K. Ritz's Blog
June 2, 2024
writer's block
I’ve suffered from writer’s block. Unravelling the cause can allow fresh words to flow – sometimes. If the problem lies in the story, the block may be evidence that I’ve strayed from the plot and need to rethink where I’m headed. Am I forcing characters to do something they would never do? Have I stumbled off the path and landed in a thicket of doubts? Imagining the scene from a different point of view can help me find my way. Sometimes.
During one case of writer’s block, my character was standing outside a house he had purchased for a woman decades ago. Why was he there? He had been exiled from that city and only recently returned. He had other business to attend. Yet he stood outside that house, in the dark, as unable to move on as I was. So, I wrote that he questioned himself about being there, just as I was also questioning why he was there. Then I let him go up the steps to the porch and knock on the door. The woman he had known was not there, but a scene evolved in which he interacted with a young man. After writing that scene, I was able to continue on with the original plan for that chapter. Several chapters later, to my surprise, I realized that the young man was my main character’s son. Sometimes, just writing anything can defeat a block. Tell yourself that you can always delete it later and keep writing.
Blocks that rise from what’s happening in the real world are more difficult for me to overcome. I lived in Seattle when I first began writing and was lucky enough to join a small group of writers. Every Wednesday, the four of us would meet and read, discuss and edit each other’s manuscripts. It was marvelous. But it ended for me when I moved to the east coast.
I kept in contact with one of the writers in the group – with what’s now considered “snail mail”. A hint of how long ago I moved from west to east. We exchanged letters regularly, but without the Wednesday deadline for new manuscript, it was easy to forgo working on my novel and become involved in everyday distractions. More disciplined than I, she sent me her manuscripts which I was happy to edit. She also nagged me to keep writing. Eventually, her persistence worked. Over the years, email was a more efficient way to send manuscripts to each other. We could return edited versions in a day. I owe her for pushing me into finishing my first book, Sheever’s Journal, Diary of a Poison Master.
My latest encounter with writer’s block occurred in January. I was working on a second novel, a continuation of the story, though in a more traditional format, with Sheever as one of the characters. My friend’s third book had just been listed on Amazon. She and I texted each other, both of us excited by her accomplishment. I ordered a copy of her book. She wanted to read the chapter I was fussing with, chapter 20, for I had told her that I wasn’t sure if I had gone “off the rails” or not. The only way I could figure out how to write the scene was to be in the point of view of several characters, and I was concerned that a reader might be confused. This was a Friday. She emailed me an edit of the partial chapter on Saturday, told me not to worry, said everything was clear. On Sunday, she died. Chapter 20 remains unfinished.
Can I move past this block? It’s the end of May and I haven’t yet.
During one case of writer’s block, my character was standing outside a house he had purchased for a woman decades ago. Why was he there? He had been exiled from that city and only recently returned. He had other business to attend. Yet he stood outside that house, in the dark, as unable to move on as I was. So, I wrote that he questioned himself about being there, just as I was also questioning why he was there. Then I let him go up the steps to the porch and knock on the door. The woman he had known was not there, but a scene evolved in which he interacted with a young man. After writing that scene, I was able to continue on with the original plan for that chapter. Several chapters later, to my surprise, I realized that the young man was my main character’s son. Sometimes, just writing anything can defeat a block. Tell yourself that you can always delete it later and keep writing.
Blocks that rise from what’s happening in the real world are more difficult for me to overcome. I lived in Seattle when I first began writing and was lucky enough to join a small group of writers. Every Wednesday, the four of us would meet and read, discuss and edit each other’s manuscripts. It was marvelous. But it ended for me when I moved to the east coast.
I kept in contact with one of the writers in the group – with what’s now considered “snail mail”. A hint of how long ago I moved from west to east. We exchanged letters regularly, but without the Wednesday deadline for new manuscript, it was easy to forgo working on my novel and become involved in everyday distractions. More disciplined than I, she sent me her manuscripts which I was happy to edit. She also nagged me to keep writing. Eventually, her persistence worked. Over the years, email was a more efficient way to send manuscripts to each other. We could return edited versions in a day. I owe her for pushing me into finishing my first book, Sheever’s Journal, Diary of a Poison Master.
My latest encounter with writer’s block occurred in January. I was working on a second novel, a continuation of the story, though in a more traditional format, with Sheever as one of the characters. My friend’s third book had just been listed on Amazon. She and I texted each other, both of us excited by her accomplishment. I ordered a copy of her book. She wanted to read the chapter I was fussing with, chapter 20, for I had told her that I wasn’t sure if I had gone “off the rails” or not. The only way I could figure out how to write the scene was to be in the point of view of several characters, and I was concerned that a reader might be confused. This was a Friday. She emailed me an edit of the partial chapter on Saturday, told me not to worry, said everything was clear. On Sunday, she died. Chapter 20 remains unfinished.
Can I move past this block? It’s the end of May and I haven’t yet.
April 7, 2020
K. Ritz's blog
The giveaway for Sheever’s Journal, Diary of a Poison Master (SJ) ended on Saturday April 4, 2020.
I want to thank all the folks at Goodreads for hosting book giveaways. It’s such a clever way for a new author to gain a measure of exposure for a book. I also want to thank the folks at SPBRA who told me about Goodreads and helped me with the giveaway. Most of all, however, I want to thank every person who signed up for a chance to win a copy of SJ. I wish I could send a book to each of you. But I can’t afford the cost.
Armed with a list of the ten people selected to receive SJ, yesterday morning I cleared off the kitchen table and assembled what I needed. Ten books. Ten labels for ten shipping boxes. Ten swaths of bubble wrap to protect the books. Ten letters. Ten wee cards with a picture of the cover of SJ that could be used as bookmarks, and so forth.
Ten doesn’t sound like many, and it isn’t. Yet I was glad I’d agreed to only give away ten books. My handwriting is so poor that I practiced signing my name a few times before signing the books. Then one by one, box by box, I put them together. My husband was up before I had finished. I’d downed so many cups of coffee by then that I was shaky.
Sounds terrible? No, not terrible. Tedious perhaps, since I was fretting about mixing up the labels on the boxes and names on the letters. But also fun. The idea that 10 people will read SJ sparked a tiny bit of joy. And they were from all over the country. California, Kansas, Florida, New York, Ohio, Texas, South Carolina, Kentucky, Alabama, and so on. People I’ll never know, will never see, and likely never hear from will read what I wrote. That was exciting – and also terrifying. What if they hate the book? Then I’ll pray I never hear from them! Ha.
Now that the giveaway is behind me, I can return to the struggle of writing my next book. Plus spring is slowly coming to the Northeast. Time to go out, dig in the dirt and plant peas.
My thanks again to everyone. --- K
I want to thank all the folks at Goodreads for hosting book giveaways. It’s such a clever way for a new author to gain a measure of exposure for a book. I also want to thank the folks at SPBRA who told me about Goodreads and helped me with the giveaway. Most of all, however, I want to thank every person who signed up for a chance to win a copy of SJ. I wish I could send a book to each of you. But I can’t afford the cost.
Armed with a list of the ten people selected to receive SJ, yesterday morning I cleared off the kitchen table and assembled what I needed. Ten books. Ten labels for ten shipping boxes. Ten swaths of bubble wrap to protect the books. Ten letters. Ten wee cards with a picture of the cover of SJ that could be used as bookmarks, and so forth.
Ten doesn’t sound like many, and it isn’t. Yet I was glad I’d agreed to only give away ten books. My handwriting is so poor that I practiced signing my name a few times before signing the books. Then one by one, box by box, I put them together. My husband was up before I had finished. I’d downed so many cups of coffee by then that I was shaky.
Sounds terrible? No, not terrible. Tedious perhaps, since I was fretting about mixing up the labels on the boxes and names on the letters. But also fun. The idea that 10 people will read SJ sparked a tiny bit of joy. And they were from all over the country. California, Kansas, Florida, New York, Ohio, Texas, South Carolina, Kentucky, Alabama, and so on. People I’ll never know, will never see, and likely never hear from will read what I wrote. That was exciting – and also terrifying. What if they hate the book? Then I’ll pray I never hear from them! Ha.
Now that the giveaway is behind me, I can return to the struggle of writing my next book. Plus spring is slowly coming to the Northeast. Time to go out, dig in the dirt and plant peas.
My thanks again to everyone. --- K
March 7, 2020
K. Ritz's blog
I don’t view myself as a great writer. I’m a storyteller, born into a family of storytellers, the youngest of four sisters. We spent our school years in Wheeling, W.Va. Summers were spent on our mother’s farm in Ohio under the guidance of our grandmother. When I was young, the farmhouse lacked electricity, thus no TV, and in those days, there were no home computers, no iPhones or iPads. Chores often kept us busy, but during hot afternoons, rainy days, or in the cool of the evenings, we entertained each other with stories, either reading aloud from the few books we had, or creating tales.
Writing as a profession didn’t occur to me. I got a BS degree in medical technology. I worked in hospital labs, first in Wheeling, later in Seattle where my husband and I moved, wanting to explore the mountains of the west. Both of us enjoyed backpacking. At the end of a day, telling stories around a campfire helped ease the aches and pains of carrying heavy packs.
Working as a med tech satisfied the part of me that liked science, but it came with an emotional cost. Most of the patients I dealt with were slowly dying and there was nothing I could do to alter their fates. It was while working at University Hospital in Seattle that I began to put stories on paper. Unable to control events in the real world, I foolishly believed I could control the characters I would create in the world inside my head.
Writing as a profession didn’t occur to me. I got a BS degree in medical technology. I worked in hospital labs, first in Wheeling, later in Seattle where my husband and I moved, wanting to explore the mountains of the west. Both of us enjoyed backpacking. At the end of a day, telling stories around a campfire helped ease the aches and pains of carrying heavy packs.
Working as a med tech satisfied the part of me that liked science, but it came with an emotional cost. Most of the patients I dealt with were slowly dying and there was nothing I could do to alter their fates. It was while working at University Hospital in Seattle that I began to put stories on paper. Unable to control events in the real world, I foolishly believed I could control the characters I would create in the world inside my head.
