Topic 4: Dealing with Editorial Suggestions

Response 1: David

If an emerging writer sends out enough manuscripts, sooner or later an editor may jot a brief note on the rejection slip. Hopefully, it will be a helpful note even if it’s nothing more than, “Keep trying us,” or “Better,” or “If you rework this for more action, I would read it again.”

Harry Mark Petrakis taught the art of the short story one summer when I attended his workshop at Indiana University in Bloomington. He told us about his early days when he set his sights on getting a story accepted by Atlantic Monthly. He submitted one story after another for years and every one came back without comment. At some point when he was growing discouraged, a brief editorial comment re-energized him and kept him going. I think the comment was, “This one is better,” or maybe it was, “Don’t give up.” Anyway, he went on to publish numerous stories with Atlantic Monthly and elsewhere and loved to recall how much that editor’s note helped him along the way.

But let’s get back to the type of comment that offers specific suggestions. I’m not talking about editorial direction given after a contract is signed. Sandy or I will deal with that scenario later. For now I’m sticking with the kind of free advice that comes back with a rejection. What if the comment you receive suggests that your masterpiece is too long or too short or needs more dialogue or the second chapter needs to be thrown out entirely and a new one written? What if this person you don’t know, sitting at a desk in an office you’ve never visited, offers advice that requires you to rethink your basic premise or essentially rework your entire piece without any assurance that you’ll be accepted when you’ve finished?

Such dilemmas happen. If it hasn’t happened to you already, your turn may be coming. What should you do? How much should you trust this stranger who seems to mean well and takes the time to tell you how to make your script more acceptable, at least to that house? Other authors may respond to this differently, but my rule was always simple. If an editor opens the door the barest crack, go for the light. If you have a real, live person on the other end willing to give you some advice, take it. Not out the window. Not if it’s something you simply find too repugnant to do. Not if it goes against everything you stand for and you would lose sleep over it and feel compromised. Not if standing on pride is more important to you than getting published. I don’t remember ever suffering from any of those objections. I figured it was an opportunity to be published and I had nothing to lose but a few more hours and a few more words.

My position was that I knew more about myself than the editor but the editor knew more about my manuscript’s chances for being published than I did. If you follow the same practice that Sandy and I have suggested in earlier segments of WRITERS AT WORK and keep a list of houses where you’ll send your manuscript if it comes back from its current reading, then you may decide to ignore the helpful editor’s advice long enough to try a few more houses. Or you may choose to jump at the chance to work with the editor before she or he moves on to other projects and becomes too bogged down to get back to you again before your hair turns gray(er).

Remember that not all editors are equal and not all houses look for the same kind of work to publish. Before you agree to give your story a complete overhaul, it will pay to seek a bit more assurance that this editor of yours is fairly serious about the free advice you keep holding in your hand and biting your lip over. But as a general rule, I prefer to have a positive relationship with that person at that desk in that office. Many of my books have developed because of such relationships. I say go for the light.

Sandy, over to you.

David

Response 2: Sandy

Ah, yes, David, those sometimes thoughtful, often cryptic messages that editors tack onto rejection slips. Those are the rejection slips I save, because those editors have noticed me and I may just want to notice them back.

I talked a bit in our last go-round about how to interpret those comments and suggestions. But that was all about reading between THEIR lines and figuring out what THEY’RE trying to say. There’s also the challenge of reading between my own lines and making sure I know exactly what I’m trying to say. Then I can decide whether those particular comments and suggestions are going to help me clarify what I’ve written, or discover I really should be writing something else (it happens!), or mess up what I want to say entirely.

I realized long ago that a story is only half written when I’ve put it down on paper; the other half is created out of what each reader brings to it from his or her personality, tastes, and life experience. Sometimes what a reader brings, even a highly experienced reader, is not helpful. Sometimes it’s very helpful. I’ve learned that I need to be the judge of that.

True stories that illustrate my point: The first has to do with a YA novel I was writing just about the time the bottom fell out of the YA market. Editors were becoming very cautious and, for the first time in my experience, were insisting that even established authors do considerable revision before a contract could be offered. In fact, the contract often didn’t arrive even after the considerable revision. (Sad to say, though the YA bottom has been in good repair of late, this is a trend that has not gone away.)

My novel centered on a young teenager dealing with an aging dog while also mourning the loss of her mother and adjusting to the changes in her sister and her father. Over time, the manuscript went to several editors. Each saw enough strength in it to offer detailed suggestions and an invitation to resubmit. One liked the mourning strand of the story, but disliked the dog strand. Another wept copious tears over the dog, but didn’t care for the sister and father situations. A third related strongly to the father but not to the sister or the dog...You get the picture. Eager for publication in hard times, I revised. And I revised. And I revised. Until I could no longer remember what the story had meant to me in the first place. Though there was one more “If you revise, I’d like another look” editorial letter, I didn’t have the heart or the will to go on. The manuscript has long been buried in my basement. R.I.P.

The other story makes me smile to this day. It’s about the genesis of Too Many Frogs!, possibly my most successful book ever. As required by contract, my agent submitted the manuscript to the editor who’d done my previous picture book, Stella’s Dancing Days. She liked it. Not enough to offer a contract right off, but she saw room for improvement. I agreed with her suggestions and rewrote accordingly. Yes, she felt it was better, but not quite “there” yet. Still in agreement, I rewrote again. Yes, yes, much improved, but maybe...? Sure, why not, said I, and went at it once again.

The Surprise Ending: Yes, yes, yes, it was improved, and it was good. But it just “wasn’t for her.” Can’t argue with that. So my agent sent the manuscript off to Philomel, where editor Michael Green snapped it up. Some time later, I was in New York City and stopped by his office to say hello. “You know,” he said, “this is the first time I’ve ever received a manuscript that didn’t require any editing or revision.”

I didn’t say a word. Just smiled. Smiling still.

Which brings me to one last word, David, about that list of publishers appropriate to each manuscript. In this era of multiple submissions, it’s tempting to send the story to everyone at once. I say, “Resist that temptation!” One or two or maybe three at a time are enough. That way, if Editor A or B or C writes a really helpful comment on a rejection slip, a comment bound to do your story—and your heart—good, you can use that insight to revise and impress Editor D!

Response 3: David

Hi, Sandy. I liked your closing advice last week about not sending to everyone on our list before we’ve given ourselves a chance to benefit from editorial comments and suggestions that might improve our story and our chances. I don’t know about you, but one way I can tell that I’ve grown more patient and open over the years is that I’m more willing now to think carefully about the pros and cons of advice from an editor (or anyone else for that matter).

One of my writer friends questions the merit of attending writers’ conferences. I think it’s always a good idea to put ourselves in places where we have opportunities to visit with editors and hear more about what they seek in a manuscript. I bet at one time or another we’ve all been guilty of sending a story to an editor who is not in that market. Or an editor who just recently published a similar story. Or an editor who simply doesn’t like animals that talk. Remarks from editors who are basically not interested are likely to be short and to the point, and not necessarily aimed at improving our work.

On the other hand, when I go to New York each year to make appointments with editors with whom I’m working on a project, I always come away with a clearer sense of what is going on in their world. Once I have a contract on a book, things change from general comments to specific ones. At this point I’m even more likely to follow advice when I’m working with my editor-partner. Recently I completed a manuscript, submitted it, and received my editor’s suggestions.

His general comment was filled with enough praise to send me strutting around the house for a few minutes feeling the rush. Then I opened the attachment and took a long look at those specific and inevitable critical suggestions. Why that! Who does he...How? No I can’t do that!...Impossible! Hmmm. This makes me so...Hmmm. Well that makes sense. I’ll be darned. Oh come on! Hmmm. I do like that better. Huh. Oookay, let’s start at the beginning.

Sandy, I don’t know what percentage of the editor’s ideas I eventually adapt into the revised manuscript. It’s a significant number. And not all of the good ideas come from the editor. One time I wrote a poem about a ladybug with a beard and made the crack that I could tell it was no lady bug. The copy editor sweetly reminded me that some women do indeed sport quite a lot of hair and that her hirsute daughter was sometimes teased by the boys. I apologized for my thoughtlessness and insensitivity and wrote a different poem.

I guess the issue of how we respond to suggestions about our work—whether from an editor, a spouse, or writing buddy—boils down to this: Does the suggestion make sense to me? Will I like the work better after making the change? And do I think the quality of the story will benefit?

Back to you to wrap up.

Response 4: Sandy

Editorial suggestions AFTER the contract is signed? Who knew?

We all thought that after “yes” came “and they lived happily ever after.” Right?

Uh...’fraid not.

David, you described that head-spinning response to editorial communication so well—euphoria (She loves it!), disbelief (She wants me to change it?), and slow realization (Well, maybe she does have a point there...or two...or three...).

My personal favorite example is a four-page, single-spaced letter I received from Bebe Willoughby, the editor who worked with me on Just Like Jenny and many other books back in the days when such letters were delivered by snail. I still carry the letter with me to show around at workshops. Just Like Jenny was my third YA novel, but it was Different. Or so I thought. It inspired a bit of an auction among publishers, a head-swelling, once-in-a-lifetime situation that led me to believe the book was already as perfect as perfect could be. The first page of Bebe’s letter confirmed that it was, indeed, pretty darn good. The next three pages (single-spaced, remember) were filled with questions and suggestions for rethinking and revising it.

I went ballistic. “What is wrong with these people? They said they loved the book! They gave me a two-book contract! And now they want me to change the whole thing? That’s crazy! I can’t do it! I won’t do it!”

My agent, the late, great Claire Smith, heard me out and firmly instructed me to calm down, reread my manuscript, and then reread the letter. So I did. And slowly but surely, I came to understand that Bebe wasn’t forcing me to make a wrong manuscript right. She was helping me to make a good manuscript better. As only a totally objective, experienced, knowledgeable reader—not a friend, teacher, spouse, or neighbor, not even a colleague—can do.

So now when editors are busier than ever and not always able to give each and every manuscript their full attention, I worry. I’d rather have an editor call my attention to problems before publication than have a critic or, worse yet, reader catch me out later. I’ve learned to cherish that objective response, not just the opening love letter, but the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, every single-spaced page of it.

That doesn’t mean I follow every directive slavishly, or even willingly and joyfully. I tend to adore the ones that turn on spotlights in my head, illuminating quick and easy fixes that make the story amazingly better. I tend to balk and grow sullen over the ones that show me something’s got to be done but leave me in the dark, trying to figure out exactly what and how all by myself. (Have I mentioned earlier in these chats that I’m basically lazy?)

I’ve also been known to defend my words, politely, against suggestions that make no sense to me at all. If I can make a good enough argument as to why not, the editor will usually accept my preference. An example: In my picture book Stella’s Dancing Days, Stella starts off as a kitten who loves to dance. Time passes, she grows up, gets busy with other things, and dances less. The human beings in her life miss her dancing days. But, I wrote, “Stella did not miss her dancing days.” The editor asked me to revise that sentence so that Stella would miss her dancing days, too, because not missing them sounded harsh. I thought about it, as I do all editorial insights. Finally, I said, “No. First of all, Stella is a cat and cats are not nostalgic about their kittenhoods. They live in the moment. Second of all, Stella represents her young readers, who are not nostalgic about their babyhoods. They won’t find it harsh that Stella doesn’t miss her dancing days. They’ll understand she’s simply far more interested in growing up—just as they are.”

The editor understood. The children understood. And Stella eventually has six kittens—three boys and three girls—who all love to dance.

Speaking of dancing, David, it’s my turn to lead! If you agree, I’ll tackle “The Perils and Joys of Writing in Different Genres” next.

Topic 3: The Reality of Rejection

What I Love about Rejections

by guest Mara Rockliff

Okay, nobody really loves rejections.

But when that storm cloud of rejection drives its icy needles down my neck and soaks my socks, here are the hints of silver lining that I spy:

Rejections are fun!

Okay, not always. But sometimes they can be pretty hilarious, like the time I sent out a picture book story and it was rejected—two and a half years later. (With a form rejection!) Or the agent who turned me down, saying she didn’t think she could sell my manuscript—even though I’d told her I already had an offer on it from a major publisher.

Rejections are educational!

Think of a rejection letter as a free bit of professional advice. Six editors say the same thing? If it’s “the plot is thin,” maybe you should consider working on the plot. Six editors say six different things? No point revising now, unless one of the comments really clicks. Otherwise, keep submitting. Even a form rejection tells you something: that whoever sent it wasn’t interested enough to spend much time. Twenty form rejections is a good hint that your manuscript needs lots of work—or that it should be put aside while you move on to something else.

Rejections are terrific practice—for rejection.

Every aspiring writer dreams of that magic moment when a manuscript is accepted for publication. Break out the bonbons! You’re a real writer now! You’ll never be rejected and ignored again!

Then months go by with no word from your editor. Or years. Or she calls to tell you that the illustrator they were hoping for turned down the project. In fact, every illustrator on the planet has turned down the project. Your editor points out cheerfully that scientists may still discover life—and illustration talent—on Jupiter’s moons.

Your book is published, but no one reviews it. Or it’s reviewed, and the reviewers hate it. Or reviewers love it, but the big chain bookstores decide not to carry it. Or they carry it, but no one buys it, so the books get sent back to the publisher and eventually shredded to a pulp.

Luckily, you’ve learned how to deal with rejection! So you don’t waste time dwelling on these setbacks. You go straight back to your writing desk. After all, the sooner you finish another manuscript, the sooner your mailbox will start filling up again with more fun, educational rejection letters.

Rejections are The Way.

As Lao Tzu pointed out, there can be no light without dark. (I’m pretty sure he said that when the twenty-third editor finally called with an offer on the Tao Te Ching.) And if you eat nothing but ice cream, it loses its taste. So as you choke down those bitter rejections, just think: without them, the good news you’re waiting for could never be so sweet.

Mara Rockliff’s recent titles include Get Real: What Kind of World Are You Buying? (Running Press Teens) and the picture book The Busiest Street in Town (Knopf). Visit her online at www.mararockliff.com.

Topic 3: The Reality of Rejection

Response 1: Sandy

Rejection. Huge sigh. The very word picks at the scabs of ancient schoolyard wounds. The myth, the hope, the dream is that literary – and perhaps even personal -- rejection will end once we’ve “got our foot in the door.” That may be true if the foot belongs to J.K. Rowling, but it’s not true for most of the rest of us. I’ve had my foot in the publishing door for well over 40 years now.  Rejection continues to graze nearby, raising its beastly head from time to time to charge my way.

If it’s okay with you, David, I’d like to talk about dealing with rejection BEFORE it happens in this first part of our chat and dealing with it AFTER it happens when I chime in later.

My favorite pastime during the first 10 or 15 years of my writing career was reading other authors' comments in writers' magazines about the numerous times their work had been rejected before it finally got published --10, 15, 20, 25.  After a while, I didn't need those reports anymore, because I had my own war stories to tell, but I believed in the happy ending: Those folks did, eventually, get published. I clung to that happy ending with all my might. I was willing to battle my way through any forest of tangled and thorny vines to get to it. What I wasn’t willing to do, at first, was acknowledge that our field has rules and that I need to play by those rules if I hoped to get anywhere.

There were no marketing skills taught in my college creative writing classes. I happened to see a copy of The Writer on a newsstand one day, bought it, and submitted a poem I'd written in class to a tiny literary journal I found listed inside. I sent the poem off without requesting a sample copy of the journal to study first, and without enclosing a self-addressed, stamped envelope for its very possible return. 

A few weeks later, I received a postcard telling me the poem had been accepted for publication. A dream come true, and possibly the worst thing that could have happened to me at that stage in my development. I thought, "Oh, this is easy! All I have to do is write stuff down, mail it off, and they'll print it up and send back money." (Well, okay, not money -- but two contributor's copies and that's a start!)

           

So I sent out all the poems, stories, plays, and articles I could think up, as fast as I could get them down on paper. Never mind rewriting -- I was clearly a genius. Never mind studying the markets. If publications had rules, and The Writer hinted that they indeed might, they'd break them for me because everything I wrote was divinely inspired.

           

About ten years into this vigorous and arrogant attack, I had indeed published quite a few pieces, but when I finally paused to take account, I realized that for every 50 envelopes stuffed with brilliance I was sending out, 49 stories, poems, plays, and articles were coming back rejected, and ONE was getting accepted for publication. Chimpanzees typing randomly could probably have done as well.

The moral of this story reflects ten years of trial and error on my part.  May it spare you much effort and time: Study the market. When editors state their requirements in a market guide or in contest rules or at conferences -- believe them. I can’t promise that will stop rejection in its tracks, but it’ll definitely slow the beast down.

                                                 

Response 2:  David

Sandy, I enjoyed your remarks, all the more because they sound so déjà vu-ish. I hope that someone reading this has a better story to tell than yours or mine, but early, easy success, as far as I know, is rarer than a joke book from Kirkus.

My quest for publication began as a college science major. I took a creative writing class and the professor told me I had a knack for writing. Being unfamiliar with the market (Oops, was there a class in that?), I dreamed of instant recognition, which would save a lot of time and work. My voice was so singular, so remarkable, so undiscovered that somewhere an insightful editor was going to read my story, slap his forehead, and gasp incredulously. Okay, that last part was over the top. But I’ve always wanted to write, “gasp incredulously,” and not be engaged in purple prose. Whatever, it didn’t happen.

During the following six years in hot pursuit of that head-slapping editor, I read that writers keep more than one story in circulation. Also, writers keep lists of places to send each story, on the remote chance that it comes back with its tale dragging, before rigor mortis of resolve sets in.

I followed both pieces of advice. I devoured Writers’ Market; made lists of “friendly” sounding publishers; copied names of editors and mailing addresses; laid in a supply of 9x12 envelopes, address labels, and reassuring rolls of stamps; maintained detailed records of each story’s history of submissions and rejections; and churned out new stories with a sense of impending destiny. I took pride in having at least a dozen stories out at all times.

During the next half dozen years I averaged ten submissions per year. I averaged ten rejections. Net gain: zero. This was not the best time of my life. But it was the most necessary. Now, after dozens of books on my belt, I can laugh and say, “Ha-ha-ha, no more rejections for me!”

But, of course, that would not be true. Rejection is always with us. As Sandy points out, it’s not unusual to get turned down. There can be lots of reasons: Ignorant editor, the stupid economy, out-of-touch editorial board, backward sales force, malicious promotion director, clueless art director . . . Okay, sometimes maybe the story is a teeniest weeniest bit shy of the mark. These are obstacles we live with. Emerging writers may feel rejection a bit more personally than beat-up old pros. At some point a writer becomes more philosophical about rejections. He or she learns to roll with them to a certain extent. They still smart and frustrate and aggravate. But editors, some claim, don’t really hate us. They work for companies that hope to show the stockholders a profit at the end of the year. How mundane.

Here’s my advice to emerging writers. Frame your first rejection letter. Choose a nice frame and hang it where you can see it every day. It may only be an impersonal printed slip but it’s still important enough to keep. The first rejection is your ticket into the fraternity of eternally optimistic folks who make up stories, write nonfiction, or pour out their hearts in poems. There is no sin in being rejected. The only sin is in quitting because the big boys kicked sand in your face.

Response 3: Sandy

“...Ignorant editor, the stupid economy, out-of-touch editorial board, backward sales force, malicious promotion director, clueless art director...” 

David!  What a delicious incantation! I think I’ll post it above my computer and chant it out loud – with gusto! – whenever another rejection rolls in. Take that and that and THAT! I just know I’ll feel cleansed, cheered, and most importantly, energized.

Anger has its upside. It tells us our needs are not being met. It provides the adrenaline rush needed to get them met. Earlier I mentioned “revenge” as a response to rejection. Sounds destructive, but guess what? Properly employed, revenge can be quite a healthy and productive response. I figured that out just about the time the steady waves of rejection finally began denting and rusting my faux armor of ignorant self-assurance. (For more about that, see Response 1.) As I tore open more and more dreaded envelopes containing returned manuscripts, I took to sprawling on the sofa for long, sometimes tearful, sulks. My husband and children would wander by, murmuring words of sympathy and encouragement. Sort of.

Me: Whatever made me think I could publish my work? What made me think I could even write? Never again. I give up. I mean it!

Them: How long is it going to last this time? Are you planning to cook dinner or what?

Eventually, even I would grow tired of my own self-pity. That’s when the second tsunami would wash over me: REVENGE! 

Me: I will revise this thing until it’s so wonderful the next editor to see it will snap it up – and it will be so successful the rest of them will eat their hearts out that they didn’t grab it when they had the chance.

Them: Okay. So what’s for dinner?

I’m not a vengeful person normally, but I do have an older brother, so I learned early to stop sniveling and fight back. My current household confirmed that sniveling would get me nowhere. But thoughts of literary revenge gave me the energy I needed to stand up and get back to work. And cook dinner, too.

These days, I’m less of a drama queen. No kids at home means a reduced audience anyway. “Self-pity Meets Revenge” is a short one-act instead of a full-length play, and it’s performed mainly inside my head. But that “I’ll show them!” impulse still gets the adrenaline flowing.

Not everyone needs to face rejection. Writing is a good thing. Writing for oneself, one’s family, one’s friends – all valid and worthwhile endeavors. Writing for professional publication is a whole other challenge. As I’ve often told my students, “It’s art when you create it; it’s art when your audience receives it. Everything in between is BUSINESS.” Rejection is an unavoidable part of that business. But no one’s required to go there. If you can be happy doing anything else, do that other thing and write for the joy of it. But if you can’t be happy without sharing your work through professional publication, figure on spending considerable time wending your way through the Big Business Forest that stands between you and your audience. Prepare to meet lions and tigers and bears. Oh, my.

I don’t remember which Hollywood mogul said it, but an agent passed it on: “If I’d known I was getting into this business, I never would’ve gotten into this business.”

Well, I’m in it. If you decide publication is the way you must go, learn to read between the lines of those rejections. The standard form says, “Not for us at this time.” Okay, that’s a “no.” But it does leave open, “Maybe for someone else at some other time.” The handwritten note, even a “Sorry” scribbled at the bottom of a standard form, means “Not for us, but, busy as I am, I still want to let you know you’ve impressed me.” The more extensive personal comment means, “Not for us, but likely for someone else, and I’m hoping we connect with another piece soon.” And if an editor’s comments end with “If you’re willing to revise along these lines, I’d like to see this again,” you’ve got an open door. Walk through it!

Hang onto those personal comments. Editors do not make them lightly. I keep a collection of them and was able to remind an editor of her former kind words when submitting something entirely different to her years later, after she’d moved to another publishing house. She remembered. That’s how much those comments mean to a busy editor taking the time and making the effort to write them! 

Oh, and given her new job and my new material, she was able to offer an entirely different response: “Yes.” So, burn no bridges behind you. David’s incantation is strictly for home use only. Repeat as needed, then forge ahead!

Your turn to wrap it up, David.

Response 4: David 

So I’m attending a major convention. This morning I made a presentation about Word of the Month Poetry Challenge which, I think, was well received and might result in more teachers introducing their students to the project. Not ony that, I'm signing books at the Scholastic booth and last hour I signed books at the Boyds Mills Press booth. In both places, I greeted many old friends and met a number of new ones. When I finish here, I’ll attend the Authors Luncheon and sit around a table of teachers, each of whom will receive a copy of my latest book. They will ask me to sign their books and I’ll do it with pleasure. It’s hard not to feel good about this day. Until I check my e-mail just prior to the luncheon. And there I find a r-e-j-e-c-t-i-o-n.

And I am bummed.

Never mind how grown-up we all try to be about having our work turned down, it still stings when someone says, “Not for us.” As Sandy says, we gradually reach a point where we take these rejections in stride as being part of the job. Maybe our sulk time shortens and the hysterics diminish. But come on, I’m having a Rejection Moment here. How about a moment of silence?

Okay, I’m back.

Today I visited with several other writers, among them some of the brightest and best. And guess what? One of them just got turned down twice; same for another. Others mention how hard it has been lately for them to get approval for new projects. These are STARS for Pete’s sake. I also talked with editors and they, too, lament how difficult it can be these days to get a book accepted. I mentioned earlier in my conversation with Sandy that I developed a habit years ago to keep a list of potential publishers for every new manuscript so that I could get a rejected manuscript back in circulation as soon as possible after it came back. The tactic still works. 

We’ve talked about dealing with rejection before the fact and how to handle it after it happens. Here’s my executive summary.

1. Write something.
2. Polish it until you can’t read it without sunglasses.
3. Study the market.
4. Make a list of potential publishers.
5. Submit to the one at the top of the list.
6. Remind yourself that there is a strong chance you’ll be rejected.
7. Be prepared to hold the briefest pity part possible before going to #2 on your list.
8. See #7.
9. See #7.
10. See #7.
Etc.
11. If you sell something, bask in the glow, but don’t get used to the idea that you are now invincible.
12. See #7
Etc.

Topic 2: Dealing with Obstacles to Writing

On Being Distracted

by guest Joan Carris

I have been writing something or other since 1976. My first writing assignment was a plea from the Unitarian church in Princeton for an original play celebrating the BiCentennial. Having no idea of how difficult that could be, I said YES. At the time our kids were 14, 9, and 6. “When I’m writing,” I told them, “don’t bother me unless you’re bleeding.”

I settled down at my typewriter with a ream of paper and rolled in the first pristine sheet. Instantly heard a terrified screaming outside my workroom window. I flew outdoors just in time to see our 6 year-old son hit the ground under the neighbor’s giant willow tree. He and I had a red-hot discussion right there. “But I stopped myself by grabbing a branch,” he said. “See?  I’m hardly bleeding at all!”

That was the beginning of my distracted life as a writer. Over time I have managed to learn a little something about the craft—mainly that it is a heckuva lot harder than it should be. As Hawthorne wrote, “Easy reading is damned hard writing.” I believe it’s hard because we keep expecting more of ourselves. We intimidate ourselves, and then call it writer’s block.

            
Fran Lebowitz, an extremely funny essayist (Social Studies, 1981), was quoted in the online Writer’s Almanac as saying, “Most writers have a hard time writing. I have a harder time than most because I’m lazier than most…I would have made a perfect heiress.” She is now at work on a novel that was commissioned more than 20 years ago.

Okay, so writing IS HARD. Clearly we deserve not just a room of our own, as Virginia Woolf said, but some peace and quiet, dangit. The world should tiptoe away. It should, but it won’t.  Some damn fool will ring your doorbell. Your back left molar will start throbbing. The cat will meow to be let in.

Real life and writing simply are not compatible. Life is always interrupting. I tend to feel lucky if it isn’t interrupting with an illness or a new litter of kittens. Long ago I decided that writers must become more devious. How? Try running away. Ask your church for permission to write in an empty classroom. Ask a friend if you can write at her place after she leaves for work. Some writers work at a public library table in a nearby town, not in their own library where people know them. I like the study carrels at our community college.

Most of the time, though, I write at home. I let the bloody distractions go on, run a fan for white noise, and force myself to focus. That’s easier with a good outline, by the way. In a long, lean period in my past, when I was the only one stoking my fire, I began talking to myself. I said, “This is who I am and this is what I do. Now shut up, Joan, and get to work.” I still tell myself that.

Recent books include Welcome To the Bed and Biscuit (2006), Wild Times at the Bed and Biscuit (2009), and Magic at the Bed and Biscuit (January 2011), all from Candlewick Press.

Website: www.joancarrisbooks.com

Topic 2: Dealing with Obstacles to Writing

Greetings from Writers at Work, the ongoing chat between Sandy Asher and David Harrison about, well, writers at work. Rules are simple. We select a question that is often posed and take turns (two each) responding to it. We also welcome guest blogs from published authors. For example, you’ll see comments below from Veda Boyd Jones, Amie Brockway, and Kristi Holl.

We also welcome and will respond to comments, questions, and topic suggestions from all.

Now we turn to our second subject. It’s about obstacles to writing, things that writers often have to jump over, sneak around, or tunnel under to reach that goal-on-high: finding time to write. In other words, “What kinds of obstacles—external, interpersonal, internal—get in your way and how do you deal with them?” It’s

David’s turn to lead off. Here we go.

Response 1: David

First, the external issues. Oops. Excuse me. Someone’s at the door. Okay, sorry. I’m back. Great. The phone. The phone is ringing. “The phone is ringing! Can’t somebody get the phone?” Sorry. The thing is, writers don’t have real jobs. Ask anybody. “Will someone get that phone!” Every thought we think comes at peril of instant annihilation by barking dogs, TV commercials, or the UPS guy. It’s nobody’s fault, really. Writing something well is the goal, but writing something at all is the best many of us can muster on any given day.

If the creative part of your mind is as sensitive to interruptions as mine, you know there is little room in there for your dog needing out or your neighbor firing up his lawnmower in the middle of a paragraph. Jean Kerr (Please Don’t Eat the Daisies) set up writing headquarters in her car to get some privacy to work. Another author, I don’t remember who, built a pulley-rigged platform in his living room and literally rose above the distractions below. A friend of mine went to even greater extremes to protect herself from external obstacles. I don’t know if she’ll tell you about it, but it makes a great story.

I used to stay up late to write after my family went to bed. When the kids were older, and so was I, I switched to getting up early to beat the crowd. Whatever you have to do to write is up to you to work out. Just realize that few writers ever have the luxury of an obstacle-free environment. Somehow we all need to figure out how to answer the phone and still finish the same sentence we started.

How about those interpersonal obstacles? Families are probably the writer’s main obstacles. After all, families live together, share time and space, play together, depend on one another. When one of us – that would be the writer – keeps sliding down the hall toward the computer like Gollum sniffing for his precious, the scene is set. Feelings can be hurt on both sides. Chores that should get done don’t. Evenings that ought to be planned aren’t. Writing does take its toll. For that matter, so does painting, composing, sculpting, or any other endeavor that requires extended periods of concentration, quiet, and isolation.

Too bad we can’t have it all. The world loves beauty created by those who have the gift to make beauty by human hands. It’s the process that ticks off so many people. It’s not the principal of the thing. It’s the TIME it takes. Think compromise. Think establishing “safe zones” for your writing. Good luck on this one!

Sandy I’ll save the third section until my second round. So, over to you.

Response 2: Sandy

Hey, David –

“A friend” with a story to tell, huh? Okay, I will, but let’s back up a little first. Phone calls and ringing doorbells are obstacles to writing, of course, along with the dog scratching to go out and then scratching again to come back in. But these days I’d put email and the internet at the top of my list. Because there I am – at the computer, alone at last and with time to write – and the sirens start singing in cyberspace. Passing minutes turn to lost hours with amazing speed.

Next, there’s family. When the children were little, I was a stay-at-home mom and learned to write during nap times and then preschool times and then school times. As the hours expanded, so did my word count – poetry, very short stories and plays, longer stories and plays, and, finally YA novels and full-length plays. That was fine, because I was learning from the kids and the forms as I was growing as a writer. Obstacles can become challenges, which then become learning opportunities.

Then off the kids went, launched into their own lives, and Harvey continued leaving for work in the early a.m. and not returning until dinner, five days a week. Bliss!

Fast forward many years, and here comes the “friend’s story” to which you alluded, David. Harvey became a stay-at-home retiree. We moved to our small, historic townhouse in Lancaster. (People didn’t need as much personal space in the 1800’s. Jane Austen wrote on a tiny table in the parlor with her nieces and nephews running around.) In my office on the third floor, I could hear the microwave beeping on the first floor. If I wandered downstairs for a cup of coffee, still thinking about the writing at hand, I found my concentration shattered by the sight of another human being. Even one deservedly enjoying quite reading time in his beloved recliner.

How to explain to that non-writer that his mere presence was ruining everything? What to do about it, short of ending an otherwise happy marriage? The answer to the first question came with a Lancaster Literary Guild presentation by Francine Prose. She mentioned a grant she’d received that included a year’s office space at the New York Public Library to work on any project she liked, and she said she knew it would have to be a nonfiction project. She didn’t say why, but I understood. I waited until the Q&A and asked her. “Every day at noon,” she said, “a friend with the same grant who worked in a neighboring office poked his head in and asked if I wanted to go to lunch. Since I was working on nonfiction, that was no problem. I knew my notecards would stay on my desk, awaiting my return. But if I’d been working on fiction, I would’ve had to kill him. Nonfiction happens outside of you. To write fiction, you completely enter another world and any intrusion from anyone in your real life instantly destroys it.” I turned to Harvey. He got it.

So what did we do about our problem? We bought a second townhouse! Two doors away. This one’s really tiny, but big enough for Harvey to relax, read, watch TV, beep the microwave, and even do some writing of his own.

And they lived happily ever after.

Your turn, David. Let’s hear about the battles that go on inside, even when the outside obstacles take a break.

Response 3: David

Hi Sandy,

Good point about the difference between writing fiction and nonfiction. Up to a point, that is. When I’m into reading for a nonfiction book, making notes is fairly routine and allows for a certain amount of interruption to the process. But good nonfiction is far more than reporting, of course. To hold any audience’s attention for long, the writer must find ways to weave the nonfictional information into a narrative that interests the reader and keeps him or her turning pages. That’s when the storyteller in me takes the lead, and that’s when the usual need for peaceful thinking time clicks in.

Okay, now for the third part of our question about obstacles to writing: internal ones. For many of us, this is the worst culprit of all. Self-induced problems run the gamut and I’ll bet that everyone reading this will have his or her own list of reasons not to write. (If you have your own particular demons, let us know so we can share them.)

Here are some of mine. I need to clear my email. The inbox must be empty. Ditto the Sent box and the Delete box. I want my time clear of such obligations before I turn to my day’s work. I also check my blog about 200 times a day to make sure I don’t owe someone a response to a comment left there. By the way, Kate Klise suffers from the same need to clear her email as a requisite to writing. I drink coffee most of the morning from 6:00 on. It might surprise me to keep track of the time I burn between my computer and the kitchen, pouring or warming cups of coffee.

As the day progresses I wander the house to check on this or that. Maybe to look at the lake to see if the swan has returned. I’ll dig into a box of crackers and wonder if the salt is really all that bad for me. I suddenly remember that I owe someone a response so I stop for that. I make a list of things I need to be doing, like WRITING SOMETHING.

I check for email. Maybe an editor has responded to a query or someone has invited me to speak somewhere or . . . sigh.

I get down some words. Oh yes! Wow does this feel good. Why didn’t I put off all those other things and do this first? Will I ever learn? Sometimes at this point I take my pad to some other part of the house, outside even, to get away from this computer. But you know what? As disorganized as my system appears to be (even to me!), it’s my system, and it has been working out for some time now. I’m often congratulated for being so prolific. I smile and want to tell people, “If you only knew what I have to overcome each day before I write my first word!”

Before I send this back to you, Sandy, I want to share the remarks of Guest Author Veda Boyd Jones, a prolific author and frequent speaker on the subject of writing literature for young people. Veda, the stage is yours.

Sandy and David,

Great idea to keep a running conversation going by working writers. When I first started writing, I could only write from 1:00-3:00 in the afternoon. Jim came home from work for lunch, then headed back, and I put the boys down for their naps. Anyone with kids knows you can’t think when kids are tugging on you needing this or that. I needed silence and alone time to think and write.

So, I learned early on that there’s no waiting for inspiration to write. I’d read what I’d written the day before and then I’d start from there. It’s like listening to a book on tape in the car. You pick right up where you left off. I guess you just get in the zone, focus.

I also learned quickly to take pen and paper to Little League practice. In the car I was alone, even thought chaos reigned on the baseball field.

Once all three boys were in school, I set a routine. Do the breakfast dishes, laundry in the washer, sweep the kitchen floor, plan supper, all those everyday things, then I’d be at the computer by nine. Pre-caller ID, I’d answer the phone because it could be a family matter, but if it was a friend, I’d talk a bit, then say I had to get something finished.

I agree with David that everyone perceived that I didn’t work. (Did they think I just ordered books in the mail with my name on the cover?) Of course, I was a room mother, and I got stuck with the worst-behaving kids on field trips since I was used to three boys (although such good sons they are). Still, family does come first, to a degree. There’s such a thing as overindulgence that keeps kids from becoming self-sufficient. It’s absolutely a balancing act.

You can see that I had the luxury (and fatigue) of being an at-home mom, and that let me carve writing time out of the day. When I’m asked how to become a successful writer, I usually answer, “First, marry an 

architect.”

Veda Boyd Jones, author of Nellie the Brave

www.vedaboydjones.com

Response 4: Sandy

Hey, David –

It’s nice to know I’m not alone, even though it’s the answer-all-your-emails-first club I belong to. Not only answer them, but hop to it and deliver anything anyone asks of me in those emails. But, like you, I get a lot done in spite of my email addiction, so I guess we club members could free up at least a little of our time if we spend less of it feeling guilty!

The internal obstacle I’d like to talk about is something like a taped message that goes on in my brain during the writing of first drafts. I start out each project in a state of high optimism: “This is a fabulous idea. It’s going to be easy, too! And everyone’s going to love it.” Off I go, then, scribbling or typing away with a big smile on my face. Roughly halfway, maybe less, into the first draft, the tape begins: “This is not going to work. This is garbage. Whatever made you think you could write? This is awful. Stop! Give up! STOP!”

I don’t know where that message comes from, but I do know other writers hear their own version of it. Another club we joined unwillingly, but there we are, in it together and wrestling with another obstacle to our writing. Some writers do stop and give up. As for me, I’ve come to think of that moment when the negative message clicks on as something like the wall that marathon runners talk about. Somewhere in the race you feel as if you will drop in your tracks if you take another step. But if you keep putting one foot in front of the other, sooner or later a “second wind” will kick in and carry you to the finish line.

So I keep putting one word in front of the other, with the message repeating on a relentless loop in my head, and eventually, I get an entire draft done. That entire draft, I’ve found, is a critical milestone. It’s easy to throw away the first few paragraphs of a story or even the first couple of chapters of a book. But an entire draft? Uh-uh. I’ve lived with the characters too long. I know them, I care about them, and I’m not going to toss them in the trash without at least trying to do their story justice.

The taped message in my head hates it when I get on with the second, third, fourth, or nth draft of a piece. It slinks away. Until the next project. It’s been visiting me for decades now, with no signs of weakening — a formidable foe, but not an unstoppable one. I just write it down!

My turn to go first next time, David. I’ll be taking on “How do you deal with rejection?” And do I ever have experience in that area!

But before we go there, let’s hear more about obstacles from Amie Brockway and Kristi Holl.

Hi Sandy and David,

I would love to figure out how to make use of your new venture. What gets in my way?

Today, it’s 327 emails that have to be answered, deleted, or otherwise dealt with. I keep meaning to tell you, Sandy, that I’m reading your book about writing and rewriting. I read it while I eat–that’s multitasking, right? It’s a wonderful book, and I’m sure it will help me.

I’m trying to get to my two writing projects, and I thought I had pretty much the whole day today to focus on them. But, here it is 4:30, and I still have 21 unread emails and a whole stack of emails for which I have promised to try to get this or that done today.

I don’t know.

I made up a time budget, and it has 34 hours in a day. I tried multiplying that times 5 days and spreading it over 7 days, and if I remember correctly I ended up with 4 spare hours.

Guess I won’t be trying to blog anytime soon.

Amie

Amie Brockway is producing artistic director of The Open Eye Theater, Margaretville, NY. Her plays include adaptations of The Odyssey and The Nightingale (both Dramatic Publishing Company). The theater’s website is www.theopeneye.org.  

Dealing with Distractions

During the early stages of a writing project, when you’re gathering ideas and deciding on your approach, it’s useful to daydream and be unfocused in your thinking. However, there comes a time to focus, to fully concentrate on the work, as if you were putting a beam of sunlight through a magnifying glass to concentrate its power until the paper it touches bursts into flame.

Why focus? When you focus, you’ll accomplish writing projects in half the time, and your concentrated efforts will produce better work. Focusing also builds momentum and enthusiasm, urging us to move steadily toward finished stories, articles, and books.

Being able to focus is critical. As Stephen Covey (author of The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People) says, “The main thing is to keep the main thing the main thing.”

Getting Sidetracked

What keeps us from focusing? Distractions. They have always been with us. Agatha Christie once said, “I enjoy writing in the desert. There are no distractions such as telephones, theaters, opera houses, and gardens.” While our modern-day distractions may have changed a bit (emails to answer, faxes coming in, the World Series on TV), the result of being sidetracked by them remains the same. We don’t finish our writing. We don’t study guidelines and mail that manuscript. We don’t follow up on marketing tips. If we stall long enough, we may quit altogether.

So how do we deal with things that take us away from our writing? Try adapting the Serenity Prayer for this purpose: “God, grant me the serenity to accept the distractions I cannot change, courage to change the distractions I can, and wisdom to know the difference.”

Wisdom to Know

What are some distractions you cannot change or ignore? Sometimes it’s a sick child or spouse or a crisis with a friend. Sometimes your boss gives you an overtime assignment with a “now” deadline. There may be a project that needs to be attended to without delay, like your teenager’s last-minute college entrance application. This type of interruption or distraction you have little control over. You grin and bear it.

However, we need wisdom to know the difference between the distractions that are unavoidable and those we allow. Chances are, you’re your own worst enemy when it comes to distractions that keep you from writing. So take courage! Change what you can in order to focus on your writing.

1. Use an answering machine to screen calls. Better yet, turn the ringer off altogether so you’re not tempted to pick up when you hear your best friend’s voice. Then return calls at lunchtime or when you’ve finished your daily writing stint.

2. Isolate yourself as much as possible from the traffic flow. I now have my own office, but I’ve written in family rooms and bedrooms and dens. The family room was the most difficult with constant interruptions of TV, kids, and doorbells. The more you can shut the door on distractions, the easier you’ll find it to focus.

3. Take note of your own personal distractions. The blinds in my office are pulled because I look outside every time a car/garbage truck/motorcycle/UPS truck/bus/delivery truck goes by. I also remove all chocolate from my workspace. Even hidden in the back of a drawer, it calls to me while I work and distracts me, whether I stop to eat it or not. Nice weather tempts me to go out for a while, so I don’t put on makeup until late in the day. I know I won’t show my face in public without it – so I’ll stay home and write instead.

4. Leave the mail alone. Reading letters and email and surfing the Net can be a major distraction. It interrupts your flow to stop and sort the mail. And if your mail contains rejection letters, bills, and bank statements, it can create an instant slump. So get the snail-mail if you must, but stash it in a basket until the end of the day when you’re done writing. The same is true for email. Leave it unopened and unread till late afternoon (unless it’s a response from an editor!).

5. For non-emergencies, make your family wait. Barter with your family for writing time. When you’re finished, you’ll make popcorn. When you’re finished, you’ll play catch. When you’re finished, you’ll go rent a movie. (Just be sure you actually follow through on your promises!)

6. Leave home. If home is too chaotic sometimes, take your work to the library or a park or a cafe, somewhere quiet with no phone and a minimum of distractions.

7. Organize your workspace first. Arrange your workspace before you begin writing, to ensure that you have everything you need. Don’t run out of paper halfway through typing your chapter. Keep things within reach. Even finding a new ink cartridge or box of paper clips in your supply closet can distract you. Before you know it, you’ve spent half an hour rearranging the closet shelves.

8. Silence can be golden. Are you as distracted by noise as I am? I run a fan on high speed for white noise, and during school vacations I also use earplugs. If traffic bothers you – or if you’re in a quiet neighborhood where twittering birds distract you – close the windows during your writing time.

9. Change your schedule. Get up earlier and write when the world is still asleep. Phones don’t ring. Kids don’t interrupt. Your spouse is still snoring. (This works equally well if you’re a night owl and can write after the world shuts down for the night.)

10. Eat healthy meals at regular intervals. Avoid the distraction of a growling stomach or a hunger headache. If you’re always thirsty, keep cold drinks within reach. A mini-refrigerator in your office, filled with bottled water and fresh fruit, an keep you from constantly running to the kitchen.

Focus!

Take time to study yourself, discovering your own favorite distractions. Once in a while we have absolutely no control over interruptions. However, most of the time, we (consciously or not) use distractions to keep us from having to face the work and anxiety of putting words on paper.

The next time you sit down at your keyboard, close your eyes and imagine yourself as that concentrated beam of light focused by the magnifying glass. Then open your eyes, hit the keys, and set the world on fire!

Visit Kristi’s website at www.KristiHoll.com

Over 40,000 subscribers at Kristi’s Writer’s First Aid blog: institutechildrenslit.net/Writers-First-Aid-blog

Topic 1: The Care and Feeding of Ideas

We begin, appropriately, at the beginning with “The Care and Feeding of Ideas.” Other questions on our ever-growing list include the following:

• "What kind of schedule do you set for yourself and what do you do to keep it going?"
• "What kind of obstacles—external, interpersonal, internal—get in your way and how do you deal with them?"
• "What are the plusses and minuses of collaboration?"
• "You write in so many genres. How come? And what are the pros and cons of doing that?
• "What do you do when you get stuck and can't figure out how to proceed?"
• "When is it time to revise and how do you know?"
• "When is it time to let go?"
• "What are the pros and cons of having/not having an agent?"
• "How do you deal with rejection?"
• "How do you deal with editorial suggestions?"
• "How do you deal with speaking engagements?"
• “How do you feel about being your own P.R. person in this current marketing climate?"

And so on. But now . . .

Here is Sandy to lead off our first discussion for WRITERS AT WORK. The question is a broad one about ideas. Technically, it’s a family of questions. Do we go to our desks every day expecting an idea to greet us there? What do we do when he have a fresh idea to consider? Do we jump in and start writing? Mull it over for a time? In short, let’s talk about the general care and feeding of ideas. 

Response 1: Sandy 

I do mull over ideas, as long as I possibly can. I have two good reasons: (1) I’m lazy, and ideas aren’t hard work at all if you’re just thinking about them; and (2) the best ideas tend to grow and change and get even better during the mulling time, while the glow fades from the worst ideas and they reveal their inadequacies and slink away.

When everything is going just right for me, I have a lot of projects in various stages of development at once, and I’m working on one while mulling over another. Or more than one other. So it doesn’t matter if something mullable comes to me every day. I’m working on whatever’s most pressing at the moment and making notes—mentally and physically—on something else as the ideas present themselves. New ideas have a way of trying to push to the head of the line when I’m busy working on something else.

But everything doesn’t always go just right! As mentioned, I often mull something over only to discover it’s not worth pursuing. Sad to say, that realization has been known to hold off until I’ve written several drafts. And there are times when nothing is presenting itself at all. It was a great comfort to me to hear Richard Peck say that he has one idea at a time and, while writing his current book, is always quite sure he’ll never write another.

I don’t go to the desk hoping something will happen. Writing doesn’t always happen at the desk anyway. Typing happens at the desk. And when I go to the desk, it’s because I’ve got something planned to do there. That’s why when people ask me if I write every day or how many hours I write, I say “24/7.” They’re thinking hours spent at the keyboard; I’m thinking what goes into the work itself. My whole life! That’s where my ideas come from. It’s all I’ve got. It’s all grist for the mill.

How about you, David?

Response 2: David

I love what you say about new ideas wanting to crowd in at the head of the line. They’re a provocative lot and it’s tempting to let them. A new idea seems fresh, vibrant, filled with hints of brilliance that urge me to forsake all others and set out at once to woo the newbie. When I first started flexing my teeny writer’s muscles, I chased everything that crossed my mind, like a kid swinging his butterfly net in all directions. These days I’m a good deal more selective.

Still, the ideas come. They must. They just don’t always materialize on command or arrive at convenient times or places. I try to keep notepads in places where my ideas seem most prone to hang out: by the shower, in my car, in the bedroom. I often guess wrong and must make do with whatever writing material lies at hand: paper napkins, backs of bills, toilet paper, envelopes.

I also agree with you that good ideas have a longer shelf life than those shallow wannabe notions that flit through the crowd in my head and soon blink off like fireflies with no notion of where they’re going. You speak to the need to pause with an idea long enough to get acquainted and see if it’s sincere or just a kiss-and-run sort of tease.

One way I learn to tell the difference is to jot down a new idea the way it comes to me, keeping it brief but with enough description to help me remember it later when I come back for another look. When I review some of my cryptic notes in my idea files or journals, I have no earthly recollection of what excited me so in the first place. Others, though, are right where I left them, winking as brightly as ever, and I know I have something worth developing to at least the first draft stage.

I see my desk as my office rather than an incubator for ideas. I report to work each morning, coffee in hand, check e-mail from the previous night, make sure the latest blog post is up, reread notes to myself about the day’s tasks, and get started. The funny thing about new ideas is that, like Bo Peep’s sheep, leave them alone and sooner or later they’ll come home.

Now, back to you, Sandy. 

Response 3: Sandy 

Hello, David—

I totally relate to the notepads everywhere—and the random scraps of paper when a notepad can’t be grabbed quickly. I must say I’ve never tried writing on toilet tissue. But I don’t rule it out. So far, my most unusual stand-in for a notepad has been the back of one my son’s Bar Mitzvah invitations.

I also second the motion for writing those notes in enough detail that you recognize the idea when you come back to it. I once found a scrap of paper in my “ideas” file that said, “Laura—brown hair.” I had no memory of having written it, or of anyone named Laura, or of why her brown hair might have been significant. But even this snippet has come in handy, as a prime example of too little information!

It occurred to me when I reread my comments on “mulling” that I’d never mentioned where those ideas come from that I mull. From my life, of course. What else do I have to draw on? But my life is more than just what happens to me directly. What I observe about others counts as part of my personal experience, and that includes what I read about in books and newspapers, what I see on TV and in the movies, what I overhear on subway platforms and in waiting rooms. Whatever the source, the best ideas grow out of things that hit me hard—that frighten, worry, anger, amuse, surprise, intrigue, or fascinate me. Those are the ideas that won’t turn loose until I make something of them and share what I’ve made.

In my book WHERE DO YOU GET YOUR IDEAS?, I compare writers to oysters and ideas to the grain of sand that gets under an oyster’s shell. The sand irritates the oyster; the oyster deals with that irritation by coating the grain of sand. The result is something others consider beautiful and valuable—a pearl—but for the oyster, it’s relief.

I consider it a good sign when a possible project scares me a little. Or even a lot. That tells me I’m moving beyond my comfort zone and taking on a real challenge rather than playing it safe and repeating myself.

Back to you, David! 

Response 4: David 

Sandy, we’ve both pointed out how much we rely on the ready presence of pad and pencil to capture those ideas when they appear unannounced. I don’t want to bloody the point, but many a delicious plot, scrap of dialogue, perfect description, or fantastic rhyme has slipped into that murky river of our subconscious and lodged somewhere out of reach—all for the lack of a piece of paper. Some ideas speed off like a hit-and-run driver. When they’re gone, they don’t want to be found.

Today I was refilling my hummingbird feeder. While I stood outside the kitchen, empty container in one hand, teapot of fresh sugar water in the other, a hummingbird materialized beside me. It hovered two feet away, sizing me up and down, while I stood transfixed by my good fortune. When the tiny feathered dart vanished across the yard, I knew I had to capture the moment as quickly as I could return to the kitchen. I did better than make myself a note. I shared it with all of you too. I tell young people that to be a writer they must believe they are a writer, think like a writer, and behave like a writer. Writers love ideas. They feast on them.

They don’t let many good ones get away.

Sandy, this wraps up “The Care and Feeding of Ideas.”

Next month we’ll pose another issue, and it will be my turn to go first. See you then.

David

Writers at Work: An Introduction

On August 31, 2010, the two of us—David Harrison and Sandy Asher—launched a new feature on David’s blog called WRITERS AT WORK. Longtime friends and colleagues, we started a public conversation about writing—not the technique or marketing aspects, but the day-by-day nuts and bolts of doing it.

Nothing fancy or formal. We simply made a list of some of the most frequent questions we’ve received from readers and fellow writers over the years (see below) and began tackling them in an online conversation. Our remarks continue to be published individually—“he said” one time, “she said” the next (and vice versa)—as a weekly feature each Tuesday on David’s blog at www.davidlharrison.com. Here, they’ll be reposted in larger chunks, all of our exchanges addressing one particular topic each time. Instead of a weekly schedule, we’ll update monthly.

Readers are encouraged to chime in on any of the topics at any time—and especially to suggest new topics they’d like to see addressed. Selected comments from readers will be posted each month.