Tag Archives: advice

Writing

Winning at Writing

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I’ve heard it said that a key factor in writing essays (and probably blog posts) is that you want to answer a question. Sometimes it’s the question the audience is asking, the search query that leads the reader to your work. Sometimes it’s a question or answer interesting enough that the reader says, “I didn’t realize I wanted to know this…  but you’ve hooked me.”

It’s also often said that you should know – and write for – your intended audience. Picture the person who comes to your site. What brought them to this post? What need do they have which you might meet? What will hold their attention?

Today, I’m struggling to follow that advice. My question is simple to ask, but difficult to answer, and entirely personal, so it may not be useful to most. My audience isn’t the hapless reader who found their way to this dreary corner of the Internet, either. Rather, the intended audience is me.

The question: Why am I not writing?

By that I mean, why am I not regularly putting in effort on the books I claim I want to write, the stories I’ve promised myself and others that I will publish? Why am I not cranking out the words that pile up into paragraphs that construct chapters that build books?

It’s not because I don’t care about writing, is it? I like writing. I like finding the “just right” word for what I mean, even if it’s often a struggle. I love it when I come up with a clever turn of phrase, even if it’s less frequent than I’d like. I care about the characters inhabiting my head, and I know the way their stories are meant to turn out, more or less, if I can ever download all my thoughts and dangling plot threads onto the blank screen.

The easy answer is I’m lazy.

I might play video games instead. In a video game, you’ve got a story handed to you – possibly even well-written – plus the power to interact with the world, and sometimes to even chart the course of events that save or destroy that world. You’ve got mechanics designed to flash and chirp when you hit milestones. You unlock new powers and abilities, or watch the progress of your experience bar as you conquer your foes and complete your tasks. All the reward centers of the brain are duped into feeling much the same as when you accomplish things in real life, but without that frustrating “work” part that comes with any goal that truly matters.

The easy answer isn’t often the true or full answer, though, is it?

Why am I lazy about writing? I can be disciplined in other areas; I can see the benefits of making lasting change and force myself to do it. Why not writing? Why not a sentence a day, little by little, “bird by bird” as Anne Lamott famously suggests? Small steps add up to big results eventually. Am I too lazy to write a sentence?

Clearly not. I’ve written a bunch of them here.

So why are the sentences about my characters and settings so much harder to put down on paper than my self-pity about struggling to write? Am I just trading one form of procrastination for another? “Oh, I know, I’ll WRITE about writing, and thus, kind of satisfy the goal.”

That’s probably more of what’s behind this than I want to admit. Thankfully, I’ll never post this.

Procrastination is usually birthed from fear or boredom, or so I’ve heard. What am I bored by? Is it that I’ve kind of already told myself the story by outlining the major plot points and character arcs, so it feels like there’s nothing new to discover? Is it that the only thing remaining is the hard work of fleshing out those outline points, and that’s not exciting?

Maybe.

No, it’s fear. At least, it’s fear more than boredom. Fear that there’s no point. Fear that what I’ll write isn’t worth the effort, because I already fear that what I’ve written isn’t up to par. Fear that there are too many flaws or holes in the plot I’ve laid down in my self-published stuff – so many that it’s going to take a ton of work to fix that before I can really move on to the next thing.

Fear that what I’m writing isn’t relatable, or that it’s so banal that it’s got nothing to say. I’m talking “The sky is blue and life is hard sometimes” level of obvious truth… if embedding some kind of truth or moral is even part of the consideration.

No one’s asking for a sermon, and if they were, I’d find them a much better preacher.

Fear that the plot “twists” are more like gentle curves. Fear that the characters are more cardboard than care-worthy. Fear that the vision in my head is far removed from the end result – one of the most basic fears of every creative. “I thought I could make it turn out better than it did.”

Fear that I already know all the answers to those fears, and that none of them are sufficient to kick me into motion.

“Well, you’ll get better by doing it.” Yes, I know, thank you.
“You only improve by putting in reps. One word after the next until it’s done.” Exactly. Simple yet profound.
“Whose standard are you holding yourself up to? You just have to do YOUR best.” That’s a relief.
“You have to love the process, because that’s where the growth happens.” Of course.
“You have to focus entirely on what you can control, which is writing the best you can.” Indeed. I agree completely. That’s the way forward.

And yet, once again, I tune out the whispers of my imaginary tenants — those whose voices were once a vivid clamor, those whose exploits were once the movies playing out in my mind whenever I closed my eyes.

If I asked them, I wonder if they would understand, or feel betrayed. Would they sigh knowingly with me and commiserate, or fold their arms across their chests and glare at me from across the dark room I’ve locked them in? One or two would get in my face about it — not surprisingly, I have no doubt which ones.

But I’m non-confrontational to a fault, even if the person I need to confront is myself.

Maybe especially then.

So I don’t ask them. And I usually don’t ask me either. It’s easier that way.

Maybe that’s the answer to the original question – the path of least resistance. The voices in my head can’t move a muscle, push a pen, or lift a finger to a keyboard… so I “win” by default. If you can call it winning.

Tomorrow there’s a Writer’s Hour at a library on one of the nearby bases. I plan to go. I’m excited about there being some kind of writer’s group, especially one I don’t have to lead or organize. I’m happy to pop in and smile at everyone, laugh with everyone, listen to the stories and the struggles, nod my head with the sage advice and whatever anyone’s willing to share because “I know how THAT feels…”

I know a bunch of us will probably have similar voices locked away inside, waiting for their turn to come to life on paper or a screen. I know I’m not alone in feeling the way I do.

I wonder if it will help. Maybe my characters wonder too. Then again, I doubt they’d read this. They probably already know the answer to the one question they’d ask.

Culture/Politics, Writing

Tweet Crossing

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The President needs a public relations rep to lock down his Twitter account.

Ok, at least someone needs to vet his messages before he tweets them.

Writing is hard; we all can use some constructive feedback and added perspective when we’re putting thoughts into words.

I mean, I know I’m not the first to think so, and I’m not saying anything profound or new.

A lot of people on the Left think he’s the worst; he can’t possibly do or say anything good; he should resign and go to jail, and so on. I think that’s extreme, but I don’t expect them to listen to me.

However, I also have a lot of friends who think that President Trump is God’s gift to America, freedom, and the world. So maybe I can speak to them and help them see something with a little more complexity than the all-or-nothing views of the Left and Right in America.

I’ll use a self-deprecating example and tie it to a popular game to gain sweet relevance points.

I started playing Animal Crossing: New Horizons a few weeks ago. My kids were playing it. My daughter (married and in the States) was playing it. She finally convinced my wife to play it. Video games aren’t really my wife’s thing, so it hit me that this was something we could all do which she wanted to do, instead of the usual situation where she does something (like play D&D) because I’m doing it.

Bonus! Count me in.

I had seen a little bit of how the game works—Tom Nook is this raccoon guy who keeps giving you upgrades to your house or island, but you keep owing him a ton of money and have to do a bunch of work for him while he stands around talking about how great the island is.

He has a couple of servants—err, co-workers? children? employees?—who run a store for him and do various tasks, and he delegates most responsibilities to you or them.

Almost everything on the island bears the company label.  

I laughed at the thought of him standing there like some despotic “Dear Leader” while his people toiled for the greatness of their newly settled island.

Maybe like Tom Jong Nook. Hmm… North Korea… Tom Nook… Nook Korea…

It sounds close, when you think that Nook rhymes with took or book.

They seemed so happy at first…

The double-o of “Nook” also looks like boot, toot, hoot, etc.

You can quickly see where this is a problem, even if I didn’t at the time.

If only I had an extra set of eyes or someone who could’ve said, “Dave, do you realize what it sounds like you’re calling your island?”

To be fair, I didn’t ask anyone first. I understood my joke. I knew what I meant. I had the best words.

(I restarted the island and used the name of the fictional country from Papers Please because my 9-year old has been running around saying, “Glory to Arstotzka” every so often. Which is its own long story.)

So, what else has the same double-o sound as boot… Loot? Shoot?

I’ve had conservatives try to explain this away and claim that it couldn’t possibly mean threatening violence. “It’s just stating a fact. When people start looting, sometimes people get shot. No threats intended. And isn’t the real problem the crime taking place? What about—“

Let’s be serious.

At absolute best, “benefit of the doubt level 100,” the tweet in question is poorly written if you want to avoid misunderstanding.

In the same sentence, there is a promise that military intervention will take place if there is any difficulty, followed by the clause “but when the looting starts, the shooting starts.”

That connects those thoughts and subjects, even if the connection was unintentional.

That’s basic grammar.

If someone wanted to bring up a connection between looting and shooting as an inconvenient truth, and a warning that these situations are dangerous, or whatever innocent meaning the Never-Wrongers believe was intended, then he could have just written that thought in a completely separate tweet.

Tweets are free.

Some people clearly know that and use that to their advantage to make their voice heard. All. The. Time.

What’s the lesson here?

A moment of introspection can sometimes answer the difficult question of “How could what I am saying be taken? Is that how I mean for it to be taken? How can I say it so that my meaning is more clear?”

However, we’re notoriously bad at seeing beyond our own perspective. That’s where it helps to get input from professionals. Ancient wisdom tells us that “Where there is no counsel, the people fall; but in the multitude of counselors there is safety.”

Maybe at least one or two.

A writer should probably work with an editor before publishing a book. A corporation or public figure should probably get some input before putting an off-the-cuff statement out there.

Also, remember, tweets are free. You can post a lot of them! Like, so many.

If all that fails, get Animal Crossing and start working to pay back Tom Nook. You get in a lot less trouble that way.

Writing

Elements of Critique: Participation

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The success of any group depends on the combined effort of its members. While a strong personality or two can carry a group for a while, everything will fall apart in their eventual absence.

The more the members know how to communicate and contribute to the whole, the better chances the group will be successful and sustainable.

So how does this work in a critique group? What makes one a good critique group participant?

Like many things in life, the answer boils down to the Golden Rule: Give what you’d like to get.

The biggest part of this Golden Rule participation is: Be timely. Ironic, as I scramble to get this written and posted (three minutes later than my planned publishing time). No one’s perfect, but we keep trying.

Most of what matters to good participation is wrapped up in how we use our time. Submission, preparation, sticking to the main point, and sharing the limited time with others–all of these require being timely.

I try to submit work on time or as close to on time as possible. But life sometimes gets in the way and delays that effort. If I know I’m submitting late, I understand that may mean my work doesn’t get the indepth level of critique I want.

Likewise, I only submit to the group ahead of time (though sometimes late). If I haven’t gotten a submission out before the group meets, I will not bring some printed copies for everyone to read during the session. First, that eats up time, because now everyone is expected to stop and read. Second, the rushed critique will be off-the-cuff, not the thoughtful and reflective critique members might prefer to give. Usually if someone does this, a polite way around it is to say “Can you e-mail me a copy so I take some good time to read and critique it later?”

I also try to be timely about critiquing. I want to give other participants’ work the thoughtful attention I hope they’re giving mine. So I try not to skim, to rush, to read at the last minute. I confess sometimes while others were sharing critiques on one piece, I was reading the next one. But this is unsatisfying for me, and I fear the shallow critique is obvious to the recipient. So I make more effort to carve out time for critique.

Finally, I have to watch the time when I am sharing my critique. I can get wordy (no, you couldn’t tell after almost 30 posts on this subject), and I love pointing out what I think will help. Timely participation means I say my peace and let others take their turn. I don’t want to dominate the time with my indepth review. So I (try to) prepare key points ahead of time, to ensure I hit on what I think is most important.

Everyone has something to share, too. When someone else is talking, I won’t butt in unless I’m certain I can help clarify a moment of confusion. When someone is critiquing my work, I won’t speak unless I must answer a question posed to me, and then only to answer the immediate question.

I like giving helpful advice, and I love it when it seems to make sense to the writer. When they hear it, nod, and agree, I can hope I am helping strengthen their writing. Since I like them to listen to my advice, when it’s my turn in the hot seat, I have to shut up and listen to what others think of my work.

That means I must be open.

Getting defensive is natural. These stories or articles are our babies. We want to stick up for them, or at least justify the mistakes by explaining the intricate thought process that led us to write a certain way. But defensive ears don’t receive advice.

And finally, I must be thorough.

The quality of my critique should be what I hope to receive from others. I want good critique. Thoughtful, constructive, indepth, pointing out both good and bad parts. So that’s what I try to give my fellow group members.

When most (if not all) the participants share these values and strive toward these goals, the critique group will be a powerful resource to improve not just my own writing but everyone else’s involved.

And it’s as simple as “Do unto others what you’d have them do unto you.”

Writing

Elements of Critique: Perspective

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Elements of Critique: Perspective

Now that the A-Z blog challenge is done (thank God!), I thought I’d return to the theme I chose in order to cover three aspects that came up during the month of blogging. I’ll hit on perspective, participation, and planning, so that with the A-Z plus three posts, anyone could in theory organize and run their own critique group.

Three more “P” posts, for the price of none.

One of the keys to good criticism, noted in my ‘C’ post, is that it’s constructive. Critique is not about tearing down a fellow writer until they put up their pen or delete Word from their computer. It’s about working together building ourselves up into the best writers we are capable of becoming.

With any construction project, there are plans and considerations. Some of these will involve the overall style and aesthetics of the future building. Some will involve the math and physics required to ensure stable and lasting architectural integrity.

The math and physics are going to be objective – not contingent on anyone’s opinion. Will a support of such size hold up a roof of such weight? Will a foundation only so deep be able to bear the load of a building with so many storeys? There are equations involved, and these have to follow the rules of math in order to determine correct answers.

The aesthetics are subjective – open to interpretation and based in opinion. These probably involve the input of a designer and the owner. Will a large open welcome center suit our purposes? Would the project be better with a more curved appearance to the structure? Does the design suit the intended purpose? There’s no math for this.

Critique is exactly the same. But to offer good critique we need to understand the difference between what is objective and what is subjective. How we offer advice changes based on this distinction.

“I feel like perhaps some words are missing in this sentence, and it’s just my opinion but you seemed to jump from past tense into what felt like present tense, so maybe that’s a problem?”

I might as well say “Well, you know, I feel like two plus two kind of equals four.”

There’s no need to be overly careful about rules of grammar and punctuation. If we lack confidence, we can do a touch of research and make sure we’ve got the right idea about how the items in question should be formatted or used. Then we can speak objectively – with authority – about the use of a particular punctuation mark, breach of point of view, or format of a sentence.

Of course we cannot present objective critique in a cruel manner. We’re there to build up, not tear down. But if the math is wrong and the structure is inherently flawed, the building will collapse without corrective action.

So if I have the time to do a good critique, I will not only mark something as wrong but provide an explanation or reminder about what’s proper, based on objective rules. I may also present a helpful method for finding errors before submission.

When I do this, I take into account that the solution I see may not be the only option. And since I’m offering possible solutions, this is where my subjectivity starts to come in. “You could separate this into two shorter sentences or use a semi-colon to link the two parts. I’d suggest…”
This is where we start getting into the design of the building. What will look good? When talking about our writing, however, we each have an individual voice or style we follow. If my critique of someone’s writing turns their piece into my voice, then something has gone wrong. I want to savor and enjoy the distinctive “design” of their piece, so I tone back and make subjective suggestions in areas where no true rule applies.

We can’t critique tastes like a math teacher grading a paper. What I see as an awkward sentence may not be to everyone else. My thoughts on what is subtle or what is “authentic” dialogue, my take on whether a hook works well, these are subjective things. When a particular phrase seems weak, or I think something might be clearer in a different order, that’s my opinion.

I have to take into account my familiarity or lack thereof with the writer’s intended genre or audience. My style and tastes might not fit what is expected of their kind of writing.

Our writings are our babies, our darlings. If I say the baby’s ugly, then that puts the writer on the defensive. Defensive ears are notoriously unreceptive to advice. And while I could hope that everyone would be humble enough to receive input from even the most insensitive source, the fact is, we shut down or start to argue our side when we feel our writing is under attack.

So I try to offer my subjective input as an encouraging suggestion, expressed as “just my take on this,” or “this is what worked for me.” I won’t state my opinion as a fact like “this is a mistake you must correct.”

Recognizing the difference between what’s objective and subjective permits me to sound authoritative and encouraging at the same time. Hopefully that keeps defenses down and allows the writer to get the most from the critique.

Of course, we as critiquers can only do so much to communicate helpful feedback. The recipient has to be willing to receive. That’s the subject of the next add-on post: being a good critique group participant.