Dear Friends,
Yesterday I led a writing workshop at a writers conference, and today
was contacted by a participant with questions that still burned: How do
we keep going? How do we make ourselves keep writing, without any real
deadline or urgency? How on earth do we stick to it?
Here, in part, was my answer to this serious, thoughtful, curious writer:
"I do understand entirely how it is easier to work when you have
deadlines imposed from outside you. But in general, you see, the world
doesn't demand that we write a novel, so we have to find ways to trick
the mind. Yet no trick in the world will work unless you have a story
you really want to tell. If we just have a vague ambition to write a
novel, we may never get it done. That is looking at the thing, the
product, the artifact, rather than at what it's designed to wrap and
contain: the hunger to tell a story that won't leave you alone, won't
leave your mind, won't leave your digestive track in peace.
"So the first thing you have to figure out is if there is a story of
some kind (or a character or characters in search of a story) that
keeps bugging, haunting, prodding or tickling you. This doesn't have
to be a heavy-duty haunting; it might be just a yen. But locate it.
Because this is a source of motivation that will hold up longer than a
vague idea that you would like to write a book or that it would be nice
to be an author and make some money writing books. (I will say that
there
are some people who can stay motivated just by keeping
such ideas in mind, but I am not one of them, and don't know how to
give you advice in that direction.)
"When I know there is some story or character that will not leave
me, and that I know, moreover (as I said at lunch), is ticklish enough
to keep me jumpy for years (if need be), I'll then use any number of
strategies to stay motivated:
a. I set deadlines. I will have so many words written by the end of
the week. I will have this much written by the end of the month. I
will finish a draft by such and such date. I write these dates on a
calendar as formally as I would any wedding day or appointment with the
IRS. I trick myself into believing these are firm.
b. I consult my own sense of mortality. This sounds morbid, but it
works. I am only going to be on the planet for so long. There is only
time to write so many books. Will I die happy if I have not gotten
this particular story out of my gut? Probably not. I use this
pitchfork to the abdomen to help me stick to a) above.
c. As I'm working on a story, I allow myself little pleasures. I
take it a step at a time (while trying to stick to the deadline). You
have to enjoy the work moment-by-moment, in spite of the overarching,
long-term, time-sucking goal. You have to let yourself have fun with
sentences. Enjoy the turn of a phrase even if most of the rest of the
paragraph or chapter is daunting and needs work. Celebrate the little
glories and things you get right along the way. The little (or big)
discoveries about a character. That scene or bit of dialogue you get
right the first time, or suddenly find the fix to. This will keep you
at, and eventually get you addicted to, the process.
You have to let yourself be fascinated by the strangeness of the enterprise, its serendipities and slogs and fragile bravery.
Often, if we let ourselves think too much about the whole of a work, we
grow disheartened, it seems impossible, we give up. Sometimes I try
to think like a surgeon. I know I am responsible for the life of
something complex and whole, and that there is machinery whirring all
around me and a cast of serious beings involved and a certain amount of
pressure, but all I really need to worry about right at this minute is
getting this one suture tight. Wipe brow. Move on.
d. When a draft is finished and it becomes time for revision, I
celebrate. I celebrate every milestone before I hop onto the next one.
I have been known to print shitty first drafts up, turn loud music on,
and wave the pages in the air while dancing around the house. I know,
when I do this, that I am not done. But I am constantly celebrating
temporary moments of rest and accomplishment. I have finished a
chapter. I have finished a draft. Today I wrote a sentence. Whoop!
"These strategies have worked for me for about fifteen years and
four books--but I tell you what, if they stop working, but I still have
a story or stories to tell, I will invent new ones. This was very
much what our workshop was about yesterday. We must take
responsibility for using our imaginations not just to write our stories
and poems and plays, but also to invent the narratives that will
sustain the narrative of writing itself. This is a highly personal
endeavor, and all we can do is share models and approaches with each
other, swap what is going on with us. But ultimately we have to take
charge of crafting the framework that will help us write. We must do
this work. This, in my opinion, requires as much dedication, and
willingness, as the story itself. We can't just throw our hands up in
the air and say, 'I don't know how to stay motivated.' We must plot
motivation as cannily as we would any other mystery.
"I hope this helps you."
Warmly,
Mylène
to see your work published professionally, does that mean it's ready to be published professionally, or that readers will actually want to read it? In this video, Hagan does say that she will discuss the concept of making sure the work is as polished and professional as possible before putting it there, which I think is good. But I must admit that I'm a bit skeptical about the "gold rush" of self publishing in general. I think it's great for both readers and writers to have options, but what does it mean to be a professional writer now? What will it mean in the future?
I've been a little obsessed with storms for the last several years, pretty much since the epic hurricane season of 2005, which sparked the story in my latest novel, 
