Reading and Metronomes

I am as guilty as the next party of pushing reading to a back-burner, feeling that if I take time to read in the middle of the day instead of at night AFTER I've finished the demands on my time as a writer, I'm a horrible author. The thing is, why do we write? So people can read. After several days of pushing hard at Anon, Sir, Anon, and finding nothing is budging, I am going to give myself the day to read, draw, write letters, whatever, and count it as a creativity-replenishment day. We can't always be pouring out without refilling. To take a comment from Jenny in one of her recent letters:

"I was feeling unmotivated to write, which was no doubt due to my lack of fiction in-take."

That is exactly how I feel. The only reading I've done recently has been crammed. Cram down the rest of Bonhoeffer so I can return it on Sunday; cram in Duty so I can review it. Cramming isn't good for the mental digestion. It gives one a stomach ache. I could sit here at the computer toiling out a thousand words that mean nothing to me, or I could read several thousand that will spark new ideas. In our music theory class, Dad was telling us how when he worked at Tanglewood for a summer, certain musicians would wear metronomes around their necks for eight to ten hours a day so they could better internalize sixty-time. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Reading is the metronome for writers. The more we read, the better we subconsciously internalize the talent and creativity that went into whatever book it is we read. That is why reading poorly written books is a waste of time. If we internalize and become what we read, it doesn't pay to fill ourselves with drivel. Nor does it pay to write drivel. If we're writing drivel, we have probably been away too long from our metronome. So today I'm not going to create my own fiction...I'm going to internalize someone else's, and enjoy words for their versatility and beauty. You don't always have to harness beautiful horses...sometimes it's better to let them run and watch from a distance. If we are the let words run today, I want to leave you with this amazing snatch of poetry by Edward Shillito in WWI:

If we have never sought, we seek Thee now;

Thine eyes burn through the dark, our only stars;

We must have sight of thorn-pricks on Thy brow,

We must have thee, O Jesus of the Scars.

The heavens frighten us; they are too calm;

In all the universe we have no place.

Our wounds are hurting us; where the balm?

Lord Jesus, by Thy Scars, we claim Thy grace.

If, when the doors are shut, Thou drawest near,

Only reveal those hands, that side of Thine;

We know today what wounds are, have no fear,

Show us Thy Scars, we know the countersign.

The other gods were strong; Thou wast weak;

They rode, but Thou didst stumble to a throne;

But to our wounds only God's wounds can speak.

And not god has wound but Thou alone."

10 ideas for getting the creative juices flowing

First of all, hello to Amber, Anna, Plutonian Llama, Candice W., Anna Astolat, Morgan, Nicole and so many other new faces to this blog! Lately I have gotten out of the habit of publicly thanking my followers, but I am grateful for you and do notice when you come over to the inky-side.

I am told that authors, if we ever wish to hit to spotlight, must follow trends and it seems to me that its trendy to title your writing blog posts "(insert numeral here) ways to (insert your topic of choice"; hence my title. Thank heaven, though, I have a bit of an imagination and my content isn't going to be dull. In fact, it's rather a mockery of a title. Do you see the cliche?

What is a creative juice?

Terrifying thought.

"Inspector, when I found the body of this poor author there was a...a puddle near his head."

(Inspector looking quite interested) "Was it blood?"

(Witness falters) "N...no. It was...green. Like Mountain Dew."

"Ah," says the Inspector, twirling an imaginary mustache, "His creative juices. Nasty business, seeing them spilled. Starting them flowing...now that's another matter entirely."

//pinterest//

No no. We want no creative juices here. Sometimes, however, you'll get stuck or feel dry or in some way feel not much like writing. And darlings, as writers we can't really afford that. You know there are such things as deadlines; one can't be a baby about it. So here, my people, is a list of ten things to do to start feeling creative again:

1.) Hang over the edge of the couch and have a friend or family member lie on the floor, looking up at you. Pretend their chin and mouth are the nose and mouth of a face and talk to each other. Talk, that is, if you've any space between laughing. This is a childish game, but then, children are renowned for their creativity. 

2.) Finger paint. Again with the kiddos, but I swear this works. Finger paint is just solid good fun. I made something that looked like I could sell it in a gallery for millions out of my two-year-old brother's Crayola paints.

3.) Do something irrational. Not like "believe in monsters" or "talk yourself into wearing your coat inside-out." I mean something like walking through frosty grass barefoot, or through an icy puddle bare-foot. Or having sock-skating competitions in the kitchen. 

4.) Make a bowl of cookie dough and share it with your family. Don't bother baking it. Who wants a cooked cookie when you can have...this? (The FDA is giving me the hairy eye-ball. I shall pretend ignorance and lick a spoon in their direction.)

5.) Find something you like driving through and drive through it always. Please use common sense. I am assuming you aren't fond of crashing through buildings or crowds of people or areas plainly labeled "WET CEMENT".  For me, I get a thrill out of driving fast through the massive puddles on our dirt driveway every time I leave the house. Even better if they're frozen over and I get to make mini ice-floes.

6.) People-watch. Yeah, it's a given. Watching people will always end with inspiration and amusement on your part. Unless you're a terribly invasive sort of watcher and end up getting slapped. For instructions and a diatribe on the sport, go here. 

8.) Make hot buttered toast and cut it in triangles. 'Nuff said. 

9.) Watch a Disney movie. Just you try watching Tangled and coming away with nothing. 

10.) Clean a room. I don't believe in or practice Feng Shui for many reasons, not the least of which is because it's basically Common Sense-ical House-Keeping With a Cool Asian Name, but I'm serious when I say that cleaning your office, your kitchen, your entire house (if need be) will aid and abet your creativity. Sometimes you put writing in front of responsibilities and your neater side (presuming you have one) will not let you concentrate while things are in an uproar. Also, I swear that sitting on your botto for too long presses some "Kill Inspiration" button. The manual says you can reboot to factory settings by doing something vigorous, whether housework or a walk.

As I look at the list above I noticed that most of the items could be labeled under "Relaxation" and "Having Fun." Guys, the king of your fictional kingdom might have his head on a chopping block but (hopefully) yours is quite intact. Leave your little people in peril for fifteen minutes and clean a bathtub, drive through a puddle, or paint with your two-year-old. Your mental and physical health will thank you and perhaps buy a copy of that novel when it finally comes out.

What do you do to reboot the creativity?

"It's kind of an off-day for me.."

When it comes to writing, it can be hard to keep your head in the game. If you're anything like me, your life is unpredictable at times; things like potting strawberry runners, working on top-secret money-making ventures, and wedding-season get in the way and it's easy to find yourself on the lame end of inspiration. The story-world that you worked so hard to craft appears to have lost its luster; your characters are stubborn, your plot won't move along, and you're out of the habit of writing at all, much less writing something readable. What's a writer to do? Here are some things that I've been using lately when The Baby needs attention and I find myself uninspired after having given all my time to Driftfire. (a novella-contest piece hosted by author Anne Elisabeth Stengl) I hope these ideas will help jolt you back into inspiration.

Keep Notes: Even when you aren't writing, you are living life. If you have eyes to see it, inspiration is everywhere; pay attention and you'll find many things to cultivate your writing skills. Write these things down and when you sit down to write again, you'll have a ripe field of what I call "small-sight": the little half-noticed things of reality that cross the frail line between stilted and vibrant writing.

Do Dishes: I don't think well while sitting still; for some reason the moment my body is completely still, my daydreams kick in and my mind is off on its own merry way which, sadly, never seems to junction with my WIP's. I know we've all heard it, but it's worth saying again: Agatha Christie swore by doing dishes to bring on a bout of inspiration. Maybe her point was because most people don't enjoy doing dishes so they'll feel like writing just as soon as they've begun the dishes. I like washing, however; proving her theory true, I put my mind to plotting out The Baby the other afternoon and ended with quite a few good ideas. For me, I think my creative brain is stimulated by doing something that doesn't require active brainpower but is productive. Sitting down with nothing to do is my body's signal to space out for a while. (Which, perhaps, is why I love to read so much.)

Watch an old favorite: Funny enough, one of my favorite things to kick me back into a good creativity-spell is to go back and watch a favorite movie: something that is so familiar to me that I can quote it forwards and backwards. Something that draws out the simplest, most important parts of me and brings them back to the light. Usually it's a movie I haven't seen for a long time, but that I love all the same.  There are some films that actually have an adverse effect, such as The Lord of the Rings trilogy; when I watch these, the hope of crafting stories that great seems a weak one at best. Some of the movies that work for me? The Sound of Music, Miss Potter, Anne of Green Gables and Anne of Avonlea, Little Women, and Roman Holiday as well as any of the Pixar films.

Write a letter: One of the reasons I keep blogs is because I find that writing fiction and fiction only is actually not that great of an idea. I can easily be tricked into thinking that I'm sick of writing (I know, shocking) when actually what I'm sick of is this particular aspect of this particular story. The best cure for this kind of ennui is a good foray into something logical that still stimulates the need/desire to write. Blog about something entirely unrelated to the topic of writing, or better yet: shut down your computer. Take out some paper and write a letter. Just putting the current events of your life or your recent thoughts into a tangible form is amazing therapy for the novel-weary author.

Work: We authors tend to think that our work as a writer is the only work we will stoop to doing. Believe me, I've been guilty of this. In our heads we're already well on our way to being the next Dorothy Sayers or Percy Jackson; only problem is, the world doesn't know. I'm here to tell you that getting your tail out the door and grubbing around in the garden or painting a dining room or whathaveyou is far more beneficial that you'd think. You might consider menial work below you: oh well, get over it. Even a few days of labor in a row with no writing involved can be better for your novel than three days of a 500-word plunk that you'll end up rewriting anyway. Trust me.

Play with words: Sometimes just being around the comfort of words is enough to inspire. Play Scrabble. Read a gourmet-cooking magazine. Cut up an old book that is falling to pieces and make something cool out of the pages. Doodle. Seriously - doodling is a legitimate form of therapy for those of us who can't bear to put the pen aside, but find ourselves drained of words.

What I mean to say in all this is that you don't need to panic: I'm busy with a contest-piece and monetarily scheming and feel a nagging in the back of my head that says The Baby needs work and I'm neglecting this blog and many other things. Oh well. I don't have to get my tail in a knot over the fact. Inspiration has hidden for a week or two, who cares? If I've learned one thing over the course of my years as a writer, it's this:

Don't worry about your inspiration: Yeah, it might be gone; but it's too arrogant not to come back.

Dancing in the Minefields

"we went dancing in the minefields//we went sailing through the storms//it was harder than it seemed//but i do believe that's what//the promise is for.."

-Andrew Peterson "Dancing in the Minefields"

We take great pride in saying how much we love writing and how we are called to be writers and many things of that nature. Sometimes I wonder if we understand what we have just said. As with many things in our current culture, our understanding of "love" has fallen prey to what C.S. Lewis aptly described as "chronological snobbery":

Barfield never made me an Anthroposophist, but his counterattacks destroyed forever two elements in my own thought. In the first place he made short work of what I have called my "chronological snobbery," the uncritical acceptance of the intellectual climate common to our own age and the assumption that whatever has gone out of date is on that account discredited. You must find why it went out of date. Was it ever refuted (and if so by whom, where, and how conclusively) or did it merely die away as fashions do? If the latter, this tells us nothing about its truth or falsehood. From seeing this, one passes to the realization that our own age is also "a period," and certainly has, like all periods, its own characteristic illusions. They are likeliest to lurk in those widespread assumptions which are so ingrained in the age that no one dares to attack or feels it necessary to defend them.

In current terms, to "love" something means that you have a certain fondness for it that--momentarily--absorbs you. If you really "love" something (or someone), you have that fondness for it to the exclusion of many other pastimes and/or people. You might think that, by this definition, you do love writing. As do I. But here's the thing: our chronological snobbery has totally eradicated the true meaning of love. The popular definition excludes the roots of the thing: it makes void all the rich impulses of honor, dedication, fidelity, service, choice. Shakespeare mused: "Is love a fancy or a feeling?" --neither, I'm bound to say. Of course one cannot justly compare the love of a pastime (like writing) to the love of people, but I am permitted to take poetic license and point out the shadowy similarities. 

Inspiration is like romance: it comes and it goes and you can't keep it past its departure date. At some point in a marriage, the warm-fuzzies will fade (at least for a time) and if your love was built off of romance (as too many are) you will find yourself quite out of love. If your concept of being out-of-love includes booting the thing that fell out of love with you, then you'll find yourself with a divorce on your hands. We see this everywhere. In the same way, you begin to write a new novel with great excitement. The plot and characters were made for each other. You just know this time it will work out. You write multitudinous blog posts on how awesome it is to be a writer, you interview your characters, and the whole darn time you're waltzing along without an idea of the commitment involved. See, like romance, inspiration will fade. By the fifty-thousand word mark you will probably be quite disenchanted and ready to "divorce" this novel.

Now we come to the cross-roads of those who truly love writing, and those who are content with being dilettantes. 

"He scribbles some in prose and verse,
  And now and then he prints it.."

Proper love for something requires a choice to be faithful to that person (thing) even when the romance (inspiration) fades or temporarily disappears altogether. It is a choice, not an overwhelming, mystic thing. It is the husband who doesn't care that his wife is out of humor and refusing to speak to him and leaving the dishes undone. It is the writer who feels like doing anything but getting up at six in the morning and writing her one-thousand-word quota and yet hauls herself out of bed and does it anyway. It's a commitment--a promise--and we have to realize the cost.

Are we willing to "love" writing, knowing what it takes?

This is the main difference between published authors and unpublished. Between "writers" who begin a dozen stories and finish none, and the writers who keep at it and mound up full-length stories in their Microsoft Word files. This would be my number one piece of advice to a budding, beginning writer: you won't always feel inspired, and you won't always love your book. But if you truly love writing you will write blindly, knowing that even if you won't, you must. You must because you've promised, and it's time to take a dance through that minefield.

Hamish has a Blockage

I take the stand that honesty is the best policy, and if I am going to be perfectly honest with you, that would result in the admission  of something I've never admitted. To be quite frank, I have what is commonly called Writer's Block. My case probably springs from being out of practice because since finishing the rewrite of Fly Away Home, I haven't put my mind to any particular project, having too much to do before my trip. But I can't really deny the fact any longer:

"Hamish has a blockage."

Joy and jubilation. Throwing of rose petals and all that. I discussed my problem with my all-wise sister-in-law-ish friend, Abigail, and here is our conversation in toto: 

• 

  7:04pm
  

  Rachel Heffington
  

  
  

  I did all the heavy lifting! 
• 

  7:04pm
  

  Abigail Taylor
  

  
  
• 

  7:04pm
  

  Rachel Heffington
  

  
  

  like.literally. . . lifted all the heavy things.

  my drownies are finished and smell comforting.
• 

  7:05pm
  

  Abigail Taylor
  

  
  

  Are you going to go eat them?
• 

  7:06pm
  

  Rachel Heffington
  

  
  

  nope. not finished with you yet.  you wouldn't guess it, but I am in a crisis of faith in my writing. I don't know what to write. only that I must write. which is a nasty feeling.

  ewwww

  argh

  sometimes I wish I did something normal like. . . take a job as a nanny
• 

  7:07pm
  

  Abigail Taylor
  

  
  

  This does not surprise me, since you refused to tell me your project yesterday. It's your guilty conscience haunting you.
• 

  7:07pm
  

  Rachel Heffington
  

  
  

  no, its the fact that I haven't written since January, seriously at least.

  and all my projects seem stupid.

  and I don't know how to make interesting and original plots.

  and I say hang all agents

  and I am penniless and broken down and dull and listless

  I need Vitametavegimen
• 

  7:08pm
  

  Abigail Taylor
  

  
  

  Hmm. let me take case history. How long have you been having this crisis?
• 

  7:09pm
  

  Rachel Heffington
  

  
  

  since getting ready to go to Romania
• 

  7:11pm
  

  Abigail Taylor
  

  
  

  I diagnose that prior to Romania, your experiences had run dry, you were in need of inspiration. And now, post-Romania, your inspiration is still too raw and elusively poignant to translate into adequate words

  Trivial words will not do, weighty words will not come, and there you find your condition
• 

  7:13pm
  

  Rachel Heffington
  

  
  

  oh. that is spot on. how'd ya know? marvelous, for real! 
• 

  7:14pm
  

  Abigail Taylor
  

  
  

  And so I would prescribe a refill on living, and let the words bide their time. Perhaps even channel a bit more drawing and painting for now!

  Trace what won't be spoken

  
  

Her diagnosis was frighteningly accurate. I don't know how she does it, but she does. And so I am going to take her advice, and not try to push the thing. Oh, of course I'll keep writing--my brain explodes if I don't--but I'm not going to push for over-the-top productivity, or pushing out a story that isn't ready to come yet. I am going to wait and live life, and expand creatively in other directions. Sooner or later, I think the blockage will fix itself. But till then? Well, some prayers for inspiration and revived pizazz would not go amuck.

Actually, upon closer inspection, I really do think my writer's block this time comes from having too many elusive, poignant inspirations. A wedged gob of overload. Let's bide our time and see what comes out of this hash!

Now what do you do when faced with writer's block? Let's discuss ideas in the comments below!

Rattling o'er the bogs

"I cut a stout blackthorn

To banish ghosts and goblins,

In a brand new pair of brogues

I rattled o'er the bogs

and frightened all the dogs

on the rocky road to Dublin."

{"The Rocky Road to Dublin"}

There comes that moment in every writer's current project when you realize you've got yourself stuck in a rut and there is precious little you're able to do about it.

Except write on.

I came to a spot like that in Fly Away Home and am just now getting out of it. It's not that there are gaping plot-holes. It's just that between one major event and the next I was....floundering. The events were not inspiring me. It felt cliche. It felt forced. (And perhaps it was) But the main thing was that I just needed to take a deep breath, make my thousand-word goals, and press forward. I am out of the mire now and liking the view.
That is the important thing: I'm out of the fess-pit that was my un-inspiration and into the fresh air once more. That whole floundering spot will probably have to be re-written. Actually, I'm sure parts of it definitely will not stay till the end. But I can edit them out. The success is that I made it to the next big event and now see my way to where the weak, low spots are. I won't be getting into that morass again because now there is some foothold that I can rebuild or renovate.

Don't give up when you get in those swamplands. You may feel like you'll never get out of the Dead Marshes or that you are a terrible writer and aren't worth an ink-splatter. In actuality, the writer--much like the person on their way through life--is best proved in the muck and mire. If you give up you were write: you will still be a weak, spindly, cellar-grown author. But the real author is the one who navigates the quicksand, pulls himself up with everything he's got, and stumbles on till one day he reaches the track again and sees how far he's come.

Write on and on and on and sooner or later you'll get there.

 It's as easy {and as difficult} as that

By Hook or Crook...

I'll pin you down, Cora Lesley! You with your bright smile and winsome ways! You who looked so innocent smiling across the page at me! You who promised me smooth sailing, for after all you are fourteen years old and ought to know how to behave!
But I'll tell you one thing, Little Missy: you are giving me more trouble than all of the Seasoning children put together! [Dill and Angelica included] What is it about you that is so hard for me to write? Why do I feel that as soon as you arrived at Puddleby Lane you shut me out and ran away from me across the smooth yellow sands, free and swift as a sandpiper? I can't understand you right now. I write you into a scene and make you say and feel things I know you never saw nor felt, but you aren't helping a bit. You smile at me with that sweet complacency and look over my shoulder at these fictional actions. When I ask you what you think of it you shake your head and say, "It may be like me and then again it may not. You decide."
But I don't want to decide! I want you to let me in on that secret of yours. I find I understand Ann Company with all her eccentricities far more than I do you. Cora Lesley, I brought you into being and I find you are an enigma. So simple and yet so complex. What in tarnation did I write you for?
And yet for all this I love you. I love you for your complex simplicity, even when I'm foundering in misunderstanding. I love you for your quiet strength that is so foreign to me. I love you for being bold when I'd be frightened, and for being weak when I'd be strong. I'm sorry I'm not able to read what's behind those soft brown eyes. You are the sweetest character [despite your prejudices against being written] that I've created thus far. But, dear Cora, couldn't you be a little more forthcoming? I'd appreciate it.
                                          Your Befuddled Admirer,
                                                            Rachel Heffington

Recovering From a Wounded Pen

You may recall a not-too-distant time I confessed that I had been pen-slain. If you need a refresher, you can read about it here. I suddenly felt as if I stood before a mirror and my rosy haze of being an author had been stripped away and I was staring at the blemishes in my words, the flaws in my pen, the tinny ring of my sword in the battle for inspiration. It was a sobering moment, that instance wherein I saw my writing for what it was...young, and inexperienced. There is a charm about it, perhaps. The charm of a peasant child who wears a wreath of daisies about her head and sings a little song while she pours tea into a cup for her doll. She little thinks the pretty daisies will wilt and come to nothing by the morning.
I will admit that my writing has not quite been the same since. Puddleby Lane became dull and uninspiring. I do not think it changed at all, but my perception of it changed. I saw that it was a simple, countrified story. And beside some other writers I could name, among them Jenny, the Penslayer herself, it had paled looked dowdy.
I have not made much headway in Puddleby Lane ever since that August morning. It is truly terrible! True, I haven't had much time for writing, having seven younger siblings, a grandmother, an older brother, and two parents to spend time with and take care of. But I have felt my writing inspiration shrink in a drought of self-doubt. It's not a good thing, this self-inflicted Writer's Block...
And so I wanted to admit that I had been fuddy-duddying along and feeling sorry for myself. Sorry that I was not a stunning author, sorry that I did not have the talent to shoot delicious prickles of delight down peoples' spines, sorry that I had the talent I do have instead of the talent I wish I had.
In the past couple of weeks though, I have begun to realize something that makes me rather ashamed of myself. Two things, actually. One, in order to be pen-slain so fiercely, I do believe I had to have thought too much of my own writing in the first place. I was in a blind trough of petty vanity, I believe.
Second, I am disowning a God-given gift when I doubt and disdain the talent He has given me. That is a sober thought indeed. God did not give me the gift He gave Jenny, or the gift He gave C.S. Lewis, or the gift He gave Jane Austen, or the gift He gave to any of you other writers. He gave me the gift it pleased Him to bestow on me. How can I refuse His gift, for if I believe the Bible, [Which I entirely do]  it is a good and perfect gift. Of course my writing can always gain a little polish, but it is what I have been given, and what I do with this gift is up to me. And so I wanted to tell you all that I here and now pledge to make the most of the gift I have.
My writing has a simplicity and charm and simple goodness about it that, at least I hope, will never go out of style. It isn't grand or glorious or even stunning. But it is cheering, I think, like a hot summer breeze blowing over a ripe wheat field. There are no ethereal lilies or dazzling star-dust about my words. But there are a few blood red poppies and a quiet green glen hidden somewhere in there. There are peasant children making daisy chains and a baby's laughter, and the singing of a fiddle beneath a weeping willow.
I guess I can sum up the lesson I've learned in a few words:
  I have not been given the talent of shaking souls, but perhaps I can touch a heart.