Ellyn Oaksmith's Blog - Posts Tagged "writing"
Why You Should Write
You should write for... let me tell you a story. Maya Angelou writes in Letters to my Daughter about coming to the end of her rope raising her young son. Standing in her mother's house, where she lived, she felt an urge to harm baby Guy. Handing him to her mother, she rushed out the door, seeking help at a clinic where a psychiatrist sat her down and patiently questioned her. Knowing it felt wrong, she left. She went to her dance studio, pouring her heart out to an older teacher, a man.
He gave her a pen, a pad of legal paper and told her to start writing. Never mind that this was a woman who would become one of the greatest writers in American history, this is how, as a single mother, she learned to handle her problems. As she wrote, the swirling emotions in her head became real, solid complications and challenges. By telling her story she untangled her emotions, seeing steps she could take to help herself.
When my beautiful friend Barb died on her 44th birthday, I had already spent lots of time writing about her battle with cancer, my worries for her children and husband. I didn't show it to a single person and yet it was probably, besides my teenaged journals, the most important writing I have ever done.
Writing a book isn't therapy. It's an public endeavor which people undertake for many different reasons. Writing a journal entry is a gift to yourself. You get out of it what you put in. Try it.
He gave her a pen, a pad of legal paper and told her to start writing. Never mind that this was a woman who would become one of the greatest writers in American history, this is how, as a single mother, she learned to handle her problems. As she wrote, the swirling emotions in her head became real, solid complications and challenges. By telling her story she untangled her emotions, seeing steps she could take to help herself.
When my beautiful friend Barb died on her 44th birthday, I had already spent lots of time writing about her battle with cancer, my worries for her children and husband. I didn't show it to a single person and yet it was probably, besides my teenaged journals, the most important writing I have ever done.
Writing a book isn't therapy. It's an public endeavor which people undertake for many different reasons. Writing a journal entry is a gift to yourself. You get out of it what you put in. Try it.
My Life as a Screenwriter
In the late 80's and early 90's I attended the American Film Institute and subsequently worked as a screenwriter. I was represented by a man who now runs, arguably, the most powerful talent agency in America. We were both young and ambitious and he got me access to some of the most powerful movers and shakers in Hollywood. My writing sample, "Secret Lives," was well received, granting me the odd privilege of being Screenwriting Flavor of the Month. I met a lot of very interesting, smart, nice people.
It's the weirdos I remember. One woman, who has since written an expose about all the horrible people she met in Hollywood, spent the entire one hour "pitch" meeting opening and shutting the large, hand-carved teak doors to her office with a remote while I talked to her nervous, apologetic assistant. Another producer repeatedly asked me if his Southwestern themed office, which looked like an upscale Taco Del Mar, was "tacky." A Star Wars office, he felt, would be more dignified but worried that he would look like a mere fan, not a player. It was very difficult, he informed me, to keep up appearances, since his wife was taking him to cleaners for sleeping with his assistant. A different assistant, (who is probably now a studio head) posed as a producer while his boss was in Toronto. He promised to buy my script. When his boss returned she met with me, alone. "He's a liar and I fired him. But if you write a script about the first man to attend Smith College, with a lot of nudity and shower scenes, we'll buy it."
My most memorable meeting was in a very dark, large office with an elegant, slim older producer. He smiled tiredly at me, closed his eyes and asked me to talk about my hometown, Seattle. "I'm so sick of this business. So sick of LA. Why don't you go home? You can write anywhere." Turns out, he was the smartest man I met.
It's the weirdos I remember. One woman, who has since written an expose about all the horrible people she met in Hollywood, spent the entire one hour "pitch" meeting opening and shutting the large, hand-carved teak doors to her office with a remote while I talked to her nervous, apologetic assistant. Another producer repeatedly asked me if his Southwestern themed office, which looked like an upscale Taco Del Mar, was "tacky." A Star Wars office, he felt, would be more dignified but worried that he would look like a mere fan, not a player. It was very difficult, he informed me, to keep up appearances, since his wife was taking him to cleaners for sleeping with his assistant. A different assistant, (who is probably now a studio head) posed as a producer while his boss was in Toronto. He promised to buy my script. When his boss returned she met with me, alone. "He's a liar and I fired him. But if you write a script about the first man to attend Smith College, with a lot of nudity and shower scenes, we'll buy it."
My most memorable meeting was in a very dark, large office with an elegant, slim older producer. He smiled tiredly at me, closed his eyes and asked me to talk about my hometown, Seattle. "I'm so sick of this business. So sick of LA. Why don't you go home? You can write anywhere." Turns out, he was the smartest man I met.
Basing Characters on People I Know
Never before have I written a character inspired by someone in my life. Previously, in my screenplay Secret Lives, I reshaped a story using people I knew as adults, telling a fictionalized story that took place in the 1950's, when they were children and young adults. It was my dad's story, told through my eyes, about an event that happened before I was born. That's a long way from what I am doing now.
Now I am taking some of the qualities I admire in a real person: a whip-smart, wisecracking woman who often says what everyone in the room wishes they had the guts to say. The similarities between fiction and reality don't stop here; the two women also share the same profession and are very independent, rarely seeking others approval unless it carries weight and meaning.
Lest some of you take this literally when reading the book, there are also some choices I made with the fictional character, for various reasons, that are very different from the real woman. If I shared the largest difference, it would be a plot spoiler but it is definitely huge.
When writing, I really didn't picture the woman I know. Instead I took the essence of her self-confident demeanor, her rocking good sense of humor and went from there. I never intended to base this character on anyone. It was one of those serendipitous moments that we writers live for -- as I was sketching out the character, I kept thinking of this person I know. What would she say and do in this or that situation? The more this happened, the more the fictional woman sort of ran off the page and started doing her own thing. She's a fun character to write and hopefully a lot of fun to read.
Who is she? Well, stay tuned....
Now I am taking some of the qualities I admire in a real person: a whip-smart, wisecracking woman who often says what everyone in the room wishes they had the guts to say. The similarities between fiction and reality don't stop here; the two women also share the same profession and are very independent, rarely seeking others approval unless it carries weight and meaning.
Lest some of you take this literally when reading the book, there are also some choices I made with the fictional character, for various reasons, that are very different from the real woman. If I shared the largest difference, it would be a plot spoiler but it is definitely huge.
When writing, I really didn't picture the woman I know. Instead I took the essence of her self-confident demeanor, her rocking good sense of humor and went from there. I never intended to base this character on anyone. It was one of those serendipitous moments that we writers live for -- as I was sketching out the character, I kept thinking of this person I know. What would she say and do in this or that situation? The more this happened, the more the fictional woman sort of ran off the page and started doing her own thing. She's a fun character to write and hopefully a lot of fun to read.
Who is she? Well, stay tuned....
Polishing
Having just completed a final polish of Knockers I've learned a couple of lessons. Number one: never assume failure. I thought I would dip my toe into the pool of self publishing. Throwing Knockers up on Amazon.com was an experiment. Well, it has been a fantastic experiment and tens of thousands of people agree. Therefore, make sure everything is edited to the best of your ability the first time. Lesson number two: Energy, meaning pacing, smells and scene setting are hugely important. Right away I noticed how I paid attention to those things and it brought Knockers right up to speed. It's something I'm going to carry through to the next book but is easy to forget. Little things create the texture and pull the reader quickly into your world. Lastly, because I have to get back to writing my new book, it's a very good idea to go back and read old work. Painful as it might be - you can learn from your old mistakes and see what you were doing right which you might have forgotten. Every decade brings new experience and insight. I have a very different perspective on life than I did when I wrote Knockers. It was fun to see the more light-hearted side of my writing. Happy reading and writing!
Writer's Block or Just Plain Old Depression?
Two months ago I was high as a kite, creatively. I was pumping out ten pages at a time. My house somehow stayed (relatively) clean, my children were on time to their appointments, fresh, healthy dinners seemed to assemble themselves in my kitchen. Even the dog was happier.
Then I got sick. And I took on a big editing project. I went back to my formerly funny, sparkling manuscript and it all seemed like something someone else had written. Who were these characters and why did I find them interesting in the first place? I plowed through my days in a fog of disinterest, going through the motions. Trying to keep home and hearth running.
I stared at my computer, leaving it defeated. Meals were hastily thrown together. My children had to remind me to check my e-mail, write that check, fill out that permission slip.
I was experiencing what I thought was writer's block. If I couldn't write then the world was dimmer for me. Everyone else could seemingly function at work but I faced my computer and felt impotent. I spent more time reading than writing because, I felt, other writers were funnier, smarter and infinitely more successful. Why not give up?
Well, because I was going through a small depression. The kind that cycles through my life, usually in the mid-section of a novel. I experience a high initially then something happens and it all crashes. Then slowly, I get my mojo back.
Is it writer's block depression? I think in my case, it is. I don't know a writer who can write his or her way out of a depression. I do know that when the fog lifts, I return to writing with renewed passion and gratitude. A lot of it has to do with self confidence. How can I be witty, funny and entertaining on the page when I don't feel that way in life?
For now, it's over. My book will be published later than I thought but that's okay. With depression, there is a silver lining. A renewal that reminds me of what I love about writing -- a chance to create new worlds and craft something completely original. Because without it, for me, life just isn't the same.
Then I got sick. And I took on a big editing project. I went back to my formerly funny, sparkling manuscript and it all seemed like something someone else had written. Who were these characters and why did I find them interesting in the first place? I plowed through my days in a fog of disinterest, going through the motions. Trying to keep home and hearth running.
I stared at my computer, leaving it defeated. Meals were hastily thrown together. My children had to remind me to check my e-mail, write that check, fill out that permission slip.
I was experiencing what I thought was writer's block. If I couldn't write then the world was dimmer for me. Everyone else could seemingly function at work but I faced my computer and felt impotent. I spent more time reading than writing because, I felt, other writers were funnier, smarter and infinitely more successful. Why not give up?
Well, because I was going through a small depression. The kind that cycles through my life, usually in the mid-section of a novel. I experience a high initially then something happens and it all crashes. Then slowly, I get my mojo back.
Is it writer's block depression? I think in my case, it is. I don't know a writer who can write his or her way out of a depression. I do know that when the fog lifts, I return to writing with renewed passion and gratitude. A lot of it has to do with self confidence. How can I be witty, funny and entertaining on the page when I don't feel that way in life?
For now, it's over. My book will be published later than I thought but that's okay. With depression, there is a silver lining. A renewal that reminds me of what I love about writing -- a chance to create new worlds and craft something completely original. Because without it, for me, life just isn't the same.
When Your Book Gets Hijacked
Sometimes, with the best of intentions, writers make a nifty outline, flesh out some funny, moving characters, comes up with some hairpin plot turns and bam, we're off to the races. And then, as mentioned in an earlier blog, you a hit a wall. The wall is known as writer's block. Is it depression, seasonal affect disorder or are you just writing a very ordinary story that's been told a million times? In other words, your plot sucks.
If it's the latter, then let your brain wander. Go running. Lie on the bed and remember that your mother was right: you should have gotten your teaching degree. Avoid cleaning the house. Have long, soulful discussions with your dog. Wander through the cupboards for fun things to eat. Call your long-suffering sister who is sick of talking about your next hairstyle and doesn't mind you talking, as writers are wont to do, about your latest obsession: why your book isn't working.
Then realize that you can't stuff a living, breathing character into a plot that you think is morally correct because sometimes, that flawed character has her own mind. And she's going to think differently that you do. And she's got her own life to live, regardless of what you, the author, would do in your marriage, your life.
So here's to flawed characters, living and real, trying to do their best in a messy world, real or fictional. Sometimes happy endings are about compromise.
Have a great day and if you haven't reviewed Knockers on Amazon and have a moment, please do. I'm trying to reach a 100 reviews and only have 19.
Happy Friday!
If it's the latter, then let your brain wander. Go running. Lie on the bed and remember that your mother was right: you should have gotten your teaching degree. Avoid cleaning the house. Have long, soulful discussions with your dog. Wander through the cupboards for fun things to eat. Call your long-suffering sister who is sick of talking about your next hairstyle and doesn't mind you talking, as writers are wont to do, about your latest obsession: why your book isn't working.
Then realize that you can't stuff a living, breathing character into a plot that you think is morally correct because sometimes, that flawed character has her own mind. And she's going to think differently that you do. And she's got her own life to live, regardless of what you, the author, would do in your marriage, your life.
So here's to flawed characters, living and real, trying to do their best in a messy world, real or fictional. Sometimes happy endings are about compromise.
Have a great day and if you haven't reviewed Knockers on Amazon and have a moment, please do. I'm trying to reach a 100 reviews and only have 19.
Happy Friday!
Why my Life Gets Stranger than Fiction
Weird, weirder and weirdest. Those three words describe my week. Fueled by creatively induced insomnia, (great for my new book and children's book not so great for my family) I dropped my Trader Joe's shopping bag outside a porta-potty at a soccer field. Hurrying out, the car key in my pocket, I didn't notice that someone had scooped up the bag and hurried into the nearby copse of trees until I was heading out the door the next day. No TJ's bag. No purse. No camera, no cell phone. While I panicked, calling the park, the soccer association and the credit card company my husband calmly traced my cell phone activity. Someone was trying to get a hold of me. I called her.
Here is where weirder comes into play. She was definitely a good samaritan but a confused, scattered and vague one. I could meet her where she volunteered but when I got there, she wasn't there and the receptionist whom we'd agreed would keep the bag knew nothing of the good samaritan nor our arrangement. I began to think that I was being toyed with and should call the police. All was made clear when I met the lovely woman. The place she volunteered was a resource center for mentally disabled people. "Mental Illness is Not a Choice," is their slogan. At some point, I was sure, she'd availed herself of their services. She thanked me profusely for the gifts I'd bought in her. Tucked inside the bag was information about their very worthy organization in case I wanted to volunteer.
Now onto Weirdest. That same day, hiking on a well-traveled pipeline trail, a man began hiking next to me. His first words: "I'm not following you." He then described how much he weighed (200 lbs.) and the fact that he "sunk like a stone" in the water because he was solid muscle. He also fought in a war in a "tropical climate that used to be communist but is now very capitalistic." Um, Vietnam. Last line: "You'd better pay attention to your dog. He's much more important than I am. Much more."
Needless to say, I paid attention to my dog. Both of us hotfooted it down the trail, very aware of the eyes upon us until I turned around. Mr. Vet had disappeared into the woods.
So happy Friday people. I'm going to have a very normal, everyday kind of weekend full of banality. And I wish the same for you.
Here is where weirder comes into play. She was definitely a good samaritan but a confused, scattered and vague one. I could meet her where she volunteered but when I got there, she wasn't there and the receptionist whom we'd agreed would keep the bag knew nothing of the good samaritan nor our arrangement. I began to think that I was being toyed with and should call the police. All was made clear when I met the lovely woman. The place she volunteered was a resource center for mentally disabled people. "Mental Illness is Not a Choice," is their slogan. At some point, I was sure, she'd availed herself of their services. She thanked me profusely for the gifts I'd bought in her. Tucked inside the bag was information about their very worthy organization in case I wanted to volunteer.
Now onto Weirdest. That same day, hiking on a well-traveled pipeline trail, a man began hiking next to me. His first words: "I'm not following you." He then described how much he weighed (200 lbs.) and the fact that he "sunk like a stone" in the water because he was solid muscle. He also fought in a war in a "tropical climate that used to be communist but is now very capitalistic." Um, Vietnam. Last line: "You'd better pay attention to your dog. He's much more important than I am. Much more."
Needless to say, I paid attention to my dog. Both of us hotfooted it down the trail, very aware of the eyes upon us until I turned around. Mr. Vet had disappeared into the woods.
So happy Friday people. I'm going to have a very normal, everyday kind of weekend full of banality. And I wish the same for you.
Fifty Shades of Suburban Mom
I'm going to going out on a limb to add my two cents to the media avalache attending the 50 Shades of Grey trilogy. In case you live under a rock, this is an erotic tale crafted on a fan fiction site for Twilight. The main characters used to be called Bella and Edward but the writer made Edward not a vampire but a sexy rich capitalist with a penchant for sadism. But it's not sadism. Exactly.
Anyhoo, readers across the country have been titillated, scandalized, polarized and dare I say educated about the outer limits of sex. I personally know of one book club that learned a little too much about each other through their 50 Shades of Propriety discussion. Not your typical book club. Amen to that.
I read the first two. Buyer beware, when you start reading, your self control will go out the window. Imagine the book is a large box of Swiss chocolates (or name your vice) that magically appears on a silver tray on your pristine white bed. Just one more chapter turns into twenty. You show up at the breakfast table bleary eyed because well, you just have to find out what the heck is going to happen. She isn't going to.. oh, wait, she is. Holy cow!
Before I give you my opinion, let's just mention that erotica didn't start and end with these 3 books. Anais Nin and Arthur Miller said it far better and with characters that didn't say such ridiculously silly things. That being said, I thought the first 2 books were awfully fun.
In parts, they are so spine-tingingly bad, they are good. Sort of like Blue Lagoon starring Brook Shields. You hated it but you loved it. Flowery prose. A bad boy whose washboard chest is described like a menu item each time he disrobes. Mind you, the author knew exactly what she was doing. She didn't set out to rival Proust or Shakespeake. What she churned out is an at times silly, escapist, fantasy that is good clean fun. Except when it's dirty. Because it is. Very.
So give into the same craven urges that lead you to toss nutrient-free People Magazine into your shopping cart. Summer is here. Have some fun!
Happy Memorial Day and a shout out to Stan who served our country -- Thank you sir!
Anyhoo, readers across the country have been titillated, scandalized, polarized and dare I say educated about the outer limits of sex. I personally know of one book club that learned a little too much about each other through their 50 Shades of Propriety discussion. Not your typical book club. Amen to that.
I read the first two. Buyer beware, when you start reading, your self control will go out the window. Imagine the book is a large box of Swiss chocolates (or name your vice) that magically appears on a silver tray on your pristine white bed. Just one more chapter turns into twenty. You show up at the breakfast table bleary eyed because well, you just have to find out what the heck is going to happen. She isn't going to.. oh, wait, she is. Holy cow!
Before I give you my opinion, let's just mention that erotica didn't start and end with these 3 books. Anais Nin and Arthur Miller said it far better and with characters that didn't say such ridiculously silly things. That being said, I thought the first 2 books were awfully fun.
In parts, they are so spine-tingingly bad, they are good. Sort of like Blue Lagoon starring Brook Shields. You hated it but you loved it. Flowery prose. A bad boy whose washboard chest is described like a menu item each time he disrobes. Mind you, the author knew exactly what she was doing. She didn't set out to rival Proust or Shakespeake. What she churned out is an at times silly, escapist, fantasy that is good clean fun. Except when it's dirty. Because it is. Very.
So give into the same craven urges that lead you to toss nutrient-free People Magazine into your shopping cart. Summer is here. Have some fun!
Happy Memorial Day and a shout out to Stan who served our country -- Thank you sir!
How to Know When it's Right
After a short excursion into writing children's fiction with my daughter, and a too long hiatus from writing while I outlined and re-outlined my new novel's shape, (who knew it needed an entirely new ending?) I am finally back to writing. Real writing. With flawed characters who make mistakes, suffer the consequences and learn something along the way. For the first time in any story of mine I have a character who isn't going to get a happy ending. And this person deserves ones. (Don't worry hopeless romantics -- it's not the main character.)
After two sessions of writing Stripping Down, I was sleeping better, feeling better about life and had that very satisfying and hard to describe sense that I was absolutely, without a doubt, on the right path. That I was supposed to be working on this story at this point in my life. It's a feeling of deep peace. As though no matter what happens to the book, I will have kept my part of the bargain.
It's this feeling, I suppose, that keeps writers writing. God knows it's not for the money. (Although show me a writer who wouldn't "sell out" and I'll show you someone with a trust fund.) It's for the above mentioned serenity that comes in fits and starts and when it settles on my shoulders, it's magnificent.
Have a great weekend.
After two sessions of writing Stripping Down, I was sleeping better, feeling better about life and had that very satisfying and hard to describe sense that I was absolutely, without a doubt, on the right path. That I was supposed to be working on this story at this point in my life. It's a feeling of deep peace. As though no matter what happens to the book, I will have kept my part of the bargain.
It's this feeling, I suppose, that keeps writers writing. God knows it's not for the money. (Although show me a writer who wouldn't "sell out" and I'll show you someone with a trust fund.) It's for the above mentioned serenity that comes in fits and starts and when it settles on my shoulders, it's magnificent.
Have a great weekend.
Adios Montana
After circling the parking lot in Logan's Pass in Glacier National Park for a half an hour with 4 bikes sticking off the back of my car, I spotted a man fooling around with a cooler in the back of his truck. He filled sippy cups, water bottles and all but took an ice bath in the parking lot. No one believed that he would ever leave but I sat there with my turn indicator on for 10 minutes, waiting.
Then, a miracle. He got in his car and pulled out. (Seemingly without his family.)A small truck with Oregon plates decided to test me. He pulled toward the parking spot to see what I'd do. I moved my SUV and 4 bikes as close as possible to to the parking spot, ready to slam it into park, run out and tell Oregon in no uncertain terms that I earned that parking spot. I sucked exhaust while everyone restlessly circled. He back off. I got the spot.
I refilled my water bottles, found my family on the slopes over looking the Continental Divide. We were all stunned by the view (not to mention the long windy Going-to-the-Sun Road Drive) and reluctant to hike to the snow fields. My husband and I set off -- telling the kids it was up to them. Come with us or turn around. After about 15 minutes of hiking a 300-ish pound mountain goat sauntered out of nowhere. He walked right up to the wooden boardwalk path, climbed on top and headed towards us.
A man with 2 and 4 year old boys let them run directly to the large horned wild animal. I suggested he might want to stop them. He finally did. I was free to enjoy the sight of this enormously muscled animal stepping delicately through the wildflowers. His feet seemed too small to support that massive frame. Soundlessly he stepped off the boardwalk, wandering off to nibble something in the distance, 2 dozen tourists snapping his photo.
We continued to the snow field, taking pictures of our kids playing in the snow in the 90 degree heat. On the way out we saw a mountain goat, then a bear. We spent that night in East Glacier, watched horses being herded down main street as we ate breakfast, donated money to help the large local population of much loved stray dogs. We'd heard them the night before barking happily. One of them, we learned, had been elected Mayor.
Adios Montana. Hello Seattle. Back to writing. (Except for Chelan. Thank you Tia M.)
Then, a miracle. He got in his car and pulled out. (Seemingly without his family.)A small truck with Oregon plates decided to test me. He pulled toward the parking spot to see what I'd do. I moved my SUV and 4 bikes as close as possible to to the parking spot, ready to slam it into park, run out and tell Oregon in no uncertain terms that I earned that parking spot. I sucked exhaust while everyone restlessly circled. He back off. I got the spot.
I refilled my water bottles, found my family on the slopes over looking the Continental Divide. We were all stunned by the view (not to mention the long windy Going-to-the-Sun Road Drive) and reluctant to hike to the snow fields. My husband and I set off -- telling the kids it was up to them. Come with us or turn around. After about 15 minutes of hiking a 300-ish pound mountain goat sauntered out of nowhere. He walked right up to the wooden boardwalk path, climbed on top and headed towards us.
A man with 2 and 4 year old boys let them run directly to the large horned wild animal. I suggested he might want to stop them. He finally did. I was free to enjoy the sight of this enormously muscled animal stepping delicately through the wildflowers. His feet seemed too small to support that massive frame. Soundlessly he stepped off the boardwalk, wandering off to nibble something in the distance, 2 dozen tourists snapping his photo.
We continued to the snow field, taking pictures of our kids playing in the snow in the 90 degree heat. On the way out we saw a mountain goat, then a bear. We spent that night in East Glacier, watched horses being herded down main street as we ate breakfast, donated money to help the large local population of much loved stray dogs. We'd heard them the night before barking happily. One of them, we learned, had been elected Mayor.
Adios Montana. Hello Seattle. Back to writing. (Except for Chelan. Thank you Tia M.)
