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The Iceberg

I have a love-loathe relationship with social media. I’ve met some incredibly cool people through it, but for every one of them, there’s a hundred randos and spammers. There’s an abundance of cute animal content, but for every snoring Frenchie, there’s an ill-founded political screed. Social media is a wonderful place to discover books and writers, and it’s critical for promoting my own writing. But watching other writers celebrate their successes online—a two-book deal! A job on a TV staff! A great score on Goodreads!—always makes me feel like I’m behind in my own career.

If I didn’t know myself, and just looked through my Twitter and Instagram accounts, I’d probably think I was doing pretty well. I’d see pictures of my nice house and adorable dog, and the exciting places I’ve traveled. With my writing, the landmarks I’ve shared may sound like a dream for a first-time novelist: landing an agent and a lucrative publishing deal, getting a starred review from Booklist, being published in other languages, selling the TV rights.

But for every accomplishment, there’s been a setback. I struggle daily with my writing, and if anything, feel more insecure about my work now that I’m published than I ever did before. I’ve faced mental and physical health challenges that I don’t talk about online.

For every picture I post:

I probably delete two others that came out like this:

The horror of the front-facing camera.

I think of social media as an iceberg. People, including myself, tend to share maybe the top five to ten percent of what’s going on in their lives: the most flattering selfies, the beautifully plated meals instead of the late-night semi-congealed Kraft dinner.

It’s virtually impossible to spend time on social media without noticing that everyone else seems to be doing pretty darn well, and to feel in comparison like some sort of slimy, slow-moving slug (at least that’s how I feel). But when you see someone else posting about their great new job, or wonderful family, or chiseled abs (you know who you are, ab people), and wonder why you don’t have the same thing… stop, take a moment, and remember that you are seeing the tip of that person’s iceberg. You can’t judge others by the snippets they choose to share with the world. And you shouldn’t judge yourself by their snippets either.

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8 Things to Remember When You’re Struggling to Write

Writing is hard. Getting yourself to write, often, is harder. It took two cat naps, three internet breaks, and a muffin just to get me through the writing of this blog post. Here are eight things I remind myself of while I write to push past mental blocks and stay within shouting distance of sanity.

1. Words are free

One of the most magical, and most daunting, things about writing is that it is pure, ephemeral thought. The medium you’re working with is not something you have to buy, like paint. Words are free, and they’re an endlessly renewable resource.

If you have an idea but you’re not sure about it, just write it. If you think a certain ending might work, write it and see. You have nothing to lose. If you end up deleting those words, you have an infinite store of others to use. 

2. First drafts are only a building block

The evil thing about a first draft is that, in a fundamental way, it is very similar to a final draft of a book (or poem, screenplay, article, etc.). It’s a Word document made of words strung into sentences, strung into paragraphs, strung into chapters, just like your final draft will be. The first draft looks like a book. It walks, talks, quacks like a book. It is, in fact, a book. It is the same sort of creature as a final draft, or any of the published books on your shelf. The only difference is that, usually, it is far, far worse.

This formal similarity is what makes it so easy to expect your first draft to be this brilliant, polished, thing. It looks finished, even though it isn’t. With many other things in life, the first “draft” is very clearly just that. If you’re building a house, you don’t stop after you’ve only got the framing up and lament the fact that it’s not a finished house. Of course it isn’t—you’ve just started. If you’re making a soup, you don’t stop after just sautéing the vegetables and lament that it’s not a perfect soup. But when you’re writing, it’s very easy to look at this neatly formatted, finished-looking manuscript you’ve just produced, read it back, and dress yourself in sackcloth because you didn’t write The Great Gatsby.

The point is, you have to consciously remind yourself that a work in progress is just that. If you’re on your first draft (or your second, your third, your fourth), remember that you’ve only got the framing up, maybe some sheetrock, maybe the subfloor. But it takes many steps and a lot of time to finish building a house.

3. All creative work is subjective

I don’t like to Google a book before I’ve read it, because I don’t want other readers’ opinions to influence my own. But once I’m done, sometimes I’ll Google the title and see what other people have said about it—professional reviewers, readers on Goodreads or Amazon. I’m amazed at how often I’ll see people giving one-star reviews to a book that I genuinely thought was a work of genius, or raving about how they stayed up all night finishing something that, to me, was just mediocre. No matter what I find, there is always, always a diversity of opinion.

You said what about David Foster Wallace?

You won’t find a single creative work about which everyone is in agreement. (Except maybe Reading Rainbow? We all loved Reading Rainbow.) Focusing too much when you’re writing on the potential reactions of others, or taking criticism on a work in progress too personally, is a recipe for writing paralysis.

Of course you want other people to like what you write. But there will always be people who don’t. One of the crucial parts of every writer’s journey is learning to differentiate between useful criticism and useless criticism—and learning how to take criticism that falls somewhere in the middle.

4. Someone else’s success is not your failure

No matter who you are, you can always find somebody who’s doing it better than you are.

Unless you’re Shakespeare. You still win, Shakespeare.
Image by WikiImages from Pixabay

Stephen King might look at recent Nobel Prize winner Olga Tokarczuk and think “I’ll never get that kind of critical acclaim.” Tokarczuk might look at King and think “I’ll never make that much money, or reach that many readers.”

Read the work and observe the careers of your fellow writers. Learn from them, support them, befriend them. But don’t fall into the trap, made so terribly easy by social media, of thinking that everyone else clearly has it all figured out and you don’t, or that all the achievements shared by other writers are proof of your own inadequacy. You have your own path, and it’s not meant to look like anyone else’s.

5. Not all writing looks like writing

One question I often get from fellow writers and readers is “How many words do you write in a typical day?” And maybe this is a bad thing, but I truly have no idea. Partly because I don’t track it, and partly because there is no such thing as a typical day for me as a writer. There are days, particularly when I’m writing a first draft, when I’m churning out pages. If I put my mind to it, I can typically produce a first draft of a book in a month, or a screenplay in two weeks (see Item Two about first drafts being terrible). And those days, when I watch the word and page counts mount, can be exhilarating.

However, fewer than 50% of my writing days are spent like that. There are so many other parts of the process: researching, brainstorming, working on ideas that never go anywhere, developing characters, outlining, figuring out timelines, breaking chapters, rereading, revising, copyediting. Not to mention all of the peri-writing activities that I engage in as an author: reading to develop my sensibilities and keep up with what’s being published, reading the work of friends to give them notes, writing said notes, attending writers’ group meetings, attending readings and other events, networking, doing interviews and promotional appearances, maintaining a social media presence, maintaining a website, maintaining a newsletter, maintaining this blog…

All parts of the writing process are important. Even if you’re not hitting a certain word count goal, as long as you’re actively working on your writing, you’re making progress. Even if you write something that you end up throwing out, and you deduct those words from your total (the horror!), you may be able to use a version of what you wrote later. At the very least, every time you write, you’re developing your skills.

For some people, tracking their daily word or page count is helpful, and if that works for you, go for it. I typically pay more attention to how much time I spend writing in a day: I can’t control how many words I may come up with in a writing session, but I can control the time that I put in.

6. Perfectionism is the enemy of progress

It sounds obvious, but all you can write in the moment is whatever you can write in that moment. If you’re laboring over a sentence, or a scene or a character isn’t landing quite right, and you can’t figure out how to fix the problem, it’s immensely frustrating. But digging in and refusing to move on until you’ve perfected that one part seldom works. It’s almost always more efficient to just write the best version of it that you can in the moment, then keep going.

Remember that the version you’re writing now is just a starting point. As you continue working, and as time goes on, new ideas will come to you, and the lens through which you see your work will shift. In the future, you will be better equipped to come back and tackle that troublesome part. Sometimes you have to write something awful, to turn it into something okay, to turn it into something good, to turn it into something great.

Trusting that process is tough. It goes against the writer’s instinct to allow yourself to put words on the page that make you feel like a blob with a brain stem. Just remember, you’re not writing onstage. Nobody will see this draft until you decide to show it to them. You can be as dumb as you want. If all you can write today is the dumb version, then write it: tomorrow, you’ll get farther starting with the dumb version than you would with a blank page. 

7. There is no right way to write

Unless you’re writing with a pine cone.
Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

Most of my professional background is in the entertainment industry, and amongst screenwriters, outlining is a given. It’s a must. Not outlining is basically considered a rookie move.

Over the past few years, as I’ve gotten to know more fiction writers, I’ve been astonished by how many don’t outline. Some people call it “pantsing”—jumping in and writing by the seat of your pants. And many people swear by that method. Don’t get me wrong, I am still a staunch outliner, and probably always will be. But just seeing this much more open-minded attitude about different approaches to the creative process has been enlightening.

Just as there are no hard and fast rules about what makes a story work, there are also no absolute rules for how to write that story. You can outline, or you can pants it. You can go in order from beginning to end, or skip around. You can write a draft through and then revise, or reread and revise as you go. You can work on one project at a time, or four. You can write backwards in lemon juice and hold your words up to a mirror if that’s what lights your fuse. Over time, you’ll figure out the habits that best facilitate your creativity and productivity. But don’t be afraid to try new tricks, too. Sometimes shaking up your usual methods is the best way to get out of a rut.

8. You have to be willing to share your writing with others

Remember that thing I said about nobody seeing a draft until you decide to show it to them? That’s true… but at some point, you have to show it to them. Unless you are writing truly, purely for yourself, but if that’s the case, you’re in the minority. Most writers want their work to be read and enjoyed by others, possibly even professionally published.

Personally, I want millions of people to read and adore my work, and I also want no one to look at it, ever. Such is the writer’s paradox. Sharing your writing means sharing a piece of yourself, which requires courage and vulnerability. I recommend finding a circle of first-round readers who you can trust to be honest, but supportive, then sending to tougher readers as you go. Receiving criticism can be hard, but when you find someone who genuinely enjoys your work, and realize you’ve made a positive difference in the world through this invisible thought-string you’ve pulled out of your little head… there’s no better feeling.

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I’m a white woman writing a black woman’s story: Let’s talk about it

One of the two main projects I’m working on at the moment is a screenplay about the life of abolitionist and author Harriet Jacobs. If you’re not familiar with her, check her out; she was amazing.

As I’ve started to mention this project to people, several have asked why I, a white woman living in the 21st century, who usually writes romantic comedies, am writing this dark drama about a 19th century slave. The only answer I can give is because I want to. Because I fell in love with Harriet and her own telling of her story in Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl, and it’s a story that I want to share with people. Her experience is vastly different from mine, but I can relate to her journey of faith, and even where I can’t relate to her life, I care about it, and I care about her.

But to ask why I should be the one to tell this story is fair. Harriet isn’t alive today to write her own screenplay, and anybody writing about her will have to imagine her experience from the outside. But maybe an African American writer who has experienced his or her own version of racial prejudice would have insight into Harriet’s struggles that I don’t have.

This distills a larger conflict that I have with myself as a writer: should I actively try to incorporate more diversity into my writing, particularly with my protagonists? Is it wrong if I don’t? Is it wrong if I do? I would love to spend more time exploring the lives of characters who come from a different background than I do as far as ethnicity, abled/disabled status, religion, etc. It would open up so many stories that I find interesting and want to tell.

But frankly, I’m afraid: afraid that I’ll inadvertently portray a character in a way that offends someone. If I write a middle class female WASP and readers don’t like the way she’s portrayed, they’ll just say it’s bad writing. If I write, for instance, a Latino or Jewish or lesbian character and readers don’t like the depiction, they might think I’m a bad person. It feels a bit like damned if you do, damned if you don’t. If I don’t write diverse characters, I’ll be criticized for lack of representation in my work. If I do, I’ll be criticized for presuming to write about struggles that I haven’t lived.

The Own Voices movement advocates for people from underrepresented backgrounds to tell their own stories, in their own words. It’s a powerful and important idea. But it also creates the potential to discourage writers from writing outside of their own experience. And isn’t that what writing is really all about? Unless you’re working on an autobiography or a memoir, you’re going to have to exercise your powers of sympathy and creativity to imagine the life of someone who isn’t you, to put yourself in a character’s shoes.

Writing characters who are very different from you is tricky. I’ve read books where, for instance, it’s a white author repeatedly describing a black character in terms of his skin color, as if that’s the most important thing about him, or a male author repeatedly describing a female character in terms of her sexuality, even when she exists in the story in another capacity than as a romantic/sexual interest for the protagonist. This type of writing is painful to read. It quickly becomes offensive. But I’ve also read books where a writer depicts characters outside of his or her own “lane” and does so beautifully. A great example is She’s Come Undone, where the male author Wally Lamb creates an incredibly nuanced and believable female protagonist. You can tell that he lived inside this character as he was writing.

If we want more diversity in our books, movies, and television, I believe that we need to both create opportunities for writers from diverse backgrounds to tell their stories, and encourage all writers to include diverse perspectives in their work. Maybe it comes down to us challenging ourselves to be better writers: to more fully exercise our powers of sympathy and imagination. And in doing so, we can only hope to become better people.

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How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Audiobook

I’m grateful that I grew up without the internet. It wasn’t a daily part of my life until I was in middle school, so for those first formative years, before Twitter reduced my attention span to the duration of a sneeze, I actually read books. I remember long Saturdays and summer Mondays spent digesting Roald Dahl and Louisa May Alcott, with no distractions except my leg going to sleep and prompting me to flop over onto my stomach on the couch.

Perhaps it’s these memories that have engendered in me a deep, “get off my lawn” suspicion toward audiobooks. There’s much hubbub around audiobooks these days, and with good reason: they’re the fastest growing segment in digital publishing, sustaining double digit growth over the past six years. As someone who writes and who reads, I should embrace any positive trend in publishing. But I’ve questioned if audiobooks are all positive. My assumption is that a large part of the format’s popularity comes from its multitasking-friendliness, and the numbers bear this out. The number one reason audiobook listeners cite for preferring to hear their books is that they can do other things while listening, with traveling, doing housework, baking, crafting, and exercising ranking among the top co-reading activities. So does that mean that audiobook readers are worse readers? Are they distracted, missing out on the full experience? Traditional reading is a uniquely consuming process, requiring the uninterrupted attention of your eyes and hands. With our eyes and hands allowed to wander, aren’t our brains going to follow suit?

And while we’re at it, what about the concern that audiobooks privilege more established authors since their books are most likely to be available in audio format, meaning that people who already get the most reads will take up a larger and larger share of the market? Or the concern that a narrator’s delivery will limit the scope of a reader’s imaginative possibilities? Or that his dictation of pace will hinder comprehension?

Lou says “Audible? Oh, I thought you said ‘Edible.’ I’m not interested.”

Thinking about this got me all worked up (another skill Twitter taught me). But I decided to play fair and consider the possible benefits of audiobook consumption. Of course, audiobooks offer accessibility advantages for readers with visual or learning impairments. Also, a little research told me that most audiobook users in the U.S. are between 18 and 44, which bodes well for the future of the medium. And as tethered as we are to our screens, anything that can give our eyes a break is worth a shot (I say while staring at my computer, my eyeballs trying to weep at the irony, yet no longer able to produce any natural tears). Maybe most importantly, audiobooks have been proven to encourage reading: they can be a gateway to books for non-readers, particularly podcast listeners, and according to the Audiobook Publishers Association, those who already read agree that the option to listen helps them finish more books.

Perhaps what surprised me most in my research was a study by University College London that compared the reactions generated by listening to a scene and watching it. Study participants registered higher levels of emotional engagement, according to physiological markers, when listening to the audiobook version of a scene than when they watched the filmed version of the same scene. Funnily enough, the participants expected their own engagement to be higher in the TV and film portion of the test: maybe they shared my preconceptions about visual versus auditory consumption. While I’d love to see a similar study comparing listening to audiobooks and reading pages, the data at least indicates that audiobook reading does significantly activate the emotions and imagination.

As I reflect on our collective reading habits, I realize that though I prefer paper books, I almost never just sit and read these days anyway. I’m a multitasker too: I read in waiting rooms, on trains, at the breakfast table and on the elliptical machine. So maybe “distracted reading” is less of a peril of the audiobook and more of an inevitability of modern life. And maybe I should stop asking “But are you reading CLOSELY????” and just be happy that people are reading. After all, our earliest forms of storytelling were oral. If it was good enough for Homer, it’s good enough for me.


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