Maintaining Focus With Big Stories

For those expecting something about New Year's resolutions, what to do going into 2025, or some other thing about the changing of the calendar, you're in for a disappointment. (If you really need some writing advice for the New Year, I recommend my "Writing Resolutions for 2023" post, which should quench your thirst.) I am actually going to talk about what not to write about when you get a big story in mind.

For those who do not know, today marks the 121st anniversary of the Iroquois Theater fire, a disaster here in Chicago that took over 600 lives (including two of my great-aunts) and set into motion massive regulatory changes for public buildings. While this tragedy has been overlooked as the years have gone by (the location is now the Nederlander Theater, once also known as the Oriental Theater), it's still an incredible study into how buildings worked and failed back at the turn of the 20th century, the state of Chicago politics, the collision of errors that brought about such a horrible event, and why people are reluctant to refer to a new place as "absolutely fireproof."

Looking back, any one of these subjects could be fertile grounds for an entire story. Simply telling the story from the perspectives of my great-aunts, Edythe and Ella, and speculating as to their experience, could be an amazing piece of work. However, the big mistake writers often sweep themselves into is trying to include as much as possible in the story. At this point, such a dramatic event actually loses some of its drama and drifts toward becoming a news story. As tempting as it might be to do a full dive into researching everything about the fire then pouring it into a story, you aren't doing the readers any favors.

As I mentioned, the number of problems were legion. The fireproof safety curtain used to drop between the stage and the crowd was not actually fireproof, and it got stuck anyway when they tried to use it. The fire extinguishers meant to put out fires with stage lighting were useless in fighting fires on the curtains or up in the rigging, which allowed things to spread real fast. The fire escapes were problematic, many safety doors were locked and difficult to open, and the narrow exits became choke points when people tried to leave in large numbers. Oh - and there were over 2,000 people in a theater able to seat 1,600, so there was that as well. All these are important facts, but do they belong in the story?

Going back to my great-aunts, how much of that would be known by Edythe and Ella? Would they have known that the backstage exits (which actually worked) caused a fiery backdraft to feed the fire on the stage? Did they know how many fire codes had been overlooked or shrugged off when the "absolutely fireproof" theater opened to great fanfare just six weeks earlier? Or were they two young women (23 and 17, respectively) excited to see Eddie Foy onstage, only to be swept up in the horrors when the high curtains caught fire and flames swept across the upper gallery? If I was ever to write a story of their experiences, I would focus on what they felt, what they likely saw, and keep it as a witness to terror. And given how many of those victims were trampled, crushed, or asphyxiated, I would probably not speculate into how my great-aunts actually died. (Those details are deep in the archives and might be best to stay there.)

Big events demand big stories, but they also demand tight focus to do the story justice. If you take on such a task, tell a specific story, from a specific perspective, and keep the reader in that zone of intense focus. Other stories can look at other angles, but containing the experience will also intensify it.

Happy New Year...                

More About, "A Dark and Stormy Night"

I know I have discussed certain aspects of this infamous story opening before, but I really want to dive into a couple of very specific points. There are many angles of attack to choose from, and there is even a reason to defend this generally poor first line, but this time I have a purpose other than to once again disturb the spirit of Edward Bulwer-Lytton. So if you will indulge me for a moment, maybe we can salvage some perspective from this otherwise forgettable bit of verse.

For those who do not know the full story here, Edward Bulwer-Lytton is responsible for opening his book, Paul Clifford, with the line, "It was a dark and stormy night..." which has become synonymous with wordy, ornate, sprawling and excessive description, or "purple prose" as the kids call it these days. This was back when authors often wrote very expansively (many were paid by the word), and went on about things that had little relevance to the story (sometimes because it padded the word count). However, that's not what I will be discussing.

My point comes from something that came up in a writer discussion. Someone noted that as an opening book line, it does create an image, a mood. It does set the stage in a very visual way, offering the reader an immediate gaze upon the setting. Well, that's fine... for a screenplay to a movie. Think of how many movies that have opened on the stormy night in downtown wherever, traffic splashing through the shadowy streets while the title and opening credits appear. There's a lot of mood-setting there, mostly because the actors and director need their names up front. In that environment, let there be weather, wind, mood and music. It's a movie.

In writing, however, the reader needs to know why they are there. Mood is fine, but the reader isn't going to spend the first few pages settling in, setting up the popcorn, and waiting for the story to start. The story needs to claim the reader very quickly and place them into the mind and body of its character. Sure, mood is important, but it is more important that in writing, the lighting, weather, sounds and sights are things shown as character experiences, not just environmental variables or mood placers. The dark and stormy night can mean many different things depending on whether the character is running across the street, looking outside from their hotel room, or trying to stay warm and dry in an alley for the night. The storm only matters as it relates to the character.

If I spend my time writing about this dark and stormy night (and what night isn't dark?), it creates environment but I am still lacking the meat of the story, which is the character. Let's say I write a paragraph of the storm rolling through the streets. I then go to the character, who is sitting at a bar, listening to the storm and tending to his gin and tonic. The reader's interest goes to the character, and the storm feels incidental, even useless. However, let's instead start with the character, sipping their drink and listening to the storm outside. Now that storm makes a difference because our character can respond to it in some manner - happy to not be out in it, not looking forward to going outside, worried about other people getting drenched, etc. The storm and the character have intersected into an actual moment that informs us about the scene, surroundings, and character all at once.

So, with full respect to the Right Honorable Lord Lytton, your infamous sentence will serve as a great object lesson for generations of writers to come. But of the many phrases you coined in your years, this will not, however, be a great example of your wordsmithing. Just be happy people will still pick up your book hundreds of years later just to see those seven words.              

Political Correctness vs. Accuracy

I could not think of anything more appropriate for the holiday season than a good, robust discussion about political correctness. (Full disclosure: literally anything would be better, but work with me on this.) It seems that not a day goes by during this time when someone points out some detail about Christmas or Hanukkah or Kwanzaa and starts a big argument during this season of peace. Of course, it's all done in the name of being more understanding, so people go with it. As writers, however, how far do we need to go with it? More importantly, do we need to care about it at all?

Let's take my old standby for an example: A guy named Tom. Tom is a white, thirty-something Chicagoan with a suburban upbringing, a college education, a reasonable amount of street-smarts (and street-stupids as well), and a stubborn streak. Now, if I write a piece about Tom's attendance at his company's Christmas party, how politically correct do I have to be to make the reader understand Tom?

Well, let's offer some background pieces. Most companies that try to be "with the times" no longer call it a Christmas party but rather their "holiday" party in order to be inclusive. This is a gesture to political correctness and religious diversity, and as a writer I might feel compelled to change "Christmas" to "holiday" in order to satisfy that audience. However, I have options since, after all I am the writer, and I do control the world.

Now, if I want Tom's company to come off as traditional to the point of old-fashioned, then you know it's going to be a Christmas party replete with helpers decked out as elves, some mock reindeer, and someone in upper management dressed as Santa Claus. That's the way the company's done it for generations, and they'll be damned if anyone is going to stop such a good thing. A more progressive company might have the holiday party instead, with very sterilized holiday symbols such as snow, snow-people, and "Happy Holidays" signs in a very gender-neutral font. It's very politically correct, which would match that kind of company.

But let's talk about Tom. I know Tom very well. I know his ins and outs, his preferences, and how he would respond to anything. I know that he doesn't want to downplay any holiday or belittle any group but dammit, this is Christmas. December 25th every year. It's the foundation of our economy, and it's existed in this country since the pilgrims first arrived. (He's actually wrong about that last part, but hey, that's Tom.) As a writer, we have to be true to our characters, and understand that our readers might be put off by such attitudes. If we are worried that the reader will lose interest, we can always have Tom engage with a pro-holiday person and flesh out Tom's ideas so the reader understands them and can be sympathetic, even if they don't fully agree with the position. The important part is that the character remains consistent. We reserve a character changing their opinions or positions for the main arc of the story, because ultimately that is their growth arc. If the character is inconsistent, that loses the reader every time.

So when it comes to trying to be "correct" and "proper" about things, just keep a few things in mind. Some people swear, and some readers won't like it. Some people are abrasive, some have bad habits, annoying qualities, and stubbornness that gets in the way of growth. Plenty of people, places, and things are far from PC, and that's okay. If you are worried about these things turning off your readers, then offer context so the reader can at least see where they're coming from. It doesn't fix anything, but it gives you a chance to explain their side.

And of course, cover all bases when you can. And on that note, have a Merry Christmas, a Happy Hanukkah, a festive Kwanzaa, and have a good time during all the other holidays I clearly overlooked.       

Take A New Look at Things

As the end of the year approaches, I go through a time-honored ritual: getting all my medical stuff out of the way before the new year and deductible kick in. So yes, I have all kinds of doctor appointments to entertain me through these last days of December, including my eye check-up. Frankly, I probably didn't need it - my sight is fairly stable and I could've just renewed my contacts prescription. However, I was getting all that stuff out of the way, so why not my eyes as well?

Here's the fun part. After spending one day in a very blurry, dilated-eyes kind of place, I got to try on my new contacts. Wow! I didn't quite realize how sharp and crisp the edges of things were until the new pair went in. Now, it's like a whole new world has opened up before me. Tree branches actually have individual shape and texture, as opposed to being just the basic idea of a tree off in the distance without much definition. And clouds - well, let me tell you about clouds. It turns out they are quite detailed if you have a good prescription (or normal eyes). You just need to look at them closely.

Of course, this is where things turn toward writing. Any writer has their favorite thing to write about, their special stories they love to tell. My friends and I have a whole package of them: The soup-or-salad/Super Salad incident is one of my faves, as is the miscalculating of a tip at Red Lobster, mistaken identity at the pool hall, and any story about one of my epic car accidents. These stories stood the test of time, and they never fail to amuse. However, every now and then, I dig one out of the memory pit and give it a fresh look. Sometimes I see something new.  

I recently spent some time exploring one of those car accidents I mentioned. I have been in some bad ones, but I try not to live in the past and dwell on the stupidity of my actions when I was eighteen. After all, it's not like I can change anything, right? Well, as it turns out, when I revisited one of those stories, four decades later, I found it oddly discomforting. I even felt edgy, as if I was disturbing some evil spirits. This was the moment I realized that all my storytelling about that moment might have blurred out some of the details, washed out some of the facts, and just left the amusing story of a stupid teenager flipping a 1976 AMC Pacer. 

Looking back on that night with fresh eyes, the writer in me sensed the fear I felt that night. My personal terror of the crash dissociated me from the entire situation, and I "remembered" it mostly in a third-person view. Now that I could look at it again, it wasn't a very funny story at all. It was traumatizing. It left me in a state of shock. The injuries weren't horrible, but in a different sense, I carried the damage of that accident with me for years, just never looking at it with any clarity of vision. The gift of time, emotional distance, and personal healing let me face up to it eventually, but I realized there was an entirely different story that I now had to confront.

Time is a weird thing. Its passing can change things in our memory, and the world can seem very different - though it never actually changes. So, sometimes, give yourself a chance to look at things with fresh eyes, without the biases and beliefs you might've been dragging around for decades. With a new look, you might see things you've totally overlooked.        

The Curious Gift of A Broken Heart

The human heart is quite impressive when you think about it. For the entirety of your life it keeps on flexing, rhythmically pumping blood through your body while adjusting, as needed, to the body's demands. It never takes a break, never gets a timeout, only slowing down periodically before another day of full-time work. And yet, when people sing its praises, they connect it to all these emotion-things that somehow got tied into that blood-pumping dynamo that keeps you alive. Doctors might find this a bit of a snub, but writers know exactly why, so let's play around with that process piece for a bit.

When our heart speeds up, slows down, pumps stronger or weaker, we feel the effects throughout our body but also right there in our chest. These changes are put into motion by chemicals produced within our body, but we know what sets those chemicals going in the first place. All the emotional triggers we have, all those big and small feelings that course through us, they all help produce those chemicals that make us feel different all over - and we feel something in our chest as well. That's how the workhorse of our body became tied into love and joy instead of life flowing through us - merely by association. However, writers and other creatives saw the emotional connection and ran with it.

If someone with no knowledge of human physiology tried to learn about the body through poetry and expressive writing, they would come to the conclusion that the heart produced our emotions. After all, a heart can feel full or empty, it can overflow with every wonderful feeling, it can blacken and shrivel from a lack of use, and it can even harden into a cold, stony rock in our chest. Now, none of these things can actually happen, but when we feel such things, we identify with the emotions and that pain or exuberance just underneath our ribs. There's reason and purpose for this, and it is very much to our benefit to explore this - particularly as those feelings strengthen.

As anyone can tell by reading my past year of posts, I have had a lot of heartache this year. I have lost four inspirational people in my life in 2024, the most recent and by far most important being my mother. Would anyone be surprised if I said my chest hurts? Doubt it, although they might expect something more than just describing pain. At that point, I see why those metaphors have lived on over the years. A heart can overflow with joy, but when a heart gets broken, emotions just leak out through every crack, every fracture pouring feelings all over the place. To me, this is why people are such a wreck after experiencing heartbreak - their emotions are everywhere, untamed forces flooding into every part of their life. I feel that pain in my chest and in my mind's eye, I see wave after wave of love, joy, anger, and everything else just spilling out, unchecked, as they soak into every aspect of my existence.

And how is this a gift? Well, think about it. In its normal state, a heart doesn't leak anything. Everything is contained, it flows as expected, almost to the point where we no longer appreciate what a quiet little miracle it is. The same goes for emotions: How many times do we fight with our loved ones and not feel that love that fills us? We have all these feelings but we rarely tap into them - maybe because they are just that strong, that important. When a heart is broken, we hurt, but more to the point, we feel. We feel everything, possibly all at once, and feel it everywhere. Some things we don't even realize we felt until they spill out and we have to acknowledge them. It's brutal, it's painful, and it's honest because we feel things in their raw form. No filter, no containment, there it is all spilled out. 

If you go through an episode of a broken heart, give yourself a chance to feel more than just the pain. Embrace everything that comes out because at least you are feeling something. As overwhelming as it may be, you are living in the most human, most honest moment we can experience, and you will learn more about yourself in those times of pain than you ever will when everything is contained. Let that pain in your chest be a signal that you are growing.

(Unless it's a shooting pain that hurts your left shoulder as well. That might require a trip to the ER.)    

A Failure to Communicate

I was having a very enjoyable conversation with a friend recently when the subject drifted toward the art of communication. This is something that people very much take for granted, we discussed, but something they never really explore. The prime example came up with the discussion of those moments that seem to be the common denominator in all tense relationships: when there's a breakdown in communication.

We brought up the typical examples of how one person will do something, then expect the other person to derive a specific meaning from that action. The trouble begins when the second party doesn't actually pick up on that meaning, misinterprets it as something else, or otherwise fails to take in what is being put out by the other person. The tension then builds as these misunderstandings compound upon each other, one missed signal leading to another, and each party not really understanding why the other person isn't really responding to them because they are clearly saying something that the other one should know. Great for armchair discussions of why relationships fall apart, but also a significant warning for writers as well.

Usually, a good relationship consists of two parties who are able to express themselves to each other with complete understanding, and take in what the other person says. Now think of that relationship as it relates to a writer and their audience. This is one-directional - the writer puts out their message, builds upon those little cues and hints, and develops a greater discussion that the reader is supposed to ride along with. However, without any feedback, the writer never has any clue if what they are discussing is being taken in, understood, and accepted for exactly what it is supposed to mean. If a writer fails to do this, they lose the reader, and the reader is kind of the most important part of this relationship.

This is why it is so important for writers to get feedback when they are first learning the art of telling a story - particularly stories that are close to them. Feedback is a good check-in to make sure that when a writer pours their heart onto the page, they do it in such a way that the main points are appreciated, the connections are clear, and the stepwise development of the story is done in a way the reader can experience.

Is this really that hard? After all, when I tell a story about something I went through, how could it not be a proper, full explanation of the events? And as for fiction, if I know the story inside and out, then telling that story is a simple process, yes?

A-ha! That's when communication can break down. If I know a story inside and out, it's very easy for me to just assume certain factors. If I tell a story about a friend of mine and say he's always been mad about that time the damn cops arrested him back in 1990, then you get a sense of a person feeling victimized. However, I might have left out that he was caught looting after a disastrous tornado destroyed a nearby down, and those damn cops caught him walking down a destroyed street carrying a television he "found." That bit of information - one that I know by heart and often don't drag out whenever I mention him - is very important information because it really turns that victimization mindset on its ear. If I leave out that information, you might not understand why I learned to steer clear of that guy, and might feel that was a harsh response to someone already feeling victimized. With that information, my motives become much clearer.

With writing and relationships, a little check-in on the details can always go a long way, and feedback can play a big role in developing the art of using details to create the substance of a discussion. And as a side-note, if you are one of those people who loots places after disasters, maybe don't read this blog anymore.        

A Little Comment About Poetry

Don't be alarmed - this won't be a post discussing the fine art of writing poetry, or about meter, what a sonnet is, or how many words can be rhymed with "orange." Rather, This is just about what poems are and aren't, what they have to be or don't have to be, and what they can become even in the most simple ways. To do this, I will be bringing up a simple poem. No riddles here, no nature-based subtext, no describing a sunset across twenty lines. It's fairly straightforward, but yet it leaves a mark:

Yesterday, upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn't there
He wasn't there again today
I wish, I wish he'd go away... 

When I came home last night at three
The man was waiting there for me
But when I looked around the hall
I couldn't see him there at all!
Go away, go away, don't you come back any more!
Go away, go away, and please don't slam the door... (slam!) 

Last night I saw upon the stair
A little man who wasn't there
He wasn't there again today
Oh, how I wish he'd go away...  
-- Antigonish, William Hughes Marnes

This poem is presumably about an encounter with a ghost. However, it is a playful approach, never actually showing us a ghost nor ever intimating any detail other than that this ghost might be a small man. But throughout the poem, we sense confusion, bewilderment, and even surprise when the man who wasn't there supposedly slams the door. The narrator acknowledges the man isn't there, yet has no way to describe him other than to say that he "isn't." In the end, we get the narrator's sense of frustration and dread at the presence of this man, even though he is literally not there.

This is a poem merely because it rhymes, it presents an experience, and communicates a feeling about the world as sensed by the author. It isn't about nature, romance, flowers, longing, or any of the usual poetry tropes. If anything, it a poem/ghost story without conclusion, just the feeling someone might have if they discovered they lived in a haunted house (if you believe in those things).

I've had this poem going through my head for two days now. (Full disclosure: I originally thought it was by Ogden Nash.) Now what does that mean? Just like any piece of quality writing, the only thing it means or needs to mean is that it is good writing, and that's because it sticks. I don't need to agree with it, sympathize with it, or anything else. The poem found a place in me, and that's what good poems do.  

Writing on A Full Stomach

Through the history of this page, there was only one occasion where I wrote a piece on the day after Thanksgiving. It was the first year of my postings, so every entry had to count. It was surprisingly devoid of comments about the Thanksgiving feast the previous day, so there's every chance that I wrote it ahead of time then dropped it into the blog at some point between turkey sandwiches and fall clean-up. However, I can guarantee that this piece is being written the day after Thanksgiving as I ride out the calorie crash, still digesting the two or three full plates of food I ate yesterday.

For writers in particular, Thanksgiving should be an opportunity to see how far we've come over the past year and appreciate whatever gains we have made. If we participated in NaNoWriMo, then a pat on the back is deserved whether we finished it or not. If we set out any task or goal and pursued it, then let's be thankful for those things as well. Since writing is all about growth, when we set out to do something, we've already won, even if we didn't finish it. We just "failed up," as people like to say.

This year I explored the creative side-products of being a writer, and that's exploring other things that might make for a good story. I danced and sang, I went to new places and did new things, and even set myself on a new life trajectory. Whether I did these things successfully (and I guarantee that with dancing, I did not) is not the point. The point was to stretch out that creative zone - the supposed "box" we are supposed to think outside of - and let more experiences and opportunities come naturally. I think next year there might have to be some improv. I'm at that point in life where trying out what I have wanted to do for years can't hurt, and if it is a failure, it's not like I ruined a career opportunity; I just took a step that I wanted to. Nothing wrong with that.

As my regular and semi-regular readers know, I lost several people in my writing community this year, and I also recently lost my mother. Mourning losses such as these takes time, but I did grant myself a little time to be thankful for having known them. It isn't closure by any sense, it just reminds me that my life is different and better for those interactions. And with regard to my writing friends, I would've never known any of them if I hadn't stepped outside of my secure space and joined the workshops they participated in or facilitated. Plenty of people went their entire life without meeting those friends of mine, but I got that opportunity. Thank you.

More to the point, as a writer, I now have a fresh stock of things and stuff to incorporate into my style and my ways of saying things in general. Letting those become part of my stock and trade will be part of this coming year's process, as will many other adventures I have yet to encounter. However, for now I have to settle back in my chair and finish the last of the leftovers while watching Friday college football (which I will never get used to). But as a writer, I can already say that I am full from the past year of writing, and look forward to the next one.        

The Color of the World

I've been doing a lot of writing about some of the events in my life and what they ultimately mean to me. A part of the research into this process has been reading through some of my old journals - and I do mean old, like as in high-school old - just to get a little perspective. One of the things that caught my attention was not in the writing but in the margin, where I had scribbled something that perhaps felt profound at the time but was probably not my own thought. It was simply, "Don't paint the world with your brush."

The reason I kind of got hung up on this one was that I wasn't exactly sure what angle it was coming from, so I had no idea where to take it to. I was taking some basic writing courses then just like every high-school sophomore, so maybe a teacher said that, but why? And whose brush was I supposed to use? I was 14 - I barely had any brushes to call my own. Or was this about just using one color to paint the entire world, that was clearly a multi-colored object? That didn't feel right. Was this about writing voice, because not using your own voice seems intuitively wrong. It was a puzzler.

I think it dawned upon me a litter later on what another possible meaning could be, and this one felt a little more natural, though maybe the painting metaphor was not the most appropriate. A part of me wondered if it was more a statement about trying to not look at the world through your own personal lens. This kind of made sense because, as I said, I wrote that when I was 14, and my field of vision was quite small. Or, rather, I didn't really have much of a brush to work with. I knew very little about the world, even less from first-hand experience, and had little clue about how complex things could be. However, what was that saying about writing? Was it telling me to not write about my own limited experiences? I was confused again.

Eventually, I made a few connections that caused things to click. In high school, those of us who kept writing journals did so because they were assigned to us, and we had to fill three pages a week. We then handed them in, got them back on Monday, and went back to writing. I took a closer look at the entries I had done the weeks prior to that note of mine in the margin. I had been writing about relationships and how I perceived them. (I won't get into details. Let's just say I was 14 and about as ignorant as can be about how relationships really worked). My conclusions had been simple expressions of frustration, like all young teens my age, and I went on from there. That's when I realized what the statement had meant.

I was allowing my experience to be the main determinant of how the world must be. I experienced something, and decided that's how it all worked every time, everywhere. My young mind applied the very limited world I knew and stretched it across the entire globe. That's not exactly fair to the rest of the globe, especially if their success or failure would be determined by my tiny, judgmental ideas.

The big takeaway as a writer is to remember that even though I hold a particular viewpoint, that doesn't mean everyone else does. Plenty of people may hold opposing viewpoints and be just as passionate about them as I am about mine. Assuming that my ways, thoughts, and ideas are the default settings of the world limits my ability to connect to others, to relate to others, and definitely write about other people that gives them individuality and depth as opposed to being little clones of me. Let the world be whatever color it chooses; whatever color works for it.

And if you get a chance, think up a better metaphor than, "Don't paint the world with your own brush," because I think there are better ways to say it.   

The Secret to Success in Writing

This is what you've been waiting for. After 551 posts, we have reached the point where I offer the big reveal on how to find success as a writer. I have poured over 275,000 words into this blog, which is like three books-worth of talking about how to avoid the passive voice and way too much about poetry, but it feels like the right time to talk about successful writing. And I will preface this with three profound claims. First, this applies toward everyone. Second, it is in fact very difficult to achieve. Third and most important, the answer will leave you wildly disappointed.

You see, for all that it's worth, successful writing is sort of a Shaggy Dog story. Your journey to becoming a successful writer at one point or another will go in a lot of directions, take you to plenty of places both useful and useless, and get you to do things that may or may not improve your skills. This journey, however, is the entire point. Each step brings with it its own lessons, be they how to improve yourself or a warning about what not to do. Quite often, however, you will have no clue what the lesson means at any given moment, and often they will seem useless at the time you are experiencing them.

There's an art-school exercise that talented students often have to go through, which is something like this: Get out your pencil and sketch pad, and practice drawing circles. Not ovals, not roundish, egg-shaped spheroids, but circles that are just as geometrically accurate as can be. Big ones, small ones, you draw them to the point of perfection. If there's one exercise that will drive the young, energetic, creative-types utterly mad, it's the circle exercise. They want to churn out portraits, placing their burning passions onto to pad, on easels and across canvasses, and not sit there drawing a bunch of damn circles. And yet that's the point. The budding artist learns the motions to portray exactly what is needed, to skillfully translate an image to paper. Once they have control, those things they want to sketch and paint become that much easier because now there's discipline behind the translation of their passion.

When I first learned about writing in school, I learned about the importance of description, and we wrote descriptive paragraphs where we would take the most simple object and write everything we could about it. Every sensory detail about, say, an apple, got thrown into these paragraphs. Did any of this writing amount to anything? No. Would any of these paragraphs be useful? Only for getting a grade. I wondered why we did these things. It didn't make sense. After all, when we read great literature, they never described the fruit, so why were we doing that? Many years later, I realized it was not just practice in thinking of things descriptively, but learning when and how to really fill a page with just a few perfect words. I no longer needed a paragraph to describe an apple because I now knew the one part worth describing - or when to not worry about it.

Now, lastly comes the part of reaching your goal of success. I was asked recently, "What do I need to become a successful writer?" My answer was simple. "You need to know what you consider success to be, then do everything you need to get yourself there. If your idea of success is writing down your life story, then start writing. If you want to sell a million copies of something to consider yourself successful, then start learning technique, style, and read everything any famous author has ever written about writing - then apply it. If you want to be a success, define what will make you happily successful then fill in the blanks that will get you there."

Yes, the person was wildly disappointed. However, they checked out Stephen King's On Writing from the library and started reading, so they are on their way.      

Writing and Typesetting

This next statement may give away my age, but I will run that risk. My first desk job was right around the dawn of the desktop publishing era, when laser printers became more than a rich man's toy, people in a small office could produce camera-ready copy, and the company newsletter could be produced in-house instead of through some print service. Yes, it was a glorious time learning about fonts, point sizes, text wrapping and photo placement. However, the greatest thing I ever got to learn about was every single way I could embellish a word or sentence to make it really pop off the page.

I would later learn why this was a horrible lesson.

These days we see it everywhere: ALL CAPS to scream at someone, bold letters so something cannot be missed, underline being used to point out that something is important, and the MONSTROUS COMBINATION OF ALL OF THEM if something is just that important. Really? Is this all necessary? Well, apparently, once people had access to them, they went crazy with all the emphasis added to different parts of a sentence, to where you could see the important parts of a page from five feet away. This changed a lot about styles of writing. Unfortunately, most of that change was for the worse.

Back in the day of the typewriter, people could not boldface a word, or italicize, or do a lot of things without an extensive amount of work, and style manuals explained things through very explicit rules meant to keep everything consistent. All caps was usually only used in declarative form, such as referring to a statement on a billboard or some non-narrative function. Then people learned about typesetting and that all went out the window. 

While a few typing effects have gained a degree of acceptance - italics in dialogue to emphasis an inflection - the rest are still shunned. The argument behind this as that the writing should explain if something is screamed out, important, or urgent, and none of this should depend on a visual crutch. Think of the way you talk. Nobody sees your words, so we shift our voice in tone and rhythm to make a difference. When we yell, we have exclamation points. When we are emphatic, our facial cues and body language change, which is portrayed through descriptors. When we pause, enter the comma or ellipsis. So many simple tools with grammar and punctuation are built right into the process, but writers become lazy and rely on the typesetting to convey a point.

Our simple commas, ellipses, and exclamation points are great tools to stylize a character's voice, and when we pivot on a particular word, our writing can express that along with fleshing out the character. In many ways, part of the art of writing is working with the tools you have in grammar and punctuation in order to create things that go beyond words. Leaving behind the crutches exercises your legs more than anything else will, so try and step around the typesetting shortcuts when possible.

It's All About the Point of View

In every workshop and writer's group I attend, there's always a good discussion about point of view: Which one is the best? What's the easiest to write? Why use one view versus another? Usually, the discussion involves whether the story is best in the third- or first-person perspective. I'll cover that briefly, but I think it's really worth exploring some of the more exotic perspectives that can be used, such as fly-on-the-wall, omnipotent, and second-person. But first, as promised, the first versus third debate.

First-person perspective is simply a story from the intimate view of the storyteller. This is the, "I got up, I walked around, I sat down," way to tell a tale. The only catch here is that when we write in the first person, we have to see the world from that point of view, so we are not allowed to get in anyone else's head. We can't say, "I told her the truth about last night. She secretly didn't believe me." From first person, the character has no way of knowing whether she believed him or not unless he can read minds, so it has to be written to acknowledge this: "I told her the truth about last night but I could tell she didn't believe me." First-person is very intimate, but stays from one perspective so there can (and should be) a lot of mystery about other events the main character does not know about. Clearly, this is a good style for suspense and thriller writing, as well as stories meant to dwell deep within a character.

Third-person perspective tells the story from a narrator outside of the characters, though the story can still be from one character's view. In third person, the story would be, "Tom got up, walked around, then sat down." However, depending on the point of view, interactions get wildly different. Written from Tom's perspective, the interaction in the last paragraph is similar: "Tom told her the truth about last night but he could tell she didn't believe him." We follow the rules of writing about things as Tom experiences them, but the reader is not seeing it from Tom's eyes. This is a good form to use for writing about personal experiences but through an alter-ego or made-up person to hide any personal involvement.

Now here's where third-person perspective goes on an adventure. Fly-on-the-wall perspective is outside of any specific perspective, so the reader has to interpret the events without any cues from a character. In the interaction example, it would be written as, "Tom told her about last night. She stood there, arms folded, facing him in silence." The reader becomes the interpreter, and can be misled by how they see an event. This requires good character development and consistency of character, because all the thoughts are hidden from the reader and have to be deduced through a logical process. Very tricky indeed, but the reader will engage with trying to understand these people.

Omnipotent is just the opposite; the narrative is all-seeing, all-knowing. We get insights from all characters, their stories fully available. "Tom told her the truth about last night, for the first time having nothing to hide. She wanted to believe him, but she had heard these stories before and they were usually lies." All the conflict, all the tension is right there for the reader no consume. It does diffuse the tension of secrets, but this perspective allows the reader to try and think about how this situation will end up. The reader starts thinking ahead, trying to predict what will happen.

Second-person perspective is a completely different creature, and very difficult to use. In this style, the reader is Tom, and the story is told to him. "You got up, you walked around, you sat down," becomes the format, forcing the reader into Tom's shoes. The reader is guided along Tom's path whether they like it or not, and their interactions are understood as Tom's actions, but from the reader's view: "You tell her the truth about last night. She looks back at you in silence. You know that look. She doesn't believe you." The reader relives Tom's story through Tom, which is very difficult because the narrator explains everything to the reader. It is incredibly intimate and can be very engaging, but it is a pain to write.

There are other variants, and many stories bend between perspectives, points-of-view, and styles depending on the wont of the author (or sometimes just from lazy writing). The best way to get a feel for any of these perspectives is to find a short story, determine its perspective, and rewrite it from another view. You will discover things about what makes the story good from its written version, and also feel what other perspectives can bring to the table. (Try writing The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe in third-person and see what happens.)             

Why Writing Matters to Me

For reasons I will never be able to explain, I was a natural reader. As a child it took me longer than usual to start talking (interpret as you wish), but I picked up reading very quickly. My parents would read to me at night - a combination of traditional childrens' books and Grimm's Fairy Tales, depending on who was doing the reading - and I would watch in silent attention. Apparently, I would learn as well, though that emerged as a big surprise.

My mother would often tell they story of when she first realized I could read. I had just turned three a couple of months earlier, and we were driving up to the city where my great-aunt and great-uncle could babysit me while she visited my father, who was in the hospital. This was the early 1970s, so naturally I was in the front seat with Mom, who was paying more attention to the highway than to me. As a three-year-old, this would not do, and I decided to get her attention. How? I started reading the billboards aloud to her as we passed them.

That got her attention. She actually pulled over on the highway to validate this, and I read her a few more signs. Amazed, she rushed me to the city, and showed this amazing feat to her aunt and uncle, who were surprised if not amazed. I eventually visited my father in the hospital and Mom showed him what I could do. He's the one who discovered I could read things upside-down as well as rightside-up, but that's another story. My mother knew I could read, and she just went with it. I just wanted some attention, but I got much more.

Whenever she got the opportunity, Mom would read with me - not to me - and put me to the test with whatever she had - newspaper articles, magazines, her ever-present books, whatever. As I have mentioned in past posts, she was a journalist amongst other professions, and she would let me sit by her and read her stories as she wrote them. I learned to read her incredibly proper cursive at the age of four (although I never had the penmanship to match her skill in that regard), and I walked into Kindergarten fully literate. 

By then, I realized what reading and writing were - they were more than communication, they were connections between people even when one wasn't there. She taught me that with something as simple as the written word, messages could transcend our existence and our voice could arrive at any location we wanted. I could now read the letters sent from my Aunt Isabelle (a teacher who taught us kids plenty over her many years), and I could send letters to my grandmother in another state. I could talk with the whole world now, and Mom made sure I was as skilled at it as possible. My mother made all that possible, and of course she was in the dedication for my first novel.

My mother passed away Tuesday night at the age of 86. She was an avid reader, but as her health declined she lost the ability to enjoy a good book, a story, and eventually any engagement with the world. However, everything she wrote is something I can read thanks to her, and in that regard she is still very much around. The conversations will be different, but I will always have that connection.

Thanks for teaching me to read, Mom. And thanks for everything else.

So it is Written...

I have no idea where this phrase comes from, but it has been echoing through my head all day: "So it is written, so it is said, so it is done." If anyone can help me find the source of this, I would definitely appreciate it. I fear it is too generic and/or too old to be accurately sourced, and I also have a sneaking suspicion plenty of people will confuse it with Pharaoh from the Ten Commandments. However, none of those are my concern. What concerns me is how writing became such a powerful thing for people, and why it still carried weight today - perhaps even more so.

(Incidentally, Pharaoh's quote, "So it is written, so shall it be done" does apply to this situation as well, but his quote is not the actual one going through my head. I have to be fair about these things.)

Back in the old days... like the real old days before we had things like civilization, we had language that allowed us to communicate thoughts. This was an amazing breakthrough, because as people, we were suddenly able to break out of ourselves and share our worldly experiences to others. We could let other people know that a particular plant was good to eat, that danger lurked to the north, that those mushrooms I stumbled upon really shouldn't be eaten unless you are in a safe place for a few hours - stuff like that. We could also gain information from others, and our worlds grew together a little bit.

However, this intricate form of communication was ephemeral. Our experiences were sounds that vanished quickly, their lessons left to the interpretation of others. We could tell about an experience with those mushrooms, but the recipients of that information might not hold it for long, might change it into their information, or lose it altogether - especially if they tried a handful of those mushrooms my ancestors stumbled upon. We could share and even commune, developing experiences into stories and even lessons, but they were temporary.

That's when language took form and everything changed. Man could suddenly live beyond their voice. Experiences could be shared, and through teaching of these written words, people could hear the lessons of their ancestors. Language allowed us to escape the boundaries of time, reaching across the generations to tell people that we existed. We thought things and had feelings and tried those mushrooms. We made great leaps forward as a people, transmitting so much information that we lost the sense of just how amazing our gift was. I think about how archaeologists have discovered ancient clay tablets, and the writing imprinted on them, lasting through the millennia, are things like receipts, debt and obligations, and even complaints about someone's bad working habits. These people, these authors are permanently bound to history, though their words amount to, "Steve is always late." (I don't think the guy's name was Steve.)

Every now and then, I remind myself that any time I write, it's a gift granted to me from my distant ancestors who thrilled each other with stories and handed down words for their descendants to learn from. I can hold handwritten notes from my great-great-granduncle and know that his voice from the 19th century is still bouncing around to this day. Are his words important? Maybe, maybe not. But they remind me of how my words, if I choose to write them down, can feed the minds of countless generations to come. Hopefully, my words will have as great an influence on those people as those first few words of warning did so many thousands of years ago. Hopefully they will carry value. Hopefully they will be heeded, even if it just prevents one person from eating those mushrooms everybody seems to stumble upon.      

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year (for writers)

Anyone who is a regular reader of this blog knows already that this post has nothing to do with the holiday season. Rather, today is the kickoff of National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo for short. During this fine month of celebration, writers task themselves with the mission of writing an entire novel in one month - that's a minimum of 50,000 words between now and the end of November. It's a daunting task, forcing writers to kick into full-on creative mode and bring forth a truly epic story... or just something remotely readable. Many will try, some will succeed. All will gain something from this endeavor.

So, if you do the math (which writers often loathe doing), this works out to 1,667 typed words a day, every day, for thirty days. Do you have your words for the day typed up? I sure don't. I'm not participating this year, mostly because any idea I have for a story is already partially typed up, and I have a bunch of other life things to manage as well. Oh - there's also the other holidays as well, which I really should start preparing for. However, I am not letting a good NaNoWriMo go to waste, so I will get something from this endeavor. Just not a novel.

My task - and something that I offer up to all my readers - is to write something every day. It doesn't have to be a chapter or a full essay every time. On cheat days it can be a poem, a haiku even. Just something that allows you to put that part of your brain to work with the process of creation each and every day. When you curl up under the blankets at night, you should be able to reflect upon having brought something new into the world through your words.

Now, this is a little different than NaNoWriMo in one special way. If you decide to write this grand novel, your goal is to write a complete story of at least 50,000 words by the end of the month. You can have days where you type nothing, as long as you have days where you make up for that lapse. If you write 2,000+ words a day, you could theoretically take five days off - perhaps even Thanksgiving - and still complete your mission. My writing assignment, however, does not require volume as much as it requires consistency. No days off. No time out. And yes, that means you need to write something on Thanksgiving as well. Thirty days, every day. Did it just become a little more difficult?

NaNoWriMo is very much about helping writers realize that they can, in fact, write a novel if they want. It's a condensed version of the process, but an important lesson nevertheless. My mission is to get you to develop one of the writing habits necessary for developing the creative process. If you have to create something every day, and hold yourself to that rule, you start thinking about different things, different ways to approach situations. You look for that thing that sparks your creativity. And by the end of thirty days, you hopefully will have discovered something new to add to your creative process. 

For those of you who are doing NaNoWriMo this year, the best of luck, and I look forward to hearing about your progress. For those who are trying my mission, please drop a comment about anything you've written that really clicked in your head. But in any case, enjoy this most festive month of writing! (and Thanksgiving as well)       

What Is Your Ritual?

I am sure that most readers here are familiar either with the Stephen King novel, Misery, or the movie adaptation of the same name. It's okay if you never read/saw Misery - the point is fairly simple. While the two versions are at times wildly different, they each portray something about writers that shows up more often than not. The main character, author Paul Sheldon, is a creature of habit, and has certain ways about him that are more than just things that he does simply for the sake of doing. They are rituals, and they feed his writing process. The individual actions have very little to do with writing itself - champagne and one cigarette after he finishes every manuscript, for example - but they are a part of what makes him feel complete as a writer.

Now, having quirky little rituals might seem like a weird routine to engage in to make yourself feel like a writer. However, there is a certain mind-over-matter power that takes hold here, and it is a strong one indeed. Again, it's not the action itself that makes you better, but rather the meaning of the action. When Paul would celebrate his manuscript with champagne and a cigarette, he was indulging himself in a way that was important to him. This had meaning that might not resonate with anyone else but him, but he is the one that matters, so it works. Furthermore, such a ritual drives home the subconscious feeling that this is how things are supposed to be. Even when everything else is chaos, one ritual, one habit will put that part of the world firmly on its axis.

I often mention how, as a child, I would sit by my mother as she wrote and edited her news stories. It was just her, a legal pad, a pen, and her Cutty Sark on the rocks (maybe with water or soda - I don't know. I was four at the time). She would read, re-read, mark up, change, and rewrite those stories to perfection as I watched in utter silence, but in my mind, I picked up on the little notes of what made editing possible. Of particular note was the smell of that blended Scotch whisky - that wove itself into my mind as an integral part of the process. Scotch whisky in itself does not launch the process (and too much can impede it), but the smell brings me into a proper frame of mind to where I am very much an editor. It simply helps me put on my editor's hat; it fits better with a scotch at my side.

Unfortunately, this has become problematic of late. When I would get together with other writing friends for sessions of editing each others' work, they would supply the scotch much to my delight. It was my ritual, and it brought the experience together for me. The part I did not expect, however, was that I fused my ritual with these friends. Sometimes I would visit and socialize, and have my scotch on the rocks as we just chatted. It became something more than just my editing ritual. It became a bonding ritual.

The last of these writing friends recently passed away, and now that glass of scotch takes on a new meaning. It isn't about editing. It's about loss. The smell reminds me of all the writing friends I've been with who I will never share a written word with again. It actually interferes with editing now, because there's still grief to be dealt with. The scotch didn't make the grief, but it's a constant reminder of it.

The takeaway from this? If you develop a writing ritual (and I hope you do), keep it exclusive to the writing process you want to bond with. Like Paul Sheldon's cigarette, only have a smoke as part of the ritual, and at no other time should you even smoke (a good life lesson, actually). Make your writing habits sacred, make the rituals personal, and respect them. Otherwise, you might end up staring at a bottle of scotch, wondering why it no longer has the power it once contained.      

Why?

I am sure one of the most relatable experiences across all cultures is when a little child starts responding to every single statement with that dreaded word, "Why?" You explain that they have to eat their broccoli. "Why?" Clean your room. "Why?" You shouldn't put the cat in the washing machine. "Why?" This phase is the fodder for plenty of comedy sketches, and actually a good sign that the child is now inquiring about the world around them. They grow into it much to everyone else's chagrin, bombard the world with questions, and then, sadly, grow out of this phase thinking they know everything. Hopefully they maintain a curious mind afterward, but that's not the point. The point is that we can learn something from this inquisitive yet annoying child.

A lot of people I know want to write The Great American Novel. They clearly have the skills, they can generate the time, and yet... no novel. They might even talk about their desire to write that one book, make that one profound, 78,000-word statement, and sit back in the glow of their accomplishment. Yet somehow, not one page gets created. Are they just all talk? Is this a way of them suggesting they could do something if they wanted but they just don't want to? Or is it something more?

When I started writing, I wrote about things that were on my mind, wild flights of fantasy, and other fictitious things. Then people who knew my past and had an idea of my deepest, darkest secrets (usually because I told them these things) suggested I write about growing up in the south suburbs. Well, that sounded like a great idea, so I did. It was, without question, genuinely horrible stuff. It was one-dimensional, it was just a bunch of stuff happening rather than a complete story arc, and it wasn't really the kind of thing that made readers care about the character - even though they knew that character firsthand. What went wrong? The answer is simple. When people started saying I should write about my life and times, I never said, "Why?"

Frankly, for a long time I never considered this to be an important question, so I never asked that question, but the answers would've explained a lot of how those stories failed. If I asked, "Why?" and my friends said the stories were funny and people would enjoy them, that would've given me a frame of reference on how to write the story. If they were inspired about the tragedies I've overcome, well, that's an entirely different voice for the story, and a different reading audience. However, just by asking "Why?" I now had some information about just what made those stories valuable to them, and I could express the funny stories with a bouncy, humorous voice, and so on.

Let's now look at the friends who want to write The Great American Novel. "Why?" If their answer is, "It would be great to be famous," well, that's probably not the best food to nourish a writer. If they want to be  an inspiration and their generation's Harper Lee, well, they had better discover something timely and deep that will resonate throughout the years. Asking "Why?" is the inquiry that forces us to better understand our motives and our drives. When we feel the need to write a story, ask, "Why?" The answer will instantly inform us about how we need to broadcast that story. And if the answer is, "Because I need to get it out of my system and onto the page," then that's a perfectly valid answer and something to work with. 

Lastly, if you find yourself unable to answer that question about something that feels important to you, don't give up. Poke around and try to draw something out. Sometimes those truths are a little scared about coming to the surface, but when they do, they will reveal a lot more than the story to you. Once I answered my own, "Why?" I rewrote plenty of my life stories. They came out incredibly different, and very satisfying. More to the point, I could read them afterward and feel that they were the answer to my, "Why?"         

Is Our Writing Ever Done?

I was actually going to do a piece today about how writing is a part of our broader thinking process, and how sometimes when we get tied up in our story and can't find our way out, we can use this connection to resolve a lot of our conflict. However, that whole concept kind of fell apart after I wrote Friday's post, and now I want to make a very special point about the things that move us to write and what we lose when we stop writing.

A few hours after I wrote my last post, "Being Haunted By Words," the author I mentioned in that piece, Linda Berry, passed away. I can't say her passing came as any surprise - she was 85 and in declining health. When I visited her last Friday, it was to help her get her affairs in order and make sure her final wishes would be seen to. Quietly, I knew it would likely be the last time I saw her. It was. Fortunately, I did get the chance to tell her how she and her husband were the writing mentors that turned me into the published author that I am, and that I was thankful for her guidance, her wisdom, and her friendship. Letting her know that leaves me with no regrets. However, there's still a frustration I will never be able to resolve.

I can't help thinking about all that she left behind as a writer. In the time when her health started to slide, she talked more and more about the things she wanted to say, the poems she still had in her. She wanted to express so many things about so many subjects, but it had become difficult for her. The writer in her was alive and well, but there were fewer and fewer ways for her to get those stories out. She couldn't type anymore, her hands were too arthritic for writing, and I can't help but to think that the loss of her husband - a fellow writer - placed too much of an emotional weight on her. She still had so much to create, but in the end it never came into existence. In some ways, that's just as terrible a loss as Linda's passing, because it was a part of her I never got to know.

Now that she's at rest, the mind naturally turns inward and I think about my own mortality and my own writing. Granted, I am three decades younger than her and in better health than she was at any point in the past year, but I still think about all those stories I have yet to write. I've shared plenty of my humorous anecdotes and silly experiences. I have also gone through writing and processing my own amount of trauma. However, both categories still have plenty of stories to be told. Some are not Earth-shaking, others I still haven't mustered up the courage to write about because they damaged me to the core. But whatever the reason, I am no different than Linda in that I haven't gotten around to doing something that deep inside I want to do, and if I don't make it to tomorrow, all those stories vanish along with me.

All of us writers are the same. We write things we feel compelled to produce, we create things for the joy of writing or to purge them from our soul, and each story - fictitious or factual - is a modest revelation on some facet of our existence. And for all that we create, there's plenty that we just never get around to. And no matter how boring those stories may sound to ourselves, someone else might take an interest in that because a part of you resonates with a part of them. However, it will never happen if we never write them.

Tonight, write something. Write anything. Post it on social media. Say something about yourself. Make yourself a little more known than you were yesterday. It might not make a difference for you, but it gives someone else a chance to see you a little more clearly. And someday, you will no longer have that chance, and people out there will wish they had one more thing to know about you.

Rest in peace, Linda.             

Being Haunted by Words

This post is about the closest I will get to a Halloween-themed post this month, given that I will be very busy in the next few weeks, and, of course, NaNoWriMo is approaching - the real holiday for writers. That all being said, I did want to talk a little about some stories that stick with us, for better or worse, and we are left with them seared into our brain. There is no one definitive way to say how this is done, since it is a very unique effect and no one story will resonate with everyone. However, analyzing the story that haunts you might be an insight as to what pulls at your personal heartstrings; what can make you a better writer.

The story that won't let me go is a heretofore unpublished work called, "The Taste of Milk." It sounds simple enough, perhaps even so much so that this is part of its allure. The story is also very straightforward - a woman tells the story behind why she will no longer drink milk. This might just seem like a teachable moment about lactose intolerance, but the author has no problem with other dairy products. The problem goes much deeper.

The author tells a story from when she was seven - put yourself in a rural, southern, post-WW2 mindset - and enjoyed the fresh milk brought to to her house in the morning. The morning milk was a regular event and innocent enough, until the author's mother had what could best be described as a psychotic break. The story gets dark fast as the mother insists milk is only for babies, that the little girl wasn't a baby, and would never be allowed to drink milk again. In an uncontrollable rage, the mother takes all the milk bottles into the backyard and smashes them with a broom handle, spraying the yard with the milk the girl loved so much. The girl, traumatized, could not drink milk for ages, and whenever she tried to, she was repulsed by the taste of milk.

I wish I could drop a link to this story, but as I mentioned, it is unpublished (for now - I am working on getting it into print). This story stayed with me for a long time - easily ten years running - and it genuinely haunts me (this is part of my drive to get it published somewhere). However, what really stuck with me went beyond the words, and that's when the writer in me decided to figure out just why this story had traction. For the author it was obvious - she was expressing some painful childhood trauma. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that what really haunted me about it was that the story was honest and upfront in dealing with a terrible situation that a child could barely understand. The honesty and confrontation of the story had moved me. Now I just needed to know why.

At that point, the writer in me had the answer. Everyone has had their fair share of traumas in life to some degree. One of the reasons I write is to process my past trauma, and in some ways I am successful with this. However, "The Taste of Milk" stuck with me because it had an honesty I had not yet been able to achieve. I wanted to reach that point where I could take the most damaging moments in my life and put them on the page with dramatic, painful honesty. "Just sit in front of the typewriter and bleed" as Hemingway said about writing. 

So when a story, a poem, an essay sticks with you; when it lingers long after you've read it and put it away, don't think about what the writing did for you. Think about the content and purpose, and how you connect with those elements. Think about how that author walked in shoes that you want to wear. The real lesson in a good story comes from finding out what parts of you connect with it, then exploring that in the stories you decide to write.

And thank you, Linda Berry, for "The Taste of Milk." If I ever find the copy you wrote, consider it published.       

Learning From Our Students

It may sound a little odd to say that we learn from our students. After all, isn't it supposed to be that we learn from teachers until we know what we are doing, then we become the teacher? Well, that's very true. However, it isn't the entire story. Ask any teacher about when they stopped the learning side of their job and they will probably say, "What makes you think I ever stopped?"

In the broader sense, I was reminded about this the other day when I did some tutoring. This being the season for college applications and scholarship pitches, there's a booming market involving students who want to get things just right so they can go to the school of their choice or get a big, fat scholarship to help offset the costs. Fortunately, this also involves students who are fairly educated when it comes to their writing, but they want things to shine, to really pop off the page. For that, they bring in the tutor - that would be me - and I get to teach them the tricks of the trade.

Well, how does this amount to learning? Well, teaching someone how to raise their writing game is one thing. You discuss some techniques, you talk about structure and reader appeal, you go through their writing and work through the problematic parts - that's the teaching part. However, things really kick into gear when you point out how they need a hyphen in a particular spot, and they say, "Why?" Those three letters, that simple word has echoed through every parent's brain when their child first reaches the inquisitive stage. "Why?" That's when the teacher has to do more than say, "Because." They have to teach the answer, which means they need to remind themselves the reason behind a particular answer. This often means relearning what we now take for granted.

My favorite thing to teach is the compound modifier, which involves a hyphen. What is it? Well, in the sentence, "I took a fifty-mile ride on my bike," it is "fifty-mile." This is where we describe something - the ride - with at least two words that only work when combined, and those words get hyphenated. "Fifty-mile" describes the ride only when those words are used together in front of "ride," so it becomes this compound modifier. If the sentence was, "I took a ride of fifty miles," then there's no hyphen because we are separating fifty miles from the ride. This is used quite often when someone describes another person with a phrase rather than a word. "He's just a useless, no-good, couldn't-find-his-butt-with-two-hands-and-a-flashlight troublemaker," has three modifiers -  "useless," which is straightforward, "no-good," which is a two-word compound modifier, and that huge phrase that counts as one descriptor so the whole thing is a compound modifier and gets hyphenated through and through. (And I actually snuck in another compound modifier into the paragraph just for fun.)

So, when my student looks at me and says, "Why?" my job is now to teach them exactly why such a rule exists. When I do this, I also reinforce within myself the reason these rules exist, their purpose in writing, and just why they can be important. I give myself a refresher course on these rules of writing, all while teaching them, and my writing skills are that much better.

(And I get paid for it, so there's that.)     

So I'm A Writer - Now What?

It's best if I approach my title head-on with this one, and not meander about. The obvious answer is: Start writing. However, there's something very unsatisfying about that answer in that it doesn't quite get people where they want to go. They like writing, they've developed their process and learned their tools for creating things, they know they rules and how to break them... but something's still missing. This is where they learn that writing is just a means to an end. What is that end? Let's find out.

As I mentioned over 500 posts ago, my main drive to write came from a desire to make sure the stories bouncing around in my head were brought into being through the written word. I had a lot to work with, a bunch of things to say and even more to create, and this tool known as writing, so I put them to use. However, creating stories wasn't the destination. As it turned out, while I had a lot of things to say and stories to tell, I realized that when I wrote things, I thought about them from different angles and had certain realizations about different concepts. With some larger ideas, I found myself changing my mind about long-held opinions. I found myself... growing. So the purpose of my writing became a tool to better myself; to be more of whatever I really was.

I think it's fair to say that this may not be the purpose of writing for most people, and that's fine. The point of that last paragraph is that we need to discover what our reason is, and why writing is our tool of choice. A very enjoyable reason is to make a good record of your life as you know it, along with the people that made you who you are. Many of the people who shaped me during my youth are no longer around; many never made it to the 21st century. However, I want to make sure that a few more generations hear about my grandmother, my Aunt Isabelle, and the many people who influenced me long before I knew the effect they would have on my life. Writing about your life is a great reason to write - and if I may, here's some advice on writing about those people and their stories.

I could write about Grandma, Aunt Isabelle, and so on, telling many stories about them. What makes these stories truly resonate with the reader is including some note about how their messages carried on through you. If I wrote about my Aunt Isabelle and her days as a teacher in Chicago, well, they're good stories. However, the parts that really carry through are how those events shaped her so that after she retired, when she looked after me and my brothers, that teacher came back to educate us. The story of her in Chicago is fine, but once it covers the arc of time, readers see some vision of that message in themselves.

And, of course, if you want to set out to write the Great American Novel (and yes, there's already a novel of that name), then go ahead and write it. However, this is again not about setting out to write something, but setting out to convey some greater message with writing as a tool to accomplish this. So as you write that novel, think about the message you wish to communicate, and make sure every part of your work hones in on that meaning.

(Then mention me in the acknowledgements.)         

Fact-Checkers Need Not Apply

These days, it's amazing how many people spread false information and the speed with which it goes around. (Note: These people aren't necessarily liars. According to St. Augustine, to be a liar, one must know something is false yet still speak it as truth. That's what I go with.) False information, astounding lies, and amazing stories too intriguing to be real fly around the internet at the speed of information, and everyone falls for it at some point. Why?

There's just so much temptation to believe that, say, your favorite cookie does, in fact, stop the aging process, because that justifies you scarfing down another sleeve of cookies. It's for your health! However, there's an even greater force at work here, which is our willingness to believe certain people and figures in our life. We have these people around us and we say, "Why would they lie to me?" after they tell you about the anti-aging cookies. We yield something to presumed authority, and it makes the story easier to accept - even after we've packed on an extra forty cookie-pounds worth of anti-aging goodness.

Well, this is where writers get to have fun. When we write a story, we create the ultimate authority - the narrator. The reader steps into a new world and the entire thing is created by the narrator. From the color of the sky to every character's actions, the narrator brings out this information, usually through the main character's perspective, and we build out from there, entirely dependent on the narrator's guidance. However, the writer is the one running the show, so even though the reader is all about this narrator, the writer is the one who knows the truth, and the greatest truth a writer can know is when the narrator is lying. This is the basis of the technique known as, "The Unreliable Narrator."

In my most popular post in the history of this blog, affectionately titled, "Obi-Wan Kenobi - You Suck!" I demonstrated how our beloved character of Obi-Wan set up one of the more famous scenes in sci-fi because he lied to Luke about his father. Now, a writer can do that same thing by telling us a story through one character's perspective, but not revealing (at first) how that character might see things differently than they were. I think of the stories passed down from generations, accumulating that wonderful shine of the golden years that covers up the gritty truths within those stories. (Since I recently had a family reunion, I could tell you things...) But most importantly, the Unreliable Narrator allows us to portray a situation as the character sees it so we understand what drives the character, then gradually reveal the truths, which if done right can show us the deeper layers of that same character - perhaps their inner fear of the things that really happened.

The Unreliable Narrator should not be used as just a clever tool for you as the writer to fool the reader. The reader will believe the narrator until told otherwise, so they are too easy a mark for such a simple trick. Rather, it should be used as a point of revelation - possibly for the narrating character themselves - that they have been resisting larger truths and more fearful circumstances. It should be used as a twist to aid in the character's progress and not a "Gotcha!' moment. As the reader, our response to a good use of the Unreliable Narrator should be, "Wow!" not "Huh?"

After all, Obi-Wan was, in fact, doing what he thought was best for Luke. It just didn't turn out too well.          

Things I Learned From Mark Twain (maybe)

“Get your facts first, then you can distort them as you please” 

-- Probably Mark Twain

Now, if I am not mistaken, that last quote is, in fact, from Mark Twain. Mark Twain was one of the most prolific authors and wits of his time, and is known for many quotes. Far more, in fact, than he actually said. Along with Shakespeare and the Bible, he ranks among the most misquoted voices in the literary world. And yet there is still wisdom in his words (if they are in fact his), and we, as writers, can take advantage of this.

Let me offer a simple story. It's about a guy. The story is him going through his routine - go to a movie, take a regular morning jog, watch television and gripe about the news. Everything seems fine. When he's outside on a hot summer day, this character is very social, trying to make conversation with the woman using her earbuds in the seat next to him on the bus. or waving to strangers on the street. Occasionally, someone waves back, and it's perfectly normal conversation. These are normal interactions. Nothing special here. Maybe we have a sad moment, when he goes to visit his mother's grave. Other mourners do not bother him, instead wrapping themselves tighter in their own sweaters or putting on their jackets. A solemn moment, but no surprises here. In fairness, it's actually kind of boring.  

Oh, did I tell you it was a ghost story? No? Well, it is, and I set up a series of "facts" to work with, then distorted the story just enough so you wouldn't know it was a ghost story - at this point. Basically, I gave you The Sixth Sense treatment (spoilers ahead). I created a ghost, made him seem real, then surrounded him with facts that I never told you: 

• Ghosts don't know they're dead. 
• Ghosts can talk to anyone, but only people who can see ghosts can hear and respond to them.. 
• When ghosts get riled up, things get cold. 

These are the facts. We look back at our story about the guy and realize he is within the rules, but now he very well might be a ghost. If this were a longer piece, I could go on and make you feel for this perfectly human character before the big reveal of whether or not he was a ghost. However, I would have to know my rules, follow them to the letter, and properly tweak everything I wrote to make you think something else before the big reveal. 

Leading you down a certain road of thought before offering new information that really enhanced the meaning was something else I learned from Mark Twain, but that's for another time. But I will offer another possible Twain quote: "Never let the truth get in the way of a good story." This will be the lead-in to my next piece about unreliable narrators.

And by the way - Bruce Willis was a ghost.