IN ABSENTIA: WRITING in the PLAGUE TIMES

By Shaun McCoy

I found some scant comfort, when watching armed protesters storm a state house without appropriate PPE, knowing that human beings have behaved in much more egregious ways in previous plagues. Who could forget the mobs of infected, tearing about the streets of medieval Europe, tossing rags of pus through the broken windows of the healthy.

Comparatively, you could say we’ve grown up. Our temper-tantrums as a species have, in some cases at least, become fairly mild—and as a writer, I find that kind of growth insanely interesting. Much of fiction is finding new and interesting backdrops to highlight human nature—and let’s not forget that there is little a writer likes more than a well-developed character arc.

I think then of the silver linings the inestimably dark cloud of the plague times has brought me personally. I’m extremely lucky in that I get to work peacefully from my couch. I speak to my family now, more than I ever have, in a series of Sunday conference calls. I’ve even gotten to reconnect with my favorite writing group in the entire world, even though I’m in another state. Though my personal interactions with people have decreased, in a weird way I feel more connected to my friends and family, to my global community, than ever before. It’s those connections which I think are key to humanity’s plot arc.

But have we really grown? In times past we thought evil spirits brought disease. We thought that breathing incense or drinking alcohol or saying bless you might save us. Is that any different than blaming the disease on Bill Gates or 5G? Is that any different than the televangelist who promises to blow the plague away? Are we just the same old dog with a few new tricks and free Zoom calls?

Well that’s the thing about storytelling isn’t it. If one were to write this novel, it would be the writer who would decide if we’ve grown.

In reality there is no grand arbiter, no writer, to decide for us whether the story of the last thousand years is a grand arc of growth or the exploration of our tragic inability to learn from our experiences. In the place of an author, we just have those among us writing different narratives. Rather than share mine, I’ll simply ask for yours. Are we the same? Have we grown? What I can say is that in either event, whether we’ve grown or failed to, I find the story deeply compelling. I think this humanity character is one we can keep working with in our stories for many centuries to come.

STANDALONE OR SERIES?

By Raegan Teller

At some point, every author must decide if their book is going to be a standalone book or the beginning of a series. Either option has long-term consequences and rewards. You might be tempted to ask, “What do my readers want?” Some readers prefer a standalone book because they don’t want to commit to a series, and they like to explore various authors. But there are also readers who prefer a series and are extremely loyal to those writers. These readers become attached to the characters and anxiously await the next volume.

However, the standalone vs. series decision is more about the characters themselves than trying to anticipate reading habits. At the end of the first book, do the characters have more stories to tell? Are they interesting enough that readers want to know more about them? Is the main story, or any of the subplots, left unresolved at the end? If so, perhaps a series is the best choice.

Let’s say you decide to write a series that tells a “sweeping story” across multiple volumes. In doing so, you’re asking readers to commit to the entire series to learn the whole story. Not all readers want to read every book. And some readers may be upset when they realize the main plot isn’t resolved at the end. Another way to handle a series is to have the protagonist and some or all of the minor characters continue across multiple books, as Sue Grafton did in her twenty-five-volume alphabet series. With this approach, each book resolves its main plot, although some of the subplots may carry forward to the next volume. You must then decide how much backstory to give readers who may start in the middle or at the end of the series. What will readers need to know to understand what’s going on? How much information from the previous volumes are you willing to disclose? Whether you decide to write one big story across a series or a series of discrete stories with repeat characters, it’s wise to do your research and be aware of the pitfalls and rewards of each approach.

Consider also that while each book has a story arc, a series must also arc. J.K. Rowling plotted and wrote the entire seven-book Harry Potter series before she published the first book. I didn’t appreciate her wisdom until I was writing the second volume of my series and had to step back and plan the overall series.

Should you decide to write a series, I respectfully offer a word of caution. Don’t allow yourself to get lazy due to familiarity with the characters or to assume your readers will continue to be loyal no matter what. It’s inevitable that within a series, some volumes will be better than others. However, we’ve all read series that started out good but fizzled and should have ended earlier—or never been a series at all. But a well-done series is brilliant.  

TRYING TOO HARD

By Bonnie Stanard 

Any one of my poems has been through hundreds of changes and revisions. Sometimes I’ll change one word, sometimes an entire verse. Am I trying too hard to find the exact words or expressions to put forward a thought or feeling? Probably.

When submitting to journals, I have spotted sentences written by editors trying too hard.

— We want poems that press and push and ache and recede.

— I will be looking for verse that sets my skin on fire.

— send cutting, strange, and daring work

With guidelines such as these, it’s no wonder writers get the idea they should produce heart-stopping poems. Here are more guidelines to give writers a reason to either try too hard or quit.

— We want stunning and unusual imagery and language that compels.

— We seek to publish the innovative works of the greatest minds writing poetry today.

— We want dark and disquieting, fanciful and funny, surreal and surprising.

Let me see... what can I write that is dark, disquieting, fanciful, funny, surreal and/or surprising? Mmmm. It was a lonely, moonlit night with buzzards flying over the pizza kitchen where an ogre sprinkled parmesan on a poisonous crust. Does that fit the bill?

One submissions requirement reads like this: “We don’t want your problematic/hateful garbage.” So they only want unproblematic/loving garbage? Or they want problematic/hateful pearls of wisdom? Obviously the editors of this publication have read some really crappy poems and I’d better not add to their crap pile. Avoiding crap can spiral into trying too hard.

We hope to attract publishers with our work, but trying too hard to figure out what they’re looking for is a dead-end street. I have enough trouble figuring out what I want to say. This may be a leap into a taboo subject, but I fear that life is meaningless. In some weird way, I suppose I can prevent meaninglessness (is that a word?) by writing. The greater the fear, the harder I try. When I convince myself I’ve found meaning, I excel in doggerel.

Okay, so I Googled “meaning of life.” Julian Baggini wrote in an article in The Guardian: “the only sense we can make of the idea that life has meaning is that there are some reasons to live rather than to die, and those reasons are to be found in the living of life itself.”

However, in our search for meaning, some of us are trying too hard at “the living of life itself.” It’s a vicious cycle. I tell myself that I’m not going to figure it out, but that doesn’t stop the questions. Either my life means something or it doesn’t. The moment that I’m writing this is momentous to me. I think it has meaning. But does it?

Poetry tells us life is a mystery with no solution. It tells us to stop trying to find one. It tells us to settle for moments, for feelings, for epiphanies. I’m trying to do that, but I’ll have to try harder.

Good poems can scratch the surface and reveal substance. I scratch for substance and too often end on the surface. I hope some day to be able to write a poem like this one by Dan Collins.

LEAVING WEST TEXAS

Water may bless
this desert someday. Trees may spring
from this dusty soil; birds
may shelter in the branches—
and they will sing sweetly, maybe,
of terrible choices
they have made. But right now,
the only thing that matters
is this stop light
and this yellow line in the road.

THE FINE LINE

By Sharon May

Feedback is the goal for attending a writer’s workshop. We want to know what is effective and not effective in our drafts. After a couple of sessions in a workshop, the writer can begin to predict what aspects of craft most matter to their particular readers. One reader may look at structure of the plot, another word choice, and another character development, etc.

Does that knowledge then lead the author to write to the idiosyncrasies of the group? I will admit that a few times, I’ve thought that X will not like this, or Z would go crazy if I didn’t change that. Is that a detriment or a benefit to the work? Could go either way.

We don’t have to change anything readers suggest or complain about. We are in control of the work. How do we determine which suggestions we use? Are we partial to the critiques of certain readers? Or, do we use the “let’s see how many agree” method of selection?

Generally, I follow the advice of readers because they usually are “spot-on.” Not to say there haven’t been a few times I have tried something to see how it fits, and then decided the suggestion didn’t work with my writing goals.

If we do alter our work based on the critic, is it really the writer’s work or a collaboration? I don’t mean criticism on grammar and mechanics, nor simply changing a word or phrase here and there. I mean changes that alter structure, character, plot, setting, etc.

Recently, a writer friend asked I ever considered having Henry Olsen tell the story of his brother’s Frank’s death in the novel I am revising. That question stoked my imagination, and the more I thought about it the more I liked it, particularly when I realized that change would allow me to introduce a sub-plot I had been considering. I decided to draft the idea though I was already half-way through this revision. Now, whose novel is it? Mine or ours?

We read each other’s work willingly and with pure intentions of just helping. Changing, yes, but not owning. Probably the critic/reader just triggered something inside the writer’s unconscious or subconscious which caused her to look at the work in a new way? I know I struggled with other narrators telling the story of Frank’s death in the barroom fight. I wasn’t satisfied until I let Henry narrate.

Some writers avoid workshopping because they are afraid of losing control – of the work, and thus, their own identity. Does communicating with a beta reader make me a sellout to art? I don’t think so. The craft and art of writing lies in my skills. A suggestion can be taken or left on the table. But if something strikes my fancy, I am certainly not going to ignore it because it didn’t originate with me. I will make it mine as I integrate it into the work I’m creating.

IN DEFENSE of the FIRST-PERSON NARRATOR and DOG VIDEOS

By Kasie Whitener

My favorite quarantine video has been the BBC’s rugby announcer narrating his dogs. The voice is familiar to watchers of the sport, the cadence is familiar to anyone who watches any sports at all, and the actions of the dogs are exaggerated and made into a story by the narrator lending his voice. If you haven’t watched it, click here.

Several things are true about this video. First, quarantine has rendered many of us “nonessential” in the workforce. Sports broadcasters join the ranks of waiters, actors, and retailers when we are all forced to stay in our homes.

Second, pets are a fantastic source of entertainment. Some of the best memes, videos, and social posts have been the Secret Life of Pets revealed. One has a woman’s voice narrating for her own dog who says something to the effect of, “If these people don’t go back to work soon, I swear, I’ll do something unforgiveable.”

And that brings me to the third truth about our BBC announcer’s video: Great narration is underrated.

In writers’ circles, we talk extensively about point-of-view as an extension of the narration conversation. First-person narrators have the advantage of telling the innermost thoughts of the character to whom we’re the closest in the story. Even if that person isn’t the protagonist (Nick Carraway), the first-person narrator makes that character the most important contributor to the story.

The second person narrator and a collective first-person narrator make the reader essential to the story. You Choose Your Own Adventure in those classic 80’s kids’ books, or you become one of the neighborhood boys (we) watching The Virgin Suicides unfold. The second person relies too heavily upon the reader’s interpretation of the work.

The third person narrator perches on the shoulders of characters, trying to see from their point of view but not so close as to exhaust the reader with the mental gymnastics of the first person POV. The third person narrator is the dullest of all. It removes entirely the editorial, the judgement, and the messy reality of being a person. It reflects and reports, like a journalist.

The first-person narrator, while limited to just what the narrator sees, nevertheless delivers a rich vocabulary, the neuroticism of internal monologue, and the skewed and unreliable interpretation of the actions of characters who are not the narrator.

The first-person narrator is powerful. It is (one of) the author’s alter ego(s) springing forth and frolicking through the story. It is untamed. Natural. Authentic. And risky. Because when readers don’t like your first-person narrator, they don’t like your book.

Narrators make the story. They turn nothing into something. They infuse the drama, they raise the stakes, and they drag the reader through the pages. Like the rugby commentator animating his dogs with well-placed vocabulary and inflection, the narrator conducts the story. Without a good one, the story is just lifeless words on the page.

Or dogs lying about on their living room floor.

ARE YOU A WRITER, AN EDITOR, OR BOTH?

By El Ochiis

It’s my humble opinion that behind great pieces of writing, is an even greater editor.  No, Tolstoy, I don’t believe your spouse, Sophia Tolstoy, was just the co-progenitor of fourteen offspring; she copied and rewrote your work – yeah, Sophia polished Anna Karenina and War and Peace, making it possible for you to write the best novels that you could.  

Edmund Malone, not only edited Shakespeare’s works, but, was credited for making James Boswell’s Life of Samuel Johnson entertaining.  It was novelist, Edward Bulwer-Lytton’s astute advice to Charles Dickens, about Great Expectations, that encouraged Dickens to change that final, yet wonderfully ambiguous line, in which Pip sees “no shadow of another parting from her” – in lieu of just a finality wherein Pip and Estella didn’t get together.

TS Eliot was asked whether editors weren’t just failed writers, Eliot replied: “Perhaps, but so are most writers.”  This was a facetiously charming response coming from a man whose famous poem, The Waste Land, was edited by Ezra Pound, who, himself, edited other poets and novelists as part of his job at Farber and Farber.

How does a new writer get his or her manuscript in front of a ‘Pound or Malone’?  Or, when does he/she decide the editorial route? Well, first, you must decide what kind of editor you want; or, which kind you desire to become: developmental; structural; line?

As a writer, you’d want a professional editor who would be as much a psychologist as a prose technician – a sports coach who would get you in the right frame of mind for the race.

As a storyteller with compelling messages to share, I want a seasoned mastermind to brilliantly bring to life, the emerging aesthetics of my story – one whose life goal is to find the next James Baldwin or Leo Tolstoy – yes, I dream big, when not self-deprecating.  You see, writing can be tantamount to giving a chunk of sugar to a raccoon – with its odd fastidiousness, the raccoon will wash the sugar in the water until there’s nothing left – an editor would definitely help with that.

The repetitious advice is to read the jacket of published writers in your genre and see who edited the novel and contact him/her.  My suggestion would be to do what I do when I need a good accountant, I go to the professional organization published by the IRS; There’s one for editors, the Editorial Freelancers Association.   Yes, it’s hard, but it’s my observation that if you can complete a great, or an anomalous, novel, finding the right editor should be the easy part.  Or, maybe your propensity is more editorial:  Do you enjoy developing and shaping content; Can you work with multiple voices; Are you a natural problem solver who’s comfortable delivering constructive feedback?  You could be an exceptional editor who becomes a profound scribe - the next Toni Morrison - an editor whose work was ‘emended’ by one of the most acclaimed editors, Gottlieb - Or, Sophia Tolstoy, sans the fourteen childbirths.

WRITING in a PANDEMIC

By Sharon May

Some people are hurriedly drafting works about living in a pandemic. You may be one of them. Occasionally, the thought crosses my mind. Then, I remind myself a few weeks experience isn’t enough to write about. Best to keep a journal and consider writing about it when it’s over, assuming we survive it, and when I have had time to reflect on the “so what” of the experience.

Regardless of what you like to write, I do hope you’re writing something. It obviously can be difficult to do so in times of personal and world turmoil. In 1991, I was supposed to be drafting a thesis for graduate school, and the Iraqi war began. You may remember it: a “live” broadcast on the news, the first time for a war and, so far, the last. My classmates and I couldn’t stop watching, ignoring the fact that we should have been writing. Fortunately, the live battles didn’t last more than a few days, and we returned to our work.

Despite knowing better, I am, at times, more interested in COVID-19 than I am with the hard work of revising a novel. I try to limit how much news I watch, which helps me not to become obsessed. Doesn’t mean I am devoting my spare time to writing.

A fellow writer, and coincidently a classmate who watched the war with me, says the pandemic could be a gift to writers: a mandate to stay at home, lock oneself in a room, and produce reams of work. A wonderful gift if you have the ability to distance yourself from reality and lose yourself in your writing.

But how many of us have that luxury? Some of us are too distracted by the pandemic, too worried about their health. Then there are those tracking down toilet paper, home schooling, cooking meals for the first time in years, sharing space with family that used to be theirs exclusively. Children and animals may want more time and attention, and after all, who can resist that? Then, there are those who are working more hours than ever as “essential employees.”

Even stuck safely at home during a pandemic, we truly do find ourselves with the same daily demands that we must, or can, choose over our writing. We struggle to juggle schedules, to find a quiet time to write regardless of what is going on around us. That is the life of writers. A pandemic just magnifies the demands on artists.

But now is the time to write and create. Consumers are turning to the arts as entertainment while safe at home. And, you could probably use the distraction.

If the muse has left the room, as I’ve said before in other blogs, the key is to write something down on paper (or keyboard as the case may be). Doesn’t matter what you write at all. Eventually, the muse will join you.

HOW DOES ONE WRITE DURING a TIME LIKE THIS?

Ruth P. Saunders 

I must confess at the outset that my muse has deserted me, and I don’t know if its absence is a temporary or a persistent state. Along with many others, I am overwhelmed by witnessing the end of the world as we know it. I was not prepared to cope with a global pandemic, but then how does one prepare for that? I find it difficult to carry on ordinary activities, including writing.

My only urge to write in the last several weeks was to return to academic writing, to identify and synthesize information from credible sources to help me understand what is happening as a way of getting through it. That fleeting impulse was gone before I got to the keyboard.

I have been able to write during challenging periods in the past. Some of my best poetry came during times of emotional lows. Something about inner darkness is conducive to deep reflection and expression for me. Finding the right words brings light.

My more recent creative nonfiction writing grew from the pain of losing my parents, first my mother to dementia over 10 years and then my father five years later. I began writing to deal with these losses by focusing on the good memories. The writing process has helped me celebrate and honor the lives of my parents, appreciate how early experiences shaped me as a person, and value the present positives in my life.

But feeling down or sad due to loss are personal responses to the “world as we know it.” The COVID-19 pandemic and the global reaction to it seem to signal a more fundamental and pervasive change in human affairs. The passage of time will provide some perspective on current events, their impact and what the “new world” will be like. For now, we must live with uncertainty.

For this blog, I had hoped to provide practical suggestions for writing during uncertain times. But that would be disingenuous, given where I am with my own work. Thankful for modern technology during these days of social distancing, I searched the internet to learn from other writers.

I found two bloggers with useful perspectives and suggestions for writers during the unfolding pandemic. I am not familiar with the prior work of Jenna Avery, a sci-fi screenwriter, or Tim Waggoner, a fantasy and horror writer. I continue to glean ideas from them, hoping for a spark of inspiration that converts to action. Perhaps you will find them helpful, as well.

In the meantime, I try to be patient with myself and to trust that my muse will return.

WRITING IN “THESE UNCERTAIN TIMES”

By Kasie Whitener

For the last three episodes of Write On SC, Rex Hurst and I have been discussing Coronavirus (COVID-19) and the national and international response to it. We started with books that feature disease, moved on to the 35 kinds of drama that might create great stories during the pandemic, last week addressed dystopian fiction, and yesterday talked about overused words.

Our mandate as a local radio show is to provide relatable, relevant, and informative content for our listeners. Many of those listeners are not writers.

In the past, I’ve expected non-writers would just have to go along for the ride with our show. If they wanted to keep listening, they would just have to allow that some of what we discussed wouldn’t resonate. Maybe we should be talking to readers, watchers, and listeners. Consumers.

Our radio audience could benefit from an understanding of just how to recognize the stories they’re being told. How to recognize and dissect them. How to understand their deeper meanings. How to read subtext and interpret nuance.

Writers work through complex emotions like grief and fear. We write because we need to put language to the senses, to describe our experience so that others can connect with it, with us, and so we won’t be alone.

We writers, despite being frequently solitary and pensive, are also deeply social in that we recognize the connectivity that exists across this human experience. We write to get closer to sharing it in empathy and love.

There are stories yet to be written about “these uncertain times” and many of those stories, on the fingertips of the writers living them, are a way of metabolizing what’s happening. I say that frequently on the show: writers write to metabolize what they’re experiencing.

So many of us are taking to the page and to the internet these days to help make sense of what’s happening. To provide context and reassurance. Still others are magnifying fissures and exposing failures.

All while consumers read. Listen. Watch. And try to understand what it is we’re actually doing during these uncertain times.

WILL YOUR WRITING CREATE the NEXT GREAT TECH INVENTION?

By El Ochiis

I wrote a short story that took place in the 1850’s, in which one of the characters possessed an advanced, technological object enclosed in a rare metal. An editor, who read my piece, commented that I had created a future, technological invention. Inventing was not in my thought process when I wrote the story; I only imagined making the events in the story believable, to do that, I had to create this object. 

The editor’s position was that our most recent technology had been invented because of ideas gleaned from stories. I meant, what if she was right? She’s an editor, she was always right.   

A few days after our conversation, I got stuck in an airport and decided to re-read Fahrenheit 451. Ray Bradbury had predicted, in this book, the techy toy that I inserted in my ears to listen to music - headphones. I’m sure I wouldn’t be the only writer to honor him. Here’s hoping, however, his other predictions, made in Fahrenheit 451 were less accurate.

  

Logging onto the internet to find another flight, I gave a thumbs up to Mr. Mark Twain, who was one of the first persons to dream about the possibilities of a globally connected community, in his 1898 short story, from the London Times of 1904, where Twain introduced readers to something called a “telelectroscope” that used the phone system to create a worldwide network for sharing information. No, Al Gore, you did not invent the internet; the writer who wrote The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn did.

  

The editor wanted to Skype; I preferred video chatting on iMessage. Hold the phones, this concept was described in E.M. Foster’s novel: The Machine Stops: “But it was fully fifteen seconds before the round plate that she held in her hands began to glow. A faint blue light shot across it, darkening to purple, and presently she could see the image of her son, who lived on the other side of the earth, and he could see her.” Skype; iMessage – just call Foster. 

I decided to watch: 2001: A Space Odyssey, a movie from 1968, on my iPad Pro. There was a scene where astronauts watched and read from a pair of flat-screen tablets, called “Newspads”, which Stanley Kubrick developed alongside Arthur C. Clark’s novel – looked strikingly similar to Apple’s iPad. Creepy, huh? 

I edited that piece and uploaded it to a blog. Hold your kilobytes, Vladimir Odoyevsky, whose 1835 Novel: Year 4338, described houses that would be: “connected by means of magnetic telegraphs..." Each house would publish a daily journal or newsletter…," and share it with the world. Yes, that would be blogging.

Bill Gates; Steve Jobs; tech valley – no, it is the lonely writer using his or her imagination – if we writers could just figure out how to get those ideas in front of venture capitalists who specialize in providing capital to tech innovations of the future.

What new technology or historical prediction will you, the next writer of fiction create? 

WHO IS ALLOWED TO TELL WHOSE STORY?

By Bonnie Stanard

If it weren’t for the seven-figure advance Jeanine Cummins received for her novel American Dirt, I’d feel sorry for her. Social media has been vicious. Myriam Gurba wrote, “the nicest thing I can say about Dirt is that its pages ought to be upcycled as toilet paper.” Ouch!

The plot revolves around a grief stricken Latino mother escaping Mexico and a drug lord who pursues her. Critics have accused her of cultural appropriation (she is white), a phenomenon flourishing in literary circles and fueled by a revival of segregationist politics. In other words, her detractors believe a white woman has no right to imagine a story about Latino migrants.

Laura Miller, in Slate, quoted a publisher: “I do think that in cases where there’s a mismatch between the identity of the character and author, the value of those books ... will be more closely scrutinized.”

This sounds like an injunction against writers portraying characters unlike themselves. Does this mean that we should write with restraint to avoid offending those who will identify with our characters?

Nesrine Malik wrote in The Guardian, “To demand that writers not encroach upon the experience of others is a death sentence that seeks to limit us not only by what we know, but also by our place in a hierarchy of inequality.” This puts minority writers to disadvantage as well, for they may well be restricted to telling stories that are “native.”

It is disheartening to see us move from a leftist political concern for the disadvantaged to a right-wing movement legitimizing censorship based on sex, religion, and/or ethnicity. When manuscripts are judged on the writer’s right identity as much as the quality of the work, will our novels be better for it? Will we be better people?

It’s taken a long time, but we whites are changing our attitude toward ethnic groups. It’s disappointing to see segregation reappear disguised as cultural appropriation. Identity politics causes discrimination. Most of us want equality for every color of skin. Many of us are dismayed by our history of cruelty and exploitation, especially of Native Americans and blacks. We have passed laws in an attempt to enhance equal opportunity. By no means is this meant to suggest the job is done, but we’re working on it.

EXPLOSIVE WRITING

By Sharon May

I have enjoyed reading quotations since I was a child, reading them just like I read the World Book Encyclopedia. Bored in elementary school, I figured I better educate myself through reading as much as I could. I was drawn by the succinct nature of quotations, fascinated by the authors’ ability to establish a philosophy or world view in just a few words. When I was looking for ideas for this week’s blog, I turned to quotations on writing for inspiration. Wasn’t long before I found one whose complexity and imagery intrigued me.

In Zen and the Art of Writing, Ray Bradbury describes his writing process in this way: “Every morning I jump out of bed and step on a landmine. The landmine is me. After the explosion, I spend the rest of the day putting the pieces together.”

The author “jumps out of bed” each day, seemingly approaching his work with excitement and anticipation. Most of us realize that feeling as we plan what we want to accomplish and know that day is going to be productive. We are all optimistic – as we approach the writing task.

Bradbury quickly throws us for a loop as he steps “on a landmine,” and experiences the violence of writing in that realities are created and exploited, words are brought to life, then revised and often abandoned. Ironically, writing isn’t the landmine, the writer is. It’s like we have to destroy ourselves during the writing task to be good writers.  

The question arises: Is the violence of stepping on landmines positive or negative? If the explosion and the act of “putting the pieces together” leads to productivity and a better written product, then it’s obviously positive. However, that explosion may trigger doubts, frustration, hesitation, and “blocks.” Bradbury might be implying that the writer can get in his way of writing. He could also be implying that that reshaping of the writer’s mind can lead to creativity.

Whatever Bradbury means, the quote reminds me of how I feel during the revision process. Whenever I write, I have a tendency to revise during drafting. I will think of words for a sentence, and halfway through typing it, I decide a word doesn’t work or the sentence needs to be restructured. No matter how much I try to just write, I can’t help but revise during the drafting process.

Once I have a draft, then “real” revision occurs, and it is often a violent revision, cutting words and scenes, changing dialogue and modifying characters, adding new chunks of material. Sometimes, I have a draft of 20 pages, and once I’m done revising, I only have 10 pages of good writing. This necessary step is like “putting the pieces together.”

In the end, I find Bradbury’s words, particularly the violent metaphor, disturbing and freeing. He and I find the work of writing, both in our heads and on paper, difficult and destructive, but ultimately satisfying. Like Bradbury, I keep stepping on the “landmine.”  

 

TRUTH TO FICTION

By Jerry D. Pate

I have written an historical-fiction account of a cotton mill based on the inspiration of my late mother-in-law. She had to work in a cotton mill near Joanna, SC, when she was 8-years old during the Great Depression. While the plot is complete, the story is not.

My experience as a broadcast news reporter was very helpful for researching the process of turning raw cotton into cloth. Clemson University provided great information.

But writing fiction was hampered by my default setting of writing everything as if it were a newscast, or narrative, in passive voice, i.e. no flora or fauna, sounds or smells and certainly no descriptions of people.

My story is based upon SC history of the Civil War, the myth of the Lost Cause, the 1876 elections that restored the old blue-bloods to power who enacted Jim Crow laws, and the murder of seven striking textile workers at Chiquola Mill in Honea Path, SC, in 1934.

I’ve used information about these but translated the events into fictional accounts featuring characters I’ve created.

Thanks to suggestions from our writing workshop I’ve been able to turn my original, documentary-like, draft into a story of living, breathing characters with colors and strife. Not done yet. More work is needed.

Again with a nod to the writing group, I’ve also realized that writing is a process…not an event.

A CELEBRATION OF STORIES: THE 2020 SCWA SPRING CONFERENCE

By Kasie Whitener 

For the first time in our 30-year history, SCWA is hosting its Annual Conference in Columbia. I have the privilege of planning it and showing off our city has been my goal. Each activity, venue, and participant has been specially chosen for contributions made to the arts scene in our state capital.

Columbia poetry-boss Al Black hosts over a 100 Open Mic events per year and in April he’s lending his talents to the SCWA for a fantastic line up of live readings on Friday night.

Saturday’s packed day of workshops includes SCWA member speakers Barbara Evers, Craig Faris, Robert Lackey, Alexa Bigwarfe, Amber Wheeler Bacon, and Estelle Ford Williamson. A truly professional organization recognizes the professionals in its membership and showcases them.

Some cool alternative sessions include poetry roundtables with South Carolinians Len Lawson and Derek Berry and pop-up breakouts with musicians, playwrights, and agents. Our North Carolina Keynote speaker Belle Boggs has won awards for fiction and non-fiction endeavors. Her take on the craft, the process, and the modern literary profession should be insightful and inspiring.

Saturday night we host a big, beautiful birthday bash in the gardens of Historic Columbia’s Siebels House under strung lights with live music and an awards ceremony with the South Carolina Academy of Authors. The party is open to the public and we’re partnering with One Columbia, the Richland Library, SC Poetry Society, Columbia Writers Alliance, and others to include the most diverse group of artists ever gathered.

The Sunday conversation with Ray McManus and Jonathan Haupt should be the jewel in the crown of this glittery weekend. Both believe mightily in their topic, “You Can Build a Writing Career in South Carolina.” Expect stories, insights, and advice on navigating our state’s literary scene.

We will reprise the best-of-Saturday workshop on Sunday morning and offer the traditional slushfest-style feedback sessions with agents and publishers. That afternoon we’re pleased to offer discounted tickets to the Columbia Food & Wine Festival, a city-wide event that showcases the artists and storytellers in our culinary professions.

Columbia has so much to offer. We’re frequently overlooked in favor of Coastal playgrounds, historic ports, and mountain-rich meccas. We have the discouraging nickname “Midlands” which seems to invoke passing through on one’s way to something better. Weighed down by the politics of state government and given to territorialism over trivial things like St Patrick’s Day, Columbia is a city with opposing sides.

Yet we’re also the most diverse city in the state. Our oppositions give rise to rich and varied voices. We have the mosaic of struggle and forgiveness, of hurt and healing, of wealth and want. In the richness of diversity is the opportunity for understanding. While our nation seems ever more divided in politics, in Columbia we are bridging gaps with art. With stories.

We are a vibrant community of creators. I can’t wait to show that to the rest of the state.

Register here.

A WRITING EMERGENCY

By Sharon May

Don’t mean to be morbid, but, inevitably, I will die, and I worry I won’t attain my writing goals. Health and age are bummers. What can be done about that? Write as quick as hell, I figure.

Whenever I write with intensity, I have an emergency, often medical. I have been writing with constant pain in my right wrist for four years. After three surgeries, it may be gone. Success? Not so fast, my gremlins remind me.

Almost recovered from December’s surgery, I hurt my right hand. Don’t have a clue how, but I severely bruised the hand, which has a metal plate from knuckle to arm, so as to prevent the wrist from bending. Did it in my sleep by turning over on the hand or sleeping on it, the ER doctor thinks. Bruising is temporary, but I lost a week’s worth of writing.

I also ruptured a tendon in my right ring finger. Not a clue what I was doing in my sleep. Air typing maybe? The tendon can be fixed with surgery. Not doing that since I have the ability to push down on the keyboard. Can’t lift the finger up completely, but how necessary is that? The finger hurts when typing. Fortunately, not yet enough to stop me.

The injury has me thinking of a time to come when I could be incapable of typing. I considered that a possibility with the second surgery. I bought a version of Dragon Speak, which I used during my recovery. After that, I drifted away from it. Time to wake up the dragon.

If you have ever used this program, you know there is a learning curve for both user and program. I had to set up the program for my hillbilly accent. Note: that wasn’t a choice in the program, and I selected southern English. Not quite the same. Also, had to learn commands to punctuate, set up a page, format numbers, and so on. Had to speak slowly to match the computer’s speed, which is a bit of a problem as I apparently think and speak faster than it interprets. There was always a rather long lapse between my speaking and the words appearing on the screen.

The program has to learn as well. Recognizing accents and enunciations is important, and sometimes the program doesn’t get it. One time, I said “initiation,” but “consideration” appeared. Not even close. Then there is the lexicon of Appalachia with lots of archaic words and unique idioms rarely in the program’s dictionary. For example, I had to add “quare.” I understand all of this will get quicker with experience but it does take time from writing. Remember, time is the big worry.

As you know, time flies by. Seems to move faster every year. In retrospect, I would have treated my writing with more urgency. Can’t change that. But I can devote my time to writing now, as well as find assistive technology to keep me on track.

THE STRUGGLE IS FICTION

Enjoy this recycled post from 2017.

By Shaun McCoy

I wanted to take a brief time out to come clean here. Think of this as an intervention. You’ve invited all my close friends, family, and Aunt Sally (God knows why you invited her, but you did) to sit my lily butt down and have a talk with me. We’ve gotten past the introductions, the denials, the brief shouting matches,l and then I break down in tears and admit the truth:

I’ve been Writing While Happy.

I know, I know, I shouldn’t do it. Writing is supposed to be tough. The worse the pain, the better the writing. All you have to do is go to a typewriter and open up a vein, yadda yadda.

Well [expletive deleted] that, I say. I haven’t been miserable in nearly two years, and I’m not going back to fulfill some crappy Bohemian-writer stereotype.

I know, I know. I’ve betrayed the fundamental tenant of our craft. Let’s move on from this together.

PLOT TWIST: This is actually an intervention for you! Well, probably not you, you seem like a good reader. It’s for some other person reading this blog. Imagine them for a second. Try to make them vaguely unlikable.

Now, I get why people have this idea that wounds equal words. Just a couple years ago, my life was so utterly depressing I listened to the blues for a pick-me-up. If I got bad luck, I was happy I’d gotten any luck at all! When you’re hurting, you desperately need to reach out. You need to make meaningful connections in this world—even if those connections are only one way. Sometimes, especially when they’re one way. So yes, it was easy to write then. But guess what people? It’s easy to write now!

Communicating is something you should want to do even when you’re happy. Actually, you should want to do that especially when you’re happy. It’s passion that makes a writer write, whether they’re happy or sad, empty or fulfilled, lonely or awash in companionship (Quick aside here to the English language, can we please get a good antonym for lonely? That would be great, thanks. Sincerely, All of Us Writers). It’s those great extremes that make a work compelling. If a sad person can imagine being happy, then a happy person can imagine being sad. It does NOT mean you have to go there.

So this is to you, all you silly movies and stories with your suffering writers. You can shove it. I might write one of you, but I’m not living through you!

And this is for you, you-imaginary-hipster-would-be-writer-sitting-in-your-coffee-shop-clutching-desperately-to-the-small-town-malaise-which-once-invaded-your-life-and-filled-you-with-the-need-to-write—you’re being dramatic. Let it go. Get your dank emotions on the page there, muffin fluff, not on your life.

It’s the need to communicate that helps a person write, not the pain.

And you’re probably wondering (I can tell cause I’m psychic) “Shaun, now that your life’s not a repository of abject suffering, does that mean we’ll finally get a happy ending in one of your stories?”

No.

CLOSE TO YOU

By Bonnie Stanard

“Close To You,” a song made popular by the Carpenters in the '70s, could well describe a change in narrative voice that emerged in the 20^th century. We writers maneuver to draw ourselves (and by extension our readers) as close to the story as possible. In a sense, we write ourselves into the plot. We engage in the action, ponder the mystery, feel the romance.

What we’re talking about is point of view (POV), a way to define the narrator’s relationship to the story, and in this case, first person POV. It’s more like being in a movie while we create the plot and dialogue. We perform as the starring player and experience, along with the audience, the action as it unfolds. (Third limited POV is a close approximation of first person and involves switching narrative pronouns from first to third person.)  

You might think it’s easy to tell a story as if you’re a character in the story. But the way is narrow and the distractions many. First off, it’s complicated to play two roles (actor and writer) at one time, something that can confuse you about who you are and whose motives are in play. While you’re a character in the story, you’re aware of the thoughts, opinions, and plans of only one person, yourself. While you’re the writer working on a plot, it’s easy to slip out of the actor’s role and into the thoughts of other characters.

Something else to think about. When you’re present in the story, there are restrictions on the way you divulge the plot. For instance, if you, as an actor, play a lover who doesn’t know about a betrayal, how do you, as author, let your readers know this? It becomes a challenge to remain in the persona of a single narrator throughout a novel. And a reason why writers may change POV from one chapter (or excerpt) to another.

OMNISCIENCE ON THE DECLINE

This intimacy between author and story allows us to avoid “just the facts,” as Joe Friday said. In today’s world, “facts” often contradict one another. Much of our information comes from the media, and if you’re like me, you see those “facts” as corrupted by perspectives, i.e., opinions. Some people are coming to believe there are as many “facts” as there are people in the Universe. It’s as if omniscience as a concept has been brought into question. And to sound omniscient is to sound didactic. (Who are you to tell me the facts?)

Today’s Joe Friday would know that “just the facts” actually means “just your opinion.” Truth has morphed into your truth vs. my truth; your fact vs. my fact. Given an uncertainty about reality, we hesitate to be decisive about the particulars of a story (omniscient POV) and choose to go with impressions we attribute to a narrator.