Working and Waiting

25 Wednesday Jan 2017

Posted by in Creative Process/Craft, Role of the Writer, Writing Discipline

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Here they are, the two central tasks of the craftsman – working and waiting.
These actions, one active and the other passive, are inseparable.
No one tells you as you learn your craft that, if you go to the marketplace, you’re in for some brutally long waiting, that most of the time it will appear that you’re working only for yourself.

I spent the afternoon and evening of November 5th at Tomandy Gallery in Frederick, Maryland. My friend Alan Clingan designs and builds custom furniture – gorgeous, artful stuff, often from reclaimed materials. He has four major pieces for sale in this tastefully stocked gallery. For several hours I hung out and watched him present his work to people.
The rejection was staggering.
Over and over he talked about what went into each piece and how he conceived each design. Over and over people told him how wonderful his work is, in gushing terms of awe. They pointed and caressed and huddled close around it – – and then left. They simply walked away.
The next morning Alan and I talked about this. The conclusion we drew is that in the end, the work must sell itself. It is up to the work – the object.

As producers of craft we can overwhelm ourselves with the calculus of placement and presentation (selling) but in the end there will be one buyer in a million. Buyers (publishers and thoughtful readers in my case) are staggeringly rare. Whether it is a vintage oak cabinet or a literary short story, the great masses will walk past, pointing in wonder and delight. But our work cares not for them, it awaits the Buyer – that person who will not only observe and fall helplessly in love, but consume the work. Who will make it their own.
This transaction is between the work and the consumer. We must remove ourselves from it. We must step away and let it happen. For we control only one thing. Producing. We do the work. And this is not easy. We must develop the ability to know well our work and determine truthfully its quality, even to recognize when it is done. This is very, very difficult work. But we must tend solely and diligently to the doing of the work because no one else can.

Writer Shopping for a Car

11 Wednesday Jan 2017

Posted by in Odd Jobs

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The fact that I spend most of my time thinking about the craft of fiction is not an asset when it comes to trying to replace my decrepit twenty-year old Volvo:

  •  The comfort of the seats in this Tacoma and my relationship to them is paramount to emission specifications and low-end torque.
  •  This car is a place. I am in a small room on wheels, the setting of a past and a future. Whether parked or in motion, this cabin is a house of dialogue and of conflict.
  •  I open the glove box. It is ill-lit like a portal to some nether-world. I retrieve the owner’s manual. The terms of the manufacturer’s warranty are blunt and technical – cold bullet points in fonts too small. I crave complete sentences, concrete and simple, the lift and revelation of story.
  •  I wish to edit the dash design of the LaCrosse. It is over-produced. It needs to be much simpler in order to relate to its reader. It strives to be an independent object and as a result proves poetically unavailable.
  •  I study the salesman and later the sales manager. These characters, the rush of their walk, the fold of their hands – their outward motivations and hidden wants are at once both aligned and at odds as they toil day after day under the surgical lights of the cavernous showroom.
  • I come to see the loan officer at the credit union as the antagonist, the keeper of the barrier to the protagonist’s (my) forward progression to obtain his desire. And all these numbers are like bees spinning up, swarming about my head.
  • What does Taurus mean? I pause in the middle of the lot and pull out my phone to look it up.

Indeed, the fact that I spend most of my time thinking about the craft of fiction is not an asset. If the Volvo breaks down on the way to work at least I’ll have a story.

Gabriel Visits Mary

28 Wednesday Dec 2016

Posted by in Christmas

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Purple with sunrise, the last of the night’s clouds drift toward the sea. I pass through our gate and start up the rocky, winding path toward home. A dozen cows graze on the hillside to the north. Tales lift and swing as they nuzzle and pull tufts of summer grass. Father and mother left early for the market and took my sisters with them. With a morning alone I have ground some winter wheat and gone to draw water to bake some bread.
The path flattens out as I reach the house. The clear, cold water rolls and pitches in the bucket at my side. I pause to rest, and pass the bucket from one hand to the other. But as I do I am startled. There is a man sitting on the bench in the shade at the side of the house.
For a moment I feel fear climb my back and gather my scalp. As I look at him I realize that this is not a man of the village or the countryside. This is not a man of anywhere nearby or even across the sea. This is someone else. Something else. Perhaps not a man at all, but like a man. He has lovely skin, without blemish. His face is like sculpture, strong and bold, with deep brown eyes. His head is covered in a thick mane of hair the color of weathered ivory. It is pulled back and woven into a braid of more strands than I can count.
As I stare the visitor looks at me, stands, and takes a step toward me. Then, all in one motion, as if without effort he is standing next to me.
He takes the bucket from me and sets it in the grass. He then speaks to me. “Hello beautiful one. The Lord is with you.”
He wears a common shepherd’s cloak but speaks in such a way that causes me to listen with my whole self. I let the words settle over and warm me like the morning light. This simple greeting – it is not like any greeting I’ve ever heard. The words…the tone lifts me from within and seals my gaze.
“Have no fear, Mary. God has graced you.” The visitor takes my hand and leads me into the shade. We sit together on the bench. “You are going to conceive and bear a son. Be careful to call his name Jesus. He is going to be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. He will be granted by God the throne of David and will rule the house of Jacob forever.”
How is it that I will be a mother? Does this one not know the simple girl that sits here with him? Do I look like the mother of a king? He speaks of Yahweh’s promises with such ease. Is this visitor a wandering prophet?
I take back my hand and sift through the questions that spin up onto my tongue. “But I have not been with a man.” I say.
“The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the Highest will shadow you.” The visitor motions toward the sky. “This Child will be called the Son of God.”
I watch the visitor stand, this one who has come. Unexpected. To see and to speak with me.
“Know this too, Mary. Your cousin is now well on with child. Even in her late age the barren one now knows that nothing is impossible with God.”
I have not seen Elizabeth in nearly a year. I determine that I must spend the next feast with her.
The visitor looks at me and says nothing. He simply smiles – not in happiness or out of friendliness, instead a delight breaks across, a joy covers his face.
And as this one looks at me I believe. Even as he turns to leave, the message ripens into a revelation. I think of telling mother and father of the visitor – perhaps one of my sisters. Then I think of telling Joseph. But will I tell of it or wait, save it for a time, hold it close?
As he walks away, into the shadows of the date grove, toward the fields of rye, his words hang in the warming air.
Conceive.
Bear.
Name.
“May it be,” I whisper. “I am Your servant.”
Alone again, I bend to grasp the handle of the bucket and I feel a joy.
A hope for what will become of me.

Wedding Speech Redux

14 Wednesday Dec 2016

Posted by in Odd Jobs

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Being the father of twin girls and writing two wedding speeches in one year is no small task. Should you find yourself in this, or a similar situation, I offer here what little advice I possess.

 Don’t look at the first wedding speech. Period. Write as if you’ve never written such a speech before. You can repeat only about 5%. You can get away with repeating maybe the first couple of sentences – but no more.
 This is the most personal speaking you’ll ever do. Treat it as such. Be specific with the content. Do not use grand, over-reaching, language. Make sure the speech sounds like you. (Minus the cuss words and seventh-grade humor.)
 Don’t poke fun at anyone during the speech. What is funny to you while your preparing your remarks at the coffee shop has a high probability of not being funny at the reception with a microphone in front of your face.
 That said, light humor is good. Sentimentality is not. Heartfelt, immediate emotion is good, heartwarming even, but don’t start crying during the speech. Crying while speaking publically is awkward for everyone. Everyone. Avoid it if at all possible.
 Do not let the speech, at any point, suggest you raised your daughter by yourself – not unless of course you did. To leave your wife (or your daughter’s mother) off the page is a monumental mistake.
 Make sure the speech has a good ending. It is important that you not simply sputter out and quit. Put a good, tight button on the final two sentences. Make sure they stick like a javelin in damp turf.
 Unless your speech is very, very short or very, very simple, take notes up with you. This is no time to be a hero with memorized remarks. This is a high-stakes situation. Screwing the speech up because you decided it would be cool to appear spontaneous will cause much unnecessary regret. You’ve got enough regret. Don’t use this opportunity to manufacture more.

That’s what I have. Buck up there, fella. You’ll get through it.

Simon Says Avoid Teleology

16 Wednesday Nov 2016

Posted by in Contract with the Reader, Qualities of Good Fiction, Role of the Writer

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In the preface to his book Jerusalem, Simon Sebag Montefiore states, “I have tried to avoid teleology – writing history as if every event were inevitable.”
My second novel-in-progress deals with the life of a historic character. Under the form that I’ve given it, it is essentially historical fiction. Montefiore’s callout was an epiphany for me. It is precisely the concern I’ve been struggling with – ensuring that at no point in my story does the narrative seem to anticipate a particular outcome or be aware, even subconsciously, of what comes next.
Isn’t this the concern of every writer of fiction? The story must not seem canned. It must not seem preconceived. The story must seem to be unfolding organically, containing nothing preset – nothing engineered.
This is difficult. It is difficult because we writers of fiction become convinced. We become very, very sure of the plot of our story (even (especially?) when it’s not based on history). And while we build our story toward the plot turn that we’ve conceived, the rules of good character demand that we not create androids but that we allow characters to appear to walk of their own free will toward the cliff.
To know the ending is a curse, but it’s the price the story-teller pays to occupy his office.

But It Is Fundamental

02 Wednesday Nov 2016

Posted by in Character in Fiction, Qualities of Good Fiction

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I know that I’ve written on this in at least one other post, but it is fundamental, so I trust you’ll humor me.

Yesterday I made the following note in my commonplace book.

“I think that most of the power in fiction comes of revelation to the reader and keeping characters in the dark.”

It is rare, but there are times as a writer (or practitioner of any craft) that you realize you have come to know a small but critical thing about that which you strive to do; and that you know this small thing with utmost confidence.

Yesterday I had such a moment. And it was at that moment that I wrote the above phrase in my notebook.

This statement is true. I have learned it as a mathematician learns the Pythagorean Theorem, a chemist learns the Meissner Effect, or a carpenter learns the terrific benefits of the dovetail joint. I have applied it and it works. Every time. It is a law of the craft. It is a fact that I can count on. It is an objective truth. I did not invent it or imagine it. I cannot exploit it nor fully explain it. It does not belong to me. It is simply a characteristic of the nature of successful fiction.

So be on your way. Go, and test this truth yourself.

A Writer Looking for a Story

05 Wednesday Oct 2016

Posted by in Ian McEwan, Role of the Writer, Starting a Novel

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Ian McEwan recently told The Guardian his motivation for writing novels. “Ah, the dopamine moment is finishing them. It’s, you know, when you’re thinking you’ve got it to where you want it to be.”

You’ll never hear anyone say this about starting a novel. If finishing a novel is like reaching a blazing summit, then starting a novel is like groping about in the pitch dark of a cave.

My last post ended with the following phrase: Oh…and I’ve started writing my second novel.

That sounds easy, flippant even. I need to dispel that notion.

You know that feeling you have when you finish reading a novel you’ve loved? That feeling of melancholy, of waking from the dream knowing you’ll never again read those words for the first time?

Starting to write a novel is this on steroids – minus the sweet tang of melancholy.

A new project requires conjuring an existence in a new universe, new constructs – new approaches and outlines, new research into a foreign body of knowledge resounding with new voices and customs. It is like entering a room in a new city and beginning the long process of determining which of the characters milling about will form into your circle of friends, and which you should avoid.

At first it is only the other writers who have written about the worlds you wish to explore. They are your first guides in this place. You hope that characters will begin to form as you read (and write), and that those characters will be kind enough to show you the story in what, for now, looks like a barren, forsaken, and foreign land.

This is what it is to be a writer looking for a story.

Kick Down the Door – Part 2 of 2

21 Wednesday Sep 2016

Posted by in Seeking an Agent

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Finding outlets for your writing requires taking scads of chances, consuming the output of others – inside and outside your medium/genre – active networking, and making sure you practice your craft every day.

I was not prepared for how much work it would be to query agents.

Once you find an agent you want to query – which takes thoughtfulness and time – you must pour over their website and read the submission guidelines and re-read and re-read them to make sure you haven’t missed something.

Every agent wants a personalized letter with slightly different content as well as a varying set of documents to accompany the letter.

I’ve read where some authors queried forty and fifty agents before finding their match.

Since July 26th I have queried 13 agents in search of a home for my first novel.

I have received 4 rejections.

This is success.

Why?

The only path to acceptance is amassing a rejection collection. Every rejection is a step closer to signing with an agent. That is the math. That is the work.

Oh…and I’ve started writing my second novel.

Kick Down the Door – Part 1 of 2

07 Wednesday Sep 2016

Posted by in Odd Jobs

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Finding outlets for your writing requires taking scads of chances, consuming the output of others in your medium/genre, networking, and making sure you practice your craft every day.

Here is how one recent opportunity unfolded for me.

I wrote a Father’s Day essay for a contest in the Hendricks Country ICON. I won. My essay was printed in ICON. On August 30th, after noodling on it for two and a half months, I sent an email to the senior account exec with ICON. I reminded her who I was and asked her if ICON would be interested in a monthly book review.

She wrote me back the next day and said she thought this was a great idea. In fact, ICON had just hired an editor for Hendricks County and was increasing to twice monthly (vs. monthly) and needed more copy. She said she’d pitch the idea to the Owner/Publisher the next day – 01 Sept.

She did. They all liked the idea. They asked me to send a sample review on September 2nd. On the 4th I sent the sample.

I don’t know how to create-on-demand this kind of opportunity, but I think it results from taking scads of chances, consuming the output of others in your medium/genre, networking, and making sure you practice your craft every day.

Miss one of these and you’ll suffer for it.

Done? Begin Again.

24 Wednesday Aug 2016

Posted by in Starting a Novel, Writing Discipline

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Question: What should you do as soon as you finish your novel?
This is not a trick question.
I know you need to send query letters and do all the administrative stuff of your writing life – this question is not about all of that, it’s about the writing process.
While I have you…it is important to stop working. Recognize that no one ever finishes a novel; they simply stop working on it. It’s OK to say you’re done. Perfection is out of reach. The prose simply, as Dan Barden says, needs to be functioning at a high level.
Here are some wrong answers.
Take a vacation. Go on a reading marathon of all the novels you missed while you were writing yours. Go to grad school. Take up gardening. Take up genealogy. Get a new puppy. Open a bookstore. Build a rocking chair.
Of course you can do any one of these things if you’ve decided to quit writing. That is certainly your call.

Answer: Start the next one.
Here is how the last week of July went for me:
Monday, 25 July – I put the final edits into my first book-length manuscript, backed up the file, and closed my laptop.
Tuesday, 26 July – I sent query letters, which I’d prepared over the months of June and July, to 4 agents whom I’d selected and researched earlier this year.
Wednesday, 27 July – I started writing my next novel.

If you do take time off – stop writing – between novels, and you have not decided to quit writing permanently, be careful. Be very, very careful. The discipline of practicing your craft daily is fragile. Time away is momentum lost and energy evaporated.