Say What? #3 - let's see if I can keep this up

One of the main reasons that I hesitate to write stories is that when I go back and read them, I find something awkward, embarrassing, or unnaturally exposed in my presentation of the story. I’ve tried to get around this by ignoring it, avoiding writing altogether, or sticking to subjects that seem immune to this type of discomfort. Recently, in a fit of blind self-confidence, I thought it would be worthwhile to look at one of these mortifying examples of flailing effort to see what exactly is causing this sense of humiliation.

What I found in the story in question was that I don’t have a graceful way of handling characters’ inner lives: their motivations, emotions, and impressions. In this area more than any other, I feel like I reveal my own prejudices, conceits, and ignorance… all the things I’d like to pretend don’t exist. It’s in these passages that I think I tell the reader more about myself than about my characters, and that, frankly undermines my whole purpose in writing fiction. So it seems necessary to find a new way of working with this type of material. If you leave it out, you run the risk of flattening your stories into skeletal plot outlines. If you overdo it, or do it clumsily, you wind up with an overwrought character portrait(of the artist).

And this brings me to my question of the day: does this happen to you? And how do you work it out? I think that everyone runs into some point of vulnerability (often many, many points of vulnerability) in their efforts to create. How do you address them in general, and how do you work out specific sticky points? Talk to Meg, or Carly, or Illy!

x-ing and o-ing ~i

Say What? #2 - a manifesto

People who know me (or have spent any time in my vicinity) likely know that I hate, and vehemently renounce critique workshops. I think they hinder creativity and encourage people to be mean and bland and the same. Of course I’m generalizing, and there are exceptions, like the San Mateo writing class I’ve been involved with for the last few years, a group of writers who genuinely celebrate and revel in the work they share with each other. But groups like this are rare, and most writers suffer at some point the shaming and destructive advice of a bitter writing community. Whatever. We don’t have to play with those kids, or even spend time with them, but it is hard to find a kind, encouraging community of writers to work with (without having to pay lots of $).


As writers, we benefit immensely from sharing ideas and the anatomy of our solutions to common and unique problems. In its best forms, the practice of exchanging tools helps us generate new ideas and bring slumbering projects to fruition. Since I’ve found so few examples of this type of community, I’m devoting a section of this blog to contribute some more space where my writer friends (and I) can find fellowship (and help) when needed.


Please, please participate as often and as much as you like.

Say What? #1 - a series of questions on writing

Back in college, I mastered the art of writing a 15 page paper in a matter of hours. For the duration of my undergrad education, I did what most kids do and waited until the absolute last possible minute to sit down and bang out every essay, no matter how complicated the topic or how much research it required. While this approach has its obvious drawbacks, it did make it easy to maintain a consistent voice throughout each project.

Now the game is different. Without answering to deadlines or teachers or formal writing groups, I can labor over a project for months at a time, and by the end (or halfway through) I notice that the voice is completely different from what I started with.

Yesterday, I opened up a story that’s been sitting on the shelf since last summer because I didn’t know how to end it. I finally had an idea of how to wrap things up, and when I tried to tack the ending on, I realized that it, and the bulk of the story didn’t fit with the opening paragraph at all. The easy solution seems to be scrapping the first paragraph and replacing it with something that fits better. But there’s a certain sorrow in letting something like that go. I remember vividly a time when that paragraph was all I had, and I was proud of the phrasing, the imagery, the life it was setting up for the reader. Now it feels strange to hack it off like a gangrenous toe.

I wonder how other writers work this out. Do they bite down on a leather strap between their teeth and hack, hack, hack? Or do they find more graceful ways of blending the diseased limb into the fabric of the story? I’d like to hear what works for others. If you have ideas or suggestions, or if you want to open a discussion of your own writing challenges (or victories!), post a comment here, or drop me a line. I’d love to hear from you!
x to the o to the i