Liz Michalski's Blog, page 12

Banishing Writer’s Block

Back when I started writing Evenfall, I had very little time for writer’s block.  I had one, then two, small children, a barn full of horses to keep fed and cleaned, and a very busy freelance job. Writing fiction was a break, a moment stolen from other responsibilities. It was fun.

Today, the horses are gone, and the children are bigger and require less care than I like to admit.  I’ve made a conscious decision to cut back on freelancing, and while I’m still busy, I have two days a week where I block out time just for writing fiction.  And every now and then, guess what?  The words, they don’t come.  In the hopes you might find it helpful, I’m sharing what I do when that happens.

Don’t panic.  Okay, maybe I panic a little — this is me we’re talking about, after all.  But YOU shouldn’t panic.  Remind yourself that this has happened before, it will happen again, and it’s a natural part of the writing process.  Really.

Work on something else. Put your manuscript away for a bit.  Work on your query letter, your synopsis, even a blog post for the rest of the day.  Sometimes, just the act of writing can help jumpstart your process.

Zone out.  And I don’t mean on Facebook.  Do something intense that engages your brain and your body fully, so that you can’t think about anything else but what you are doing.  I’m not talking about a nice walk in the woods, either.  You need something that shakes your brain synapses loose.

My activity of choice used to be riding, because if you stop concentrating while on horseback you are liable to find yourself on your back looking up at the sky.  Since I’ve ended my equine addiction, fencing is a handy substitute — my son fights like a crab, scuttling back and then charging in for an attack, and he’s very excited that he has permission to get stabby with me, so my full concentration is required.  If you don’t have someone willing to stab you, try a Zumba class, yoga — anything physical that fully engages you. You don’t have to be good at it, you just have to get moving.  I don’t know why, but this type of activity usually works to get me typing again.

Take a break.  If a deadline isn’t breathing down your neck, put the project away.  Box it up, stick it under your bed, put it in your office and shut the door.  Let it hang out somewhere where it won’t make you crazy.  Give it two weeks.  You’ll come back with fresh eyes and it will be easier to see whatever problem your subconscious is wrestling with.

Set limits.  If nothing else has worked, try this — get a kitchen timer, or use the app on your phone, and set it for fifteen minutes.  Open your document, turn the timer on, and get to work.  When that timer goes off, get up and walk away, even if you are in the middle of a sentence.  You’re done — that’s all the time you have to write today. Do the same thing for the next three days.

By the end of those three days, I’m usually dying to get to work, and my block has vanished.  If you try it, let me know what you think.

What are your tips for getting past writer’s block?

Banishing Writer's Block

Back when I started writing Evenfall, I had very little time for writer's block.  I had one, then two, small children, a barn full of horses to keep fed and cleaned, and a very busy freelance job. Writing fiction was a break, a moment stolen from other responsibilities. It was fun.

Today, the horses are gone, and the children are bigger and require less care than I like to admit.  I've made a conscious decision to cut back on freelancing, and while I'm still busy, I have two days a week where I block out time just for writing fiction.  And every now and then, guess what?  The words, they don't come.  In the hopes you might find it helpful, I'm sharing what I do when that happens.

Don't panic.  Okay, maybe I panic a little — this is me we're talking about, after all.  But YOU shouldn't panic.  Remind yourself that this has happened before, it will happen again, and it's a natural part of the writing process.  Really.

Work on something else. Put your manuscript away for a bit.  Work on your query letter, your synopsis, even a blog post for the rest of the day.  Sometimes, just the act of writing can help jumpstart your process.

Zone out.  And I don't mean on Facebook.  Do something intense that engages your brain and your body fully, so that you can't think about anything else but what you are doing.  I'm not talking about a nice walk in the woods, either.  You need something that shakes your brain synapses loose.

My activity of choice used to be riding, because if you stop concentrating while on horseback you are liable to find yourself on your back looking up at the sky.  Since I've ended my equine addiction, fencing is a handy substitute — my son fights like a crab, scuttling back and then charging in for an attack, and he's very excited that he has permission to get stabby with me, so my full concentration is required.  If you don't have someone willing to stab you, try a Zumba class, yoga — anything physical that fully engages you. You don't have to be good at it, you just have to get moving.  I don't know why, but this type of activity usually works to get me typing again.

Take a break.  If a deadline isn't breathing down your neck, put the project away.  Box it up, stick it under your bed, put it in your office and shut the door.  Let it hang out somewhere where it won't make you crazy.  Give it two weeks.  You'll come back with fresh eyes and it will be easier to see whatever problem your subconscious is wrestling with.

Set limits.  If nothing else has worked, try this — get a kitchen timer, or use the app on your phone, and set it for fifteen minutes.  Open your document, turn the timer on, and get to work.  When that timer goes off, get up and walk away, even if you are in the middle of a sentence.  You're done — that's all the time you have to write today. Do the same thing for the next three days.

By the end of those three days, I'm usually dying to get to work, and my block has vanished.  If you try it, let me know what you think.

What are your tips for getting past writer's block?

Releasing the Reins

In third grade, I'd exhausted the books in 'my' section of the school library.  I'd plowed through all the Little House books, the Chronicles of Narnia, and their ilk.  I was bored and wanted something more.

When the reading van came to school (remember the reading van?) I was one of the first in line.  I bopped in, passed the third grade section, and started browsing in the back, where the older kids were.  One book caught my eye — "Light A Single Candle" by Beverly Butler.  I was intrigued and took it to the check out, only to be stymied by the Sister who was running the cash register. She ordered me to put it back.

When I told my mother that night, she promptly wrote a note requesting I be given free rein not only of the book van, but of the library as well.  I clutched that note like a magical talisman when I approached the check out the next day, same book in hand.

"Well," said Sister A, scratching her head and looking at the back cover.  "I suppose there's no sex in it, right?"

I wasn't exactly sure what sex was, but I know it couldn't be good. I vigorously shook my head, and the prize was mine.

I remember that moment so clearly, because it was such a pivotal point in my life. Light A Single Candle didn't have the sex scenes Sister A was worried about, but it did have a lot of teenage angst and maybe a little kissing. It was my first foray into 'adult reading' and it opened a whole new world.  (The nuns — who were fabulous English teachers — eventually came round. By fifth grade I was loaning my copy of The Thornbirds to them.)

Of all the gifts my parents gave me, the encouragement to read and the freedom to read what I wanted are two of the greatest. Aside from one embarrassing incident when my mother called me out to show a friend what I was reading (unfortunately, I think I was eleven and it happened to be Forever by Judy Blume) she never questioned my judgement or took a book away from me.

And now, of course, history has repeated itself.  It started a few months ago when my daughter picked up a book from a bargain bin.  I recognized the author's name, but hadn't read any of her work, and the cover looked innocuous enough — slightly paranormal, in a pretty fairy type of way. She asked if she could get it, and I reminded her of our deal — I get to read anything she does first.

I kept meaning to read the book, but things kept coming up, and then it wasn't where I'd put it. I dug it out from my daughter's room, took it to mine, and read a chapter. The next day, it was gone.  I took it back, read another, and realized the story made me uncomfortable when I thought about my daughter reading it. I put it in the pile for donations.  The next day it disappeared, only to mysteriously crop up by the family room couch.

We went on like this for a few days — me subtly taking the book away, her just as subtly reclaiming it.  I hated to come right out and forbid it, but I wasn't all that thrilled with her reading it, either.  And then she picked up another book of mine — an autobiography I'd gotten from the library — and asked if she could read that.  I said yes, relieved. An autobiography!  On an educational topic!  Score!

But looking over her shoulder that night, I saw a swear — the swear, actually — on the page.  I asked her if she thought the book was really appropriate for her after all, and she pointed out that she's heard that same word at school, seen it scratched into bathroom stalls.

"Have you ever heard me say it?" she asked. And I had to admit, I hadn't. So we struck a new deal, one that she likes much better and that gives my mother payback for the angst I must have caused her. Em can read what she wants.

I'm strict about what my kids watch for movies and TV.  To me, the violent visual images, the sitcoms with the rude preteens, are rigid, in the sense that there's no involvement from the watcher's end.  What you see is exactly what's there.

But books are different. When you read, you bring yourself, your experiences, your curiosity about a subject, to the page. Or, as Madeleine L'Engle has been quoted as saying, readers must be creators.  "The author and the reader "know" each other; they meet on the bridge of words."

I've certainly read books where passages have gone over my head, nuances have been missed, because I didn't have the life experience to comprehend them. Reading The Sun Also Rises at fifteen is a much different experience than at twenty-five, than again at forty-three. But not understanding the nature of Jake's injury as a teenager didn't stop me from loving the story.

Over the years, books have brought me pleasure and knowledge. I brought to each story what I could understand and took from it what I could handle. My hope is that my daughter will do the same. For the both of us, it's the start of a wild ride.

Gah!

I know — it's amazing I'm a writer after a headline like that.  I had a great post planned for today — I've been working on it for a bit, writing a line down here, changing a word there — but I haven't finished it, and I don't want to do it halfway, so it's more pink sox today, folks.

In my defense, last week was vacation week, and all my spare brain cells were in heavy rotation losing at Connect Four, convincing my son that when bowling, the ball doesn't score bonus points if it goes in someone else's lane, and missing my daughter as she flitted about with her friends. And then today … the dryer broke. It made a noise like a jet engine at takeoff and refused to spin a cycle further.

I was supposed to research new dryers today, or at least research a way to get the even older dryer that lives in the basement upstairs and functional again, but then a friend called and talked me into a walk.  (She's very persuasive.) And we walked, and the whole time I was yammering about dryers and small children and not watching the trail so we got lost and had so much fun finding our way again that I forgot about wet clothes and electrician bills and everything else.  I just walked and laughed and tried not to trip up and go sprawling.

It was a good reminder.  February's almost over, which means that spring is coming, and then school will be out, and while I live for summer vacation, it's bittersweet.  It means my kids are a year older, another grade down and another step further down their own path, which will be separate from mine. My son has learned to read this year.  My daughter has grown into her own self a bit more, and I can glimpse, through the oncoming years, the person she'll become.

That time's not that far off, and I know these days are precious. All I can do is wander with them, point out the obstacles that could make them stumble, and enjoy the journey.  Hope we forget how fast the days are passing, and laugh.

It’s Party, Party, Party, Babe

Or at least February vacation, so if you’re expecting a real blog post, you are sadly mistaken. Instead I thought I’d share with you a few of the activities we’ve done in between the playdates and the sleepovers.  (I’m not including the part where I pry the DS from my son’s hands, of course.  That goes without saying.)

We’ve watched Microcosmos – you’ll never look at your backyard the same way again.  (If you are squeamish, you may not even go outside again.) It’s an award-winning movie about the natural world, up close and personal.  If you are watching it with kids, be warned : It features a ladybug one-night stand and some serious snail lovin’ that could lead to an interesting discussion.

We’ve found all the Dr. Seuss books we own (a grand total of six) for a Seuss-in.

We’re teaching the Slobbering Beast  how to do this …. – I’ll get back to you on how it works out.

We’re working through our final Kiwi Crate, featuring pirate activities.  (Although my son has enjoyed it so much I may have to sign up for more.)

And I’m stealing time to read The Snow Child.  (It is gorgeous, and check out the book trailer — it reminds me of Where The Wild Things Are.)

Where are the Wild Things?  They are at my house.  So that’s it till next week.

It's Party, Party, Party, Babe

Or at least February vacation, so if you're expecting a real blog post, you are sadly mistaken. Instead I thought I'd share with you a few of the activities we've done in between the playdates and the sleepovers.  (I'm not including the part where I pry the DS from my son's hands, of course.  That goes without saying.)

We've watched Microcosmos – you'll never look at your backyard the same way again.  (If you are squeamish, you may not even go outside again.) It's an award-winning movie about the natural world, up close and personal.  If you are watching it with kids, be warned : It features a ladybug one-night stand and some serious snail lovin' that could lead to an interesting discussion.

We've found all the Dr. Seuss books we own (a grand total of six) for a Seuss-in.

We're teaching the Slobbering Beast  how to do this …. – I'll get back to you on how it works out.

We're working through our final Kiwi Crate, featuring pirate activities.  (Although my son has enjoyed it so much I may have to sign up for more.)

And I'm stealing time to read The Snow Child.  (It is gorgeous, and check out the book trailer — it reminds me of Where The Wild Things Are.)

Where are the Wild Things?  They are at my house.  So that's it till next week.

Tea Time

A few weeks ago I was watching an episode of Downton Abbey. It was the scene where Lady Mary breaks it to Matthew that he'll never walk again, and probably never sire children, either.  And then, at the conclusion of this cheerful conversation, she asks brightly "Would you like some tea?  I would!" and trots off to make a cup.  I couldn't help but laugh.

A cup of tea just isn't enough...

My junior year of college, I was lucky enough to spend a semester in England (thanks, Mom and Dad!!) taking classes and working for a member of Parliament.  My MP was of the party that was in power, which meant he had a gorgeous office in Parliament, and I got to do exciting things like research the effect of wind turbines on livestock and examine why soccer hooliganism was an increasing problem.  (As opposed to one of my dear friends who I met on that trip, whose MP was not in power, who had a cubicle of an office and got to spend her time filing.) I was young and American and probably a large pain in the ass, but Mr. X bore it all graciously.  He overlooked my inability to distinguish between Manchester United and Liverpool, my mispronunciation of the River Thames (coming from New London, I always said the A) and my constant snacking on Hob Nobs.

And then one day when we were working late he asked me to make him a cup of tea.  I of course being a good American girl hopped up, found a clean cup, heated some water in the microwave, and then started rustling through the cabinets, trying to find a bag. I still to this day remember how he stopped what he was doing when I put the cup of hot water on his desk.

"What," he asked, all British restraint clearly gone, "is this?"

"Well," I said, "I'm still looking for the tea bag."

This, as you can imagine, did not go over well. And while I can't remember what paper he was trying to finish, I do recollect quite clearly that the next morning we had a lesson in Tea.  It was a long lesson, and involved ideas that were foreign to me, such as the proper temperature of the pot, the use of a tea cozy, and the benefits of savory versus sweet biscuits.

Tea, thanks to Mr. X,  became an ongoing part of my education.  I sampled clotted cream in Cornwall, tried English Breakfast at a tea house near Windsor Castle, and had tiny sandwiches and cups of Earl Gray in china cups, brought by pages inside the lunch room for Parliamentary members, overlooking the River Thames.  (I pronounce it correctly now.)

When I came back home, I kept in touch with the friend whose MP was not in power.  We met a few times a year, and always tried to visit at least one tea house where we tucked into sandwiches, scones, and yes, tea.

One day, she suggested we meet at a restaurant that specialized in Japanese tea for a change.  I was reluctant — no clotted cream? no scones with lemon curd? — but my friend, who has been to Japan, persevered, and gradually my tastes evolved.  I still love a milky cup of English Breakfast and sugar on morning when it's cold and raw out, but most days I take my green tea straight.

The stuff my friend got me hooked on is expensive enough to qualify as a present, not a foodstuff, and I'm always grateful that my husband keeps me supplied at Christmas and birthdays.  But what I don't always remember to appreciate is the experience.  Whether English or otherwise, the tea isn't the only point.  It's the ritual, the warming of the pot, the waiting for the water to heat, the leaves to unfold — that creates a space in time, that slows down the day a bit and allows you to gather your thoughts and your strength, if necessary, for what is coming.

Before my kids were born, I collected all kinds of tea paraphernalia — fancy clay teapots, antique English tea strainers, speciality cups.  These days I tend to just grab the nearest mug and go. But today, and tomorrow, and for as many days as I can remember, I'm going to take the time to warm the pot, and use the time while I'm waiting just to breathe.  I hope  you do the same.

Pink Socks

Hey there.  I had such grand plans for this blog entry –brilliant posts about tea, or riding, or reading and riding and letting go.  But then I caught a cold, and the Slobbering Beast cut his foot (I don't think he even noticed, but it looked as if Jason had visited our house) and I wound up taking a week off from running because every time I went outside I sounded like Typhoid Mary and I was worried the beast would be crippled for life.

And then I went yesterday, and it was hard.  In fact, since no one under 18 is reading this blog (also a post for another day) I can say that, without a doubt, it sucked.  It was still cold and I was slow and I couldn't get out of my own way and when I was running up the very last hill, I seriously considered just stopping.  But then I remembered how, in my little group of friends who run, I am low person on the totem pole, clawing out my miles each week just to stay there.  And how the person who wasn't even ON the totem pole just went out and ran a 5k, so my status is in jeopardy.  So I kept running, and while I wouldn't say it ever actually got easier, I finished.

The thing is, I am at that point in my writing, too.  I just finished a good section of my story, and I have been polishing it and playing with it until I am reasonably pleased, and then I had to put that section away and start another chapter and it is hard.  (And yes, I realize everything is relative  and my worst hard writing day is so much better than the type of awful day many people have on a regular basis, but it was not good.)  I wrote 1200 words yesterday and wound up deleting 800 of them, and those last 400 are on probation too.

Eventually, I will find my way and my rhythm.  I'll put up enough words that I can see the ones that belong, and someday I will be happy with this section too.  But not today.  Which is why instead of a scintillating blog post, I am offering you … pink socks.

Actually, they are red, because in the heart of New England that's how we roll.

Fans of Joshilyn Jackson will realize I am completely stealing this.  For everyone else, pink socks are the glorious and entertaining stories that never quite get told over at Faster Than Kadzu.  We may read about them, even glimpse them, but the pink socks never actually materialize. Instead, Joshilyn waves very shiny things in our general direction to distract us.

So, for starters, did you know Miz Jackson has a glorious new book out?  And she's running a very fun virtual booksigning? (Although I would love to participate, I'm buying my copy this spring at this wonderful book store, which is now for sale.)

Also, Writer Unboxed is running a portion of its auction again.  If you are a writer, this is a great way to win some exposure and support one of the best writing communities on the web.

And speaking of community, Vaughn Roycroft, who is always the first to give a shout-out to other writers, has a spanking new website out that is totally worth a look. Go see it and tell him I said hi. : )

Finally, in the more good news category, author Sarah Pinneo, who runs the extremely helpful blog Blurb is a Verb, had her book Julia's Child release this week.  I snatched it up immediately, and am having a blast reading it.  She has a wonderful voice and totally nails the Oh My God Are Those Organic Carrots Really $200 And Are They Worth It  vibe.  (And, little note here — one of her reading partners is the lovely Rosemary DiBatistta, who just signed her own THREE book contract.  Wowza!)

And finally for real, someone pointed out that I didn't provide a link to my Pinterest boards, so I  put it in my sidebar.  I hope to see you there.  And next week, Pink Socks!

Pin This!

I am a late comer to the social media bandwagon.  I just joined Facebook a few months ago; I'm not on Twitter.  But I have to admit — I'm pinning like crazy.

Remember the collages you made as a kid, where you ripped all the things you liked out of a magazine and glued them on poster board?  Pinterest is just like that — a giant virtual bulletin board where you can collect any image that catches your fancy, without the messy glue and scissors part.

How can this help you?  Well, first off, it's fun.  And we all need a little more fun, right?  Second, it's a great place to store that lustful list of shoes or bags or whatever it is you are coveting.  (Shoe girl, right here.) You can also create a board of craft projects for your four-year-old, a list of gifts to give for the holidays next year, even a board for home improvement projects.

Since this is kind of a writing blog (and sadly, not a shoe blog), you might be reading for ideas on how Pinterest can improve your writing.  Here's a great article on how to use the site as a writer, and here's another. The takeaway is that Pinterest can be a handy tool for building worlds and characters.  You can stay broad or break your writing boards down by specific category.

I haven't gone so far as to break my boards down by character, clothing, etc.., but I am keeping a general inspiration board, and I've found some fabulous images that have helped to spark scenes or descriptions for me.  I'm also pinning snippets of text from my work in progress under relevant photos – a fun way to share a little bit of what I'm working on with readers. And I'm following some amazing artists and writers who inspire me every day with their work. (Okay, I'm following some shoe mavens too.  Don't judge.)

If you are on Pinterest, how do you use it?  I'd love to hear your thoughts. (If you aren't, and want to be, let me know and I'll send you an invitation.)

Balance

If you are a slightly shy person with introvert tendencies, publishing a book will not change that.  You will simply become a slightly shy person with a book to sell (and, if you are lucky, a large poster of that book to hide behind).  IF you are really, really lucky, you'll get to take that poster and your book to an event like last Friday's author night at Zorvino Vineyards, one of the most fun author signings I've ever been to.  (And I can hear you thinking, by the way. That isn't the wine talking – the only bottle I bought was the one I took home.)

Pear Tree Publishing pulled together what must have been the nicest collection of authors ever.  I saw some familiar faces, met lots of new ones, and had the best of times with my two table mates, who kept me laughing and plied me with sugar cookies.  The talented Daniel Palmer (he plays in a band, too — my family bopped around Saturday  morning to his cd) has a new thriller out, Helpless, that's so good, my MIL swiped it a day after it was in my house.  (Ahem — if you are reading this, oh MIL dear, it's a loan.  I was clear on that, right?)

And Allan Leverone's book, The Lonely Mile, has made it to the top of my to-read list next.  (The books I cleaned out last week?  They multiplied and brought their friends.) It looks spooky and scary and it's not one I'll be saving for a night when I'm alone. For a horror writer, Allan certainly is a nice guy, and he has a lovely family.  (It's gotta be an act, right?)

Finally, I devoured Tara Masih's Where the Dog Star Never Glows in one sitting.  Her collection of short stories is lovely and subtle and stayed with me all weekend.

And then, after so much social time, it was time to go somewhere quiet, also with good company.  We hiked for two hours, and the falling snow felt like a benediction. However your weekend was spent, I hope you found your balance, too.

Quiet time