One of the things that divides me as a writer (hence, the title of this blog) is how much–if at all–I “teach” my readers any valuable lessons. Much of my past writing in this blog has been didactic in nature, asking you semi-philosophic questions about how we live our lives. The response has been great, and I appreciate that.

There’s a place and time for that, too. I wouldn’t change anything about the blog entries I’ve posted.

Where I am now, though, with Cold Rock, is exactly the opposite of where I started this story a few years ago. The first draft was filled with teach-mes, and the climax was supposed to be some kind of self-applicable, reader-relevant lesson about coming to Christ, religion, and/or the spiritual side.

What I’ve come to realize is that Cold Rock needs to be about none of these things. In fact, it needs to be much more thrill, and much less teach.

I was working on one of the later chapters yesterday, at the pool, and I could hear my inner censor pointing out to me that I was heading back toward that dreaded teach-me-a-lesson zone. I could feel the pull of the teach-me writer within, followed by the thrill-me writer shouting warnings of what will happen if I go too far down that teachable road.

Fortunately, thrill-me won, and I got back on track. But I’m not going to lie to you. It’s in (half) my nature to write like this. I am a generally positive person who wants others to be happy.  I’d be a liar if I said anything differently. I want to teach you something. It’s why I’m a teacher (I guess, right?).

One of the main reasons why I decided to Thrill instead of Teach is because of feedback I received, oddly enough, about a Miley Cyrus song called, “The Climb.” I found it on YouTube by accident, and I loved it. I loved the lyrics, the melody, the video. Everything. I asked my 14-year-old daughter what she thought, fully expecting her to say something like, “I love the song, but it’s annoying that you like it. So I guess I hate it now.”

She said nearly all of that: “I [hate] the song, [and] it’s annoying that you like it. I hate it [even more] now.”

Or something like that. I remember a lot of annoyings and hates. I certainly got the message.

I went to school the next day and asked some of the kids who were just a little older–15 – 17. What did they think of “The Climb”?

Hate. Annoying. Yeah.

Same thing. So I went further. I dared to ask the ultimate follow-up question: Why?

More Annoyings. More Hates. And then this:

“I don’t want a message. I want good music that thrills me.”

Back to the Thrill Ride.

So that’s where I am now, with Cold Rock.

Did I tell you that I’ve been reading these Patricia Cornwell novels? The Kay Scarpetta series? I’m on Book Four now, Cruel and Unusual. Love them. Devour them. Don’t remember much about them a week after I finish them.

A sign of good fiction? A good thrill without the teach? I’m not sure. But I do know that I am thrilled enough to buy the next book, and the next, and the next.

Exactly what I want to do for my readers. Thrill. Entertain. Make them want to come back for more. Not to be told how to live their lives or be better people. But for the thrill ride.

I’ll end with this: I mentioned this in an earlier blog post, and I’ll state it here again. My good friend Brad gave me some great advice: If it’s not a how-to book, don’t instruct.

Perfect.

I’ve had this “debate” with writers for decades now, about the necessity of having your own “space” to write. There are basically two sides to this argument:

Side no. 1: Get over it and just write. You don’t need to be in that perfect world, that perfect setting to let the words flow. Just write. It doesn’t matter if it’s in a spiral, on a napkin, at a mall, or in a car. Just write and get over it.

Side no. 2: There are, for the purposes of this entry, two types of writing: to release and to create. Release writing, for the most part, can be done anywhere. I liken it to eating on the run. When you pick up your pizza, your fast food, your carry-out sushi, it doesn’t really matter how you are dressed, what car, truck, or Jeep you use to pick up your food, or if you use cash or credit. The goal: Get The Food.

Create writing, on the other hand, requires an environment, a place where your writing can take up residence and breathe, live a little, become a part of the walls where, when you come back, it’s waiting for you. That environment can be anything, as long as it’s a constant. A cafe, the kitchen table, a den, a local mountain top.

It has to be a place where you, as the writer, feel safe, uninhibited, able to take risks. Your muse has to feel nurtured and safe to roam around without attack. (I know that sounds a little crazy to non-Muse believers, but humor me–and your Muse–and give it a try). Writers past and present, from Mark Twain to Jean Craighead George to Tom Clancy, have written in rooms that are sacred to the Writer. Twain wrote in his Billiard Room on the third floor of his home in Hartford, CT., where he would fan out his manuscripts across the pool table and make edits. It is in this room that he entertained other writers to discuss the art and craft until the early hours of the morning.

Jean Craighead George surrounded herself with sketches from the settings of her books, places she would frequent and illustrate to envelop her in the story’s environment throughout the writing process. Clancy surrounded himself with books in a beautiful study with a big-screen computer. When I had the honor of visiting his home many years ago, I remember feeling a great energy from that room, a revered space where bestsellers were created year after year. It felt like being inside the writer’s core, the sacred space where characters would come and go as they pleased, conflicts would play out as needed, and the writer’s Muse ruled the world within those four walls.

That’s the space I’m talking about.

I don’t have the houses of Twain and Clancy, and I probably never will. But I do have some space to call my own, where my characters can roam, my conflicts can sort things out, and my beginnings and endings can start and stop when they’re good and ready.

That’s what I’m doing now. Reclaiming my space. Giving my Muse the chance to breathe, to live, to write the yet-discovered stories that have been bottled up inside of me these past nine months.

Yes, in so many ways, it is gestational. Now it’s time to make that delivery room as conducive for new life as possible, and birth a story or two before the ’10-’11 school year begins.

Here is a copy of my presentation at the SOMIRAC conference. Please feel free to email me with any questions about the concepts and applications of metajournaling.

SOMIRAC MetaJournals

I am back on Twitter and establishing some good correspondence with other writers, and I spent a great deal of time researching the realities of publishing.

My press, Ravenwater, is working hard to get the word out about our first release, I’m Still Trying To Figure It All Out Myself… by Larry Cohen. We are developing a digital copy of his book, which will be available for the iPad, Kindle, Nook, Sony Reader, and all other portable reading devices. We’re working hard to get his book distributed nationally through Ingram and Baker & Taylor.

The truth is, it’s just damn hard to get your book picked up and circulating beyond your circle of friends, colleagues, and close community members.

Yet, I wonder, is that bad?

The small press and self-publishing boom has afforded writers opportunities to see their stories in print when, in all likelihood, they would be thrown into the slush pile of those larger publishing houses. It’s not a reflection on the quality of writing. It’s just that national agents and publishers are looking for that one book that fits all of their needs–primarily financial ones–that they are willing to take a risk on. SO many variables to consider: history (and future) of writer, predicted appeal for the story in a year’s time (following predicted trends), multimedia spinoffs (to bring in additional income), and international appeal.

Most of us wouldn’t score too well with those variables. And, even if we did, it’s still a crap shoot about whether you will be the “chosen one” that the publisher wants to take the chance on.

This is why I believe in the small presses. We need to be realistic about our publishing successes. But it does mean that we are published, and we have shared our words with the people in our community (and perhaps a little beyond).

I’m skeptical of any other definitions of success. To me, this is about as good as it gets.

So go ahead and write that story. Chances are good there’s a small press out there that’s wanting to help you share your words. . . .

(Listening to Jerry Garcia and Merl Saunders, 9/1/74, Berkeley)

Been thinking a lot these past few days about the realities of writing/publishing/making a living. I’ve come to the conclusion that there are three types of writers:

1. Writers who write because they can’t stop. It’s in them. Regardless of how rich or how poor they might be, they will always write. Most of these writers are broke. They don’t care, though. To do anything else would be unnatural, to say the least.

2. Writers who write to make a living. They are focused entirely on the product and the audience. They will write whatever sells, in whatever genre. There are a surprising number of writers who fall into this category. They have sacrificed the muse for the money, and they bring in a liveable income, hoping for that one big break to put them over the financial hump and give them a little breathing room as they work on the next 3 or 4 pieces simultaneously.

3. Writers who are a combination of the first two types. They are very rare. They understand both sides of the pen, where the business and marketing of their writing is as important as the integrity of preserving their artistic words.

I am trying to be writer no. 3, and it is extremely frustrating. I can’t sell my muse like the writers do in the no. 2 category. Yet, I am sensitive enough of my audience to fall strictly into the no. 1 column.

No. Definitely a no. 3. Well, trying to be.

Trouble is, there is no easy way to do it. I need a lot of support, a lot of networking, and a lot of luck.

I’m working on Cold Rock with this in mind. I will have it out by this summer, and then I’ll move on to Postcards from Carraway Station, a love/ghost story that spans 100 years.

But I will not sell my artistic soul for the money, nor will I play the role of the tortured artist who doesn’t try to make his words connect with his audience.

It’s a tough gig, for sure. I hope I can count on you for your support along the way. If you have not yet read the prologue to Cold Rock and would like to do so, please follow this link.

Thanks, all. It means a great deal to me to have you with me along the way.

Rus

One show, though, struck me as having a rather thoughtful script writer. I am going to guess that it was Clifford, the Big Red Dog, but I cannot be certain. The main storyline was this: well-balanced happy Character A kept a journal, while not-as-happy Character B did not. Character B stole a peek at Character B’s journal and was mortified by what she read. Offended and upset, she shunned her friend for most of the show.

When the show reached the final showdown between A and B, happy Character A calmly explained that journal writing was good for so many things, but it was never meant for anybody else’s eyes. Character A said (and I paraphrase loosely): writing is a way of cleansing the mind and clearing the path for understanding. It’s not that what is written is the truth in another person’s eyes, or even my eyes, for that matter. It is the pathway to the truth. To interpret it literally is, quite honestly, impossible.

And then Character A suggested to B that she try it; it might help her better understand the powers of writing.

To imagine all of this was promoted in a show about a big red dog! Bravo, anonymous script writer. Bravo.

In nearly every workshop or presentation I give on writing, I ask my participants if they write daily. The responses, for the most part, fall into three categories:

• I don’t have time
• I don’t have anything to write about
• I don’t want others to read what I am writing

Now, these responses are from people who have chosen to take my workshops. There is initiative there to make a change; my heart shudders when I think about all of the people out there who believe so deeply in one of these three reasons that they don’t even venture out to see what this writing “thing” is all about.

I Don’t Have Time

I am always surprised by how much time I make for myself when there is desire or motivation to do something. The key is to stop looking for that big block of time that you might have once had when you were younger and responsible for little more than making your own breakfast and making your own bed. Big blocks of anything don’t exist in my life; I’ve stopped believing that great things will happen only if I had those big blocks. Instead, I piece my time together, and throughout the day it accumulates. Get up an hour earlier to write. Carry around a small notebook (Moleskine makes great little notebooks that slip in a shirt pocket, but an index card works just as well). Julia Cameron (The Artist’s Way) suggests that you make a date with yourself at least twice a week, at 2-hour clips, to write, among other things. Time exists for things that matter to you; if you want to write, then write. It’s that simple.

I Don’t Have Anything To Write About

You are blessed with a unique set of eyes with which you see this world, a mind to interpret what you see, and a heart to feel the good as much as the bad. The combination of those three makes you like no other human being, alive or dead, and therefore gives you the right to shout out what you see, think, and feel. We sell ourselves short by thinking we do not lead extraordinary lives, but our very existence is extraordinary. When my father died in 1989, I bought my mother a journal and encouraged her to write through the pain and the hurt. She resisted at first, struggling with what to write about. She kept thinking there was some audience beyond herself that she needed to impress. Once she started writing for no one but her, she could not stop. She lived for 18 years after my father died, and she filled twice as many journals in that time. She wanted me to take care of them and, someday, cull the deeper thoughts and “do something” with them. When I started reading through her words, I discovered the depth of her love for family, her thoughts on politics, and her strong belief in living fully for the day. My mother was once a cafeteria worker, a mother of five, a widow, and a shopaholic. It didn’t stop her from viewing the world in a wonderfully unique way. Once she discovered that she didn’t have to worry about impressing anybody, she wrote authentically.

I Don’t Want Others To Read What I’m Writing

Believe me, like the character on Clifford, none of us do. Reading other people’s journal writing makes no sense, because it’s not meant for anybody but the writer. It is raw, unpolished, imperfect, experimental, parenthetical, extreme, ridiculous, among about a thousand other things. Leonardo da Vinci wrote backwards to discourage peeping journal readers. Others have resorted to codes, symbols, and hieroglyphs to ensure nobody reads their thoughts. I don’t worry about it. The benefits far outweigh the risks. Just keep the journal close to you, and surround yourself with people who respect you (and your writing). Encourage them to write as well. You might want to take the time to explain to your loved ones who might be tempted to steal a peek that you are not writing about them, or about their lives. You’re writing about yours, and for that reason alone, you ask that they respect your privacy.

We all find ourselves in situations where we want to do things but don’t follow through. I suggest you do this: go out and buy the cheapest spiral notebook you can find (most places have them for 25 cents or less in their back-to-school sales) and write about why you don’t write. Make that date with yourself and put the pen to the pulp. Write to an audience of one–yourself–and give yourself the right and the opportunity to rip those pages out and throw them away when your date is over. Chances are you won’t, but make the promise anyway. The important thing is to write–just for you.

I was right. When I bought Shady Grove, I immediately turned to the liner notes, and John Cohen, one of the original members of the New Lost City Ramblers, wrote poignantly about the passion each had for the ballad, the folk song that captured a deeper, more genuine spirit of the traditions of American music. On separate coasts in the early sixties, Jerry and David pursued relentlessly that soul of America.

This got me thinking. What do I pursue?

Some of us pursue the origins of our ancestry; others pursue our collections, ranging from Dead concerts to stamps to first editions; still others pursue that return to innocence, our spiritual births, our origins of balance. More than a few psychologists have professed that we live our adult lives striving to return to our Querencia, or home, the place that brings us complete and unconditional comfort and the feeling of invincibility.

I wonder if Thoreau had this last group in mind when he wrote about the “masses of men leading lives of quiet desperation” in “Where I Lived, and What I Lived For” from his Walden collection of essays.

I can probably say that any one of these (except for the collecting of stamps) fits me to some extent, at various times in my life/year/month/day/moment. But that’s just the problem. I flit back and forth between them so frequently that none of them get the attention necessary to sustain momentum, growth, progress toward that specific pursuit.

That’s why I feel pretty good about the choices I’ve made this new year. I’m pursuing the yoga and the walking with an ever-strong pace that is strengthening with each passing day, where I can say I was committed to this small choice. And there’s this virtual walk I’m planning for this spring/summer; that will be fun.

But is that enough? Maybe I am the desperate man Thoreau speaks of when I believe that I should be pursuing something greater, something nobler.

I dig deep, deep down inside of me to see what I pursue. . . .

Remove the road blocks, the obstacles, the lesson plans and endless (but wonderful) family commitments, and I’m left with this:

I pursue the absolute, pure expression, through writing and various art media, of who I am as an artist, as an individual, so that I may leave my mark on the world as I witnessed it, lived it, wished it to be.

I write this with confidence because I had a piece of writing rejected recently, and at first, I was upset about the rejection. The feedback was that the work of fiction “crossed over” into the nonfiction genre and made it too essay-ish. Initially, I thought about how I might change it, what I might do to make it more amenable to this specific audience. In other words: what can I do to satisfy my audience?

I’ve written previously that the good writer is sensitive to her audience and needs to consider what is expected of the piece. But we can’t apply that general statement to all writing. In my work with developing the concept of the metalogical writer, I’ve created a graphic where the focus of the piece can shift to the author, the audience, or the piece itself. As authors, we decide what is best for our piece.

If you were to graph out all of my published works, I am sure you’ll find that the large majority of them were for somebody else, some audience I whored myself to with my writing. Very, very few of the pieces I’ve had published were Pure Rus: uncensored, with a focus on me and a style that I wanted for that particular piece for my particular reasons. These are the pieces that were written with what I would call “artistic intent,” where the artist knows her voice so well that she isn’t afraid to use it, even if it goes against the mainstream genres. When we do this with intent–use our voice and select our form–we need to make critical decisions about how far we will compromise our gift to give the masses what they say they want.

This rejection made me smile. I write for me first now. There was undeniable “artistic intent” when I wrote that piece, simply because that is the style I chose to connect with my readers. So now, I’m going back to Cold Rock and a few other pieces, revise the parts that I think need work, and then publish it. I’m no longer compromising who I am as an artist for the sake of giving the masses more of what they are already getting.

If I can’t pursue my individuality in this fog of conformity, then what’s the sense of writing anything at all? If I can’t claim my voice, my soul in my work, what’s the difference between these pieces and the work I’ve whored in the past?

Really, folks. Pursue you. Whether it’s in your photography, your yoga, your writing, your anything: pursue you fully in all that you do. It’s the only way to let the world know that you were really here at all.

Finished reading A Simple Plan. I think I mentioned that in an earlier entry. I bring this up again because I am thrilled with what I learned from Scott Smith’s style. Concise. Powerful. Each word matters.

More than that, though, I realized something about Story. You gotta want it, man. You really got to get into the type and work from the inside out. It’s the only way to make your writing Pop. What I mean, I guess, is this: There can be nothing driving but the story. You aren’t writing for an audience (at least not directly), you aren’t writing to win a contest, you aren’t even writing to publish.

You’re writing to bring some thing to life vibrantly, vividly, using 26 letters in black ink on white paper. Talk about your challenge of a lifetime. And you get only one chance. How else can you do it if you’re not inside the story, inside the pen, in the ink, on the page, shouting out to your reader, “You are simply not going to believe this. But I swear. I swear to God. This is the absolute truth, even if none of it ever happened.”

(my humble thanks to the great Chief Bromden for that last thought…)

I know, I know. It’s all contradicting everything I’ve always taught and believed, but it’s true. If you write to bring that story to life and use all the elements at your fingertips–I mean really use them, then all those other things: audience, awards, and publications–they’ll come to you anyway. And if they don’t now, they will when you’re dead, when they realize just how genuine and passionate and ahead of it all you really were.
So that’s why I call this Revisions and Re-Visions. Last night, near midnight, I was on the elliptical trainer at the gym, and the rewrites to my book Cold Rock came to me somewhere around mile 2. Great stuff, I believe (but nobody but my buddy SK will hear of it; I think I’ve reached the point where I need to talk less and write more).

The rewrites focus on the majors: character development, stronger plot, reality-driven. I’ve already started. I’m shooting to wrap up the rewrite by the end of December. Then we’ll see where it stands. I have a good feeling, though, that by adopting this inside-out process, I’m going to make it Pop.

The other Revision–or re-vision, is simply about my own renegotiations with what my vision is in living fully and balancing my writing and my teaching and my photography. It’s who I am. Like I was mentioning to one of my friends yesterday at school, you have to let your art out. You have to be in love with what you do all the time.

You got to live life from the inside out. Just like I got to write about it. . . .

It really is that simple. Now if we could only convince ourselves of it.

Q: Will you finish?

A: Of course we will. It’s what we do, we crazy writers. We set a goal to write 50K in one month, and we do it. We never said it was going to be pretty (although some great things do happen when you write 50K in one “sitting”).

Q: Is any of it good?

A: It’s all good, if you ask me. It’s a vomit draft, and therefore it serves its purpose to have words on a page to work with. This activity, this exercise in writing, is making the clay–lots of clay–to spend a whole year molding into something worthy of sending off for representation.

Q: What happens after you finish?

A: You take a breather–at least I do. Last year, I took off two weeks before I just had to jump back in and start working with what I had just written. Some people take a longer break. I think that there is another nationally sponsored revision month (maybe March) where you spend a certain number of hours in the month revising what you wrote in November. I can’t wait that long. It took me a full year to revise Cold Rock, which was last year’s Nano creation.

Q: What’s this final week going to look like for you?

A: It’s going to look a lot like the screen on my laptop. Virtually every possible minute will be spent on this draft to make sure I make the November 30 deadline. That means night time sleeps turn into short naps whenever absolutely necessary. It means lots and lots of coffee and very little sugar (causes too many quick crashes, which is devastating for any artist). It means I send my internal editor on a week-long trip to the Bahamas so that he doesn’t try and stop me from finishing.

In a nutshell, it means insanity.

And I love every minute of it.

:)

So I’m now immersed in rewriting the climax, where the protag needs to be more aggressive in taking ownership in dealing with his past. The challenge has been in merging the old text (which, for the most part, I love) with the new (which gives the protag more control over his destiny). I don’t want to delete too much of the old, but I have to let go of some of it to make the scene work effectively.

Which leads me to this:

Yesterday, during a 5-hour workshop in cultural proficiency, I was sharing with a great friend of mine (KC) what this experience has been like working on this final scene. I drew (I always draw diagrams when I talk—God be with you if we ever go out for a drink…) a circle inside of a circle, and inside of that circle, I drew a bold dot. In my mind, I was thinking, bullseye, center of the zone, the core.
“That,” I said to KC, is where I was last night as I was revising Cold Rock.”

She looked at the diagram and said, “You were the sun?”

And that was just when I had one of those moments where the world washes over you in a giant watercolor brushstroke, and find yourself on somebody else’s canvas.

“The sun?” I asked. “You mean, like the big bright ball in the sky?”

“Yeah. Center of the solar system. All that.”

I looked back to the diagram and saw it. Last night, I was the sun. I could not have been closer to the core of the origin of creativity and of life. She was right.

I then focused on the circles around the sun, and I started identifying the planets by their rotation around the sun (this, though, required a little help from our in-house astronomer), and KC asked:

“So where are you now?”

How perfect was this analogy? I looked at the diagram one more time.

“Oh, I’m definitely venus right now. Definitely.”

She smiled, and I knew that we had stumbled on what I am certain will be a most brilliant and long-lasting analogy that will be so overly used by yours truly for weeks, months, oh hell, YEARS to come.

me :)

oh–and just in case you are wondering….I’m mercury right now!