Jennifer R. Hubbard's Blog, page 112
November 4, 2010
Not-so-great expectations
A common source of pain is the difference between what we expect and what we have. I think this often happens with readers and books: we think the book will be like this, and instead it's like that. We thought it would be hotter/scarier/funnier. We thought it would have a happy ending, or we hoped it wouldn't have a sappy ending. Often, the book is perfectly fine for what it is, but it left us dissatisfied because we wanted it to be something else.
That can happen with our own writing as well. We may wish we could write funnier books, or faster-paced books, or books that appeal to wider audiences. And there's nothing wrong with stretching a bit beyond our comfort zones to try on new styles. But there's also something to be said for dropping those expectations, forgetting how we think we should write, and embracing the voices that are actually within us.
P.S. If you're anywhere near Haverford, PA, consider coming to this event at Children's Book World on Friday night, November 5. More than 30 authors and illustrators will be there!
November 2, 2010
Day by day, and the unexplained
This may end up being a week where I build a blog on the shoulders of giants, i.e., other people's brilliant posts. First up today is Saundra Mitchell saying, in essence: Don't write a novel, just write a day's worth of words. It's like Anne Lamott's one-inch picture frame in Bird by Bird, and it definitely reflects the way I work. A novel is huge and complex, and it can't be done in one sitting (unless you're Jack Kerouac and relying on artificial stimulants).
When I begin a day's writing session, I always have a session goal in mind. Some examples: Write a scene. Revise a scene. Write for two hours. Fix chapter two. Root out all the extra "justs" and "actuallys". Whatever it is, it is never, "Write an entire novel." Sometimes I meet my goal and sometimes I don't, but it helps to keep the task at hand a manageable size.
Second up, this by way of an article by Damion Searls in the October 2010 Harper's. It's a quote from Tove Jansson, from her acceptance speech for the 1966 Hans Christian Andersen Award: in a book, "there should always be something left unexplained ..." "... a path at which the writer respectfully stops to let the child continue alone."
That doesn't mean to drop the reader off a cliff of unknowns. But I love the idea that our books can be more than a journey in themselves, that they can launch another journey for the reader. It's already clear to me (from getting critiques and reading reviews) how much of themselves readers bring to a book, and that's actually much of the joy in writing--thinking of each book as a collaboration that's created anew with each reader. And so not every single idea needs to be explicitly labeled and tied up with a bow. We seed our work with hints, suggestions, and signposts.
When I begin a day's writing session, I always have a session goal in mind. Some examples: Write a scene. Revise a scene. Write for two hours. Fix chapter two. Root out all the extra "justs" and "actuallys". Whatever it is, it is never, "Write an entire novel." Sometimes I meet my goal and sometimes I don't, but it helps to keep the task at hand a manageable size.
Second up, this by way of an article by Damion Searls in the October 2010 Harper's. It's a quote from Tove Jansson, from her acceptance speech for the 1966 Hans Christian Andersen Award: in a book, "there should always be something left unexplained ..." "... a path at which the writer respectfully stops to let the child continue alone."
That doesn't mean to drop the reader off a cliff of unknowns. But I love the idea that our books can be more than a journey in themselves, that they can launch another journey for the reader. It's already clear to me (from getting critiques and reading reviews) how much of themselves readers bring to a book, and that's actually much of the joy in writing--thinking of each book as a collaboration that's created anew with each reader. And so not every single idea needs to be explicitly labeled and tied up with a bow. We seed our work with hints, suggestions, and signposts.
Risks
I recommend this post from R.L. LaFevers, at the Shrinking Violets, on taking risks. It's mostly about taking risks with your online presence, but it also applies to writing.
A couple of gems from the post:
"We avoid risk because we are afraid; we’re afraid that in exposing our true selves we will drive people away. But, if being plain vanilla and boring is going to keep people away anyway, why not throw caution to the wind and drive them away with the force of your views or personality? At least YOU will have gotten something out of it. And the chances are very, very high that more people will connect with that authenticity than your bland mask."
"Here’s a little secret I’ll share. Every single one of my posts here at SVP that has drawn the most traffic or garnered the highest number of comments has been one I’ve sweated and fretted over, considered taking down two minutes after putting it up, and generally had serious poster’s remorse over. Almost without fail, those are the ones that you guys respond to the most favorably. Clearly there is a lesson in there, and so I am sharing it with you, grasshopper."
But do read the whole thing. There are videos, too!
A couple of gems from the post:
"We avoid risk because we are afraid; we’re afraid that in exposing our true selves we will drive people away. But, if being plain vanilla and boring is going to keep people away anyway, why not throw caution to the wind and drive them away with the force of your views or personality? At least YOU will have gotten something out of it. And the chances are very, very high that more people will connect with that authenticity than your bland mask."
"Here’s a little secret I’ll share. Every single one of my posts here at SVP that has drawn the most traffic or garnered the highest number of comments has been one I’ve sweated and fretted over, considered taking down two minutes after putting it up, and generally had serious poster’s remorse over. Almost without fail, those are the ones that you guys respond to the most favorably. Clearly there is a lesson in there, and so I am sharing it with you, grasshopper."
But do read the whole thing. There are videos, too!
November 1, 2010
Here comes November
I've been wondering what I can say to inspire those of you who are setting out, this November, to draft a book--whether you're officially doing it as part of NaNoWriMo or not.
And here's the best thing I can say at the moment: Have fun.
Enjoy the writing as much as you can. NaNoWriMo gives you such huge word-count goals that you really have to--you're really allowed to--commit to your writing. If you're serious about writing a whole book, you'll be making it a priority and putting many other things aside for a while. In doing so, you get to embrace your imaginary world and live in it in a very intense way.
Your characters will suffer, because they must. But you, I hope, will have fun.
And for those who, like me, are not NaNoing--well, there's no reason we can't have fun too! My goal is to work on some early-draft stuff for a while, and then do a final pass through a manuscript that's farther along. What's your November goal?
And here's the best thing I can say at the moment: Have fun.
Enjoy the writing as much as you can. NaNoWriMo gives you such huge word-count goals that you really have to--you're really allowed to--commit to your writing. If you're serious about writing a whole book, you'll be making it a priority and putting many other things aside for a while. In doing so, you get to embrace your imaginary world and live in it in a very intense way.
Your characters will suffer, because they must. But you, I hope, will have fun.
And for those who, like me, are not NaNoing--well, there's no reason we can't have fun too! My goal is to work on some early-draft stuff for a while, and then do a final pass through a manuscript that's farther along. What's your November goal?
October 31, 2010
Why I Went to Washington, and What I Found There
When satirist Jon Stewart invited people to come to Washington, DC for a rally to restore sanity (and/or fear, in a joking addition to the program by Stephen Colbert), I decided to go. My reasons were simple: When someone says, “If you want to see more cooperation and civility in our public discourse, and maybe have a few laughs too, raise your hand,” and when showing up on the Washington Mall is the equivalent of raising your hand—well, then, I get on a train from Philadelphia and show up on the Washington Mall.
And I’m so glad I did. I’ve never before been in such a huge gathering where there was no pushing or shoving, where people said, “Sorry” or “Excuse me” every single time they accidentally bumped into you (and given the vast numbers of people there, bumps were inevitable). I’ve never felt such good, positive energy from such a large crowd. I’m sure the sunshine helped, but mostly it was just a relief to know that I’m not alone in wishing for more listening and more finding of common ground.
And in that “I’m not alone” department, the size of the crowd was awe-inspiring. I think the rally was only supposed to take up space as far as Seventh Street, but people filled the mall up to the foot of the Washington Monument. The energy when we did the wave, or jumped in unison, was breathtaking. Afterward, when we spilled into the streets, every road I could see in every direction was a solid mass of people. They walked calmly, enjoying themselves. Nobody seemed to be in a hurry, and even when we clogged the restaurants and had to wait in huge lines, I didn’t see anyone getting impatient or obnoxious.
People carried signs endorsing civility. They carried signs for diverse political causes, emphasizing how many different things are important to us, and how single-issue campaigns don’t capture everything we hold dear. They carried signs that were just silly jokes. There were people in Halloween costumes (and for those who wonder “Where’s Waldo?” I can tell you he was at the rally and also dined at a Mongolian barbecue restaurant afterward). I saw people of different races, and of all ages: families with young children, teenagers, senior citizens, college students. I saw same-sex couples and opposite-sex couples. In my immediate vicinity, there were a man wearing a U.S. Army jacket, a man with an athletic-association jacket, several families with kids of all ages, an older couple, and—(my writer friends will appreciate this)—a blanket where two preteen girls sat, one reading a book with complete absorption. I suspect everyone had their own reasons for being there, and Jon Stewart himself said all he asked for was people’s presence. Perhaps he just wanted to see that “show of hands,” as I did, for the idea of sanity. Sanity in a crazy, fun kind of way. Let’s laugh together more.
And I’m so glad I did. I’ve never before been in such a huge gathering where there was no pushing or shoving, where people said, “Sorry” or “Excuse me” every single time they accidentally bumped into you (and given the vast numbers of people there, bumps were inevitable). I’ve never felt such good, positive energy from such a large crowd. I’m sure the sunshine helped, but mostly it was just a relief to know that I’m not alone in wishing for more listening and more finding of common ground.
And in that “I’m not alone” department, the size of the crowd was awe-inspiring. I think the rally was only supposed to take up space as far as Seventh Street, but people filled the mall up to the foot of the Washington Monument. The energy when we did the wave, or jumped in unison, was breathtaking. Afterward, when we spilled into the streets, every road I could see in every direction was a solid mass of people. They walked calmly, enjoying themselves. Nobody seemed to be in a hurry, and even when we clogged the restaurants and had to wait in huge lines, I didn’t see anyone getting impatient or obnoxious.
People carried signs endorsing civility. They carried signs for diverse political causes, emphasizing how many different things are important to us, and how single-issue campaigns don’t capture everything we hold dear. They carried signs that were just silly jokes. There were people in Halloween costumes (and for those who wonder “Where’s Waldo?” I can tell you he was at the rally and also dined at a Mongolian barbecue restaurant afterward). I saw people of different races, and of all ages: families with young children, teenagers, senior citizens, college students. I saw same-sex couples and opposite-sex couples. In my immediate vicinity, there were a man wearing a U.S. Army jacket, a man with an athletic-association jacket, several families with kids of all ages, an older couple, and—(my writer friends will appreciate this)—a blanket where two preteen girls sat, one reading a book with complete absorption. I suspect everyone had their own reasons for being there, and Jon Stewart himself said all he asked for was people’s presence. Perhaps he just wanted to see that “show of hands,” as I did, for the idea of sanity. Sanity in a crazy, fun kind of way. Let’s laugh together more.
October 29, 2010
How the river flows
If you've read this blog for even a short time, you probably know that I'm a big advocate of emotional and mental freedom during the first draft. Or, to put it more bluntly, having your muse stuff your inner critic in a trunk while you're crafting a first draft.
My agent, Nathan Bransford, posted a slightly different take on this today, and rather than taking issue with it, I actually know what he means. So I decided to see if I could differentiate between the inner voices of the picky critic (who should be ignored at this stage) and the useful editor (who may help).
"Nobody will want to read this stupid story."--critic
"That's boring."--critic
"Hmm, if they kiss here instead of there, it makes everything go in a totally different direction."--editor
"I brought them to the store, but now they have nothing to do here. It was more fun back at the party. Maybe I should go back there."--editor
"Don't say that--your husband/mother/daughter won't like it."--critic
"Is that even a word?"--critic
"Should she really tell him now that she's his mother?"--editor
In short, the critic is the second-guesser. The critic may be stifling your creativity by trying to please everyone you've ever known, or may be the one who makes you double-check your word choice and saves you from embarrassing misspellings. Regardless, all the critic's work can be saved for later drafts. Tying yourself in knots over those issues will just stall a first draft.
On the other hand, the editor raises questions about the direction of a story that can help keep it on track. Some people find it better to just keep writing on through the editor's doubts and questions; it's a matter of personal process. But I often find that if I take a little time to backtrack out of a scene that has led to a dead end, or if I think a bit about where the story needs to go next, I can keep the momentum of the book moving forward.
My agent, Nathan Bransford, posted a slightly different take on this today, and rather than taking issue with it, I actually know what he means. So I decided to see if I could differentiate between the inner voices of the picky critic (who should be ignored at this stage) and the useful editor (who may help).
"Nobody will want to read this stupid story."--critic
"That's boring."--critic
"Hmm, if they kiss here instead of there, it makes everything go in a totally different direction."--editor
"I brought them to the store, but now they have nothing to do here. It was more fun back at the party. Maybe I should go back there."--editor
"Don't say that--your husband/mother/daughter won't like it."--critic
"Is that even a word?"--critic
"Should she really tell him now that she's his mother?"--editor
In short, the critic is the second-guesser. The critic may be stifling your creativity by trying to please everyone you've ever known, or may be the one who makes you double-check your word choice and saves you from embarrassing misspellings. Regardless, all the critic's work can be saved for later drafts. Tying yourself in knots over those issues will just stall a first draft.
On the other hand, the editor raises questions about the direction of a story that can help keep it on track. Some people find it better to just keep writing on through the editor's doubts and questions; it's a matter of personal process. But I often find that if I take a little time to backtrack out of a scene that has led to a dead end, or if I think a bit about where the story needs to go next, I can keep the momentum of the book moving forward.
October 28, 2010
Curve Balls
I hate curve balls. I'm not spontaneous. I resist change.
("Fun gal!" you're thinking to yourself. I know.)
A lot of us are this way. We like to know where we're going, and we like to be in the driver's seat when we're getting there. Even if control is mostly an illusion, we prefer the comfort of that illusion.
But when we shepherd characters through a book, we get to throw those curve balls. In fact, we must. Because if the character already knows every step of the road he's going to travel, there's no suspense. If he's prepared for every problem, there's no tension. Sometimes we make the mistake of protecting our characters the way we would like to protect ourselves, and the characters are safe. And boring.
Stories are about risk and danger--and they don't have to be physical risks or deadly dangers. A working title for one of my early unpublished attempts at a novel was Things You Can't See Coming. Or was it Things You Don't See Coming? Anyway, you get the drift. Flawed as that novel was (and flawed as its title was), at least by that point I had grasped the importance of the curve ball.
And there's no story without change--or at least the potential for change, the choice whether to change. It may be uncomfortable for us, but it's the heart of a novel.
If a writing project is getting slow, or dull, or sagging in the middle, perhaps it's time for a curve ball.
("Fun gal!" you're thinking to yourself. I know.)
A lot of us are this way. We like to know where we're going, and we like to be in the driver's seat when we're getting there. Even if control is mostly an illusion, we prefer the comfort of that illusion.
But when we shepherd characters through a book, we get to throw those curve balls. In fact, we must. Because if the character already knows every step of the road he's going to travel, there's no suspense. If he's prepared for every problem, there's no tension. Sometimes we make the mistake of protecting our characters the way we would like to protect ourselves, and the characters are safe. And boring.
Stories are about risk and danger--and they don't have to be physical risks or deadly dangers. A working title for one of my early unpublished attempts at a novel was Things You Can't See Coming. Or was it Things You Don't See Coming? Anyway, you get the drift. Flawed as that novel was (and flawed as its title was), at least by that point I had grasped the importance of the curve ball.
And there's no story without change--or at least the potential for change, the choice whether to change. It may be uncomfortable for us, but it's the heart of a novel.
If a writing project is getting slow, or dull, or sagging in the middle, perhaps it's time for a curve ball.
October 26, 2010
Snarky narrators
I've been musing on the qualities of the snarky narrator, and wondering: when is he funny, and when is he annoying?
I think it has to do with vulnerability. A character who is always on top of things, who always has the perfect comeback, needs no sympathy or emotional investment from the reader. Also, he becomes the player of a one-note symphony. Nobody can be "on" all the time--we need the variety of the occasional sad or pensive moment, the flash of fear or anger, the moment when the character becomes utterly befuddled.
But those are just my initial thoughts. What do you think?
I think it has to do with vulnerability. A character who is always on top of things, who always has the perfect comeback, needs no sympathy or emotional investment from the reader. Also, he becomes the player of a one-note symphony. Nobody can be "on" all the time--we need the variety of the occasional sad or pensive moment, the flash of fear or anger, the moment when the character becomes utterly befuddled.
But those are just my initial thoughts. What do you think?
October 25, 2010
The adult mind
Most of the time, I think that there aren't many essential differences between writing adult characters and writing young-adult characters. We're all just people, after all, and emotions are universal. But every now and then I notice a few differences, and they're mostly related to perspective:
Summers used to seem to last a very long time. Waiting for my birthday, and waiting for Christmas, took forever. Weekends used to last more than the approximately five seconds they now seem to take.
My friends rarely talked about their health or medical issues. The older people get, the more conversational space these topics take up.
I'm slightly more mellow now. I still worry about a lot of things, but there are a few things I used to fret about that I've now put in my, "Ah, so what--seen it before--plus ca change" column.
The sense of open options has diminished. I knew I would have to make choices in life, but since I hadn't made most of them yet, there was the possibility that I could do anything. Now there are certain things I know I will never do, just because I won't have time unless I live to be three hundred. My bucket list is simply too long. Also, some of the choices I've made have precluded other choices.
One thing that's supposed to be different, but for me never was:
People talk about how young kids feel invincible and immortal, but I never felt that way.
Other things that are the same: I still care about what we're having for dinner. I still have homework--only now it's bill paying and answering mail and cleaning the house.
And I still love snowstorms.
Summers used to seem to last a very long time. Waiting for my birthday, and waiting for Christmas, took forever. Weekends used to last more than the approximately five seconds they now seem to take.
My friends rarely talked about their health or medical issues. The older people get, the more conversational space these topics take up.
I'm slightly more mellow now. I still worry about a lot of things, but there are a few things I used to fret about that I've now put in my, "Ah, so what--seen it before--plus ca change" column.
The sense of open options has diminished. I knew I would have to make choices in life, but since I hadn't made most of them yet, there was the possibility that I could do anything. Now there are certain things I know I will never do, just because I won't have time unless I live to be three hundred. My bucket list is simply too long. Also, some of the choices I've made have precluded other choices.
One thing that's supposed to be different, but for me never was:
People talk about how young kids feel invincible and immortal, but I never felt that way.
Other things that are the same: I still care about what we're having for dinner. I still have homework--only now it's bill paying and answering mail and cleaning the house.
And I still love snowstorms.
October 23, 2010
It's like woodworking
This blog post by Heather Sellers, which she wrote for Powell's on the power of not-knowing, is one of the best pieces I've read about writing in a long time.
I recommend reading her whole post, which makes several good points that I won't repeat here. Instead, I'm going to start off on a tangent by quoting this section: "Creating isn't about inspiration or spilling your guts. Creating isn't about being wildly free. Creating isn't tortured, isn't genius, isn't mystical. When it comes to writing, creating is actually a lot more like woodworking or farming or making a beautiful piece of jewelry. It takes extraordinary focus, attention, and acres of time."
This reminds me of the section in Bird by Bird where Anne Lamott says, "People tend to look at successful writers ... and think that they sit down at their desks every morning feeling like a million dollars ... that they take in a few deep breaths, push back their sleeves, roll their necks a few times to get all the cricks out, and dive in, typing fully formed passages as fast as a court reporter. But this is just the fantasy of the uninitiated."
I think most writers I know would agree with much of this. Typically, we just don't sit down at the keyboard and starting pounding out a story while an angel whispers in our ears. So why does this myth, or fantasy, persist?
What's true for me is this: a small percentage of the time, it really does happen that way. Once in a while, lightning strikes and the words come faster than I can type them, and more than that, they feel right. Now and then, doubt takes wing and a divine glow fills me and I love what I've written. I suspect most other writers know this occasional bliss.
It's natural to want to live in that space all the time, instead of the other two spaces which I mostly inhabit. Of these two, the first is the workmanlike space Sellers describes--full of the repetition, the smoothing of sentences, the rearrangement of paragraphs. It's not as exciting as the room where the angel whispers, but it's pleasant enough. But the other space where writers live is the horrible, doubt-infested room where the internal critic and all inner obstacles lurk. It's where second-guessing happens, where ideas have to be pulled from thick sludge an inch at a time, where plot problems and crutch words and unnecessary adverbs crouch. Who wouldn't want to leave that room to go back to the magical room where words flow like champagne from a fountain?
If there's anything encouraging in all this, I think it's the knowledge that just showing up regularly and putting words on the screen is all that's required. And that a story that feels like it's been chiseled from granite with a plastic spoon may be just as good as a story that flows easily from our fingertips. And that there's always a chance the lightning may strike again--it may strike next week, or tomorrow, or five minutes from now.
In case you need any more inspiration this weekend, here are two other posts that I found uplifting:
Liz Garton Scanlon on "YES!"
Cheryl Renee Herbsman on what to do when all the waiting gets you down
I recommend reading her whole post, which makes several good points that I won't repeat here. Instead, I'm going to start off on a tangent by quoting this section: "Creating isn't about inspiration or spilling your guts. Creating isn't about being wildly free. Creating isn't tortured, isn't genius, isn't mystical. When it comes to writing, creating is actually a lot more like woodworking or farming or making a beautiful piece of jewelry. It takes extraordinary focus, attention, and acres of time."
This reminds me of the section in Bird by Bird where Anne Lamott says, "People tend to look at successful writers ... and think that they sit down at their desks every morning feeling like a million dollars ... that they take in a few deep breaths, push back their sleeves, roll their necks a few times to get all the cricks out, and dive in, typing fully formed passages as fast as a court reporter. But this is just the fantasy of the uninitiated."
I think most writers I know would agree with much of this. Typically, we just don't sit down at the keyboard and starting pounding out a story while an angel whispers in our ears. So why does this myth, or fantasy, persist?
What's true for me is this: a small percentage of the time, it really does happen that way. Once in a while, lightning strikes and the words come faster than I can type them, and more than that, they feel right. Now and then, doubt takes wing and a divine glow fills me and I love what I've written. I suspect most other writers know this occasional bliss.
It's natural to want to live in that space all the time, instead of the other two spaces which I mostly inhabit. Of these two, the first is the workmanlike space Sellers describes--full of the repetition, the smoothing of sentences, the rearrangement of paragraphs. It's not as exciting as the room where the angel whispers, but it's pleasant enough. But the other space where writers live is the horrible, doubt-infested room where the internal critic and all inner obstacles lurk. It's where second-guessing happens, where ideas have to be pulled from thick sludge an inch at a time, where plot problems and crutch words and unnecessary adverbs crouch. Who wouldn't want to leave that room to go back to the magical room where words flow like champagne from a fountain?
If there's anything encouraging in all this, I think it's the knowledge that just showing up regularly and putting words on the screen is all that's required. And that a story that feels like it's been chiseled from granite with a plastic spoon may be just as good as a story that flows easily from our fingertips. And that there's always a chance the lightning may strike again--it may strike next week, or tomorrow, or five minutes from now.
In case you need any more inspiration this weekend, here are two other posts that I found uplifting:
Liz Garton Scanlon on "YES!"
Cheryl Renee Herbsman on what to do when all the waiting gets you down
