted to know what sort of fabric is crepe, exactly, and by the way, wasn't The Road with Viggo Mortensen supposed to come out last November? Where hast ye been, Viggo? And then...
No! No more! Where do I get this Freedom? I cried, cursor poised, ready to click through to my deliverance. And then I saw the fine print. (Why, why is there always fine print?)
Freedom is for Macs only.
*foam quietly at mouth for a moment* Fine. Maybe it's just that Mac users don't have the self-discipline that we PC-ers do. So yesterday, I devised a little Freedom of my own: I disconnected my laptop from the internet. (I was surprised at how long I hesitated before clicking "disconnect." As if the mouse was a cleaver held over my sole supply of oxygen.) Every hour and a half, I allowed myself ten minutes surf time. (Okay, fifteen. And once was thirty minutes, but that was lunch.) Overall, I was pretty pleased with myself. And today?
And...and...Aarghh! I can't make it stop!Fred Stutzman, savior of Mac users, hear us! Are we not also helpless in the face of a strong wireless signal? Do we not also have work to be done? Where's our PC Freedom?!
I'm a veterinarian who started writing and never stopped. I've published two young adult novels: Ten Cents a Dance, which was named a Top Ten Best Book for Young Adults by the American Library Association, and Tallulah Falls, which was named a 2007 Book for the Teen Age by the New York Public Library. I practice veterinary medicine part-time; the rest of the time, I'm up in my office, clacking away at the keyboard.
Life is discovery. Sometimes, I think the stuff I’ve discovered is so cool, I have to share it. Feel free to roll your eyes, it won’t bother me. I’m a geek…I know it.
A few miles away we found Kapukahehu Beach (aka Dixie Maru Beach) and its calm cove waters. Perfect for the likes of me, who can't see six inches ahead--literally--and therefore routinely get knocked over by waves. (I made a lousy Californian.) This was the most crowded place we experienced during our stay...all of about ten people sharing the sun, sand and warm water. I'm not much into sunbathing (not only severely myopic, but also melanin-challenged--yeah, I made a really lousy Californian) but yeah, this was bliss.
Looking from the rocky Halawa beach deep inland to the Halawa Valley and one of its waterfalls. Halawa Valley was the location of one of the earliest known settlements in all of Hawaii.
Kalaupapa Peninsula, on the northern shore. This is where Hawaii's famous leper colony is situated. Beginning in the 1860s, people in the Hawaiian islands diagnosed with Hansen's disease (leprosy) were taken away involuntarily from their families and quarantined here. For much of the colony's history, patients were kept on this almost inaccessible peninsula, in virtual prison, for the rest of their lives. 
The view from our cottage, our last morning on Moloka'i: a rainbow over Maui.
