Ask the Author: Kelly Flanagan
Answered Questions (6)
Kelly Flanagan
The simplest, most sincere answer is that I still have a little boy in me who has always wanted to write stories, and I finally believed in him enough to do so, thanks in part to a bunch of friends and guides and mentors who encouraged me along the way.
On top of that, my last book, TRUE COMPANIONS, concluded with an epilogue that pushed the boundary of nonfiction and fiction. In it, I imagined an “inner reunion” of all of my companions—past, present, and future. The scene played with the malleability of time and space in the realm of memory and soulfulness, and it experimented ever so briefly with a conversation between my grandfather and me. After publishing True Companions, the experiment didn’t end, as I continued to imagine inner conversations with the so-called “ghosts” of my loved ones.
Gradually, it became an imaginative method for reawakening to the voice of grace within me, and the conversations produced by this technique began to deliver new psychological and spiritual insights with direct relevance to the big midlife questions and decisions I—and so many other—are facing. Initially, I wanted to share this technique with readers in a nonfiction book, but ultimately decided the concept’s potential could only be fully explored within the creative freedom of a novel. Thus, Elijah Campbell was born. I can’t wait for you to meet him.
On top of that, my last book, TRUE COMPANIONS, concluded with an epilogue that pushed the boundary of nonfiction and fiction. In it, I imagined an “inner reunion” of all of my companions—past, present, and future. The scene played with the malleability of time and space in the realm of memory and soulfulness, and it experimented ever so briefly with a conversation between my grandfather and me. After publishing True Companions, the experiment didn’t end, as I continued to imagine inner conversations with the so-called “ghosts” of my loved ones.
Gradually, it became an imaginative method for reawakening to the voice of grace within me, and the conversations produced by this technique began to deliver new psychological and spiritual insights with direct relevance to the big midlife questions and decisions I—and so many other—are facing. Initially, I wanted to share this technique with readers in a nonfiction book, but ultimately decided the concept’s potential could only be fully explored within the creative freedom of a novel. Thus, Elijah Campbell was born. I can’t wait for you to meet him.
Kelly Flanagan
I’m inspired to write by life happening around me. Someone will say something, or something will happen, and I will be struck by the feeling that it is somehow true, or beautiful, or graceful, and I will begin contemplating the moment. What is it that moved me, and why? If it moved me, would it move others, as well? If so, the story or the idea that came from it will eventually make its way into my teachings or my storytelling.
When I was writing the Epilogue to THE UNHIDING OF ELIJAH CAMPBELL, I was searching for a story or metaphor to tie up one of the themes of the book. Around that time, I was driving with my 13 year old son in the front seat and my 11 year old daughter in the backseat, and at one point, she just screamed some nonsense. I asked her why. She said, “Because nobody has listened to me in a while.” And I thought, around midlife, that’s what our pain does, it shouts from the backseat of our soul, because we haven’t listened to it in a long time. That moment and metaphor inspired me to conclude UNHIDING in a way I would not have otherwise thought to do.
When I was writing the Epilogue to THE UNHIDING OF ELIJAH CAMPBELL, I was searching for a story or metaphor to tie up one of the themes of the book. Around that time, I was driving with my 13 year old son in the front seat and my 11 year old daughter in the backseat, and at one point, she just screamed some nonsense. I asked her why. She said, “Because nobody has listened to me in a while.” And I thought, around midlife, that’s what our pain does, it shouts from the backseat of our soul, because we haven’t listened to it in a long time. That moment and metaphor inspired me to conclude UNHIDING in a way I would not have otherwise thought to do.
Kelly Flanagan
I’m currently proofreading—for the very last time before publication—my first novel, THE UNHIDING OF ELIJAH CAMPBELL. It’s a book about the secrets we keep in the hopes of belonging, and how those secrets only serve to make us lonelier. It’s about the healing magic of memory and imagination. It’s about the power of place and the beauty of community. It’s about the grace that is waiting for us on the other side of surrender. And so much more. The opening line to UNHIDING is, “The past is behind us, but it is also, always, within us.” I can’t wait to get this book into my readers’ hands.
Kelly Flanagan
“Aspiring” is a tricky word. We need to be careful with it. On the one hand, it’s good to have goals, dreams, ambitions, plans. However, we can quickly sap all the joy from our writing if we saddle it with the kind of shame that says I’m not a real writer until I achieve this-or-that with my writing. I notice for most authors it’s a bestseller list we aspire to, often the New York Times Bestseller list. And that’s okay. Great goal! But it’s important to remember, in that case, we are an aspiring bestselling author, not an aspiring writer. Once you are in the habit of sitting down to write even on days when you don’t “feel like it,” that’s when you’ve ceased to be an aspiring writer and, quite simply and wonderfully, become a writer.
Kelly Flanagan
The best thing about being a writer is how confident it makes you, how you never again have to question if what inside of you is worth exposing for everyone to consider and criticize. Also, the easy attention—people stopping you in restaurants and begging for a selfie. And the riches, of course—bestseller lists and big advances. Not to mention the unwavering sense of purpose—the feeling of changing the world for the better in one fell swoop.
Actually.
I’m never more insecure than when I’m writing and wondering if I have anything useful to say at all. Most of us writers toil in relative anonymity forever. We work for minimum wage. We work for a year, two, three, maybe more, exposing ourselves to the world, then we release it and more often than not, a few people get excited for a few weeks, and you have to wonder if what you’re doing with your life matters at all.
No, the best thing about being a writer isn’t anything momentous; rather it’s a moment. It’s the moment you travel into yourself, discover an inward dimension you didn’t know existed—like Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy walking into an ordinary wardrobe and finding themselves in Narnia—and then return to the rest of the world with a word or two you discovered there. Something you had no idea existed within you and, perhaps, doesn’t really exist within you, given that it felt like it came from another place beyond space and another time beyond time. It’s the moment your character does something you didn’t plan and you discover you are as much an audience to the unfolding story as your readers are—even if those readers are just a few good friends.
The best thing about being a writer is that it’s a spiritual experience. And like any spiritual experience, it’s mostly a lot of discipline and tedium. Until. Until the moment you realize YOU are the wardrobe, and there are worlds within you that only you can explore. You’ll discover terrible witches there, and long, long winters, but also breathtaking lions, and springtimes that feel like a resurrection.
Actually.
I’m never more insecure than when I’m writing and wondering if I have anything useful to say at all. Most of us writers toil in relative anonymity forever. We work for minimum wage. We work for a year, two, three, maybe more, exposing ourselves to the world, then we release it and more often than not, a few people get excited for a few weeks, and you have to wonder if what you’re doing with your life matters at all.
No, the best thing about being a writer isn’t anything momentous; rather it’s a moment. It’s the moment you travel into yourself, discover an inward dimension you didn’t know existed—like Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy walking into an ordinary wardrobe and finding themselves in Narnia—and then return to the rest of the world with a word or two you discovered there. Something you had no idea existed within you and, perhaps, doesn’t really exist within you, given that it felt like it came from another place beyond space and another time beyond time. It’s the moment your character does something you didn’t plan and you discover you are as much an audience to the unfolding story as your readers are—even if those readers are just a few good friends.
The best thing about being a writer is that it’s a spiritual experience. And like any spiritual experience, it’s mostly a lot of discipline and tedium. Until. Until the moment you realize YOU are the wardrobe, and there are worlds within you that only you can explore. You’ll discover terrible witches there, and long, long winters, but also breathtaking lions, and springtimes that feel like a resurrection.
Kelly Flanagan
I have writer’s block every day.
Almost every time I sit down to write, I get scared the magic won’t happen, so I delay it. I check email. Reply to a few. Check the news. Click. Click. Click. Suddenly, I’m reading online tabloids. Ridiculous. So I do something a little less meaningless—I check Facebook. Everyone else is still doing things that make my life look ordinary and unsuccessful. I imagine my next book will change all of that, which causes my anxiety to tick up a notch. I consider getting up to do yardwork.
And THAT’S the moment—the moment I consider getting up from the computer and ignoring the blank page. THAT’S the moment my everyday writer’s block either wins or doesn’t.
My oldest son used to take classical guitar lessons. We were broke and the lessons were expensive and we wanted him to get the most out of them, but he refused to practice. We asked his instructor for some tips. His answer was, “Don’t make him practice. Just make him sit in front of the guitar with no distractions. Eventually he’ll pick it up and start playing, because it’s better than being bored.”
So, I force myself to sit in front of the “guitar,” so to speak. The computer. The empty document. I close my email app. I close my web browser. I close the blinds so I can’t see the weeds growing in the flowerbeds outside. I rid myself of distractions. And I sit there, until the discomfort of just sitting there becomes more uncomfortable than the fear of failure. Then, I start. I always start.
And what comes out is almost never great, at first. But it is also never writer’s block.
Good enough.
Almost every time I sit down to write, I get scared the magic won’t happen, so I delay it. I check email. Reply to a few. Check the news. Click. Click. Click. Suddenly, I’m reading online tabloids. Ridiculous. So I do something a little less meaningless—I check Facebook. Everyone else is still doing things that make my life look ordinary and unsuccessful. I imagine my next book will change all of that, which causes my anxiety to tick up a notch. I consider getting up to do yardwork.
And THAT’S the moment—the moment I consider getting up from the computer and ignoring the blank page. THAT’S the moment my everyday writer’s block either wins or doesn’t.
My oldest son used to take classical guitar lessons. We were broke and the lessons were expensive and we wanted him to get the most out of them, but he refused to practice. We asked his instructor for some tips. His answer was, “Don’t make him practice. Just make him sit in front of the guitar with no distractions. Eventually he’ll pick it up and start playing, because it’s better than being bored.”
So, I force myself to sit in front of the “guitar,” so to speak. The computer. The empty document. I close my email app. I close my web browser. I close the blinds so I can’t see the weeds growing in the flowerbeds outside. I rid myself of distractions. And I sit there, until the discomfort of just sitting there becomes more uncomfortable than the fear of failure. Then, I start. I always start.
And what comes out is almost never great, at first. But it is also never writer’s block.
Good enough.
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