Procrastination

by Sharon May

 

Here I am drafting a blog on procrastination the Sunday morning of submission day. What are the odds? I committed to writing this a month ago but didn’t start a draft in all that time. Instead, I mulled the topic, considering what to say and how to start. A few days ago, I jotted down ideas I wanted to include, though today I declared them useless.

 

I am a procrastinator of the finest ilk. It is my roadblock to productivity, and I am far from being in recovery. My writing routine is so ingrained that I’m almost convinced it’s my “style.” I mean, it has served me fairly well since high school, having won awards for my work. Notice: I’m just rationalizing.

 

We all have our own methods of avoidance. No fretting on my part, and I may not appear to be procrastinating because I immediately ponder, read, and research the topic as necessary. It’s almost obsessive thinking, as I talk over my ideas over with family and friends, whomever I can corral, and I listen to their thoughts on the subject as well, bouncing them all around in my head until it’s time to sit down at the laptop. No matter the project – long or short, major or minor – I wait until the last minute to write, and even determine how last minute the writing will be by setting a deadline for drafting. Telling me to start early is not really useful as I’m stuck in the beginning.

 

I’ve been writing other works, but not so much that it prevented me from completing this task. So, I’ve taken approximately 28 days to write 500 words. I could have knocked it out on any one of those days. Instead, I surfed the Internet for articles on writers’ procrastinating, watched several men’s and women’s basketball games, and who knows what else I’ve done in that time period beyond the typical activities of living. Then I took a five-day vacation out of town, during which I did no writing.

 

When my deadline arrived, I started my usual avoidance routine -- slept late rather than obey the alarm I had set, had a leisurely breakfast, took care of the cats, and chatted with a couple of friends who are also early risers. At the computer, I fought the urge to clean my workspace, though I couldn’t resist checking my email. Finally, I opened a blank document and begged the muses for words. Fortunately, the muse does finally come and words appear on the page.

 

Procrastination can be a matter of priorities. It’s how we choose to live in the moment, and procrastinators live without considering the consequences. My choices make me less productive than I could be, though I can convince myself that I’m always working. I keep trying to set goals and deadlines to move me to more seat time, but habits are stubborn.

 

How do you measure procrastination?

WRITING on NARROW ROADS to a FESTIVAL

By El Ochiis

A college friend, Droad, decided to make a film that we’d enter into a festival to win some prize money. I’d write the story in route – it didn’t matter where, specifically. Droad owned a Paillard-Bolex H16 Deluxe Cinema Camera that he inherited from his grandfather, who once worked on the set of a famous movie.

Our group consisted of five of college students: two with two part-time jobs; one was from a filthy rich family, one from a middle-income family and I had driving and map reading skills.

“I can ask ‘grams’ to loan us the chauffer, it’s a university project,” Bonn volunteered, gazing out into the crowd, with vague interest.

His grandmother, the matriarch with the cash, told him he would have to have a normal life with ordinary friends if he wanted to inherit any of her money; we were his social experiment.

“The whole point was for us to make a film, a story about doing college kids’ stuff,” lamented Seville, who had a crush on Bonn so big, it hurt to watch.

We all knew Bonn was going to marry a society chick from the Upper East Side. Seville was a vegan from the Lower East Side who played the saxophone. Bonn only knew she was alive when she would lug her horn to his dorm room and insist he listen to real music, like Coltrane instead of rock. I think they made out a couple of times.

“We should go to Park City Utah, my grandpa might be able to hook us up at an independent festival called Sundance,” Droad piped.

“What, no way, Bonn protested. “Too far, I can’t ride in some rented car, for, like a million miles across the whole country.”

“Seville wants to blow her sax in a national park, Droad has a real movie camera, I can write while someone helps with driving and you can go skiing.” I affirmed.

“But, I want to relax, on plush leather,” whined Bonn

“It would impress your grams, think about it,” I inveigled.

It was settled, we would hit the road for fourteen days, and, roughly 5,300 miles.

Bonn bailed on us for an airplane to Salt Lake City before we reached Cleveland, leaving one of gram’s credit cards for road expenses.

Seville’s first music score was for a film whose final scenes ended in Zion National Park, entitled: Narrow Roads. I wrote the script, Droad shot the footage and Bonn was the leading man. It was about relationships that were hard to navigate, like the many two-lane highways we’d trekked across Cleveland, to Nebraska, through Wyoming, into Utah – more of a metaphor for Seville and Bonn – Bonn and us. Bonn moved to Budapest; Seville shacked up with a punk rocker; I left for Paris and Droad took an apprenticeship on a movie set in Stockholm - it was our last road trip together. Our film didn’t make it into the festival – which had to be submitted months in advance – an official at the event said Droad was a natural born filmmaker and I had real writing talent – that counted towards widening the roads, a bit.

A VALEDICTION

By Sharon May

Kentucky author, Ed McClanahan died November 27, 2021. Known for his bawdy sense of humor, he was a character in his own right. After meeting Ken Kesey at Stanford, he became a “Merry Prankster,” which was depicted in Tom Wolfe’s The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. He was considered one of the Commonwealth’s best writers, but I knew him better as my first and only creative writing professor, in 1978, my junior year of college. It was dumb luck that I met Ed.

During that first class, I knew he was different from us common folk. He stood at least six feet tall, and his curly shock of blondish/brown hair made him seem even taller. His bushy mustache could not hide his perpetual grin, as if planning his next joke. I can still hear his explosive voice, ricocheting around the small seminar room and blasting its way into the hall. He claimed his volume was the result of dropping a lot of acid.

Usually he read stories aloud, primarily Flannery O’Connor and occasionally Raymond Carver, saying that reading informs writing, and I learned how to listen for the rhythm of the words on the page.

I’m not the first person to have praised him for his ability to create community and inspire other writers. The first words Ed spoke to me beyond roll call were very motivating – “Your writing reminds me of Larry McMurtry. Have you read The Last Picture Show?” In the 1970s, we could hang out with professors at one of the many bars that surrounded campus without a ruckus. Ed had a favorite, and would invite students to continue our discussions about writing over a beer and a bite to eat.

Fellow Kentucky writer and “Merry Prankster,” Gurney Norman came to class for a visit. Much to my surprise, Ed asked him to read aloud my first attempt at a short story. I received high praise for my attempt as well as discussion of strengths and weaknesses, mainly pointing out that I needed to “slow down and let the story tell itself.”

Ed also shared his own writing in class, starting with the short story, “Ennis the Penis,” published in Playboy. He also read parts of his work-in-progress, which would become the novel The Natural Man, a coming of age story of a high school basketball player where the game reigns supreme. That novel took 20 years from inception to publication, driving home for me that sometimes good writing takes more time and effort than we can imagine and that we shouldn’t give up on the stories we are driven to tell.

He didn’t put much stock in evaluations by students, saying we wouldn’t know for years how the course impacted us. I knew then the class provided me with fabulous learning opportunities, but it was quite a while before I realized how he inspired me to keep writing and helped me accept my Kentucky voice.

REAL MAGIC

By Lis Anna-Langston

Before I could write full-time, I worked at a greeting card company. Christmas started in May when catalogs and holiday material went to design. The novelty of snowflakes in summer was fun. Just when I thought holiday demand would disappear with the heat, it ramped up again. By October, my holiday cheer thinned out.

My family never celebrated holidays together, so a week before Christmas, I got in my Honda and drove. Asheville to Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, Texas. My dog and I stopped at roadside motels and drive thru coffee places. I jotted poems and stories on paper bags with stray fries hanging out in the bottom.

I was exhausted.

I remember sitting in a diner in Shreveport, eating French fries and realizing I didn’t know what day it was.

I kept going.

I plowed on across Texas, convinced somewhere in the world, meaning and miracles intersected. Charmed by the desert, that massive, waterless expanse of shrub and sand lit up my imagination. The further I drove, the more I started to form an idea for a story. Like, a real holiday story. A story about a little boy who finds something in the forest. It was right there. Pieces of a story, floating around inside the car. I swept through El Paso, passed the border and drove out to Deming, White Sands, to where Billy the Kid was jailed. I ate way too many avocados. I drove to old Indian sites and hiked up cliffs and down into caverns. I blazed my way through barrels of fresh salsa, red and green. I started to get the feeling that I was closer to Christmas than I’d ever been.

I bought a telescope and took it out into the desert. It wasn’t sophisticated, but it was portable. From a dirt road in the middle of New Mexico, I could see the moons of Jupiter. Seeing those moons locked in the pull of a planet so far away created a shift in me. A shift that pushed me closer to a magic I’d never been able to define. Not hocus-pocus magic. Real magic. The kind that exists when flowers turn to face the sun. Beyond science and stars and moons, out into the subatomic world of sheer possibility. I could feel it; like it was just around the corner, watching me.

I put my dog in the car and headed out towards Tucson. It was beautiful but not my destination. I headed north, towards Flagstaff.

The first time I saw the Grand Canyon was at 3AM, under the light of a full moon. It had just snowed. The streets were clear, but a white blanket covered the ground. Enormous elk stood under the moonlight, so huge their bellies came up to the top of my car. Coyotes roamed the wide-open spaces. The world was aglow and alive in that strange canyon. Cold and clear and perfect. I drove to a hotel and prayed they had a vacancy. While my dog sat in a chair staring out at that new world, I sat awake in bed and wrote down the beginning of this story, shaped by my winter in the desert. A story inspired by moons of Jupiter, life in other star systems, strange findings in the forest.

DISAGREEING WITH MY NARRATORS

By El Ochiis

My internal monologue plays out as heterosexual males; they are never one ethnic group. Sometimes he is European with pale skin and other times he is an indigenous brown man of African descent. None of them have names, the only time he has one is when I give it to him. Frequently, a number of them will argue over point of view.

These men have compelling stories that they urge me to tell. The problem begins when I disagree with their point of view; the conflict; the drama and/or the plot twist. It is, at this time, when I must face the task of re-working the piece from a different perspective, that my friendly confidantes become unfriendly.

Their suggestions and stories can be misogynistic or steeped in prejudice, preferring one ethnicity over the other – may or may not yield retribution for the protagonist. Each man, can be, surprisingly, quite altruistic and, rather fair - seeing the other’s side of life – and, other times, not viewing the other’s side – and highly prejudiced - which makes my part of the storytelling process harder and, subject to confrontation.

When I veer from the original idea, my narrator can become recalcitrant, and, for days, weeks and months, refuse to talk to me. I am like a jilted lover needing a social call, I wander about aimlessly, waiting for my suitor to ring – waiting for those inner monologues that fill my brain while the engine stands idling.

I had assumed I was bordering on insanity, or sounded completely mad, until I read a story about the last great mystery of the mind – people who have unusual – or non-existent – inner voices.

One woman, who is not Italian, has an Italian couple who argue: “They were chatting non-stop before I handed in my notice,” she stated, with a hard sigh. “I’d wake up and they’d be arguing. I’d be driving to work and they’d be arguing. It was exhausting, to be honest.”

I know from whence she speaks because my narrators, when speaking to me, sometimes, can be like a TV screen, or a slide projector, that are continuously playing inside an attic, inside my head, with so many ideas that I can’t possibly keep up – it becomes overwhelming - I don’t have enough time to produce all the interesting stories they want me to write.

A neuroscientist, who studies this phenomenon, has also found people for whom there isn’t a voice at all, just silence – an emptiness - a still, warm air before a rustling breeze.

I wish I could download mine onto some sort of hard drive, so the people without any monologues in their heads, could look at it - it’s a shame no one gets to meet my guys but me.

Wait, should I be worried that they’ll be mad at me for exposing our little spats? Nah, it was their suggestion that I write about my inner voices – them – see, now that’s a tad narcissistic I argue.

SIMPLE MACHINES or MAGIC FAIRY DUST?

By Kasie Whitener

There were 250 Wattys winners, and I wasn’t one of them. Over the summer, I’d won the Broad River Prize for Prose and the 2021 Fresh Voices in the Humanities Awards. My unpublished novel took a 3^rd place finish in a writers’ contest in August. I was on a roll.

I really thought my serialized YA story about two kids getting kicked out of Neverland and joining the American Revolution would be a shoo-in for this online fan fiction website contest. Except it wasn’t. I wrote about the serialization project in this post. It’s a former NaNoWriMo effort that just wanted a little revision and to see the light of day.

It’s easy to add my Wattys failure to low turnout at book signings, poor attendance at speaking engagements, anemic growth on my social channels and email list, and the decision to forego NaNoWriMo this year and say my writing career is stalling.

But on October 27, I gave a well-received reading of an unpublished story to a packed bar during “Noir at the Bar.” Yesterday I delivered a keynote speech at the Aiken Book Fair. And that 3^rd-place-winning- vampire novel is in the hands of an agent who loves it.

In this writing life there are milestone events like winning awards and getting representation that seem to be critical to climbing the peak. And then there are low points like showing up to see three people in the audience and cuing up your slide deck anyway while feeling engulfed in the valley of shame.

Last week I discovered this video wherein creative coach Jessica Abel reminds us that our vision of the process for building a writing career looks like this:

1) get good at my craft,

2) get an agent and sell my book,

3) magic fairy dust,

4) retire a famous, rich, world-renowned author.

Except Step 3 (according to Jessica) isn’t “magic fairy dust.” It’s a machine. And anyone can work the machine. You just have to know how. This is a critical conversation for me because I’m using the machine to hoist, elevate, and raise my work for career sustainability, and personal fulfillment.

• Pulley: Attending conferences and festivals (makes heavy lifting easier)

• Lever: Critique groups and beta readers (gets things unstuck, lessens workload)

• Wheel and Axle: Presenting, Sharing, & Teaching (connects me with others, improves craft)

• Wedge: Awards and Recognition (separates my work from others’)

• Inclined Plane (or ramp): Associations (opportunities to lead, create, and shine)

• Screw: Volunteer (embed myself in the work, become deeply engrained in the industry)

When I think of the activities in my writing life as simple machines to move me from where I am toward where I want to be, I appreciate even the low-turnout events, even the no-win contests, and even the rejections and declines.

I am gaining ground not by waiting for someone else to sprinkle luck upon me, but by churning the gears and driving my own success. Pedal down. Roll on.

RATIONALITY AND THE WRITING WORLD

By Sharon Ewing

“Writing is not a rational act.” I had just tuned to NPR in the car, and that statement surprised me into yelling at the radio, “What the …?” As I listened, the host referred to the person speaking as a psychologist. Here I must admit my skepticism of relying heavily on psychological thought, despite a long relationship with friends in the profession. This is the result of raising children and dealing, as a teacher, with students and their parents who were psychologists.

It’s only in the last few years that I’ve come to accept the label of writer for myself. Before that, even the thought made me feel like a phony. I’ve had just one accepted submission, and that one being rather pedestrian. I wasn’t a Hemingway, a Conway, a Bronte. I believed these famous people and others would turn over in their graves should I label myself a writer. But a friend gave me Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird, and that book, along with encouragement I’ve received from so many published and non-published writers, has allowed me to feel more comfortable with the description. Was this psychologist calling all these wonderful people irrational? I was offended for myself and them. Surely a rational being cannot be happy pursuing an irrational career.

I thought I knew the definition of the word ‘rational’ but maybe there was something I missed. I consulted with an expert on the matter. Pulling into the driveway, I grabbed my phone. Yep, Webster still defined rational as “having the ability to reason.” I checked the thesaurus for related words and found: intelligent, thinking, analytical, logical, cognitive. It sounded like me, someone with degrees, someone who analyzed everything to death, and knew she’d never live long enough to know all the things that she wanted to know. I also had proof that I was a rational being. One year my kids bought me a blue nightshirt. On the front was a huge picture of that famous orange cat and underneath were the words, Virgo (my astrological sign), an analytical, picky, worrywart. Both Webster and Garfield couldn’t be wrong.

Stepping into the house I turned on the radio to continue listening to the program. By the time I tuned back in, the host was speaking with an artist about how he accessed the creativity apparent in his work. I began to realize the show wasn’t specifically about writing, but about creative thought. It was not the person (the writer, the artist, etc.), but the process that was the topic. By the time I realized my mistake, the host had returned to the writer once again. He mentioned how every writer must allow freedom for ideas to flow, because many stories and characters are amalgams of people and memories storied in our subconscious.

My claws retracted; my metaphorical balustrade tumbled. And embarrassingly, I had to admit. I, a writer and a rational being had jumped the gun, acted hastily and sorry to say, acted irrationally.

BEYOND REVISION

By Lis Anna-Langston

Sharon May wrote a great piece about revision last month. Revision is more than changing a word here and there was her point, and I agree. Great writing is rewriting. It also made me think about the rewriting after the rewriting. What about the piece that’s been hanging in limbo for months or, worse, the piece that’s been continually declined? Does it warrant a full rewrite? What if it’s even more nuanced? A lot of rewriting is intuition, craft, objectivity.

I had this piece of flash fiction titled: “afternoons. with kerouac.” For six months I sent the piece out. Nothing. Every editor passed. After half a year I pulled it from the submission queue. Taking an objective look, I analyzed every facet. Plot, pacing, tone, characterization. Is there desire, momentum, goal? Yes. Can I tighten the story? Um, no. At 405 words it was the most well-crafted flash fiction I’d ever written. A love letter to Jack, conceived and honed to perfection after a long cold winter listening to On the Road. Something was wrong, and I couldn’t figure out what. That bugged me. Unable to figure out the missing piece, I kept it out of rotation. Days later, I returned to the story. I sat down at my desk and reread it.

“What is this piece really about? What is really going on in this scene?” I asked myself aloud.

I made some quick notes. A girl and Jack and Neil in a small apartment. The narrator liked Jack, but she didn’t love him. I reduced the entire story to three lines, then to two lines, from two to one. Then I distilled the entire piece to a single phrase. Except I was back to zero. The piece really was about afternoons with Kerouac. I must have sat there for half an hour deconstructing every word. Finally, I did what every writer does: I went to get a cup of coffee. Driving down the winding road, the answer came. I drove back to my office and distilled it to one word. Sex. The narrator was having sex with Kerouac, even though it is never mentioned. I changed the title, sex. with kerouac, saved, and submitted the piece to literary journals with open calls. It was accepted for publication nine days later. So, what’s the takeaway? Well, clearly sex sells.

But that’s just snark. Even after all the line edits, plot changes, grammar, and punctuation, revision may extend beyond the rewrite. A simple revision can complete an entire piece and bring the story full circle. Elevating the mechanics of a complete rewrite to a single meaningful change can very often be the difference between a good piece and a great piece. You can make a change, but what you really need at that point is an elegant change. Sometimes that comes long after the original rewrite. Sometimes changing one word changes the entire substance of the piece. One meaningful change can shorten the distance from where you are to where you want to be.

AFRAID TO ASK

By Kasie Whitener

Last spring, I met an agent with whom I had immediate rapport. In our conversation, I mentioned that I was about to start shopping a vampire novel. Since her preferred genre is adult fantasy, she asked me to send it to her.

Ten days later, I got an email saying, “OK I’ve read enough of this to know that I want to read more. I wanted you to know that I’ve gotten through the first 30 pages or so and I would love to read the rest of it.”

The rest of the email went on to explain she was super busy and would need about a month to finish it. I agreed. My initial email had told her the manuscript was still with beta readers and I had a developmental editor on the job.

I didn’t hear from her again and I was afraid to ask her about it. I’ve been rejected before.

Last Tuesday we hosted Amy Collins as part of the SCWA’s Become an Author series. In the reminder email I sent her the week before, I told her the upcoming radio show I host would be talking about vampires (a topic she and I both enjoy).

When we logged in to the Zoom meeting, Amy said, “I’ve got a great vampire manuscript right now I’ll share with you. It’s not published but it’s great.”

Part of me thought she was teasing me. So, I replied, “Is it mine?”

Amy sat, stunned, on the other side of the Zoom. Within a couple of minutes, we worked out that I’d sent her my manuscript via email, she’d forgotten about it, and maybe thought because it wasn’t done, she’d come back to it? Or I would resubmit a more finalized version? Who knows?

In any case, we’d miscommunicated. And I was relieved.

Relieved because she’s the first agent who had been excited about the manuscript. Relieved because I like Amy and want to work with her. Relieved because she hadn’t ghosted me or rejected me. We’d just miscommunicated.

Amy delivered one of the best SCWA Become an Author sessions we’ve had. She was forthright about what an agent does and does not do. She was honest about what annoys agents and what gets them excited. We had more than 80 people show up. One person messaged me that it was the most valuable session they’d ever attended, and they would be joining SCWA right away.

What I learned from Amy was something I think I already knew: following-up is not pestering.

I should I have messaged her, “Hey! You have my vampire novel. What did you think?”

Instead of assuming that she hadn’t liked it at all. Rejection is a bad teacher.

In fact, Amy told our story to the group on Zoom and said, “Kasie and the rest of you should know that if an agent asks for your manuscript, the ghosting part of your relationship is over. Now it’s about follow-up.

Don’t be afraid to ask.

CAN’T HURRY THAT NOVEL

By El Ochiis

Some novels take time to write. Just as one shouldn’t pan-fry brisket, sometimes one can’t hurry a novel that needs to be slow-cooked. Karl Marlantes, a Yale graduate and Rhodes Scholar, slow-cooked his powerful novel, Matterhorn, for 33 years. Published in 2009, it was set during the Vietnam war – he was also a decorated soldier of that war.

I mention this because, lately, I’ve been dreading the days on the calendar due to a hopeful decision, well, promise, to complete a piece that I had been working on before the end of 2021. That deadline will not be met. There is a professional colleague, editor/coach, who will ring me up and make me feel even more guilty than I already am by admonishing me in the manner one does with a two-year old:

“Turn off the internet, make a writing schedule, stay inside for a month and just work on your piece, meditate procrastination away, work less hours,” she will cajole, as if I had not tried all of the suggestions she has texted, emailed and left so many messages, my voice mail on both phones are full.

But, the one criticism that she uses to break my soul is:

“Not getting any younger, time, there is no time,” she warns, in her seventh voice message.

Ouch, that one so hurts my feeling, not because I have any deep-rooted issues with getting older, rather because I haven’t been able to commission some entity, Julius Caesar, maybe, that I need more hours added to the day, more days added to the week, more weeks added to the month and, finally, more months added to the year – Caesar’s solar year was already miscalculated by eleven minutes:

Listen to me, miss ‘Negative Nancy’, Harriet Doerr was 74 when her debut novel, Stones for Ibarra, was published; It went on to win the National Book Award. Eudora Welty was 75 when One Writer’s Beginnings was published; Edith Wharton, 75, when The Buccaneers was published (after her death), still counts; Herman Wouk, at 100 years old, published: Sailor and Fiddler: Reflections of a 100-Year-Old Author. – And, he was still alive past April 2019.” I will rattle off, in my head, too ashamed to pick up the phone and confront the deadline demon.

Did I forget Stan Lee, creator of Marvel Comics, who died in 2018 at the age of 95, he kept going till the very end. Margaret Atwood redefined herself and her work in her mid-70’s when The Handmaid’s Tale, published in 1985, reached the small but powerful screen in 2017.

May Sarton—who wrote dozens of books, including poetry, fiction, children’s books and nonfiction into her early 80’s—quotes Humphry Trevelyan on Goethe: “It seems that two qualities are necessary if a great artist is to remain creative to the end of a long life: he must on the one hand retain an abnormally keen awareness of life, he must never grow complacent...”

I’ll just keep writing, and, moving up that deadline, because, you see, it’s my humble opinion that writers and artists tend to go until they can’t go on any longer – brisket anyone?

CUE THE CONFETTI

By Kasie Whitener

I don’t get nervous for Zoom events even when I’m hosting them. I pour a glass of wine and tuck my pajama’d legs underneath me and tune in like the meeting is a television program.

But last Monday night I was nervous. The Southeastern Writers Association was holding their awards event on Zoom and my novel, Being Blue, was a finalist. The entry was an unpublished manuscript and this one, up until now, had only been read by my critique group and a developmental editor.

In contrast, my first novel, After December, has been out since 2019 and has over 50 ratings on Amazon. My second novel, Before Pittsburgh, released last month and earned a dozen 5-star reviews from the vast world of #bookstagram. My short story “For the Win” was in the summer issue of The Showbear Family Circus and my story “The Shower” is set to be printed in Fall Lines. I blog weekly across multiple platforms. I have authored two textbooks at use in my classrooms.

I’m being read on the regular and not just by people who know me.

Entering the Hal Bernard Memorial Award for Novel with the Southeastern Writers Association also meant I’d joined the organization. Logging into the Zoom, I saw strangers’ faces, not my usual SCWA crowd. The nerves had begun much earlier in the day, though, when I thought about what it meant to be a finalist and what it would feel like to have to show one of those fake-Oscar smiles when they didn’t name me the winner.

Any other acceptance or win has come as an email or phone call notification. Congratulations, your book is a finalist in the Indie Excellence Awards. Congratulations, you’ve won the Broad River Prize for Prose.

I’ve applied and submitted and been refused and rejected. We’re sorry but your work does not fit our needs at this time.

I’ve queried and entered and been ignored and ghosted. My novel After December was in a first-novel contest for female authors and lost to a book about the experience of a young Latina immigrant. So, yeah, my white-privileged male protagonist never stood a chance.

Never have I minded the rejection. Putting my work out there means accepting defeat. And Monday night I wasn’t rehearsing my, “Good for you!” expression because I’ve been spoiled by the wins.

Buzz Bernard, who sponsored the award selected five entries to honor. Two received honorable mention and three took prizes.

The screen said, “Third Place – Being Blue by Kasie Whitener,” and I smiled and unmuted and said, “Thank you.” I thought of our bronze-medal winning athletes and the looks on their faces knowing they’ve come so close and come up just short. Then I finished my wine.

Bronze is hard because it’s not a win exactly, but it’s not a loss, either. It’s somewhere in between. Congratulations, your work is above average.

So, thank you. I might just stick with this writing thing. I have some work to do.

REVISION: A NECESSARY EVIL

By Sharon May

“I’ve just finished my novel. Do I need to revise it?” asks one more person on an online writing forum. I know where the inquiry is coming from. You’ve written for weeks, months, or years to produce a first draft, sweating over each carefully chosen word, which could be confused with revising. You’re dead dog tired, and a little bored with the project. You think you’ve given everything you have in your mind and soul. What more can be done?

Actually, more than we can imagine after we first complete a draft. Revising is as necessary as drafting in its requirement to step back from the manuscript and out of ourselves so we can re-visit our work objectively. Revision is decorating the room we just built because without paint and furniture, it won’t be a finished nor enjoyable space.

It is not editing, which should be a final pass for grammar, mechanics, and punctuation at the sentence level. Revising entails some work with sentences, but good writers reconsider plot and sub-plots, character development, organization, structure, themes, voice, coherence, cohesiveness, continuity, etc. The list is endless, meaning that revising is a lot of work and could take as long, if not longer, than drafting took. Who wouldn’t prefer to skip this step?

Proud of our brilliant moments, we really don’t want to take a hard look at our less than brilliant writing. We carry around enough doubt and want to avoid more. Instead of doubting ourselves, we should be proud that we recognized our weaker words and ideas, and yes, even mistakes. Not everyone can objectify their own writing and grasp it from the reader’s perspective.

I don’t consider myself good at revision. A few years ago, I finished my first draft of a novel in progress, and was at a loss. I knew I wasn’t done writing but I just didn’t know what to do. So, I found a professional editor who had worked for a company I’d be proud to have publish my work and hired her to do a developmental edit. It was not cheap, but the help has been priceless like the MasterCard ad says.

The editor asked questions and made comments that piqued my creativity. My reactions to her reading made it possible for me to see what the work in progress could become, which is the point of revision.

With that experience as well as joining Cola II Writers Workshop, I am learning how to see my writing from outside myself, without all the emotional attachment to the words. They really are just words. They may create a wonderful and beautiful mosaic, but they can be tinkered with and improved.

Don’t sell your work short. Revise to discover the best of what you have to offer the reader.

TRUST THE PROCESS

By Lis Anna-Langston

My third year at a Creative and Performing Arts School, I came to a crossroads. Home was chaotic and I took up study at a Buddhist Temple. It wasn’t a decision of faith but a simple response to my environment. With a fine combination of new athletic shoes, city buses, and catching rides, I set out to learn a lesson in commitment. It was a lot of work for anyone, especially a Sophomore in high school to get up at 4:30AM to catch a bus but I took up the reigns of my new choice with profound enthusiasm.

At the library I devoured ancient texts. I meditated on the meaning of nothingness, because, unlike the existential nothingness at home, I found something unique. I studied on buses and weekends, keeping up my pace. Making choices cleared my mind, gave me focus. In time I noticed my studies overlapped into my artistic work. What I learned from ancient texts applied to writing and being on stage. The same process I used to align myself with the universe was the same one I used in writing to go deeper into the material. The same path I took to a poem led to divine truths. These paths became interchangeable. Unique by design but more similar than I imagined. A magical place where art and philosophy intersected. An invisible border where commitment merged into trust.

There are few things more exciting than watching inspiration at work in your life. Seeing all that come alive made me even more excited about processes that required a lot of work on my part. There weren't a lot of things I could trust in my life, but I started to see through the cracks. I had to learn to trust. Trust myself to know what I wanted. Trust the art of allowing. Trust myself to get the idea onto the page. Trust myself to dive into the raw draft. Trust myself to show up to the work every day. Trust that the final draft would be completely different than the first. Trust that every way is the right way. Trust I’m serving the work in ways I couldn’t have defined yesterday or the day before. It’s a hard concept for people to grasp.

People want absolutes. They want to know. But art isn’t about knowing. Trust opens doors to beginnings and endings. It is the rope binding each part of the artistic process to the next. It’s the edge of the cliff, the beginning of an idea, the thing that lights our way, the thing that reflects back what we’re thinking and doing, the thing that catches us in midair. A paradox of paradoxes. Letting go of results shifts us into a position to trust. From inspiration to drafts to rewrites, trust becomes the key to open those doors. Write your truth is an empty phrase until you first learn to trust. I see now that commitment to writing practice shapes and hones art. Trust is a powerful tool for writers. The gateway from which all great ideas enter.

SORRY, NOT SORRY

By Kasie Witener

I like the sex in the story.

I read romance novels almost exclusively and I’m not embarrassed to say I like the sex scenes.

The characters are important, of course, and the tension leading up to that point when they finally give in, but it’s the intimacy of the sex that keeps me reading.

I’ve been known to stay awake into the early hours of morning reading romance novels.

I’ve abandoned books that had terrible, awkward, or clinical sex scenes.

I’ve read entire series of books by authors who made dozens of sex scenes seem original every single time.

I’m not alone. Romance is the most popular genre on Amazon. It’s the single biggest genre of fiction accounting for 23% of the overall fiction market in 2016 and growing exponentially. While 83% of the readers are female, Romance Writers of America estimates 16% are male, with the average age between 35- and 39-years-old. I’m 44 and I’m not the oldest romance junkie I know.

Like most genre fiction, romance is governed by reader expectations, chief among them is the HEA (happily ever after) which is what separates the romance from a love story. Split into dozens of subgenres, Romance also meets readers where their desires are: contemporary, erotic, historical, dark, paranormal, “spiritual elements” or Christian romance, romantic suspense, sweet or “clean” romance, and young adult with teenaged or early-twenties characters.

Writers have also embraced the tropes: billionaire, boss, athlete, rock star, outlaw (motorcycle, mafia), and military. Like I said, they meet readers where they are.

What this teaches me, as a writer, because I don’t write romance, is to focus on those moments in the book that I want to become the reader’s favorite.

For example, in After December, my first-person male protagonist has a couple of really great moments. There’s the time he cold-cocks a former high school rival for calling his ex-girlfriend a slut. Then he takes the bartender home and … well, it’s a moment some readers have said made them throw the book across the room. Writing important moments—the scenes that will stick with the reader—that’s what I want to do. I don’t write romance, but I don’t back away from the sexuality of my characters, either.

My second novel, Before Pittsburgh, is out this week (August 17) and I have dozens of favorite moments. One of them is when Brian is teasing his ex-girlfriend with a cookie in his hotel room. It’s not sex, but it’s a sexy scene. One of dozens.

Revision, for me, focuses on solidifying those scenes. Making each moment impactful, meaningful, memorable. So, when my readers flip through the book, they’ll know what it was they loved about it.

Maybe it will be the sex. But I hope will be the vulnerability around Brian’s mental health, the deep forging of friendship bonds, forgiveness of his parents, or the delicate untangling of bad decisions.

Oh, who am I kidding? Of course it’s the sex. And I’m not even sorry about it.

LIKES, SHARES, SMILES, AND SALES

By Jodie Cain Smith

Yes, this is a marketing post.

We all know that authors must market. The hustle is part of the job, but the marketing hustle is daunting. Questions: How do I begin? How do I market a book? Do I need a hook? Can’t I just post my book cover and all my adoring fans will buy it? Answers: Begin with yourself, build relationships, yes, and uh…no. 

Ye0s, start with yourself, especially on social media. You are the brand. Post about you. Readers want to know you, your personality, your interests other than your writing. Your friends and families really don’t want their feeds filled with only “Buy my book!” posts. That’s a sure-fire way to get snoozed on Facebook and unfollowed on the Gram. 

That brings us to building relationships. You’ve all heard that social media marketing is about building relationships, but I believe all marketing is about relationships. On social media, interact with your commenters. Comment back, comment on their posts, comment on posts that speak to you (keep the rage on low), spread the love. Even if you dedicate only 15 minutes a day to interacting on social media, it will pay off in increased followers and higher visibility for your posts. 

And, building relationships isn’t just online. Holding a book signing? Stand rather than sit. This is a much more welcoming, less intimidating posture than sitting behind the great barrier of the table, desperate not to look like a friendless loser with 100 unsold books in front of you. 

Make your book an experience. For upcoming events, I have made selfie props that play with the hook of my latest book. On the book table, a jar decorated to coordinate with my brand color palette holds the selfie props. Anyone who buys a book receives a magnetic bookmark with NO BRANDING on them (bought dirt cheap in bulk). Another jar holds stickers for kids who happen to approach the table. Yes, I am that person—lure the child to the table with a sticker, mom or dad will follow. 

I work with libraries, museums, and community centers offering workshops. For these events, I offer the organizers three 45-minute writing workshop options to choose from, depending on their patrons needs. Admission is free with the option to purchase a book. I have never failed to make sales at one of these events. At the last one I held for the launch of The Woods at Barlow Bend I sold out—40 copies to attendees and the last ten to the museum director for the gift shop. 

Now, for the hook of the book your promoting. For Bayou Cresting: The Wanting Women of Huet Pointe (July 31, 2021, Crowsnest Books), I created the social media campaign “Which Huet Pointe woman are you?” Each woman has a featured post with very brief description, picture, and call-to-action. These posts align with the selfie props and a poster collage of all the women displayed alongside the books at events. 

So, with these tips, get out there and market your work. Build your readership by building your community. Build this writerly community by sharing your marketing tips below in the comments.

MORAL AMBIGUITY

By Bonnie Stanard 

There are those of us who call ourselves writers based not on the number of books we have written or sold but on the hope that we will make a difference to some reader somewhere. But what sort of difference are we aspiring to? 

I can say that my books have made a difference to at least one person, and that’s me. Each book has been a learning experience. They have forced me to explore worlds of the antebellum South and Medieval France. As a result, I’ve learned to appreciate the adage that the past is a foreign country. 

As I sit at my desk and think about my surroundings, I ask myself, what have I contributed to this place where I find myself? Did I make the chair I’m sitting on? Did I sew the shirt I’m wearing? Build the room? The house? Did I hammer a nail or install electricity? Build a street? Did I make my iPhone, create the internet? What have I actually done to bring about virtually everything I encounter and use every day? 

The answer of course leads me to realize my debt to our forefathers. The sweat and anguish of many individuals who worked together for centuries produced the advancements that give me the comfort and safety I take for granted. Perhaps this realization is one reason historical fiction appeals to me. It gives us a peep-hole through the concrete that divides us from the past. 

I’ve noticed that we criticize our ancestors based on expectations of the present with little notion of the cultural and moral differences that separate us from them. Today, historic heroes lose status regardless of their good intentions if they don’t conform to the sensibilities of the 21^st Century. They were products of a time when the meaning of good wouldn’t be found in a dictionary today. Our century is not just physically different from any other, it is emotionally different. 

It’s no exaggeration to say that our culture has been changed over time by gifted writers. Jane Austen pointed out that patriarchy is oppressive (it’s taking a long time to sink in). Charles Dickens told the world of child labor and the abuse of the poor. Dostoyevsky questioned our view of morality. Mark Twain, notably a humorist, took on politics. These writers have prompted us to look at ourselves critically. 

It takes genius to be as clever as canonic authors, but that’s not to say our writing doesn’t affect readers for better or worse. Even romance, sci-fi, mystery, or whatever the genre, has moral moments. It may be one sentence. It may be an inconspicuous tone. 

Our attitudes and values are daily shifting in directions based on what we see, hear, and read. In what direction are we going? We assume progress is positive, but the word is coveted as a marketing tool to sell good and bad ideas. “Improvement” may come at a cost that results in harm.

Will our novels throw light on destructive trends? Plots that exploit drugs, violence, erotica, and mayhem are exciting. However, without redeeming value, they impoverish our intellect and compromise our sense of right and wrong. 

I’m not talking about polemics as a plot, not about what we “ought” to do. I mean novels that surprise us with courage, honesty, and toleration. Will we give readers a reason to question what is going on with our world? 

MEASURING ALL THE THINGS

By Kasie Whitener 

When I joined the My Name is Not Bob Writers Platform Challenge in 2012, I had no idea what I would even tell people about myself. The purpose was to build a platform for your writing life – a digital platform primarily – and to put yourself into the writing community as a new voice. 

Fast forward to 2021 and I’ve been recognized as a Fresh Voice in the Humanities for South Carolina and I wrote this blog about the irony of being called “fresh.” Because, let’s be honest, I’ve done all the things. 

I started with blogging. I blogged weekly. Then monthly. Then sporadically. I guest blogged and I shared, liked, commented, and promoted blogs. I even gave people advice on how to write blogs and have served as the editor for this blog for several years. Currently my work appears on six different blog sites. 

Then came social media. I have Instagram and Facebook and Twitter. I like Twitter best and have been running a weekly tweet chat (#wschat) every Tuesday at 6 p.m. for eight years. I’m a reluctant Facebook user and they know it. My posts are buried in everyone’s feed because I don’t post often enough or show enough engagement. Did you know it does that? Facebook rewards you for being present by making what you post more visible to others. It’s a mysterious thing called an algorithm. 

I started the radio show Write On SC in 2018 and we’re going strong with over 150 episodes, several patrons, and a good listenership. Each week we discuss various topics around creation, craft, and publication. It led me to Wattpad, where I’ve been serializing a YA novel all summer. The Full Moon in Neverland is my third novel. The first two were published by Chrysalis Press. 

So, I did the writing. I wrote After December, took it through workshop and developmental edits, and got it with Chrysalis and published it. I built a marketing plan, leveraging my platform and reaching out to book clubs to adopt and evangelize the work. It’s found success. Forty-seven reviews so far and a four-star average. 

The follow-up, Before Pittsburgh, comes out in August and I’m working the platform now to promote it and get those pre-sales, reviews, and Want To Read adds on Goodreads. It’s amazing the things I’ve learned to measure since I joined the My Name is Not Bob platform challenge. 

I’ve done all the things. The profiles, the engagement, the presentations and appearances, the promotional work (giveaways, ads), and the book club visits. I’ve built my email list at the urging of my publisher and I’m building audience every day. And I’m still managing to write. 

But I’m exhausted.

Only reading the proof copy of Before Pittsburgh over the weekend has lightened the mood around here. Knowing it’s a good book. Being happy with the product. Glad to share it with the world. All those measurements—like smiles and hugs—are hard to quantify.

ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE: WRITING TOOL OR THREAT?

By Raegan Teller

My introduction to artificial intelligence (AI) was the 1968 movie 2001: A Space Odyssey. In the story, HAL is an AI computer that controls the systems of the Discovery One spacecraft and interacts with the ship's astronauts. At the time, it was mere science fiction.

Fast forward to 2021: AI is now a reality. Some applaud its evolution; others warn us. The late theoretical physicist Stephen Hawking said in 2014, "The development of full artificial intelligence could spell the end of the human race." Strong words.

But I want to discuss the more immediate effect of AI on writers and editors. In 2019, the first AI-written textbook was published, Lithium-Ion Batteries, a machine-generated summary of current research. And in 2020, approximately 50 freelance news editors at MSN were dismissed and replaced by AI-driven robots that optimize content by rewriting headlines or adding better photographs or slide shows. Dan Kennedy, a journalism professor at Northeastern University, believes AI-generated writing represents “a real threat” to writers.

Since AI runs on algorithms, it can effectively produce non-fiction writing, especially formulaic news reporting or other data-driven content. But what about fiction writing? Or poetry and other creative writing?

Creative writers are driven by curiosity and imagination. We draw on our human traits—empathy, anger, love, and determination, to name a few. We look for deeper meaning and express ourselves through writing. A computer can’t do that . . . can it?

Experiments using AI to write novels and poetry demonstrate that AI pulls from existing text and expands on it. Most of these experiments begin by feeding a first line or first paragraph to AI and then it completes the writing using an algorithm. For example, AI can be programmed to associate love and joy, or death and sorrow. For now, at least, AI can’t start with a blank page and produce original, inspiring prose or poetry (a problem some human writers share).

In a 2021 New Yorker article, novelist and essayist Stephen Marche said, “Whatever field you are in, if it uses language, it is about to be transformed.” Also in that article, Amit Gupta, a former science fiction writer and co-founder of Sudowrite, an AI writing app, predicts writers will use AI to produce copy and then edit it to provide deeper meaning where needed.

Before you dismiss all of this as mere science fiction, consider this: commercial fiction is written using a story structure similar to an algorithm. Certain things must happen in the first act of the story, other things in the middle, and so forth. And if you’ve ever studied a story arc or a character arc, it’s basically an algorithm. Even the rhythm and patterns of freeform poetry can be learned and emulated by AI. The New Yorker article referenced above has an interesting example of an AI written poem.

So, is AI a threat or a tool for writers? It depends on whether we decide to jump on board, or in front of, this seemingly unstoppable train.                                                         

HOW WRITING HAS IMPACTED MY READING

By Sharon Ewing

I’ve always been an avid reader beginning with picture books, illustrated classics, fairy tales, and even textbooks. As a youth I read compulsively, even the cereal boxes we sat on the breakfast table before school.  I wasn’t exactly a discriminating reader. My sister looked at me as though I’d lost my mind when I told her, as we walked to school, how excited I was to get my new textbooks. I just loved words. I loved learning about anything new.  In my teen years, dad and I would walk to the library and lug home an armload of books. I never thought about how a story was put together, or much about the person behind the words.

I’ve always liked books with tons of detail and words I’d never encountered. I’ve poured over Hawthorne, Cooper, Michener, Tolstoy and reveled in their marathon-like sentences, using punctuation I knew I could never hope to imitate.  I sat many summers with my head in books required for the next year.  I could choose a few.  I read them all.

 I continue to be a lover of detail and vocabulary, but now have a deeper understanding of the beauty of simple concise sentences as well. I understand better the need for sentence variety. Through new reading choices, I’ve developed an appreciation for different styles.

Now I’m not so much a compulsive reader. I’m much more likely to discard a book when the plot lags, the characters need a transfusion or the dialogue becomes redundant.  Before my transition from reader to writer, I often felt guilty when I didn’t finish a book.  If someone had asked me why I didn’t like the book, I would have likely have said that it had become boring; I’d lost interest.  Now when I discard a book or a story, I can usually detail the reason. 

I still carve time out of my day to read and enjoy many different genres, but I observe my story more, as I read. I have found authors who can satisfy my love of place through poetic description but also move the story and the reader more through action scenes and dialogue. I’ve studied their economy of words, and my writing has changed because of these stories.

I believe we all go through an evolution of reading styles and genres from cradle to grave.  But I don’t think I’d ever have become as engrossed in analyzing the elements of a great story along the way if I hadn’t chosen to try my hand at constructing my own stories.  We can never know, as we chose a path to explore, what lies ahead.  My adventure has just begun.

INSPIRATION

By Sharon May

We all have those moments when a jolt of inspiration infuses our writing. A conversation had or overheard, a book read, a sunset seen, anything can inspire us and bring us closer to the spirit of the subjects we tackle. By spirit, I mean that essence of what we are trying to re-create in our writing, those qualities that make the subject different and noteworthy.

Eastern Kentucky mountain landscapes and the inhabitants usually give me that jolt. But trips to see family in 2020 were depressing, not inspirational. I felt the lifelines to my birthplace fading away, and just maybe the Appalachian ways of life were dying too.

The hollow where I visited grandparents and other family and friends no longer exists, having been bulldozed for a new road that will reduce drive time radically between McDowell and Pikeville area. For most of my life, family gatherings included upwards of 30 people. Last year with the pandemic and recent deaths and illnesses, we couldn’t get a foursome for Pinochle.

Last month, I was home to celebrate my dad’s birthday and decorate graves for Memorial Day (in the hills, we celebrate everyone who has died, not just those in military service). Traveling from my parents’ house on US 23 to the two cemeteries up Left Beaver, we moved from “civilization” (what I call the world of fast-food and Walmart) to the reality of Appalachia. Four-laned highways dwindled to one-and-a-half lanes that require someone pull off the road if you meet another car, which in turn become one lane that curls its way up mountains without the benefit of shoulders nor guard rails.

Deep in the mountains where crumbling shacks, some of which are inhabited, sit precariously on mountain sides or in flood plains, I find inspiration. There is beauty, even in those shacks, in the lush greens of summer, constant reminders of the poverty and hopelessness that prevail.

Appalachian people are simultaneously complex and stereotypical, providing me with wonderful characters. We are a quare folk, as we say when we refer to our strange ways and honor code. Imagine waking up from a nap, only to find a middle-aged stranger dressed in all black from cowboy boots to leather cowboy hat sitting in your parents’ dining room, chatting about smoking pot as if he’s known the family all his life. Turns out, he is the new companion of my widowed aunt, and from a family, my dad knows well, having worked his several of his relatives. “Who you kin to?” and “Where are you from?” establish our links to our pasts.

Appalachia has changed, like all of America, as a result of media and transportation, but it is still a unique part of America, a culture with a story to tell. Even as my family shrinks, the hills still stand, and I am inspired.