How to Be a Writer, Pt. 1

You guys all like how I'm giving advice on being a writer even though I'm not one yet?

I shouldn't say that. You're supposed to say things you want to be true like they already are true, right? "I AM a writer."

Not entirely a lie, either. I write all the dang time. I'm sure you know that by now if you know me. Honestly, where do I even go without a journal? (Very, very few places. Food shopping, though when I was a kid, the journal went there, too.) And now that there are smart phones, who knows? You may think I'm checking e-mail, but I'm really touching up a chapter of my book.

I started to write "But I'm not published yet," but even that's a lie. I've been published online - on a defunct website called The Examiner, on TapInto, and on Short Fiction Break, as well as in a YA Anthology.

So do I cut the nonsense and just call myself a writer? Or do people then actually think that's my profession? 

Whatever. I get really into my own head sometimes.

I have thought, you know, someday, when I am all big and famous and do get to do this for a living (positivity at work!), I'll get asked, "Where did you get the idea for The Seed of Magic?" all the time. Why not get it down now, and catch up with myself, and get to write about the publishing process as (if/when) it happens?

I do know exactly where my idea for The Seed of Magic (my future bestselling novel) came from, but I also think it's important to go a little further back. Because not everyone is just going to have an idea, and then BAM!, a book is born. There's a tiny bit more to it than that.

So the first piece of advice I can give about being a writer is that age old, trite single word your English teacher used to tell you - READ. 

Seriously. If you want to be a writer, you first have to be a reader.

I wish I had more time to read, and not just because I do genuinely enjoy it. There is really very little better way to hone your craft than to be under the influence of other storytellers. I find I pick up writing styles from almost whatever I'm reading at the time. It's beneficial for me to know that. So if I want to infuse a little more realism into my work, I should pick up some realistic fiction. If I want to be the next She Who Must Not Be Named (because she wrote the ultimate work of love and acceptance [Harry Potter] and then went on to be overly nasty to online haters, which should have alarmed fans a little more than it did, because THEN she went on to really draw her line in the sand, to say, 'I think we should extend love and tolerance and acceptance to everyone, but oh, maybe not to THOSE people,' so, you know, she can just... yeah. My relationship with JKR is extremely, excessivly complicated. I have to separate her from Harry because it's still amazing and well written, and though it does have some problematic bits, it's got nothing on the problematic stuff that came out of JKR's twitter account), I gotta revisit those Harrys. Over and over again.

I haven't read one in awhile. Debating Prizoner of Azkaban because that end is so tightly constructed or Goblet of Fire because I feel like it's one I don't give enough attention.

The thing is, these days, I read a fair amount of work written by nonreaders. And it's so obvious that they're nonreaders. There are just certain things readers tend to pick up - grammar conventions of dialogue, turns of phrase, when to describe certain things, the fact that dialogue should even be included in the first place - that nonreaders don't. 

Reading something written by a nonreader is kind of like reading a grocery list. "This happened, then this happened, then this happened." It's like when your friend calls you to tell you about the fight she had with Verizon that day and she keeps it under 10 minutes. (By the way, that friend is not me. No way can I keep a story under 10 minutes. I need to add the details and the drama!) 

But if you read? Even if you're not on the ball with spelling, grammar, whatever, it's obvious you know how books work. 

You just have to read if you want to write.

My mom was an English teacher, too, and one who really did practice what she preached. She reads like she breathes, all the time, finishing a book every few days. I grew up with that as the norm, as something I saw. I never matched up to her pace, but that was normal for me.

I was also an only child. I remember that when we used to go out to eat, or anywhere really, I would bring no less than two books with me (because what if I finished the one I was reading) and a notebook with a few pens to write stories. Not sure where that came from - my mom writes a lot now, but I don't remember her writing frequently when I was a kid. Regardless, I remember writing a story about dinosaurs who were friends but were torn apart by the asteriod that hit earth, ending up in different places and wanting to find each other. I don't think I got further than the first page, but still.

I don't know why I wanted to write, but I did. I came up with ideas all the time . I have pages upon pages of beginnings of stories, single paragraphs that are pretty compelling but I never got far with. Too many ideas poured in. Plus I was a student, the AB Honor Roll, all honors classes kind. Finding time to write was scarce.

Although I sometimes would do so during class. In middle school, I wrote what was fondly called among my friends The Book. In it, I used code names for me and four of my best friends, and we all hooked up with guys who happened to look like and share names with Backstreet Boys. They weren't in a boy band, they were just guys we met down the shore one summer, but it fulfilled some kind of fantasy of ours. 

I hid sheets of looseleaf under textbooks. When teachers would turn around to write something on the board, I would jot down a few sentences. I might even write when they were looking at us, look like I was taking notes. Two of my friends in particular were addicted to The Book. Instead of notes, I passed them pages, either before class, during class (especially in Mr. K's seventh grade Social Studies class where my friend S sat right behind me), or in the hall between classes. 

The Book was the first "novel" I ever finished writing. And then I wrote two sequels. I started on a fourth, but that one fell by the wayside. (That's okay; I'm not sure BSB fanfiction is what I was destined to write.) I have fond memories of laying on my stomach at a community pool one summer with my friend, E. I was furiously scribbling out new pages, passing them to her whenever I finshed. She devoured my writing feverishly. 

It was a fun time, and it was validating to have friends who enjoyed my writing.

Just before that project started, as I began sixth grade, the movie Harriet the Spy was released. This should have been the most anti-diary thing I ever saw, but for some reason, it was the opposite with me. My friend C and I started our own "Spy Notebooks," as Harriet called hers. We wrote down observations in them - license plate numbers, how many boards made up a fence in our neighbor's yard, silly answers to ridiculous questions we asked each other.

This, for me, turned into my insane journaling habit.  Though the habit took a few years to really stick, I've been writing in a journal now nearly every day of my ilfe since eighth grade, so for about 25 years. I'm onto my 84th book (because of course I number them). Sometimes they're a list of the minutia of life, and sometimes they are a bit more reflective. I've tried to be more reflective lately, record the craziness of the times. But I don't write quite as often as I once did, so this can get choppy and get away from me.

(I mean, talk about I used to write during class... The Book I wrote throughout middle school. My journals, on the other hand, went everywhere with me in high school. All over the dang place. One time, in my choir class, the choir officers decided to give out silly awards to every student in. I got the "Always Writing" award. I had to look up from writing to see what they were saying about me. Kind of one of those moments that's always stuck with me.)

Mostly I journal in front of the TV at night. But I bring my journal almost everywhere with me. Maybe a little less so these days since I'm also toting a 16 month old around, and I have to pay more attention to her than to pen and paper. But writing has always been a comfort blanket for me, is the bottom line.

So read. And write. That's the first piece (first two pieces?) of advice I can give you. That's where my book writing started. I couldn't have had my idea or actually gotten the words down if it hadn't been for the foundational knowledge and habits reading and writing have afforded.

Next up - how I prayed to a higher power over my stove...

(Disclaimer on why this might be boring (?): So apparently, a lot of writer blogs have a theme, or a point, or a message. What, you mean I can't just write when the moment strikes me? Which, as you can see, is almost never, although that's a lie, because I'm almost constantly planning what I'm going to write next, running through possible wordings in my head. But then I stop myself because, hey, I remind me, I need to get back to work on that novel I'd like to get published, HAHAHAHAHAHA. And then I usually go and do a workout or scroll aimlessly through Facebook instead of doing that. 

Discipline is definitely needed!)

Snowdrift on a Sunny Day (or, A Woman in the White House?!)

 How are the juxtapositions of the last two weeks possible?

Two weeks ago, I was doubled over in my bathroom, anxiety coursing through my veins like a poison I was waiting to succumb to, after seeing photographic evidence of modern day Nazis overrunning the United States Capital. For several seconds, I truly questioned how long my Jewish-ancestry existence would be allowed to continue. How far are we really from the extreme far right takeover that reared its ugly head on January 6, 2021? There were 10 years between the beer hall putsch and Hitler’s being named chancellor of Germany. Do I have 10 years before we put someone akin to that in power? And then what? Weeks, months before I get rounded up and sent to a death camp?

And does the same fate, or worse, await my 16 month old daughter?

The thoughts swirled around for a few days, but, like a snowdrift, they faded away - like a snowdrift, I know they may come again. 

But then last night, I nearly doubled over in tears of joy thinking, “Tomorrow there will be a woman in the White House, and not just as the First Lady.”

(Not that we haven’t had amazing first ladies who deserve recognition in their own right. But this is somewhat different, you have to admit.)

How could I be brought to such extreme terror and such extreme joy and relief in the span of just two weeks? 

How can we live in a single country that is so dual in its beliefs that both things are possible at the same time?

It’s mind boggling.

When I woke up this morning, my pearls sitting in solidarity with Kamala on my dresser, unpredicted snow blanketed the ground. I was brought back to this piece I wrote three years ago:

“There is silence in snowfall. The whole world comes down in those little white crystalline structures, all innocence and glitter. Everything else that is not a snowflake ceases to move, stands still and holds its breath while the bits of icy lace pile atop each other. They put a blanket of pure white over dark, now sodden trees and logs. Little bits of grass poke their heads out of the same comforter. The slate sky is soft in its silence. I could watch the world come to this crunching, comforting halt for days on end. Is this coverlet of white a blank slate? Does it let us start anew with a fresh palette?”

How interesting that nature gave us this blank slate this morning. America is, as my husband put it, “more divided than we have been since the Civil War.” I feel that - of course I do, I was doubled over for double reasons in two weeks. The duality we are facing is literally waging its own Civil War in my mind. 

And now, this. Like a news reporter interrupting our attention span with the next story (as useful or useless as it may be), we have been given this fresh start.

Instinctively, my thoughts said something to me about “whitewashing the last four years from existence,” and they meant it in the same way Tom Sawyer whitewashed (or didn’t) that fence all those years ago. But then another part of my thought-brain came back with, “Yikes, poor choice of thought-words, self.” We don’t want anymore of that metaphorical white washing, no siree. It’s that kind of thing that’ll end us up in the same place Germany was in 100 years ago.

In fact, it’s been almost exactly 100 years. Have we learned nothing? (That’s a question for another time.)

I find myself filled with these dual thoughts on the regular these days. I think something that would have slid through the back of my mind sans-notice a few years ago, but now it gets stopped by the new-ish part of my brain that worries I’ll offend someone accidentally. Will someone perceive what I say as racist/sexist/ageist/transphobic/homophobic? Because I don’t want that.

And screw being “too PC.” Not caring about political correctness is not caring about other people. Why shouldn’t I want to offend the least amount of people possible? (Other than fascists/racists/NeoNazis. They can go fuck themselves.) Why shouldn’t I make a conscious effort to BE A GOOD PERSON and make others feel at ease? What is wrong with that?

The answer is nothing. Nothing at all is wrong with wanting to be inclusive. (Other than of  fascists/racists/NeoNazis. They can go fuck themselves.) For so long, many of these people I am now conscious of not wanting to offend did nothing but get offended in secluded silence. Why should I NOT be willing to feel the most minor amount of discomfort by questioning my own thoughts when others have had their very existence questioned? I afford others that much camaraderie - you’ve been genuinely uncomfortable for so long; I will now share that burden, albeing minimally, with you.

And with camaraderie in mind, why is the phrase “liberal snowflake” hurled around like it’s a bloody insult when all it really does is acknowledge the truth of humanity? Snowflakes are, by their very nature, by the same nature that binds all reality together (don’t correct my metaphysics here, okay?), all made up of the same stuff despite their looking entirely different. 

(Although even saying they’re “made up of the same stuff” is misleading because even though they may be made up of the same types of atoms with the same numbers of subatomic particles, obviously those subatomic particles exist multiple times to make up the atoms, so even though they’re the same type, even if they were carbon copies, they would exist twice, and then they would have different experiences [yes, even snowflakes can have experiences, like how they get blown up and down through the atmosphere and what happens to them once they hit the ground and shit], so they would still be different. In fact, even if they had the same exact experiences, they would exist twice, so you see, it wouldn’t be the same exact material making them up…)

Hmm. I went a little off the rails there. I hope you catch my “drift.”

The point is, all humans AND all snowflakes are made up of the same basic subatomic material but are still unique. We are simultaneously the same and different. Why is it an insult to acknowledge that? To be clear and refute a point some people try to make, no one is asking for special treatment because of these differences. Most people want us to not only acknowledge the differences, but acknowledge the similarities.

Just acknowledge. We look different, we have different opinions and experiences, but at the molecular level, we’re all pretty damn similar.

(Not that fascists/racists/NeoNazis feel that way, but they can go fuck themselves.)

So I hope those snowflakes that fell this morning had a touch of the liberal about them. Liberal in the sense of its original definition: “willing to respect or accept behavior or opinions different from one's own; open to new ideas.” I hope the liberality they may have washed over our land leaves us all open - to discussion, to ideas, to work together towards positive change. I hope the next four years can more than begin to undo the worst parts of the last four.

That blank slate was a beautiful new perspective to awaken to.