going viral--with enthusiasm, that is

I've taken a couple of weeks out of the writers success series to pay homage to some of my favorite people (who also happen to be writers), but I'd like to resume with the next lesson in the Law of Success book: enthusiasm. Rather than use Napoleon Hill's definition, I'm going to refer to another in the consciousness movement, Eckhart Tolle.

"Enthusiasm means there is a deep enjoyment in what you do plus the added element of a goal or a vision that you work toward. When you add a goal to the enjoyment of what you do, the energy-field or vibrational frequency changes."

That last bit probably sounds like a bunch of hocus-pocus, happy-crappy new-agey stuff, right? But think about it. Ever been around someone who was enthusiastic about a certain task, such as cooking or organizing a closet? The task itself not only became less daunting, but enjoyable. The momentum to do it shifted, and the task probably got done quicker than if you/they had approached it with dread.

Perhaps my favorite student evaluation comes from those who say, "Professor Lorello's love for writing made me want to love it, too. Or at least like it." Enthusiasm is contagious. It spreads not only to others but to everything we do, not just the things we normally like.

This is where the advice "Write the book you want to read" comes in yet again, because it's directly tied to enthusiasm. If you try to write a book by predicting the marketing trends, statistics of what genre readers like, or by copying the style of other writers, you'll only get so far. I'm sure I could attempt a vampire romance novel, perhaps even a mashup. They seem to be selling very well these days. But it would probably suck (no pun intended). Why? Because I'm not really into vampires. Because I wouldn't even know where to begin, other than a vampire who is remarkably similar to Ferris Bueller. Because I wouldn't have much fun writing it. It would be laborious, tedious, quicksand. It would be mudpiles rather than sandcastles.

The enthusiasm you have for your book will spread to others. They'll enjoy reading it as much as you did writing it. Ever watch a musician who is just having the time of his life on stage? Makes you wanna pick up a guitar and join him, even if you don't know how to play. Years ago, when I went to see Brian Wilson perform the Pet Sounds album, he told the crowd, "Listen to the harmonies in this one--they're terrific." We laughed, but we listened. And we loved it. They were terrific.

I find that so many writers (myself included) talk about the work aspect of writing, how hard it is. And yes, sometimes it is. But more often than not I find myself approaching it willingly, happily--yes, enthusiastically. And when I do, the time passes in a flash, the words practically jump onto the page, and I don't care whether it's good or bad. In fact for me, the "goal or vision" I worked toward--making a living solely as a full-time writer--was propelled by my enjoyment, my enthusiasm. My friends and family have called me whimsical, idealistic (even lazy), but I have often believed that work and play should be synonymous. That doesn't have to mean easy, but it should be enjoyable. It should be fulfilling. It should be energy releasing, not energy consuming.

Ben Cohen and Jerry Greenfield (founder of Ben&Jerry's ice cream), said, "If it's not fun, why do it?" I've tried to live by that motto, but all too often I get caught up in the complaining, the rationalizations, the practicality such a statement arguably lacks. Maybe it does, but I'm a much nicer, happier, productive person when I'm living it rather than trying to prove it wrong.

I love being a writer. That's the bottom line. I love putting words together, putting my imagination to play, making writing choices, solving problems, and telling truths. I love reading and re-reading those words, and re-seeing and re-writing them. I love creating characters and recording what they have to say. I love alliteration, love amplification, love repetition. I love when language becomes the sandbox. I love when someone else loves what I've written, laughs because of it, and is inspired to write something of their own. I love that I get paid for writing. And I love that I get to teach writing to others. I love talking about writing, and even writing about writing.

We should all be so blessed.

And we’ll sway in the moon the way we did when we were younger… (Reflections on life, writing, and my relationship with Duran Duran, and a birthday message for John Taylor)

The following post contains passages from a birthday message I posted on my blog two years ago. 

When I stop to think about the long-term, committed relationships in my life outside of family, I never could have predicted that one of the longest, most committed of them has been with a pop icon. OK, so with the exception of a couple of replied tweets in the last two years, it’s mostly been one-sided. Some might argue that as a result, the word “relationship” doesn’t qualify. But I disagree. In fact, my twenty-nine year relationship with Duran Duran—and bassist John Taylor—has been one of the constants in my life. Writing and chocolate are among the others.

John Taylor was always the band member who got the most screams, sold the most posters and pin-ups, and won the coveted button real estate on our denim jackets and pocketbook straps. I had a lot of competition when it came to winning John’s heart, but I had always claimed to have an advantage: I got the music. After all, I was the youngest in a family of musicians. My first words very well may have been “yellow submarine.” I could hear and sing two-part harmony by myself. I knew what a drum fill was, and understood technical terms like “reverb.” I knew what a Linn drum was. I even knew that John played an Aria Pro II bass guitar, that he played a Rickenbacker bass in the “Planet Earth” video, and how those both differed from, say, a Fender bass. I knew the difference between a demo and a master. I knew how long it took to mix a single song (and that the meal of choice after an all-night mixing session was beer and eggs).

Surely, at 15, I was going to wow him with this knowledge. But I never got the chance.

At that time, the age gap seemed so wide, so impossible to close. My first foray into fiction were the secret stories I used to write in which my best friend and I magically aged seven years, magically materialized in the right place at the right time (a.k.a., meeting the band and being whisked away with them to some tropical island), our hair and faces and bodies magically transformed to sexy and irresistible rather than adolescently awkward (and, in my case, overweight). Of course, they would all fall in love with me, but John would be the lucky one. Because John would win my heart. Better still, I would win his.

I wrote a collection of these stories—enough for an anthology—and what strikes me about them now is how much of a lifeboat they were for me. The mid-eighties were the most tumultuous time in my life. I had been raised in the age of the pending nuclear holocaust, but I hadn’t been prepared for the bomb blast that had been the end of my parents’ marriage, and the way my siblings and I all wandered aimlessly, trying to survive the fallout like in those post-nuke propaganda movies.

But Duran Duran was the band that famously announced they would be playing when the bomb went off, and they lived up to that. They gave me purpose and direction. They comforted me when I was in despair, stimulated me when I was numb, provided the exclamation point when I was happy. And they continue to do so. When I’m feeling good, I listen to Duran Duran to enhance the high. When I’m feeling down, I listen to them to cheer me up. And when I’m just living daily life, Duran Duran is the soundtrack to that life. And they still makes me wanna dance.

(I haven’t even mentioned what being at a live Duran Duran concert is like. That’s a whole other blog post.)

I’ve never shown anyone those stories. They’re pretty awful, writing-wise. Totally cringe-worthy. But that’s not the only reason why I’ve kept them under lock and key. To show them to someone else is to let them see too much of who I was desperate to be. There’s too much painful reality in that fiction. I’ve not even dared to peak at them in over twenty-five years. Yet I’ve never been able to bring myself to destroy them, either. Moreover, I’ve recently learned that I’m not the only one who indulged in this kind of fan fiction; a Facebook friend revealed that she and her friends used to do the same thing. A blog post by another fan shared similar stories. I’d had no idea there was a community of us, and I wondered if they wrote for the same reasons I did. The writing teacher in me couldn’t help but envision a present-day Duran Duran fan fiction-writing workshop in which, some thirty years later, we take our purple pens to our spiral notebooks again and write new stories. Why would we write them now? Do we even need to? What would they be about today?

For one thing, the age gap has closed. I don’t have to be older, thinner, prettier. I turned out OK. The gap has finally closed, and we have more in common than ever before.

For another thing, being whisked off to a tropical island with the guys is no longer a priority (although let’s face it: I wouldn’t fight any of ‘em off if that’s what they wanted to do).

It’s come to this: the adult me doesn’t dream about marrying JT as much as she does of sitting back and having a conversation with him, talking about the things that matter: love, family, writing, and, of course—always—music. I could talk about the music all day. Better yet, with the impending release of John Taylor’s memoir, we get to share the experience of being published authors. We get to be colleagues now rather than fan and star.

My stories today wouldn’t be so much about escaping to a happier place as much as it would be about nurturing the place I’m in right now, and making the relationship more mutual. John and the other bandmates may not know my name or my face or have read any of my novels, but that doesn’t mean I had nothing to give them over the years, or that they didn’t receive it. I paid forward the gifts they gave to me. I healed from the painful parts of my past. I grew into the person I am today. I fell in love with other people and places and songs and words.

They’ve influenced me as a writer, too. Perhaps the most obvious hint is that band’s song “Ordinary World” was the inspiration for my novel of the same name. And my readers can always find a cameo appearance by the band whether it’s a quote from a character, a faded photo in an old wallet, or, less recognizably, the album playing in the background as I type the words on the page. But really, their influence on me as a writer began with those secret stories—they were the first lies I told so that I could better cope with the truth.

Most importantly, the story I would write today seems less like fantasy fiction and more like a possibility, something that actually happened rather than wishing it so.

Perhaps the real magic is that I now look back on the eighties with fondness, with a sense of nostalgia for the John Hughes movies and the CHOOSE LIFE t-shirts and all that mousse, and I go there rather than back to that dark, lonely place I lived inside myself.

John Taylor turns 52 on June 20, 2012. He’s a happily married, loving father, musician, writer, and artist. He’s recovered from the eighties, too. He’s a vinyl record enthusiast, still a clothes horse, a reader, and a writer. He’s an author. And he’s good at what he does. And so, I wish him a happy birthday.

Happy birthday to one of my significant others. To my fellow author. To my ever-present companion. From your friend Elisa, with love.

imagine that!

Jim Henson was one of my heroes. His imagination was constantly in motion, and when I look back at my favorite Muppets skits and segments, I can't help but think he was playing more than working, as were all the Muppeteers.

Every innovator has this quality, this ability to play, tinker, tweak, and piece together words, shapes, objects, musical notes, colors, ideas, you name it. Speaking for myself, it's what makes being a fiction writer so much fun.

But if you take a moment to explore your favorite books, films, songs, inventions, etc., you'll find that they're all the result of "rearranging old ideas in new combinations." Jeff Bezos rearranged the idea of buying consumer goods. Steve Jobs rearranged the idea of the personal computer. Jim Henson rearranged the idea of puppetry. Vidal Sassoon rearranged the idea of haircutting. The Beatles' Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band album rearranged the idea of recording music (as did Brian Wilson with Pet Sounds). Madonna rearranged the idea of musical performance. Georgia O'Keefe rearranged the idea of painting. Suzanne Collins rearranged the idea of "good vs. evil" in her Hunger Games trilogy

And so on. In other words, we're not creating something out of nothing. We're creating something using the cells of something else combined with new cells.

As writers, our imagination is perhaps our greatest strength, the instrument we rely on most to complete our task of writing. We are constantly searching for new ways to tell old stories -- boy meets girl, girl meets boy, rags to riches, riches to rags, the aforementioned good vs. evil -- and more. We explore new worlds, new people, new relationships by first examining old, familiar ones. We aim to put words together in ways we haven't before. We seek to surpass the cliche, ban the banal, transcend tradition. We go into the sandbox of our minds with a pail and shovel, and build sandcastles, mudpiles, and look for buried treasure.

We write the books we want to read.

The world around us is our lens. We observe, witness, filter, and interpret. Inspiration comes to us spontaneously, often when we're not looking for it, when we're staring out a window at nothing, or driving on the Long Island Expressway at night, or washing off the day in the shower. We read our favorite writers, listen to our favorite bands, watch our favorite shows and films, eat our favorite foods, look at our favorite paintings, wear our favorite clothes. And we open ourselves to new songs, new books, new shapes, new ways of doing things. Our imaginations feed us, but they demand to be fed as well. They also demand to be listened to.

Authors need imagination to be successful, whether writing fiction or nonfiction, poetry or plays, no matter the genre. But these days we can't limit our imagination solely to writing. We now need to imagine new and better ways of reaching readers, of promoting and selling our work. We need to imagine how to make a living as a full-time author, complete with benefits and retirement plans. We need to imagine new kinds of bookstores, libraries, reading and writing spaces.

And then we need a plan to make it so.

In The Law of Success, Napoleon Hill says that every business, industry, and profession needs the dreamer. "But, the dreamer must be, also, a doer; or else [s]he must form an alliance with someone who can and does translate dreams into reality." Moreover, "Your mind is capable of creating many new and useful combinations of old ideas, but the most important thing it can create is a definite chief aim [italics his] that will give you that which you most desire."

What do you most desire?

For more on imagination, I highly recommend Jonah Lehrer's book Imagine, which explores how imagination works in the brain. Oh, and watch the Muppets -- the originals, with Jim Henson and Frank Oz.

initiative: doing more than you are asked, expected, or paid for

The first lesson in initiative I received came almost twenty years ago from my sister-in-law, who advised me to work as if I was making seventy dollars an hour rather than seven. This attitude resulted in being awarded with increased responsibility, promotions, bonuses, and raises.

The second happened when I was a graduate student and a teaching assistant. My objective was not to "get ahead," but to immerse myself in the culture of composition studies, to learn how writing programs worked, and to be the best teacher I could be. Thus, I offered to do work for which I was not paid, volunteered to present workshops at orientation meetings, facilitated and participated in faculty discussions, and more. The result was that I was invited to be part of committees (something not typical for TAs), given opportunities to attend conferences, and approached to take part in various pilot programs. In fact, my colleague and professor, Linus Travers, would introduce me to university administrators as "This is Elisa Lorello--she's on a faster tenure track than most of our already tenured professors."

Initiative is doing something without being told or paid to do it, and following through once it's done. Initiative can take you far in life.

Do not mistake initiative for being someone's doormat. It's good to gain the reputation of being someone who is reliable, perhaps being indispensable. It's good to be the go-to guy. But if you're being taken advantage of, then you'll gain a reputation of being someone who is a pushover, who can be bought for nothing. You also don't want to gain a reputation of someone who "will do anything just to get ahead." There's nothing wrong with ambition. But if you're taking all this initiative and not getting ahead, or getting ahead by stomping on others, then you need to re-evaluate your actions.

As an author, I exercised initiative when I made the decision to self-publish. I had just finished writing Ordinary World, the sequel to Faking It. I had also spent much of the year querying agents for Faking It, and ultimately it was rejected. How does one query for a sequel when the original was rejected? The more I learned about self-publishing and POD, the more I believed it to be a viable option for me. For one thing, agents said they didn't know how to market Faking It. I thought otherwise. They also weren't sure they could sell it. As a former employee of retail sales, I was very confident in my abilities to sell a product I believed in. And above all else, I believed in my novel. Although I didn't know who or where my readers were when I wrote the novel, I was confident that they existed and that I could find them. Ditto for Ordinary World.

And so, I took initiative.

Rather than send out another batch of queries and hope for an agent to say yes, I moved ahead with formatting my files, designing a cover, publishing, marketing, and selling my book. I learned as I went along, willing to ask others for help and unafraid to make mistakes along the way.

As you know, that worked out well.

As writers, taking initiative means we take charge of our careers--we make time to write rather than find time to write. We go about organizing our own writer's group if we can't find one that suits us. We set our publishing goals based on our definite chief aim, and then execute them with organized action without listening to others telling us we can't, we shouldn't, it's not a good time, do it this way, wait and see what happens, etc.

One of the best pieces of advice I received from another author was to "get aggressive." Essentially, that meant taking charge of my career as an author. Rather than wait to afford a publicist, I took charge of my publicity. Rather than wait for someone to invite me to do a reading, I approached others about doing readings. And so on. Getting aggressive doesn't mean being pushy or shoving my book in people's faces; rather, it means taking my success into my own hands.

So, what's the nemesis of initiative? Procrastination.

Have I overcome procrastination? Absolutely not. For example, every summer the goal "re-vamp website" goes on my To-Do list. And every summer it gets moved to the bottom of the list until summer is over and I complain that I have no time to look into it during the semester, or I'd rather be working on my books, etc.

Napoleon Hill has suggestions to eliminate procrastination as a bad habit and replace it with the habit of initiative:

a. Doing one definite thing each day, that ought to be done, without anyone telling you to do it.
b. Looking around until you find at least one thing that you can do each day, that you have not been in the habit of doing, and that will be of value to others, without expectation of pay.
c. Telling at least one other person, each day, of the value of practicing this habit of doing something that ought to be done without being told to do it.

I started to implement "c" in the classroom midway through the semester. And although I may not have mentioned it every single class, I certainly planted seeds. And incidentally, it made me more conscious of my own behavior as a teacher, made me take more initiative in and out of the classroom. Initiative can be a very motivating tool, for myself and for others. It's contagious. I love when authors told me they took the initiative to self-publish after learning about my success (and I followed Stacey Cochran's initiative, so it's like a chain). When I get on a roll of doing things without being told or expected or paid to do them, I feel a sense of empowerment and accomplishment. And I am almost always rewarded--if not in cash, then in knowledge, satisfaction, recognition, etc.

Keep in mind that all these principles I've been presenting and discussing these past few weeks -- the master mind, definite chief aim, self-confidence, and the habit of saving money -- all work in synergy. Above all else, when you know your definite chief aim, the rest begins to fall in line.

Try the above suggestions for one week, and see what happens. Start NOW. I'll do it too.

Want writing to be your career? Then treat it as such!

Those who know me well know this: I suck at multi-tasking. Ditto for time management.

Needless to say, I don't get much writing done when the semester shifts into high gear and I'm engrossed in conferencing with students, grading papers, and other teaching-related tasks. As a friend once described it, teaching expends a lot of "psychic energy," and she wasn't talking about fortune tellers. Not just because of the time-consumption, but concentration. I have difficulty focusing on or handling more than one project at a time. Conversely, when I'm engrossed in a novel or under the gun of a writing deadline, my teaching suffers.

It was worse when I had three 4-credit sections, four days a week (50 minutes per session). How would I find time to write? I wondered. And then one day it hit me: I have to make time, not find it. Even if for 10 minutes per day.

But it wasn't just making time to write. I had to make an even greater commitment in that I had to treat writing as a job-- one that paid, came with responsibilities and consequences, a schedule, and accountability. More still, it was a business. If I really wanted to make a living solely as a writer (and it was becoming more evident that I did), then I was going to have to start owning that definite chief aim by giving it the respect it deserved.

And thus, I made the decision: for the time-being, I was going to have two full-time jobs--teaching, and writing.

I've occasionally used the metaphor of teaching as my spouse, and writing as my lover. And many times it did (does?) feel like I was cheating on my spouse, betraying my students, consuming me with guilt, because I couldn't deny that I wanted to spend more and more time with my lover. But teaching was still the main breadwinner. It paid my bills, gave me stability, health insurance and other benefits. How could I walk away from that security? I've lived without health insurance. It's not fun. I was afraid to go back to that. I was afraid to go back to a lot of spaghetti dinners and buying clothes at thrift stores. I was afraid to live like a grad student again.

But was I really happy in this marriage?

And thus, I made the plan: I would gradually tip the scales in the favor of writing. It took years to happen. First, I went to a 2-day schedule (100-minute sessions) per week. Then, following my ebook success, I took an even bigger risk and reduced my courseload (I was still able to retain my benefits). And then, finally, I decided to completely jump off the cliff: resign from my teaching position.

Scary? Hell, yeah. But it's time.

I realize I have an advantage to being single and childless. Given my suckage for multi-tasking and time management, I can't imagine how writers with children (especially moms) and jobs find the balance. How dare I tell them to make time for their writing! And yet, here I am, telling you. If you have a burning desire to make a career as a writer -- as an author -- then put it in motion. Make a plan. Tip the scales. Treat writing as the job that already pays the big bucks, and watch what happens.

law of success #1: definite chief aim

Unlike other milestones in my life, the decision to self-publish wasn't a "eureka" moment for me. I'd waffled for months before finally deciding that I had enough networking skills to get Faking It into the hands of readers other than my friends and family (almost a year before ebooks were the hot new thing). Even greater than my faith in my networking skills was faith in Faking It. Despite having once believed that I wasn't a fiction writer and not knowing who would want to read this story other than my rhet-comp friends, I had come to believe that I had told a good story, and told it well. And I believed with all of my heart that there was indeed an audience waiting for it. If the publishers didn't want it, then I'd take it to the streets myself.

So I did some research and decided on Lulu.com. I learned how to format a Word document to make it look like a professional book, and edited the manuscript to the best of my ability. I learned how to find stock photos, and used the primitive cover design tools at the time to make a cover. I went through several incarnations and mistakes until I came up with the "official" book.

And, with no working capital, I put all this expense on an already well-worn credit card.

Next, I went to work on getting the word out. I had recently gotten a Facebook page as well as a Twitter account. I blogged about my new novel (although by then it was four years old). I followed the lead of others who were finding success with self-publishing, and learned what I could about book promotion. I approached bookstores and tried to set up readings. It wasn't an organized plan, per se, but every attempt served the same purpose: get Faking It into the hands of readers.

I did something else at this time as well. I kept a vision board. (For those who don't know, a vision board is a tool to help manifest an intention. Want to re-do your kitchen? Tack pictures of your dream kitchen onto a corkboard. Want a house on the beach someday? A new job? A relationship? You get the idea.) My vision board included, among other things, a collage of writers I admired (including a photo of Andre Dubus III and me at Quail Ridge Books), slogans like "Go for it," and two strategically juxtaposed cutouts of "New York Times Bestseller" and my book cover. At night, before going to sleep, I would visualize Faking It on displays in bookstores, customers bringing them up to the cashwrap, sitting in coffeeshops and in airports reading.

Little did I know that that vision was going to be actualized, only the "bookshelf" was virtual, and the bestseller list was Amazon rather than the New York Times. And "getting my book into the hands of readers" surpassed my intention and imagination by leaps and bounds.

When I heard about self-publishing on the Kindle and saw Stacey Cochran's success, I thought, "Why not?" It was one more way to get my novel into the hands of readers. You know the rest of the story. All the pieces fell into place after that.

Here's what I'm getting at: The road to success of any kind begins with what Napoleon Hill calls the Definite Chief Aim, a central purpose or intention. But accompanying that must be "organized effort," a plan to actualize this aim or manifest your intention.

The key word in definite chief aim is definite. There can be no second-guessing when it comes to a DCA, no waffling or hemming or hawing. And without organized effort, the aim becomes aimless. Says Hill:

The habit of working with a definite chief aim [italics his] will breed in you the habit of prompt decision, and this habit will come to your aid in all that you do. Moreover, the habit of working with a definite chief aim will help you to concentrate all your attention on any given task until you have mastered it.

It took approximately two years from the time I made the decision to self-publish to the actualization of that vision board. Around that same time I had also made the decision to make writing my primary source of income (a story I will save for a follow-up post). That took even longer. There's no law that says your goals must be actualized in a manner of days or weeks. In fact, persistence is key. And the picture of what you want might morph over time, as mine did. Circumstances or events might cause you to alter the game plan, and that's ok. But your definite chief aim must remain intact.

A nonfiction book proposal is a great example of definite chief aim and organized effort in motion. An author gets an idea for a book. She then systematically presents the idea, the need, the audience, the market, and the plan of completion to an agent or editor. In addition, she provides an outline and sample chapters. In essence, she has just completed a blueprint of her brainchild, and a plan to manifest it. She has set the universal wheels in motion. Some fiction writers work in a similar manner, extensively outlining their novel before beginning to write it.

When I am asked how an aspiring author decides whether to traditionally or self-publish, my first response is, "Know what you want."As an author, set your intention: Do you want to supplement your income? Do you want the prestige of a traditional publisher? (Although some will challenge that such a thing no longer exists, or that the playing field has leveled.) Do you want to be the next Stephen King, or Amanda Hocking? Do you want to simply write your books and not get caught up in all that online social networking and promotion? Are you willing to wear so many hats of a self-publisher? Do you want writing to be your only source of income? Et cetera.

There's nothing wrong with aspiring to have the success of Suzanne Collins or Stephanie Meyer or Stephen King. There's nothing wrong with saying "I want to make a ton of money from my books. I want to be a mega-bestselling author." There's nothing wrong with a definite chief aim of joining the Kindle Million Club (selling one million Kindle copies). All too often writers are discouraged from having such lofty goals. They're immediately shut down by being told that such successes are the exception, not the norm (not to say that that's not true, but that shouldn't be a reason not to pursue it for yourself), and that wanting that kind of success somehow defiles the art and craft of literature ("real writers aren't rich"). And while I absolutely encourage writers to write what they love rather than what they think is a bestseller, there's no reason that they can't aspire for their book to be one and the same. And although there's always an X-factor to why books become successful, persistence and a plan (as well as creative visualization) go a long way.

I can hear skeptics tell me that I'm selling false hope to my readers right now. But I have too many examples of these practices in my own life (a definite chief aim backed by organized effort) to know that success happens on any scale. The trick is not to attach yourself to the picture as much as to the process.

Other tips:
Make a decision. There's nothing worse than waffling. I know. I've done it. Waffling is the result of fear--fear of failing, fear of poverty, you name it. Sometimes you just have to take the risk and make the leap. And sometimes that's easier said than done. I know that, too. But the very act of deciding brings with it its own special kind of power and energy.

And while you're at it, know why you want what you want.

Make a plan. This is something I'm learning to do in a more specific way, instead of making it up as I go along. Lately I've been really into the idea of the proposal. Write your own proposal, be it for a house or a book or to meet someone you admire. Write it for you, and show no one else, but keep it somewhere you'll see it, and read it often. It's ok if you don't follow the plan precisely, and it doesn't need to be so uber-organized that every moment is accounted for, but it should have some focus.

Tell as few people as possible. I am very secretive when it comes to novel ideas and works in progress. I also keep my vision boards private, and don't share my affirmations or talk a lot about my DCAs of any kind. I find that when I inadvertently announce my plans for something, I'm met with some kind of negative response (also inadvertent sometimes), be it laughing or discouragement or skepticism. Nothing will sap your momentum quicker. No one needs to know. The definite chief aim is yours and yours alone.

Be persistent, yet flexible. Your DCA may take years to actualize. That's ok. Stephen King got countless rejections before he sold Carrie (and were it not for his wife fishing it out of the trash, it wouldn't have been published at all!) The Help got something like 200 rejections. A Pixar film is years in the making. Setbacks happen along the way. Make adjustments, but don't give up, and don't let anyone sway you. If you believe in your book, or your business idea, or your Beetle, you'll find a way to birth it.

Be responsible. Mortgaging your house or going further into credit card debt probably isn't a good plan, especially if you have a family (yes, this is the "do as I say, not as I did" part of the program; but in my defense, I was willing to take the risk -- and responsibility for my actions -- given that I only had myself to support). And competition is a good thing, but unethically sabotaging someone in the process (like stealing someone's great idea) will only bring you trouble.

Know what you want and why you want it, make a plan to get it, and rather than adopting the attitude of "I won't believe it until I see it," make it a practice to "see it when I believe it."

Happy writing.

a new hope

"Welcome back my friends, to the show that never ends..."

Is there anyone out there?

Most, if not all, of you know that my blog has been on hiatus for at least five months now, coming out once to rave about The Way. Many of you also know the identity crisis this blog has had from Day One, it seems, despite my stating clearly that it's about writing and my being a working writer. I had decided that I wasn't going to return unless I had something I really wanted to say or write about.

Well, I think I've found that something.

I recently read a book called The Law of Success, by Napoleon Hill. Published in 1928, it is a 600+page course about fifteen shared traits of successful people, the culmination of 20 years of close observation of some of the giants of the time, ranging from Ford to Edison to Carnegie to Woolworth and many, many more. (Given the time period, it's rather male-dominated. There are also some references that, by today's standards, are rather politically incorrect and actually made me wince, but I can't hold that against him.) Despite its being over 80 years old, it's surprising to see how relevant the book is (and, moreover, how needed it is in today's economy).

While reading this course, I was delighted to find how many of the principles I'd put into practice almost naturally, albeit not in an organized manner. Parts of the book were eye-opening--not because the content was new, but because I was seeing new ways to apply it.

One way was in the classroom. I'd been having a rather difficult time this semester, especially with motivation (both of students and myself). The more I read this course, the more I wanted to be teaching those principles. And so, I found a way to do so while still meeting the objectives of the course. I tossed out the syllabus, and the remaining assignments, and wrote new ones. The change in the class, and myself, was instant.

Another way is here, on this blog. Specifically, I want to present the Law of Success to writers.

All too often, when I attend writing workshops, panel discussions, and conferences, I hear writers and speakers say this: "Don't expect to make any money from it." At one time, I was one of those people who conformed to this mentality, until I started to wonder: Why? If writing is my passion, the one thing I want to spend my life doing, why shouldn't I expect to be paid for it? Moreover, why shouldn't I make it a priority to make a living from it? Why go into any career with such a defeated attitude, especially before taking one step?

I wanted to make money. I wanted to make a living from my writing. And so I decided I would. It's taken five years to do so, but I'm finally at the point where I'm ready to make the leap.

What I want to do here is present the principles of the Law of Success, one per week, and tailor them specifically for writers. However, any reader of my blog, in any career, can apply these principles to their jobs, families, hobbies, goals, aspirations, etc. My aim is not to sell you a get-rich-quick scheme, to promise that you'll become a best-selling author, or to give you a formula. I do not see this as a self-help book, or a self-help course. Rather, my aim is to show you the possibilities, to awaken your creative spirits, and to have a little fun along the way (after all, say Ben & Jerry, "if it's not fun, why do it?"). I have, by no means, mastered all of these traits. But I am delighted to see how many of them were at work when I reflect on my own success stories, be it as a teacher or a writer. I'll be sharing those as well. And I look forward to learning as I teach.

I hope you'll join me for the ride.

stepping out of solitary

A couple of days ago I was struggling to write the final chapter of my novel-in-progress. I knew exactly what the ending was going to be, but tying up the loose ends to get to said ending was proving to be a bit of a challenge. (Part of the problem was that my characters had "forgotten" to an address an issue in prior chapters -- yes, I blame it on them -- and I was attempting to confront it in the final chapter.) And so I did the very things I discussed in last week's blog post -- I sought out my trusted inner circle of writers and talked out some possible scenarios for getting from Point A to Point B.

The very act of explaining the scenario to my fellow writers revealed another oversight that could unravel a whole lot more of the plot. They talked it out with me, gave me ideas, asked questions. They were very helpful and I was so grateful to have them to talk it out with. And yet, the re-writing task felt rather daunting.

That same day, my Why I Love Singlehood co-author happened to ask me how the writing was going, and I shared my frustrations. She invited me to send her the chapter for peer review, and I jumped at the chance faster than I pounce upon a package of Pop Tarts.

Sarah responded to the draft no differently than she would have were it a WILS draft--she asked direct questions, made suggestions for word changes, pointed out problems, and assured me that she wanted to keep reading. She could tell where I'd hit my stride as well as where (and when) I'd hit the wall.

It was like being home.

It's funny how, as a writer, you know the difference between showing and telling. You know the former is preferred over the latter. And yet, you don't seem to realize just how much you're telling rather than showing until someone like Sarah points it out to you. I love her ability to do this for me. I love that she chooses words I wouldn't have thought about, and yet they're perfect. I love that she gets me thinking about ways to tie up those loose ends, and reminds me not to take the easy way out. Best of all, I love that the act of her responding to my draft not only made me eager to get back to work on my chapter, but also re-invigorated her excitement for her own work-in-progess.

Perhaps my writing partner and I were just missing each other and our collaboration. We've enjoyed working solo, but we also enjoyed our collaborative process, and all it gave to us.

Writing is so often a solitary act. But every now and then, we need to step out of that solitary confinement and go out into the community of other writers. As I mentioned in last week's post, there comes a point when we need to share our writing, talk things out, and cheer each other on. Perhaps this is a need that not only applies to writers, but to all human beings--the need to belong, to be part of a group or a community. From one writer to another (and from one human to another), I invite and encourage you to find yours.

the stages of sharing

A question I am often asked is at what point in the process a writer should share his/her writing with others. My answer is that it often depends on the writer, as well as the purpose for sharing at any particular stage.

There are some writers like myself who are quite wary of sharing their writing with anyone, regardless of what stage it's in, draftwise. Actually, I should clarify my own position on this. It's not that I'm reluctant to share my writing with anyone, it's that I'm reluctant to talk about it. With the exception of a small few, I don't even tell people the title of my work-in-progress, much less what it's about. Andre Dubus III likens this to opening the oven door too many times to check on the cookies baking. Imagine yourself showing your friends: "Look at these awesome cookies I'm baking!" as you explain each ingredient and how you measured them out and what you added and what you took out and perhaps you should've used pecans instead of walnuts and you hope they'll turn out chewy and not too crispy, etc. All the while that oven door is open, and the cookies aren't baking, to the point that they never get done. I tend to agree with this. Too much talking about your idea, your story, your character, etc. saps the energy and process of creation. If you've talked it all out, then what reason is there to write the thing?

When I do talk about the content, I'm usually consulting someone for insight or assistance (perhaps it's someone with an expertise that the character shares, or someone who can help me map out a cause-effect scenario), and I keep that inner circle to a bare minimum. Sometimes I just need to talk out character motivation and direction out loud -- just like therapy, the very act of my talking it out reveals the information that I need. My WILS co-author, Sarah Girrell, is a great person to talk to about such things since she has such a keen awareness of my writing style and approach to character, and she's a good listener.

At some point during the drafting process, however, a writer needs feedback. I know all too well how daunting it is to show someone an unfinished draft, especially in the early stages and especially when you know it's not working. You can't help but fear judgment from your peers, judgment that you're really not that good after all. But I also know how useful this feedback can be and how, when coming from the right person, can actually psyche you up to revise, do better, and enjoy it. Again what I show and at what stage, depends on the person and the purpose. I have no problem showing Sarah a rough draft of anything I'm working on (and yet, I still feel the need to apologize profusely to her for how bad it is). For others, I'm more comfortable showing drafts that have undergone some revision. Lately I've been sending a good friend chapters from my work-in-progress after I've revised them, and it's been good for my ego as well as my process--he gives me encouragement and praises me for what works (not having seen them in previous incarnations), and he also points out things I often don't notice, minor details that make a major difference. He's not a professional writer, but he knows me pretty well.

What about writers groups?

I've participated in several writer's groups over the years, and have had both positive and negative experiences with them. The right group will motivate you, keep you accountable, and provide constructive feedback on a regular basis while keeping your ego in check. Another great thing about groups is the aspect of getting to see other people's writing. Aside from the community aspect that is so important for writers (after all writing is, for the most part, a solitary act), seeing other people's drafts can almost always give you insight into your own. By seeing what works and needs work in someone else's draft, you return to your own with new eyes, seeing things you didn't see before, or perhaps seeing them with a fresh perspective, which can only aid the revision process.

And then, there are "beta-readers." A beta-reader reads your "finished" manuscript -- that is, you've revised and edited it considerably -- and provides you with specific feedback to determine what, if any, additional revision/editing needs to be completed before it's ready for submission or publication. This could be as simple as making sure you haven't changed a character's last name halfway through the story or keeping the timeline consistent, or it could be as challenging as re-examining a main character who isn't resonating with readers or eliminating a key scene that doesn't work. For me, beta-readers are crucial to the process, and it's important that you choose your beta-readers carefully. I go with a few people who are either well-read or well-written, people who might have a special expertise related to the story, and those who will give me honest, thoughtful, respectful feedback. It turns out these people are my close friends or my twin brother, but that's not to say you should only show your friends.

Do I take every suggestion and make every change suggested to me? No. Writing is a series of choices--you must be comfortable, confident, and accept the consequences of every choice you make. You'll never be able to please every reader, but you have to be satisfied at the end of the day, when your book is finished, printed, and published, and there are no more opportunities to revise.

And so, I invite you to reflect on these questions: Do you share too much of your work-in-progress, or too little? Are you choosy about with whom you share or talk about your writing? Should you be more choosy, or less? Are you afraid of criticism? Are you too controlling? Is a writer's group right for you? If you're currently in one, is it the right group of people for you? Are you one to provide feedback to others? If so, do you give the kind of feedback that you would want to receive?

I wish you well in all stages of your process.

it's all about the words

My favorite class in grad school was Stylistics; that is, the study of writing style, or how words are put together. Each week the professor would give us a text—a set of poems, some ad copy, short fiction, etc.—and we'd analyze the number of words, sentences, commas, words in italics, words in sentences, one-syllable words, two-syllable words, and so on, never quite sure if what we're attempting to explain made any sense, or quite fully grasping the phenomenon of a finished piece of writing.

The exercises were especially fun: making lists of our favorite words (sound familiar?); putting together words from those lists in no particular order (ostentatious cookie bunny), and yet feeling compelled to make meaning somehow; guessing which word lists belong to which of our classmates. We learned rhetorical stylistic devices (amplification, antithesis... I always seem to remember all the A- devices first, probably because I learned them all alphabetically). We also occasionally had to read extremely dense texts about metaphor (I'd rather get my eyes lasered... hey, a metaphor!). Perhaps the best assignment was our mid-term, in which my professor gave each of us a short story, cut off halfway through. Our job was to write our own completion to the story in the style of the author so flawlessly that she wouldn't be able to tell where the original author left off and we picked up. Moreover, we had to submit an accompanying analysis both of the original piece and our own.

I nailed that one. But it took constant re-reading, analyzing, studying.

By the end of the semester, I couldn't read the label of a cereal box without thinking about it in stylistic terms. How do these particular words, and the order they're in, contribute to the rhetorical purpose of the reader? How do they persuade the reader to think, feel, act, keep reading? Why these words?

At that time my brother, a musician and producer, had created a website containing his discography and a short bio. He had asked me for feedback on the site's layout, visual appeal, etc. As part of my feedback, I told him that his wife did a good job with the bio. Shortly after, he called me.

"How did you know she wrote the bio?" he asked.

I proceeded to do a mini-stylistic analysis. Because English is my sister-in-law's second language (actually, I think it's her third), I noticed a preciseness in the grammatical structure of the sentences. I also noticed she'd used the word steely as part of the description of my brother's musical style—it wasn't a word I'd ever seen my brother use in his own writing.

When it gets right down to it, it's all about the words.

There's a difference between ire and irk. There's a difference between sad and blue, between mad and manic. There are times when the f-word is absolutely the right word, and other times when just plain ol' f-word suffices.

And I don't care what your K-12 English teachers told you: ain't is most definitely a word.

As writers, it's our job to put the best words together, in the best order (and I just replaced right with best both times), with the right rhythm and cadence and meaning (should I change that last right as well?). We achieve this by studying the style of our favorite writers. I know that Aaron Sorkin, for instance, likes the word feckless, and Nora Ephron doesn't like the name Thelma. I stole the phrase “paused for a beat” from Richard Russo, and occasionally try to mimic Stephen King's “folksiness”. I pay attention to other things, too--use of em-dashes, repetition, italics, numbers.

Says Sam Seaborn on The West Wing: “Good writers borrow from other good writers. Great writers steal from them outright.” I never set out to write like Aaron Sorkin or any of my other favorite writers, but just as I hear the influence of The Beatles in my brother's songs—a drum fill or a guitar sound or a particular harmony—so occasionally will a reader find a Sorkinism, a Russoism, and so on, in my novels. And yet, my brother's style has become inherently his own, as has mine.

One last style story, again musical: Eric Clapton was recording the From the Cradle album and was listening to the track he'd just laid down, shaking his head in dismay.

“What wrong?” asked the producer.
“I don't like the way it sounds,” said Clapton.
The producer looked at him incredulously. “I don't understand, it sounds fantastic. What's wrong with it?”
“It just sounds like me playing a Muddy Waters song,” said Clapton. “I wanted it to sound like Muddy Waters.”
The producer said, “That's exactly why it sounds fantastic. We've already heard Muddy Waters play it. Now we wanna hear Eric Clapton play it.”

Learning the style of others is important. My brother Ritch learned to play guitar just like Eric Clapton, all the while developing the style of Ritch Lorello. My brother Mike can produce the Jeff Lynne sound practically better than Jeff Lynne can; and yet, he has perfected his own repertoire. (And the ultimate compliment? Producers hire other keyboardists and ask them to play it like Mike Lorello would!) In the end, however, don't try to write like Fitzgerald, Welty, Grisham, Sontag, etc. because you think doing so will sell more books. We've already read those guys (I considered replacing guys with authors for the sake of political and gender correctness, but it didn't sound like me!). Don't try to be “the next” anybody. Read. Read more. Play with the words. Put them together like jigsaw puzzle pieces, and see the picture that forms. Then write it the way you would.

Need a start? Try making a list of your 20 favorite words, in no particular order. Better yet, make it 50. Then let the games begin.

In fact, please do share some of your favorite words here.

what our characters say reveals who they are

I came up with the idea for this post in the middle of the night as I was trying to fall asleep. My only hope is that the post doesn't read as if I wrote it in my sleep.

As writers, we've all heard the lesson of "show, don't tell" ad nauseum. We've dispensed and taken this advice throughout our writing lives, not to mention our drafting and revision process.

Example of telling: I opened the oven door to discover that I'd burned the roast. It was black and unrecognizable.

Example of showing: Marcus' nose emerged from behind the book he was reading, and crinkled. "What's that smell?" Just then the scent of smoldering sandpaper hit me. I raced to the kitchen, yanked open the oven door, and was assailed by a cloud of putrid grey smoke before pulling out the boulder formally known as my roast.

Ok, so that's a little wordy. But you get the idea. Showing involves the senses. It uses active voice and puts the reader courtside rather than in the bleachers seats.

Dialogue is not only a great tool for showing vs. telling, but also for revealing the various layers and aspects of your characters. In other words, what our characters say reveals who they are.

Consider this exchange between Devin and Andi during their first tutorial in Faking It. I'm deliberately taking out all the narration, but leaving in one direction of nonverbal communication.

DEVIN: What kind of music do you like?

ANDI: Beatles, Hendrix, Clapton, Nat King Cole, Diana Krall, Norah Jones, John Mayer...

(Devin glares at Andi and cocks an eyebrow.)

ANDI: I like guitars and pianos.

DEVIN: What kind of music makes you feel sexy?

ANDI: I'm not sure. I've never thought about it.

On the surface, this looks like really simple dialogue. One character getting to know another character, perhaps. But in the context of the rest of the scene, so much more is happening. For one thing, Andi and Devin are having a miscommunication, revealing that they don't know each other and are far from the point of reading each other's minds and finishing each other's sentences. Devin is asking the question not in a social way, but as a teacher, and assumes Andi gets the context. But Andi has missed the purpose of the question (hence the look he gives her). It reveals her disconnect with the subject of sex as well as with her own sexuality.

Additionally, the reader learns something about Andi that Devin doesn't yet know. Andi's musical preferences (at least in her answer) are mostly the product of her brothers' influence (one is a rock guitarist, the other a jazz pianist). And it's interesting that she doesn't explain this to Devin but rather declares she likes the instruments. We see that the strong connection to her brothers is special but has also been overbearing at times. We also see that she's withholding information from Devin.

Rhetorically speaking, the Socratic method is at work here (and forgive me for defying everything I teach my students and quoting Wikipedia, but it's convenient and defines it well): "a form of inquiry and debate between individuals with opposing viewpoints based on asking and answering questions to stimulate critical thinking and illuminate ideas." This is probably one of the reasons why dialogue so appeals to me as a novelist as well as a rhetoric geek. I'm all about the peeling back the layers, the getting to the heart of the matter, the quest for meaning, and ultimately, truth. I'm all about using argument and persuasion to get one person to see the other person (or perhaps themselves) in a way they've never seen before.

Besides, sometimes it's downright fun, like this exchange between Devin and Andi well after they've gotten to know each other (again, minus the narration):

ANDI: I absolutely adore the Impressionists.

DEVIN:You what? You adore the Impressionists? No. You can't adore them. No one adores the Impressionists.

ANDI: Why not?

DEVIN: You just don't. You--no one adores them. It can't be done.

ANDI: What the hell are you talking about?

DEVIN: The Impressionists are not "adorable." Things that scamper are adorable. Fluffy bunnies hopping in meadows. Little dogs with knitted sweaters. Those little hats that newborns wear. Baby shoes are adorable. Not Impressionists.

ANDI: Wha--?

DEVIN: You don't "adore" men who cut off their ears. You don't "adore" men who eat lead-based paint. Men who refused to compromise themselves or their work, even when it meant depriving their families of food. Men who kept mistresses. Who died poor and alone and bitter. There's something much bigger happening in these paintings, something way beyond adoration.

I love everything about that exchange (and there's more, but why give away my best stuff?) -- the rhythm, the humor, and the style (another post altogether); and yet again, there's something bubbling under the surface.

This time do your own dialogic analysis and tell me what you see.

If dialogue is not your strong suit, try a simple exercise of putting two people with opposite traits, opinions, backgrounds, etc. in a room together (better yet, have them get stuck in an elevator) and see what they have to say. Leave out the narration. I'll bet you'll be surprised what they reveal.

I also use dialogue to help me when I'm struggling with a character's motivation. In that case, the dialogue is usually between me and the character.

Overall, have fun with dialogue. Explore. And most of all, listen.

Antagonist 101

Although I learned quite a bit from the short fiction workshop I took at the Southampton Writers Conference, it was the screenwriting workshops that resonated with me. Namely, the various discussions about character. I had already known that I was more character-driven than plot-driven when it comes to novel-writing, but these workshops reinforced just how comfortable a place that is for me to be.

Two of the most eye-opening moments for me came about as the result of conversations about antagonists. The first time, my screenplay adaptation instructor Stephen Molton asked me who the antagonist was in Ordinary World (I had chosen this work to adapt). I had to think about this. Remember, I'm trained in rhetoric, not literature. This stuff doesn't come as quickly to me.

"Um, I think it's Andi's grief," I replied, my voice full of uncertainty.

Stephen, the nurturing teacher, clarified that grief was certainly one obstacle in the way of Andi's intention. (And then, a blast from the past: "man vs. man", "man vs. nature", and "man vs. himself" emerged from the memory vault marked "7th-grade English".) But there was a more obvious antagonist.

David.

Of course. He's the guy who always pushed Andi's buttons, first as Devin in Faking It. Literally, the antagonizer. I had never thought of him as such because I had always believed antagonists to be villains with sinister motives; and quite frankly, Devin/David never appeared as such to me.

Eye-opener number two came on the heels of this revelation in a second workshop with Will Chandler who mentioned, almost in a by-the-way fashion, that "the antagonist never thinks s/he's the antagonist; s/he always thinks s/he's the protagonist."

And just like that, my world opened up. Of course. Of course! No wonder David never appeared to be the antagonist. He even fooled me into thinking he was the protagonist (well, one of them). This revelation brought with it a new pair of eyes with which to see my current "cast" of characters in my latest novel-in-progess. It opened up possibilities in terms of exploring their depth, their motivation, and their perceptions. It made me excited to (re-)visit them.

And if that wasn't enough, Stephen, with super-screenwriter x-ray vision of his own, saw another antagonist, "the one hiding in plain sight," as he called it, that could be developed for the Ordinary World screenplay.

Can you guess who it is?

So, to sum up, here's what I bring back to my novel-writing: when getting to know my characters, it is key for me to ask what my protagonist wants (intention) and what's in the way of her/him getting it (obstacle). It is key for me to identify my antagonist not necessarily as the villain (although s/he very well may be), but perhaps either as one of those obstacles or, more literally, the antagonizer. And as I explore my antagonists' psyches, it will be key for me to listen to them make their case for protag status. No doubt I will learn plenty from them when they tell me. And so will you.

conference de-briefing

A new blog post can be quite intimidating if you've been away from it for awhile. I've returned from an incredible three weeks in Southampton, NY with writers block not because I have nothing to say, but because I have so much to say. I already know that this post won't do any of it justice, so I'll just generally sum up.

Some things I learned (or affirmed) about myself as a writer during this conference, in no particular order:

• I'm a storyteller, and my stories are driven by character and a what-if.
• Screenwriting and novel-writing suit me well. Short story-writing does not.
• My bachelor's degree in psychology was money well spent.
• I have a hard time grasping the concept of "literary".
• I'm very proud and appreciative of my rhetorical training and perspective.
• My insecurities about (not) being "well read" have resurfaced. (Then again, I grasp the concept of "well read" about as easily as I grasp the concept of "literary".)
• A classroom is a special space. So is a Long Island beach.
• Ice cream cures writers block. (Rather, it makes you not give a damn about it.)
• Man, and I can get paid for this!
• Revision is still my favorite part of the process. So is the thinking part. And, when the time is right (and it needs to be just right), so is the talking-it-out part.
• I have to serve myself as a reader before I can serve any other reader(s).
• I'm on the right track.

Maybe some of these resonate with you. I don't think you need a conference or a class or a workshop or even an MFA to discover these things. But it's quite validating when you do so in the company of other writers and writing teachers. At least it was for me.

As I take this week to work on my syllabus for the fall semester, I will be thinking about this blog as a classroom space and get back to the teaching of writing here, too, starting with character. I can't wait to share what I learned about protagonists and antagonists!

Happy writing, folks. And take my word for it on the ice cream.

checking in

The Southampton Screenwriting Conference ended yesterday and the main conference doesn't kick off until Wednesday, so I thought I'd take a moment to check in. I'm a little under the gun in terms of time, however, being that I'm posting this at the public library in Sag Harbor, and my mother is patiently waiting for me to be done so we can head for the ocean. (I know. Tough life. I'll shut up now.)

Thing is, I'm not sure where to start with this post. So much to share! If I had to start with a "complaint," it would be that four days went way too fast, and I was hungry for more. In all, a fantastic experience, the kind that reinforces my love of being a writer, a student of the craft, and a teacher all at the same time. There's something about being in a community of other writers, all of us speaking a common language yet in different ways of expression. Perhaps because writing is so often a solitary act, we need our communities from time to time. We need human contact every now and then.

Some might be surprised to find that I am usually quite shy and reserved at the onset of these things. Registration and orientation made me feel like a college freshman all over again, away from home and overwhelmed and wondering what I was doing here and if I belong. And, as is usually the case, I was making friends and administering hugs on the final day, hoping to see them again.

The days are structured so that the main classes ("workshops") take place in the morning, and additional sessions ("electives") in the afternoon. Evenings are filled with panel discussions and guest speakers, an open mic night, readings, etc.

My workshop couldn't have been more tailored for me, a newbie screenwriter, not to mention my interests. It was recommended I take Stephen Molton's Screenplay Adaptation class. My two classmates and I (and how awesome was that--so much individual attention for each of us! I'd love to shout from the rooftops that everyone should take this class, but the small size was utterly delightful for me) each chose one of our own pieces to adapt. One of my classmates chose a short story; the other, and myself, chose a novel. I went with Ordinary World because my WILS co-author and I had already collaborated on a screenplay for Faking It 5 1/2 years ago, and I wanted to work with something else.

Stephen is a fantastic teacher--artistic, intelligent, engaging, charismatic--he is the quintessential storyteller with a wealth of experience and an ability to listen as well as to see. He knows how to spot the gold nuggets in the sand (anyone notice how that's become my go-to metaphor as of late?), and got me to step out of the literal (and literary) progression of Ordinary World and see it more as a visual medium, inviting me to develop antagonists "hidden in plain sight," as he described them (and I hope to do a blogpost on protags and antags when I get back). He had this insight for each of us. He was respectful of our work, our craft, and our level of expertise (or lack thereof, since we were all beginners as far as screenwriting was concerned).

We didn't get to do any actual screenwriting--there simply wasn't time. However, by our last meeting, we had each crafted an outline and saw the possibilities for our works-in-progress. Ultimately, Stephen (and two electives, in particular) got my wheels spinning and caused me sleep loss, all in that way that is more invigorating than debilitating.

All this set in Southampton. Who could ask for more? And how does one go back to daily life?

Up next: Short fiction. Admittedly, this class was not my first choice (novel-writing was already filled), and I am even more nervous and intimidated than I was to be surrounded by so many talented screenwriters. However, after talking with my fellow writers, I was reminded that the experience will, if nothing else, put me in the shoes of my freshman students who come to me just as afraid and intimidated because they are sailing in unchartered academic waters, looking for me to be their compass. I will be able to relate to them, assure them that they know more than they think they do, and they'll know something by the time they leave.

If only I could do that on the backdrop of an ocean breeze.

when reading is writing

Some of you know that this past week my writers block returned. I did the usual things -- tried to psych myself and write through it, read other people's writing instead, complained on Twitter, curled up on the floor in a fetal position.... (just kidding about that last one) before once again taking the advice I give to many writers in a similar position. I printed out the 80+ pages of the writing I've done this past month as-is (single space to save paper, although I regret not giving myself more margin space for annotations), headed for the coffeeshop, and began to read.

Maybe it was the iced vanilla chai that had mellowed me out (that particular brand always takes me back to my old hangout in Massachusetts), but once again I was pleasantly surprised (not to mention relieved) to find that it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. Yes, it was a first draft in need of direction and description, with gaping holes in the timeline and telling rather than showing. But it wasn't bad. Heck, I even laughed out loud a few times (in a good way). It's always a great feeling for me to write something funny enough to make someone laugh, but perhaps it's even better when that someone is me.

I got through half the pages in three hours, making lots of notes and corrections, yet not crossing out entire blocks of text (although I suspect that will come towards the end). The realization that my novel isn't sucking is sometimes the very thing that snaps me out of my writers block. And even if it doesn't, I feel better about taking that physical writing time off and allowing the mental composing to take over again, sitting with the characters a little more, the whole lot of us hanging out in the coffeeshop of my imagination and chillin' out on iced vanilla chais. It certainly beats complaining on Twitter.

Sometimes reading is writing. It's such an important part of the process. Whether you read as you go along, following that day's writing, or wait until you're 30,000 words in, or until you've got the entire first draft of the manuscript done, the act of reading your manuscript (either with the eyes of an intended reader or one who knows these characters intimately) allows you to see both the little things and the bigger picture with more clarity. The revision process happens as you subconsciously ask (and answer) questions about meaning, order, arrangement, imagery, voice, behavior, setting, audience, purpose, style, and so much more. You find direction. You find little nuggets of gold, or keys to portals of brilliance. And sometimes you even make yourself laugh for all the right reasons.


And on a different note...

It figures--just as I was getting back into the groove of posting regularly on my blog, I got the news that I'd been accepted and invited to the Southampton Writers Conference on the east end of Long Island. Yep, I'm due north yet again! I've been wanting to attend this conference for years, ever since my mom started cutting out the full-page ads in the Sag Harbor Express and mailing them to me. And every year I'd gaze at the ad, reading the list of that year's participants (ranging from Alan Alda to the late Frank McCourt) and lament that I could barely afford to set foot on the campus.

However, I decided to put it on my 2011 to-do list, and lo and behold, the opportunity (not to mention the financing) came through. I was afraid to make the commitment at first, coming up with all kinds of excuses. But something inside me knew that I would regret not going far more than any of the so-called inconveniences I was contriving to feed my fears.

I'll be on the Island for almost the entire month of July, and I imagine most of my time and energy will be devoted to the writing sessions, instruction, networking, keynote speakers, etc. (plus, I need to go to the beach again). I would love to share my experiences with you, but be prepared for yet another blog hiatus. My apologies for abandoning you yet again, and my thanks to those who faithfully await my return.

more than words: playing the Taboo game

Back in my early teaching days, I had assigned my students to write an essay about the concept of Home. However, they were not to use the words home, house, warmth, comfort, familiar, etc. (I think we even played a couple rounds of the game Taboo.) Almost ten years later, I still remember some of those essays (and interestingly, so do they-- one of my former students recently told me that he saved that particular essay, citing it as one of his all-time favorites). The ones who really "got" it were the ones who mastered "showing" vs. "telling", capturing the meaning of the experience (or the experience itself) by using a completely different image or experience. They revealed a truth without explicitly telling it.

The other night I was on the phone with my twin brother. I was bragging about that day's word count (3200!), yet lamenting how disappointed I was with what I'd written.

"It's supposed to be a pivotal moment," I explained. "A breakthrough. It's emotional. Everyone's crying. But it's hard to write or describe people crying without it sounding like a bad soap opera. You know when you watch a TV show and the character's supposed to be so distraught, but the actor can't get him/herself to cry? That's what this scene feels like (and all my crying scenes/descriptions, really). Just so disingenuous. I don't know how to make it work."

My brother's advice floored me: "Play the Taboo game. Write it without using the words crying or tears and see what happens. Describe the physicality of what they're feeling rather than filming what they're doing."

Describe the physicality of what they're feeling... my God, that's brilliant!

I told him what a great idea that was, and couldn't wait to try it. "You know," I said. "That reminds me of an essay assignment I gave like ten years ago."

"Yeah, I think that might have been where I got the idea, actually."

Moral of the story: as writers, we need to remember that we're smarter than we think. And when it comes to description, conveying meaning, and showing vs. telling, we need to play the Taboo game every now and then, surrendering generic words and descriptions for unique ones. Revealing the truth without explicitly saying it. Try it in your own manuscript and see what happens. I will too.

wherever you go, there you are

I'm always flattered and humbled when someone sends me an email to tell me that I've inspired them to pick up writing. More often than not, many are writers who gave up on writing at some point in their lives because they or someone else told them they were no good, or that it wouldn't pay the bills, and so on.

I can't tell you how many of these aspiring writers are hung up on perfection. This is an observation, not a judgment. Just yesterday I posted on Twitter about the 2100 "teeth" I pulled. It was rough, man. And the whole time I was writing, a little voice in the back of my mind kept taunting me about how crappy the writing was, how it would never amount to anything, etc. I know the perfection hangup. I've occasionally got that monkey on my back.

Nothing is more debilitating than the fear that what you are writing is no good. The best of us have had this fear. Even a certain recent Oscar-winning screenwriter has had this fear. And nothing is more debilitating to the process than obsessing and worrying about perfection during the drafting stage.

There isn't a right or wrong way to write a first draft. Some, like me, bang out a first draft by seemingly spilling it all on the page without pausing for too long to consider the right word, phrase, description, etc. We don't get hung up on timelines or loose ends, not at this stage. We simply get it out of our heads. Once in awhile I re-read the last chapter or few pages I wrote before starting a new one, just to get a sense of place. Sometimes I even go back and re-read when I'm finished.

When drafting, I write until I run out of steam or hit a wall (couldn't decide which metaphor I liked better; both are applicable). I don't think I've ever stopped in mid-sentence or even mid-paragraph (although I'm probably forgetting), but I've certainly stopped mid-chapter, and I'm ok with that. I'd even be ok with stopping mid-sentence. I'm sure others have.

Many writers prefer to edit as they go along. They write a few pages, stop, then re-read what they've just written, making adjustments along the way. They write a few more, stop, re-read, re-write, and so on. Perhaps they don't want those loose ends or gaps in timeline. Perhaps it helps them organize their thoughts, develop their plots, better hear their characters. Perhaps it means less work later on. Perhaps they just like the idea of a tight manuscript.

There is no right or wrong way to write a first draft. There is no right or wrong way to revise, either.

But it's rare to find a first draft that is without flaws, even with the rewrite-as-you-go method. First drafts are going to be flawed. They're going to be messy, going to lack direction or depth. First drafts are going to have poorly constructed sentences, incomplete thoughts, under-developed ideas. First drafts are going to have characters who aren't sure what they're doing or why, or where they're going or why. They're going to have words that are cliche, descriptions that are confusing, dialogue that is forced. They're going to be either too long or too short. Too many words, or not enough. Too much info dump, or not enough context.

First drafts are not final drafts.

At some point, you've got to quiet the voice that is taunting you, telling you it's no good. You've got to shout back, "Of course it's no good, you idiot! It's a first draft! But I wanna have some fun, here. I have something to say, and I'm going to say it, and by the time my book is bound, I will have said it as best as I can."

Revision can be the sandbox where you play, digging for treasure, building castles and tearing them down again and loving every minute of it, or it can be the mudpit where you get stuck spinning your wheels. Of course I much prefer the sandbox, and it's way more fun to be there when I'm not criticizing my draft as, well, nothing more than a ton of sand. To get there, you've got to accept your draft for what it is, where it is, at any given time. As Jon Kabat-Zinn said, "Wherever you go, there you are."

Your manuscript will get to where you want it to be. But first you need to accept where it is. And you need to accept what it is not as well as what it is. Some days pulling out the words will be like pulling teeth. Some days will be the mudpit. You've got to allow your draft to be bad. And you can joke about it being bad, by all means; but you've also got to cut yourself some slack. And by god, you've got to have some fun. At some point, give up spinning your wheels in the mud and start making mudpies. What's the point of writing, otherwise?

check all egos at the door

I really want to write a post about writing today, but not before I tell you how blown away I am by the response Faking It has received just one week after its AmazonEncore release. In particular, this Charlotte Observer article has given the Amazon rankings a hefty spike, inspired people to write to me, and made me feel da love. I can't express my gratitude and appreciation enough. It's motivating me to keep working on my latest novel-in-progress.

And if you haven't had a chance to pick up your copy of Faking It yet (have you gone to your local bookstore and asked if they're stocking it?), head over to Book Soulmates and enter to win a copy, plus a dozen roses! Cool giveaway, yes?


So, as I said, I'm grateful for all the attention the book is getting, and it's motivating me to keep writing; but there is a danger to this kind of publicity, and that's the ego slipping into the writing process. In fact, if you want writer's block, invite the ego in.

Aaron Sorkin has publicly spoken about being terrified to write "the thing that comes after The Social Network," and I can relate to some degree. Granted, I'm no Oscar winning writer, but I get the fear part. I've written two books since Faking It, but neither have matched its sales numbers. Understandable. They've not been around as long.

But all the ego needs is an excuse, and it doesn't have to be precedent on previous successes. It could be precedent on previous failures, rejections, or just plain ol' doubt whether anything you put on the page will be any good. You want to please your readers. You want them to like what you write. Perhaps you even want them to like you.

But try to conform your writing to that anticipation or desire, and you'll surely come up short. I can't write a character that I think is going to make other people laugh or mad. I can't put words into my character's mouths that I think other people want to hear them say. Ego sometimes makes you do that rather than sitting quietly and listening to what your characters have to say to you. Ego tells you it has to be good, otherwise you're over.

So how do we get past that?

By staying in the present moment, and trusting that the work in progress is exactly what it is and where it needs to be: in progress. That it neither has to be good or bad at this stage, and the only one making a judgment on it at this point is you, so stop that.

By remembering why you write in the first place.

By making sure you like what you write (and that you like you, too!).

And stop comparing it to your other works. We all know how one kid feels when s/he has to live in the shadow of an uber-successful older (or even younger) sibling, and how damaging it can be for parents and teachers especially to compare one to the other. The metaphor of authors' books as their children might be cliche, but it's cliche for a reason. It's a metaphor that resonates. Each book, like each child, is special for reasons of its own. Each one deserves its own love and attention, and needs to be honored for being unique. Fred Rogers's words still comfort me: "You make each day a special day by just your being you." That affirmation applies to our books, our stories, our characters--each and every one--as well as to us.

Embrace the gift of that specialness every time you sit down to write. It'll do wonders for your writing, and you.

for Aaron Sorkin

It seems that I am constantly apologizing for not posting on my blog. I'm sorry for always apologizing. And I'm sorry for not posting more. On the plus side, it's because I've been busy writing posts for other people's blogs and gearing up for the publicity whirlwhind that is coinciding with the AmazonEncore release of Faking It, just a mere dozen days away. On the minus side, I've used up all my good ideas for the blog tour, and blog-posting can be quite time-consuming, especially when you also teach 40+ students and have just as many papers to grade, the average 5 pages long apiece.


The Oscar fog has lifted and the red carpet has been rolled up and taken away, but I'm still basking in the glow of Aaron Sorkin's win for Best Adapted Screenplay, as I'm sure he still is (I always wonder if winners actually take their trophies to bed with them the first few days after winning... I probably would).

I never blogged about my meeting Sorkin back in September of last year. For one thing, it was part of a wave of meeting several people who have had some influence throughout the course of my life, from Patrick McDonnell (Mutts creator who is now getting some attention since his little book The Gift of Nothing just made Oprah's list -- it's on mine as well) to David Newell (aka Mr. McFeely from Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood, who took the time to follow up and send me some potential teaching materials). But for another thing, I didn't want to make a big deal about it. It was a personal thing, and I didn't want to attach any fanfare to it.

Unlike getting a tweet from my teen love John Taylor (in response I did a happy dance around my apartment and immediately posted about it on Facebook -- I recall a lot of exclamation points), I wasn't the least bit starstruck when I tapped Sorkin on his shoulder following a Q&A at an advanced screening of The Social Network, which I was fortunate to attend. I'd been visualizing that moment for months-- not as a fantasy, but more like something already actualized. I'd made it an intention to meet the writer who's given me so much inspiration, and had sensed it was going to happen during my fantastic "Year of Turning 40."

We didn't have a chance to say much to each other -- he, Jesse Eisenberg, and Armie Hammer were on their way to another screening/Q&A scheduled the same evening -- but he recognized my name from my interaction on the now-extinct Facebook discussion forum, took my hand, and seemed as genuinely pleased to finally meet me in person as I was to meet him. If I'd had more guts, I would've asked to tag along on the way to the next screening just so we could chat some more. But alas, I'm not that daring. Besides, in that moment, I wasn't a fan. I haven't been for quite some time (that's not to say I've lost admiration for his work -- far from it). I don't know if I would consider myself a colleague, or even a friend -- neither of those labels feel accurate either. I suppose I was just one writer meeting another writer.

Following Sorkin's Oscar win, one of my dear friends (whom I met via Facebook thanks to that aforementioned now-extinct discussion forum, along with about 30 other darling people, some of whom I still have yet to meet in person, although it certainly doesn't feel like that) called me and left a message: "We met an Academy Award winner (he had met Sorkin during the TSN premiere in NYC, which about 16 of our group attended, meeting each other in person for the first time, yet feeling like we'd just seen each other the day before). How cool is that?"

Yeah, it is cool.

It's cool not because it's Aaron Sorkin, but because the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. My friends and I felt like we had watched this movie unfold from pregancy to birth, watched it grow up and graduate with honors. Kind of like honorary aunts and uncles. And Aaron was gracious enough to let us be a part of it for that short time. We're proud of everyone who was directly involved with the film (and although Tom Hooper was certainly deserving of his Oscar for The King's Speech, I was bummed that David Fincher didn't win for Best Director). But we're more touched by what we've come to mean to each other. I stood up and cheered (actually, it was more like a YAWP) when Sorkin's name was called, and remained standing while he said his thank-yous, my hand lightly tapping my heart.

I hope to meet Mr. Sorkin again, and this time exchange more than cordial hellos. I think there's much to talk about, none of it having to do with Facebook or The Social Network. I just like talking to writers, I guess.

If I had the chance to say anything to him right now, I'd say this:

Congratulations, Aaron -- you did it! Way to go. I know you're afraid of what comes next, that anything you write will be known as that-thing-you-wrote-after-The-Social-Network, and will be held up against TSN (probably not unlike the way Studio 60 was that-thing-you-wrote-after-The-West-Wing). Just do it, just write. Keep doing what you always do--writing the best you can, what you like--and allow it to be whatever it turns out to be. Then write the next thing. And the next.

From one writer to another.

never say never

About a year ago, I wrote a post about why I wasn't going to do NaNoWriMo anymore. But two days ago, I went to the NaNoWriMo website and registered for this year.

Yep, I'm doin' it.

What changed my mind: My complaints haven't changed. I still think the obsessive attention to word count gives way to passive, wordy, and sloppy writing that makes the revision and editing process a pain. But I have not one, but two new novel ideas competing for my attention and my pen. I'm already close to 10,000 words into one of them, so I figured the other one would be worthy of the 50K marathon in 30 days. It's the one that's been consuming my thoughts during my two- and three-mile walks lately, the one that whispers character names and words in my ears while I'm teaching. I want to get it out on the page. And now that WILS is done, the time seems right.

Besides, it might even be fun.

Goin' solo again. Sort of. I'm on my own again, and although I'm happy about that, I confess that it'll feel strange to meet my daily word goals and not automatically send my pages to Sarah. I'll miss the instant feedback, the confidence (and reliance?) in her fixing my suckage, the mutual praise, constructive criticism, and mutual feedback. But NaNoWriMo is a group effort in some ways. The marathon metaphor is appropriate. For as we wend our way along the word-count road, fellow writers and friends stand on the sidelines and support us, clapping and offering us encouragement. Writing is a solitary act, but NaNoWriMo is a community event.

So, in one week, you'll like me find me at my laptop -- be it in my room or at the coffeeshop -- and you'll hear me mutter things like "2000 words behind, I gotta do 4000 today... oy, how am I gonna do it?" (or, in a more positive light, "woohoo--2000 words ahead!") You may hear occasional cursing, you may see a ragged expression on my face. Then again, you may see euphoria, and mistake it for mania.

At any rate, I'll be writing.

I encourage you to do the same. Or just stand on the sidelines and cheer me on.