Mette Ivie Harrison's Blog, page 11

Protecting Your Creative Self

People ask writers all the time where they get their ideas. This isn’t the most important question about being a writer, in my opinion. The real difficulty in being a writer is putting yourself on the line in a way that other people never do, over and over again. Opening yourself up to the criticism, the possibility of failure, mining the deepest recesses of your heart and soul. And not doing it just once, but again and again and again.
You know of amazing writers who only wrote one book. Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With the Wind, Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird and on and on. Why do some brilliant writers only write one book? I don’t believe that it’s because they only had one book worth of things to say. It’s because once you’ve done it the first time, you don’t easily go back. You realize how painful it is to expose yourself to the world like this.
Some writers figure out how to keep doing it, time after time. Basically, you have to protect that creative part of yourself that is very vulnerable. Most people never have to learn to do this. I feel personally that I was very blessed in having a gradual slow build to the attention on my novels so that I was able to learn slowly how to build up my wall to protect my creative self.
It sounds crazy to non-creative people, I think, when we creative types talk about how we have to isolate ourselves from certain kinds of information (reviews, sales numbers, etc). It makes it seem like we believe we are “special flowers.” But in order to keep going back to that very intimate well of creativity, you have to figure out a way to block out certain things that make you unable to keep writing. I know some writers who seem to flip a switch, but to me that’s just another way of blocking.
Other people simply don’t expose themselves in the way that we do, and so they never need to learn this. They just don’t talk about their personal lives in public and that’s all the protection they need. But creative types—we sell ourselves and our most intimate details—even if hidden in various ways.
To do that requires enormous concentration and focus. It requires a kind of faith in yourself and a trust in the world and in others that you may not have any reason to believe that you should have. So you make it up.
In some ways, I think this is the most imaginative work that writers engage in, the idea that the world won’t hurt you when you show your truest self. But you have to believe that to let go of the normal protective mechanisms that non-artists keep in place all the time. And I think that without letting go of those mechanisms, you just don’t end up being able to write as deeply and as truly as you have to to connect with people.

Art needs you

I wrote my first story in Kindergarten. Someone else wrote down the words for me, but the story was my own. It was about a rainbow-colored dragon. I remember “writing” that story with the help of my teacher. As soon as I was in first grade, I began to write my own letters to make words, stories about giants and heroes and fantastical creatures and ordinary girls who went to new worlds and were scared and kept on going anyway.
People told me that writing was a “hobby,” that I needed a “real job” for the sake of practicality and because writing would never pay. So I spent years training myself to teach about literature because that seemed more sensible and at least it would be a steady paycheck.
I stopped writing stories for a long time because I was working “too hard.” But really, the truth was, I had lost faith in myself and in my dream. I had started to tell myself the same thing that other people had told me, that I was never going to be good enough, that stories didn’t really matter in the scheme of things, that writers weren’t important people, and that I needed to stop dreaming.
But what happened to me is that I couldn’t do it. The stories started to come out again, and I found myself risking my real job to spend more time on them. I knew it wasn’t sensible, but I craved it. I needed those stories sometimes more than I needed food or medicine. I picked apart stories that I read and either hated them when I could see too easily what they were doing, or loved them if I couldn’t.
No, being a writer isn’t a practical thing. It doesn’t make sense. People who become writers aren’t always the kind of people who would make great CEOs or politicians or maybe even good neighbors. But writers are important. Stories are important.
If you’re someone who can’t remember when you started telling stories or creating other art, if you’re someone who has started to listen to people who say that you’re not good enough or that your art doesn’t matter, please—DON’T BELIEVE THEM.
Art matters.
The art you create matters.
I can’t promise you will make a lot of money at it. I can’t promise you that a million people will connect with your work.
But someone will. Probably more than someone. And even if only one person finds your art and realizes it is the one thing that truly speaks to them, that makes them feel their life is worth living, that their point of view is real, that they matter—You have done your job. You have proven your point. You have shown that you ARE good enough.
Stop listening to that voice that tells you to stop. If you have to have another job to create, then do what is necessary. But don’t give up your art because you don’t believe in yourself or because other people don’t believe in you.
The world needs you. Someone in particular needs you. Art itself needs you.
 

Why the Blank Page Isn't Better

The cure to your fear about writing badly is to accept you will write badly and just do it anyway. There is this strange idea that somehow a blank page of not having failed is superior to having tried and failed. It's not true. A blank page is worse than a page filled with scribbles and crossed over words. It is a beginning, and that is always better than not beginning.

Why It Often Feels like Failure--and Sometimes Is

When you are a writer (or other creative person), your job is to

1—Do things that no one else has done before.

2—Mesh things in a way no one else has done before.

3—Say things that other people don’t dare say.

4—Make art out of things that other people don’t consider art and may never consider art.

5—Tell about the lives of people others consider unattractive or unartistic.

6—Subvert expectations at every turn.

7—Offer a different kind of pleasure.

8—Do things in a way that looks messy, sloppy, or accidental.

9—Refuse to follow the rules that everyone else considers impossible to live without.

10—Argue and make a stink and tell people they’re wrong.

So, it shouldn’t be surprising that it feels like you are failing. Being truly innovative isn’t going to work a lot of the time. You may be close some of the time. You may be way off some of the time. Or you may simply be different in a way that no one appreciates but you.

But if you spend all of your time wondering if what you’re doing is “right” or if other people will like it, or comparing it to people in the past who have been innovative or people who are deemed “successful” right now, you are going to fail all the time instead of most of the time. Looking back or at those who are already successful is exactly the wrong way to be innovative.

And good art is always innovative in one way or another. Even pulpy, trashy art that professors in colleges refuse to study (right now, anyway) is innovative in some truly important way. Sure, art can also do some things that are expected. It can be less than subversive. But most of the time, if you see something artistic hundreds of years later and people call it “classic,” they’ve just forgotten how subversive it was at the time because that artist was so successful that his way has become the norm.

If you think Van Gogh or Picasso are classic, you forget how hated they were in their own day. Every great artist had and has and will have those who hate their work. The more hatred you get, it’s possible that the better your work is.

So, fail. Fail spectacularly. Fail where everyone can see you. Fail and fail and fail. Because that is the only way you will ever succeed.

The Right Publisher

(I've been super lucky with publishers, but after talking to authors who haven't been so lucky, I wrote up this list. If your publisher isn't going to do these things, I'm not sure there's really a point. You might as well self-publish)
1. Sends out ARCs to reviewers.
2. Asks me for names of contacts that could help with blurbs for the book. This should be a collaborative effort, not left completely to either side.
3. Has a small enough team of people that they can all get excited about the book.
4. Treats me well. This encompasses a variety of things. I appreciate contract flexibility. I also appreciate being asked to a company party if I happen to be in town for a conference. And it’s nice to be occasionally flown to conferences, as well.
5. Doesn’t jerk me around when it comes to reversion. If you’re not selling it anymore, why can’t you just give the rights back to me?
6. Has ebooks available at the same time as the physical book. I don’t get why this doesn’t always happen, but it seems odd to me as a reader and as an author.
7. Gives me good cover art. I don’t expect to be given an unlimited budget, but I’d also like some consultation. Please?
8. Is willing to grow with me. Some authors may be content to write a long series or similar books for a long time. I need the space to try different genres, to write against expectation.
9. Sends timely royalty checks. This is just good business, right? If I know that I’ve sold x number of books at a signing and then get a check that doesn’t account for that, I’m going to think someone is cheating.
10. Makes sure the contract is signed and executed and I am paid my advance before the book is published. Again, you would be surprised at how often this rule is not followed.
11. Pays for real copy editors, and not just students. Makes sure I get to see copy edits before they go to press. And makes the changes I request.
12. Gives editors time to actually do good work on the books.
13. Keeps books in print and sends them out from the warehouse when stores request them.
14. Maintains a webpage with ways to purchase the book and also links to my own website. Hopefully also has a bit of information about me and the book on site.
15. Maintains some kind of media presence.
16. Gives good ebook royalty rates.
17. Sells audio rights.
18. Consults with me about promotion for the book.
19. Loyalty. If one book goes badly, it's nice to feel like the publisher is willing to give me another chance before I’m kicked to the curb.

When Plot Leads Character

You can feel this problem in a book, movie or TV show, even if you aren't exactly sure what's wrong. Most of the time, it ends up feeling like the characters aren't doing anything. Some of the time, it feels like the characters are just reacting rather than propelling things to happen. Or the end of the story can just feel meaningless or flat because the audience wasn't as invested in the outcome as they could have been. Sure, there are stories in which that is what the author intends. But most of the time, it's not.

If you have a cool idea about the climax of the story, you might have this problem. If you are thinking about stuff that happens rather than the characters, you may end up with this problem. If you are planning the book around a particular popular "plotting" method, you may end up with this problem.

The solution to the problem? It's usually painful. It means starting over again (most revision means this, by the way). It means going back to the beginning and figuring out at each turn what your character wants and how your character would uniquely solve the problem of the world or people in the world not giving in to what she wants immediately.

Now, you may be thinking that your main character doesn't know what she wants at the beginning of the story. Or that your main character wants something very different at the beginning of the story than she turns out to want at the end of the story. And this is actually very much a part of plotting with the character at the forefront. This is called character change. It's what the audience expects, and yet it can also be very satisfying and feel like an exciting  "switch" at the end of the story.

Still, as a writer what you have to do is have the character (no matter how unsure or how wrong at the beginning) driving each scene as it unfolds. If you are doing a multi-character arc, then the way you choose which scene to tell from which pov is by showing the scene from the pov of the character who is propelling the action in that scene, or who has the most at stake in the outcome (at stake meaning they have the most to lose or they want the most out of the scene).

I feel like one of the biggest problems I see in story telling is that the main character is rather bland, a sort of character who can be fit into a plot already imagined. This kind of character wants rather broad, generalized good things, like "justice" or "to save the planet" or "to change the world." Yeah, well, I think readers want a very specific character who is propelled to change the world in a very specific way. You tell the story about one specific character's hurts and losses and it propels the reverse of the story, which is trying to correct those hurts and losses.

Maybe this isn't always realistic, but isn't that why we crave story, because story is our way of changing the world when it won't change in any other way?

Should I Delete Chapter 1 or Add Chapter 1?

Many, many manuscripts need to be cut at the beginning in order to speed the intro to the world and main character. Some manuscripts actually need to add a chapter in before the non-stop action begins, though I think this happens less often. Here’s a handy list of questions to ask yourself, in order to decide which solution you should use for your WIP.

1. Is your first chapter an intro to the world where nothing happens to begin the plot? (Delete Chapter 1)

2. Is your first chapter an action scene where lots of people die or things get destroyed that really matter to the main character? (Add Chapter 1)

3. Is your first chapter several small scenes that make the main character seem like a good person? (Delete Chapter 1)

4. Does your first chapter contain more than a dozen new words that you have to explain? (Add Chapter 1)

5. Does your first chapter contain descriptions of people eating, cleaning, or waking up? (Delete Chapter 1)

6. Is your first chapter backstory? (Delete Chapter 1)

7. Is your first chapter from the point of view of someone other than the main character? (Delete Chapter 1—possibly make into a prologue)

8. Is your first chapter taken out of sequence so that the climax actually is masquerading as a first chapter? (Add Chapter 1 and tell the story in the proper order)

9. Is your first chapter a birthday party or similar life event where the main character is thinking back on her life and deciding what to do to start the main narrative? (Delete Chapter 1)

10. Is your first chapter about the main character’s infancy or very early childhood when the real story starts years later? (Delete Chapter 1)

Note: This is a bit tongue in cheek. I know there are good first chapters where people eat and good first chapters where people die. But as a generalization, I think these rules work.

Beauty in Knitting and Writing

I have been working on a slightly tricky lace knitting pattern for Christmas and this has necessitated me doing a small version of the pattern in a different yarn to try it out, and trying the first five rows now for the fourth time, after repeatedly having to undo them all and throw away sections of the yarn that became too tangled to use anymore. I'm really hoping that this fourth time is the charm.

The longer I am a knitter, the more I think that knitting is like writing, especially when you are doing a very complicated pattern. You're really better off going back and starting over rather than soldiering on just to get it done. Eventually, you figure out what you're going and you feel confident in it. But the first few chapters can be agony. If it's easy for you, you're probably not challenging yourself.

If your novel is a mess, or if your knitting is, you have to undo it and go back to the beginning. Write yourself a plan (again!) and have the courage to try again. Don't give up because it's hard or because you've tried it and couldn't get it before. You're learning new skills with all these mistakes, I promise! Learning by failure does not feel fun, but it's important to go through.

Sometimes you need to set the project aside for a while and let the back part of your brain take over and work on it. Sometimes the waiting can take months or even years. Sometimes you need to find better yarn to work with, or the right needles. Sometimes you need a friend (or a youtube video or another novelist) to show you how to do the stitches that way because it's complicated. Sometimes you may even tell yourself that you weren't born to be a knitter, that it's useless keeping at this, that you should go do something that actually has a chance of paying.

The beauty of the finished project is what everyone else notices, but when you are finished, you will remember every flaw that is still there. If you point them out to other people, they will laugh and tell you that you're being too particular. Ignore them. Those tiny mistakes that only you see--those are the real bits of beauty in your project. Those are the things that make it yours, that remind you that the real work of art is letting the art work on you, to make you into the kind of project that will one day be seen as proof of beauty in the world, despite the tiny flaws.

Strong Characters

I have noticed in real life as well as in novels that strong characters attract other strong characters. If you want your protagonist to be kick-ass, make sure that the people around your character are the same way. You can’t have a strong protagonist surrounded by weak-willed, uninteresting people. It doesn’t work in terms of plot and character development and it just doesn’t make sense. Likewise, you can’t have strong side characters trying to support a weak protagonist.

In real life, strong people are surrounded by other strong people. I don’t mean to suggest that they are the same kinds of strong. They usually aren’t. You can have a loud-mouthed person with a very soft-spoken person, but who is steely-minded and stubborn like no one else. There are many kinds of strength.

If you see someone who appears strong with someone who is subservient and submissive, what you have is someone who is pretending to be strong, but isn’t really. If that person were really strong, then guess what? They would be strong enough to attract other strong people, and they would want strong people around them to challenge them and make them grow. That’s what real strong people do. They’re not afraid of anyone, and they like people who demand more of them.

When you have a strong character, you usually have a character who makes things happen, who wants and demands that the world change to be better. But be aware that there are strong supporting characters, as well. There are people whose strength is to follow, but who follow while asking questions. Not everyone wants or needs to be the leader, the one who is in front, drawing fire, so to speak.

Really strong characters will have conflicts with each other because they  see the world differently. they may not necessarily fight or yell at each other, but they express themselves.

And then there are the strong characters who simply endure what life brings to them. This is a difficult kind of strength to write, but it exists. When I see people like this, they are not always the ones who talk about what endurance is, but as a writer, it is important to make sure that a character like this is given some kind of voice, so she doesn’t appear weak.

Make the book more, not less

I can’t tell you how many critique sessions I have sat through where the critiquer isn’t trying to make *this* book better, but rather to transform it into *that* book. It’s mostly unconscious (though occasionally, real evil will come out). The critiquer simply likes *that* kind of book better than *this* kind of book. And beginning writers will occasionally be swayed by the enthusiasm of the critiquer, as they carefully write up their notes.

Beware!

I have done this oh, so many times. I have decided that I needed to write a completely different book because *this* book was clearly wrong because all my critiquers said that it was wrong, so I had to believe them, right? Well, maybe and maybe not.

If you think there is something wrong with your book, make it a better book by fixing the problems, but don’t write a completely different book. Make it more itself, more of you, more of the good stuff that you love, not less.

Or if you truly believe that there is no way to fix the book, let it go. Don’t keep trying to rework it into the better book. Just start over. And maybe you can go back to the first book when you have a clearer head or when you are a better writer. Or maybe not.

Revision is a lot of work, yes. Revision may sometimes feel like you are changing things so much it’s like a different book. But like a different book is not the same as actually writing a different book.

Your book may not be good enough. It may not sell. But writing a different book out of it isn’t going to make it better. It’s just going to delay the rejection, which is possibly the reason that we writers tend to do this thing where we start from scratch again.

Give your book a chance. Give yourself a chance. Pour more of yourself into this book. Bleed and cry and dance and make a fool of yourself. Because that’s the only way that you’re going to really see if you’re a writer or not.