Walking Each Other Home

November 29, 2022

Dear Writers,

Spiritual teacher, Ram Dass used to say "We're all just walking each other home." This line seems appropriate for the writing life too. As fellow writers, we're walking each other toward trust in our own voices, toward the finish lines of first drafts, and toward the completion of publishable manuscripts. And we're walking each other through all the ups and downs that are part of those paths.

Some of these ups and downs are spiritual in nature.

Most spiritual teachings remind us that we're not alone, because the human condition holds fast to a belief in an illusion that we are separate, isolated, ego-driven individuals. This belief can lead to feelings of loneliness, self pity, overwhelm, and a sense of unworthiness, as well as to feelings of arrogance, grandiosity, and superiority. All strengthen the illusion of separation.

Separation shouldn't be confused with solitude, though. Writers, all artists, depend on solitude to create. Picasso said, "Without great solitude no serious work is possible." Chosen creative solitude is one of the vitamins of the writing life, and without an adequate amount we won't thrive. 

Some might argue that the act of writing a novel or memoir is an individualistic and ego-driven undertaking. And maybe one’s personal motives do need some examination, but I’d counter-argue that writing is ultimately about communication and connection. The impulse to create a story, to go to all the trouble to craft something that another person can enjoy reading is, deep down, born out of love and a desire to transcend that human illusion of separation.

Creativity has always been a spiritual path for me because it's always forcing me to reckon with my own ego. As much as my individual ego might wish my writing could make me rich, famous, or more lovable, acceptable, admirable, or (fill in the blank), it won't. It can't. Such wishes are rarely granted by outer sources anyway. They depend on inner work. As do most aspects of writing.

A lot of that inner work gets done in solitude, as we grapple with the highs and lows of walking a creative path. But if solitude starts breeding feelings of separation and loneliness, it's time to reach out to a community of like-minded creative souls for the nourishment of companionship. Whether you dip into it regularly or only occasionally, make sure to stay connected to a few people who can help walk you home.

Write with connection.

Build it and Scenes Will Come

You know I’m stickler for structure.

Every story starts somewhere and ends somewhere else. It’s the nature of story to have a beginning and ending, with something in the middle. I consider this very basic story structure, and if you build on this humble foundation a story will come.

We’re familiar with the line “build it and they will come,” which is paraphrased from W.P. Kinsella’s book Shoeless Joe, and the movie inspired by it, Field of Dreams. It’s a sweet film about an Iowa farmer who rewrites the story of his relationship with his dead father by digging up part of his cornfield and building a baseball diamond. He takes an illogical leap of faith after hearing the disembodied words, “If you build it, he will come.”

And if you want to build stories, you’ll have to get used to working with story’s essential building block: the scene.

The three basic stages of story—beginning, middle, end—outline a progression, which implies change. Something is different at the end compared to the beginning. Whatever goes on in the middle represents the unfolding of that progression. And your story’s scenes progressively dramatize the change.

Stories hinge around a character trying to achieve some kind of outer goal that’s difficult to achieve because the character also needs to do some inner work in order to succeed.

So, as you start to build your story, try working on the following six scenes—two for the beginning, two for the middle, and two for the end.

In the beginning, show us a scene in which the character is unable to accomplish the outer goal but has a good reason to try. Next, show us a scene that implies an inner problem that may be the root of why the character’s unable to achieve the goal.

In the middle, come up with a couple of scenes that show the character’s outer inabilities and inner limitations changing and evolving —let us witness, through dramatic scenes, this person trying to do the outer thing and struggling to fix the inner thing.

At the end, two more scenes are required: one showing us the character’s new (and earned) ability to achieve the goal (whether it’s still wanted or not) and another revealing evidence of the character’s inner limitation having evolved into a healed or expanded sense of self.

If you build this first half a dozen scenes for your story’s beginning, middle, and end, the rest of the scenes will come.

Write your dreams.

Do You Need a Date Night?

Every relationship benefits from a little bit of romance now and then. This includes your relationship with your writing. What is romance but a bit of innovative quality time and attention?

For some people romance might look like wining and dining, or bubble baths, or sunset strolls, but whatever the outer appearance, the core experience involves spending time with someone (or something) you love.

What would a date night with your writing look like?

I once facilitated an evening of writing in art gallery called Eat, Drink, Write. Wine and appies sat on u-shape arranged tables surrounded by framed paintings while we scribbled away in our notebooks. 

In Paris one year, I wrote in my journal atop the Eiffel Tower at night, where every hour on the hour the tower lights up with twinkling lights that can be seen across the city. 

Nearly two decades ago, at the Santa Barbara Writers Conference, I attended a late night breakout writing event, where I happened to meet one of my long running writing group buddies. 

Looking back, these could be considered date nights with my writing, yet they weren't planned that way. But what if they had been? Or what if I planned some new dates now?

It's true that many writers get their best writing done early in the day, usually in the mornings, when they're fresh, and perhaps fuelled by coffee.

Others are night owls who rev up later and take inspiration from darkness and stillness. We all have our habits and proclivities, but we're still capable of stepping out of our routines.

Because dates are not routines. They are special events we spruce up for and anticipate, nervously or excitedly. When's the last time you dressed up for writing? When's the last time you aimed to impress it rather than the other way around? To keep any relationship healthy we have to inject a bit of surprise and spontaneity to keep from falling into a rut.

I certainly won't deny that writing generally, as a practice, thrives on routine (I've written about that before and I'm sure I will again), but an occasional jolt of romance can work wonders for reigniting a spark of joy, surprise, originality, and inspiration--that je ne sais quoi that made you fall in love in the first place. So try taking your writing out on a date. You just might get lucky.

Write for the romance of it.

90-Mile-an-Hour First Drafts

A screenwriter friend once told me she always aims to write "90-mile-an-hour first drafts." I’ve learned to appreciate this approach, and I’ve been thinking about what prevents many writers from writing fast first drafts. 

Three things come to mind: 

1) Not setting up a regular routine to get the work done.

2)  Not having other friendly writers to check in with while engaged in a writing routine.

3)  Believing that “not knowing what comes next” is a reason not to write.

Scheduling time and showing up to do the work of drafting is the only way manuscripts get written. Most writers appreciate some witnessing of this sometimes hard, lonely work. Checking in with fellow writers—to celebrate progress or commiserate over the lack thereof—buoys a writer’s motivation to keep going. 

That touches on numbers one and two. But for the rest of this note, I’d like to unpack what might be going on under the surface of number three.

We are so used to not acting until we know the next step to take. But creativity doesn’t work like that. Especially when it comes to writing first drafts. Yes, you can take some time to develop your story, and you can sketch out a loose or even detailed outline, but until you get to the page, the story doesn’t have a chance of flowing into a first draft. 

Pausing the process because of not knowing what comes next usually hides a fear of losing control or making a mess. But that’s what a first draft is meant to be! That’s how we find our stories.

We can’t know what a story’s true potential is until we finish a first draft. It’s sometimes called a discovery draft, because first we have to tell ourselves the story and discover what we—and the story—want to say.

We find our answers for what to do next on the page.

Why do we find it so hard to trust this part of the process?

I think it’s because many writers subconsciously nurture, and fantasize about, a deep fear and a great hope. We are so plagued by self-doubt and self-judgement that to begin a draft (and finish it) means having to confront “whether it’s good or not.” The deep fear is that whatever we create will be horrible or, perhaps worse, mediocre.

The great hope simmering under the surface is that whatever we create will be amazing, rank as a bestseller or blockbuster, and inspire and impress our friends and family, and, really, the world. The power of this fantasy keeps the prospect of writing (and finishing) off on a distant horizon of promising potential.

While there does exist the possibility of such a hope or fear coming true, the probability is that neither will. But you’ll never know unless you finish a draft or two or ten. So you might as well free yourself up to write that horrible first draft, then the mediocre one, while you aim for the amazing. But do it on the page, not in the background of your mind.

And when you finally give yourself permission to write something horrible, why not do it quickly? Same with mediocre. And if your hope comes true and you do write something amazing, wouldn’t you like to experience that sooner than later?

Ninety-mile-an-hour first drafts get your story on the page quickly, messily, and roughly. It’s what you do with it after that counts. The revision process can polish a diamond in the rough, but until the whole stone is unearthed, you can’t know what potentially brilliant shape your story could be.

You must tell yourself the story first, the whole story, not just the parts that feel safe, controlled, and known. The blank page will hold you and guide you if you trust it—and trust yourself—to write into the unknown territory.

Ninety miles per hour can feel exhilaratingly fast, but it’s doable. You can do it. I encourage you to give up your Sunday drive drafts and hop on the autobahn. You can meander in revision if you feel like it, once you have discovered the whole story you’re trying to tell yourself.

Write over the speed limit,

P.S. If you’d like to get a first draft done by the end of the year, I’ll be hosting another 12-week Drafting Circle this fall, starting Sept 19th. (Apply here.) This three-month program is steadily paced and manageable. Many writers have completed first drafts in this timeframe.

P.P.S. Those wanting to go even faster might want to try Nanowrimo in November, during which you write an entire novel in a month, or, if you're up for breaking some sound barriers, you could try the upcoming 3-day novel writing contest.

Is it Time for a Break?

I’m fond of saying writers always have homework, but I also get tired of feeling that there’s always more to do, always something incomplete needing attention. It’s both a blessing and curse of being creative; one always has “multiple projects in various states of development.”

That line is paraphrased from Dov Simmons, a film producer I met when I was 19 and just getting my feet wet in the film industry. To us new, young creators, without much of anything in production yet, Dov’s line could make us sound more legitimate when inevitably asked, “So what are you working on?” “Oh, me? Well, I have multiple projects in various states of development.”

But what happens when you do have various projects in multiple states of development? As many writers do. All the time. How do you schedule your time off?

Carefully, I suggest.

The nature of the writing process does require taking periodic breaks at certain stages, after finishing a draft, for example, or once a revision has been handed to beta readers. But while stepping away from a particular project for a time can help that project in particular, walking away from writing for any significant length of time usually throws a spanner in the works of creativity in general.

In my experience, not writing at all for longer than three days has unintended, often subtle, consequences. Irritability increases, a kind of malaise, or even depression, can set in. Writers not writing aren’t always a friendly bunch.

But we still need breaks…

Remember that saying, “a change is as good as a rest”? With writing, this may be the way to take those breaks. And the first thing to change is your expectations.

Let’s say you’ve been drafting a novel with a daily goal of writing 500 words for five days per week but feel you need a break. What could you change? Fewer days, fewer words?

For writing breaks, I suggest shifting your quantity expectations while holding onto a quality connection.It seems that qualitative distance is most detrimental to creativity. Quantitative expectations can shift, but a quality-based connection should be maintained.

So while taking a break, maybe you carry around a “sense notebook” in which you jot down details noticed during the day related to one or two senses. A few lines of description keeps you connected to writing without undue pressure to produce (and could provide raw material for future projects). Or you could journal in the voice of your characters, or write the poetry they’d write. Then again, maybe a break means giving yourself time to write the poetry you want to write, and explore thoughts you want to think.

Whatever you choose, keeping a light and simple tether to your writing practice maintains your connection and “keeps the writing close” (another phrase I like to use) during breaks.

Breaks, good rests, playing, and relaxing with friends help balance our inner selves, which is the source of our outer work. Letting the imagination have free rein, daydreaming, even being bored at times, allows the subconscious to reboot. Creatives of all kinds, including scientists, recognize the benefits of a good nap!

For writers, full-stop breaks aren’t always beneficial. We write for many reasons, but there’s an ineffable one that connects to our experiences of awareness and existence; writing as an activity is connected to our sense of being. We can’t really take a break from that, but we can modify how we relate to it for a while. How might you modify your practice to give yourself a break when you need it?

This summer, I plan to journal more. I use a kind that fits easily into backpacks and beach bags. Restful states can open intuitive pathways, yielding unexpected insights and ideas. Often, creative problems are solved when we let go of trying and just relax and have fun. So I do like to have pen and paper nearby even while enjoying a much needed break.

Summer is a sweet time of year to fill one’s inner tanks with light, warmth, color, and company. Those multiple projects in various states of development will be waiting for you when you return feeling refreshed.

Structure is King, Character is Queen

In chess, the game is over when the king falls, but the queen is the strongest piece during the game. She has the most power and flexibility. If you lose your queen it’s almost guaranteed you’ll lose the game as well. In many ways, the queen rules the gameplay, but her allegiance is to the safety and preservation of the king.

Similarly, structure and character work together to create a dynamic game of story. Characters are your strongest elements–they have the power to enliven the story and the flexibility to create dynamic change–but they exist within the foundational element of structure. What characters do, how they do it, and why, relates directly to the shape of a story’s beginning, middle, and end.

When I refer to structure, I don’t mean plot exactly, though it’s naturally inferred. I see structure as a general framework on which you hang a specific plot. Plot and character follow the dictates of structure (ideally, three-act structure, though there are various offshoots an interpretations). When you write a story, you have to choose where to start, where to end, and what to include in the middle.

Structure is a bit like the chessboard and the rules of the game. The plot is the particular game, of which there are myriad patterns. A particular plot makes a story unique, but structure makes it understandable.

Structure sets the stage for plot. And what is plot without character?  A story is always about someone (character) doing something (plot). Many writers start with a character as a source of inspiration. They drop them into a challenging situation and watch what happens. A character in pursuit of something that’s not easy to achieve, with worthy obstacles and adversaries, plus an uncertain outcome, is endlessly entertaining to us readers. And it fits nicely within a shape of beginning, middle, and ending.

Structure as a ruling, guiding force is your friend. It’s worth defending. All eyes will be focused on your characters, their choices and their fates, but their journeys will mean something because of where the story begins, where it ends, and all that happens in the middle.

So set up your pieces and have fun with the game of story. Let your characters take the spotlight, honor structure’s guidelines, and allow the wild plots to unfold.

Do You Have a Routine?

Do you follow some kind of routine when you write? Most creative people I know (including  myself) dislike routines but can’t get much done without them. Though we do try!

Routines can feel rigid, boring, mechanical, or lacking vitality—or so those who resist routines tell ourselves when we’re not implementing them (!). But those with routines swear by them. They experience comfort, reduced stress, and greater productivity. (All good things, but maybe not the shiny, sexy, spontaneous experience we secretly wish creation could be?)

Flaubert advised, “Be steady and orderly in your life so you can be fierce and original in your work.”* His words indicate how important it is to have a predictable environment and slate of habits that allow one to roam more wildly and passionately within the creative work itself. This makes sense to me, yet I still resist closing the door on wild and passionate living.

I agree there has to be order somewhere. But what about inspiration? Many productive writers dismiss those who whine about waiting for inspiration. They choose instead to show up regularly, routinely, at set writing times. Somerset Maugham famously said, “I write only when inspiration strikes. Fortunately it strikes every morning at nine o’clock sharp.”

Most of us know from experience that routine actions yield results. A good diet, regular meal times, exercise, and waking and going to sleep at set times has proven to lead to good physical and mental health. Partying, skipping meals, and being a couch potato yield unhealthily results over the long term.

And maybe that’s one of the secrets for reckoning with routines: setting the terms. Because routines don’t have to last forever. They could be implemented for a week, a month, a season, a year. Within a time frame, a routine has a chance to yield results.

A routine is a set of choices with an underlying implication that a change will occur over time. Like a controlled experiment, we create a hypothesis, limit conditions, measure incremental changes over time, and analyze the results. It’s worthwhile to experiment with different routines until we find one that works.

I’ve experienced for myself, and witnessed with others I coach, how a set amount of time, in which a reasonable routine is established, can yield an entire draft of a book (in this case the 3 month Drafting Circle—that’s a season). Right now I’m guiding a group of writers through a 6-month revision routine, and, while resistance still comes up, progress is made over time.

Routine’s roots go back to French and Latin meanings for carving out a route, course, way, or path. And that could be why some writers struggle with routines. Each writer has to carve out an individual path. None of us can follow exactly what works for someone else. We can only observe the successes of others, trying out borrowed bits to see what works, until we cobble together our own way of doing things. But we do have to find a way.

If you’re having a great life and meeting your chosen creative goals without any kind of routine, I’d say: Don’t change a thing! But if that’s not the case (as it is with me), it might be time to reckon with the resistance to routines.

One way to break through that resistance could be to write up a “dream routine.” What would an ideal creative day look like for you? (Tip: focus on what it is rather than what it’s not.) If it’s not too fantastical, try living it for one, two, or three days in a row.

Part of my resistance is that I can’t include everything in a routine; I have to choose a few things, at most, to focus on at any given time. Eliminating options makes me feel anxious. But if I’m really honest with myself, I feel more anxious over the long term if I’m not reaching the creative goals I set for myself.

Writers need to prioritize one project at a time (maybe two, though “priority” really refers to “one”). Then we have to follow through. We have to work on it until it’s done. We can’t give up when the going gets tough, but we can experiment with different routine time frames. We can set the terms (a season, not forever).

Here are four steps to try:

1) identify and prioritize the project to complete

2) design an ideal routine to support completion

3) set the terms of the routine (a season, not forever)

4) stick to the routine until enough data yields analyzable results

When we start getting the results we want (which includes feeling more at ease during the creative process), we’ll be converts, because we will have figured out our own way of creating regularly.

Writing Scenes

You have a ton of tasks to tend to when it comes to crafting your stories, and writing scenes is one of them.

What is a scene? A useful writer’s definition goes something like this: a scene consists of action through conflict in more or less continuous time and space that leads to a minor or major change in character or plot.

“Action through conflict” includes situations of physical action and dialogue that move the story forward in a dynamic way.

“Continuous time and space” means that a scene generally takes place in one location and during a set amount of time that feels like the present moment of the story.

“Change” refers to the particular relevance of the scene, the thing that happens that warrants the scene’s necessary inclusion in the story. This change, small or large, propels the story forward.

The scene is the essential building block of storytelling. It’s your most powerful tool for conjuring images in the mind’s eye of the reader. Your story’s most important events, ideas, actions, and emotions will be conveyed primarily through scenes.

Scenes are different from what’s known as “summary.” A simple, general way to differentiate the two types of writing is to think of scenes as the “showing” part of your writing and summary as the “telling” part.

A scene will make us feel as if we’re right there with the characters, as if we’re watching the action and dialogue unfold in real time. Screenwriters rely on scenes almost exclusively, because their stories must be told visually. They depend on action, dialogue, image, and sound to convey meaning. (On rare occasions they include voice over to convey the inner thoughts of characters.)

Novelists and memoirists have a lot more leeway. They aim to strike a balance between scene and summary. (Though, by balance I don’t mean giving them equal weight, since most stories favour more scenes than summary.) Novels and memoirs include things like inner dialogue, self reflection, memories, backstory, exposition, lyrical description, and some summary of events that are less relevant to the story and can be covered through “telling” rather than “showing.”

In fact, the artfulness of novels and memoirs often depends on the ability of the writer to use summary techniques. Scenes with action and dialogue are the most engaging to read, but prose writers can interrupt or bracket these scenes to enter a character’s inner world or memories, or to summarize accounts of backstory or other story information.

Pure summary is used sparingly to fill in gaps, provide information, bridge action sequences, adjust pacing, and possibly add color, depth, and description to the prose. Literary fiction tends to include more summary than genre or commercial fiction.

The whole flow of story is a kind of action-reaction pattern set in motion from the initial catalyzing event that really gets the story going. Once the story is underway, a character responds to consequential events and makes decisions that lead to more consequences that lead to more decisions and responses. Think of your scenes as a series of dominoes; the events of one scene fall naturally to the next and trigger the next event, which triggers the next event, and so on.

Scene writing is an art rather than a science, but most writers can stand to boost their scene writing skills in order to realize the potential of a story’s scenes.