Binge Writing

For Camp NaNoWriMo I started out with serious ambitions to finish/polish/whatever The Book Smart Wolf but I've been working on that book for so long I'm a little burnt out on it. A lot of burnt out on it. So when April 1st hit I found myself free-writing an idea set in an alternate 1950s where we still have iPhones & Google, Kayne West & Katy Perry. It was about a greaser and soc who fall in love amidst being pursued by a demon. Which sounds crazy and paranormal romance shelf at B&N, I know, but the plot wasn't so much about the demon or modern technology as it was about these two kids overcoming their own personal demons and faults. The demon was metaphorical but also real? It's much more normal than I'm describing, but I really don't know how to normalize its plot for a blog post description.

Demon Days was an interesting exercise in just letting go and writing what I wanted to write about, and I'm happier with this product than anything else I've ever written before. I wrote it for me and no one else, which was refreshing. When writing I normally have my own invisible demon nearby, being all super judgey about my plot points and rude about my writing style. But without that demon to pester me, and only myself to please, the writing came swiftly and easily, like splurging in words I always wanted to type but found myself too embarrassed to. In April I binged on all those words, and I came away fat with a funny kind of happiness I've yet to be familiar with.

Guest Post: Thousands of Hours

Today I have a guest post from my good friend, Liz Chapman! She's an actress and a poet and several other things, but most importantly a good friend to me and Seve. I've asked her to muse about the craft of writing. You can check out her blog here.

My mom recalls the first word I ever wrote. “Snake.” I’m not sure what sort of psychological implications that particular word has, but I like that my mom remembers that. (She does not, however, remember the first word I ever said.) I think I’ve always been a writer. I hate phrases like that. “I’ve always been a writer.” It’s absurdly pretentious. But I guess it’s true. I didn’t realize it until 8th grade or so, and even then, it wasn’t some earth-shattering realization. The fact that I wrote things didn’t seem noteworthy to me. It was just something I did.

The earth-shattering realization I’m having now is that if I have any sort of aptitude for writing, it’s more because of repetition and practice than any kind of innate talent. I don’t have an enormous publication record that started when I was 11 or something crazy like that. But I have been keeping regular journals since 8th grade. I’ve been blogging for around ten years. My minor in college was English. And after doing something fairly regularly for long enough, you start to figure it out.

Have you heard of the “10,000 hour rule”? Malcolm Gladwell popularized the idea in his book, “Outliers.” The basic idea is that if you spend 10,000 hours doing something, you become an expert at it. I think the truth is probably more complicated, but I think I agree that time equals expertise.

Take Ray Bradbury. When Ray Bradbury was a kid, he used to hang around traveling carnivals and circuses that came into town. When he was 12, the carnival magician, Mr. Electrico, touched Bradbury with his sword and said, “Live forever!” Bradbury said later, “I decided that was the greatest idea I had ever heard. I started writing every day. I never stopped.”

And when he says he started writing every day, he meant it. He wrote 1,000 words a day. Every day. And he says that for the first ten years, most of it was pretty bad. And then, when he was 22, he sat at the typewriter and wrote out the short story “The Lake.” It took him two hours, and when he finished, he said that he was sitting at the typewriter, weeping, because he realized that he “had turned a corner in becoming a writer.” He said he realized that he’d written the first short story that was really good. After ten years, a thousand words a day of writing.

Here’s what’s truly beautiful about that story. He persisted in doing something every single day for ten years before he felt he was any good at it. That’s amazing. Maybe I’m just a crappy person, but I can’t think of a single thing I’d be willing to do for ten years without being good at it. I’m too impatient. I think I’d give up after a few months. My track record of trying new things has a pretty steady pattern: If I’m okay at it, if I can figure it out, I keep going. If I suck, I tend to give it up.

But I’m learning a valuable lesson from Bradbury, and from Tina Fey, and from fellow English teachers, and from every other talented and accomplished person that I admire. That for the majority of people, there’s this uncomfortable beginning and middle stage of just not being any good. You may have one glimmering tiny moment of success, and if you’re passionate about something, it can sustain you for a year. And then you’ll have another little glimpse of success, and that will carry you through another year. And then, after a long while, you’ll turn a corner, and the moments of accomplishment will happen more often, with fewer times of not being any good.

I think it will always be difficult. Writing, I mean. Or acting. Or teaching. Or anything. I don’t think you ever get to a point where it’s easy. But if you do something enough, you’ll get to a point where, like Ray Bradbury, you look back and realize that you’ve written 27 novels, and 600+ short stories, and that most of them are pretty good.

Or maybe you’ll just start with a guest blog post or two.

(Thanks to the Ray Bradbury website and Random House Audible’s audiobook “The Fantastic Tales of Ray Bradbury” for the stories!)

Precious & Red

I'm never quite sure which part of social media to dedicate myself to. When I have an idea I usually stick it on Twitter if it's minor and stupid and fleeting but if it's long and complicated and artsy I'll put it here. Not really sure how to present myself on Tumblr other than through reblogs, but recently I've started following a lot of fellow Mormons who are also of a leftist nature and it's been reassuring.

All of this is just to say I might indulge in some cross-posting of ideas. Not word for word, but tailored for each medium.

I read a quote recently about taking the "preciousness" out of writing if you're going to make a business out of it; like stop thinking the magic can only happen if you're writing in your favorite cafe, listening to your specific playlist, using Word as opposed to Google Docs. Turn writing into something you can do anywhere, anytime, for the sake of your deadlines and productivity. Write at night, write in the morning, write in between classes, write to noise, write to silence, write in the middle of reading, write during a film, etc, etc. I'm slowly working on it, and though the beast within me grinds against the settings so opposed to my usual, my mind is slowly evolving to the comfort of it. Being able to just write the way we're able to just eat. Wherever, whenever.

Once, while driving by myself through Utah, someone ahead of me dropped a bouquet of roses from their passenger side. We were going around 70 mph, and the result was bizarre little red explosions all over the highway, smattering in a wave from that window all the way up to my windshield. It looked so violent, like a car crash without the car, blood everywhere, bloody little petals. The image scared me, unnerving me for several minutes. I was driving back from Seve's brother's play in SLC to our hotel in Provo. I wasn't enjoying the trip very much because we had to coordinate seeing Ben's play around who-could-watch-the-kids-when, and Graham was only a month old, and Utah isn't my favorite place. The image seemed like some bad omen. Until suddenly it wasn't, it was just a beautiful thing I'd just seen, a highway baptism awash in red roses to get me to just be in a better mood already.

I try and remember that whenever I think of Utah, being frustrated, or the color red.

Human Again

Attempts at a profile pic that descended into hairy madness.

Time for some reflection on this year's NaNoWriMo.

Seve hosted a race-to-the-finish party at his classroom where I wasn't able to get wifi, so I verified my word count early, pulling the extra 8K I needed from a previous story. This resulted in a final word count of 55,285, which I was sure couldn't have been right . . . where did that extra 5K come from? Did I really only need 3K? Nevertheless, that night at the party I finished with fifteen minutes to spare having written the full 8K in a mere three hours. My hands were shaking by the time it was over, and I'm pretty sure those last four pages descended into complete and utter gibberish.

But I did it! So on top of the initial 20K I wrote for the story back in China, I now have a fully completed 70K manuscript. In heavy need of revisions, of course, but I'll tackle that come January. I don't think I even want to look at the thing until January.

Seve also completed his NaNo on the dot at midnight after an equally frenzied writing session. Cowabunga, dude!

Tackling the NaNo this year wasn't like past NaNos . . . for once I knew the entire story from front to back, nothing was a mystery. I always thought that would help me write better, but it didn't. The writing and pace remained as it always had any time I sat down to write. Rather than dishearten me it gave me hope; that the other stories I have logged away and unsolved will reveal themselves to me in time, as long as I keep writing.

In fact, on days where I procrastinated my word count I kept returning to my 2010 NaNo. I hadn't bothered to read it since writing it three years ago, thinking it was awful and an eyesore. But I loved reading it! The 1950s werewolf story? I vaguely remember blogging about it at the time. I was sorely tempted to abandon my NaNo and just finish that werewolf effort. It's a full 50K after all, and only needs maybe 30K or so to wrap up the story. But then I remembered that's how this year's effort was brought about . . . a resurrection of 2007's NaNo, realizing it wasn't as bad as I thought, a sudden desire to finish it . . . so I pressed on, and finally made it to the finish line.

How did your NaNo go? Did you finish? Are you enjoying JustSleepAndEatDecember? Me too.

Taylor Swift Deserves Better

Oh look, me n' baby Graham!

A few years ago I wrote a post on hating teenagers, or maybe just making fun of them, but I'd like to redact that statement.

First of all, I went to a writer's league meeting this weekend and it was strange because:

(a) I'm pretty sure I was the youngest one in the room. By 20 years, minimum.
(b) I was the only one with a laptop, which made me feel rude???
(c) The entire conversation was geared towards a non-tech approach, i.e. carrying a notebook for ideas rather than an app on your smart phone, and submissions via snail mail rather than email (I know places still do this but . . . not the kind I'd bother submitting to)

Immediately after this I went to go meet Seve at the high school where he's holding rehearsals for the annual Halloween show (Tales of Terror from the Tragic Valley, haha) where, naturally, we're the only ones older than 17. And it was . . . awesome? I love his students. I love teenagers! Also, it made me realize that that feeling I had that I was getting old (at the ripe age of 28) isn't really true yet. I met old this weekend, and yeah . . . definitely not there yet. The writer's league meeting wasn't awful by any means, just . . . an experience.

A lot of ellipses in this post.

I write all this to say that I have some quotes from an essay I'd like to share on teenagers, specifically teenage girls, that I really agree with. Teenage girls get a reputation for being ridiculous and eye-roll worthy, but why? Because they unabashedly express their love for things? Because they've been unfairly dealt the role of the face of superficiality? Because they're, heaven forbid, girls?

There's this idea that a novel/film/song about a girl (Pride and Prejudice), for a girl (Twilight), or written by a girl (Taylor Swift) is silly frolicsome fluff, but if it's by a male, it's commentary on the human condition. Yeah, okay.

Below are a few of my favorite excerpts from the essay, and if you have the time, it's really worth the read. Has some language in it, though, so fair warning.

"One of the most popular ways people like to hate teenage girls is to complain about their “insane” crushes on boy band members. Now, let me tell you something: those big dumb crushes are what helps a teenage girl develop her sexuality in a safe environment that she can control. In her world, she can listen to One Direction and hear all these songs about how great she is, and how much these cute non-threatening boys want to make her feel special. Why is this so important? Because no one is pushing them. There’s no fourteen year old boy shoving his clammy hands down your shirt without your consent. These fantasy boys are not convincing a girl to send naked pictures, only to show all their friends and call her a slut. In the fantasy land of boy bands, the girl has all the power. And we need to stop judging them for wanting to escape into that."

At twelve, most girls understand real sadness. Twelve, though it seems so young to us now, felt really old at the time. By this point, you’ve already been told how to be, and realized that you’re not measuring up. By twelve, your skin is already shit, and your body is too flabby or your breasts haven’t come in yet. Worst of all, when you’re a girl, by twelve you’ve probably already been in a situation that made you feel threatened sexually. Let that sink in. From the top of my head, I can think of four moments in my life, before the age of twelve, when someone crossed a line with me. Four. This is not abnormal."

---Read more at "Why I F*cking Love Teenage Girls (A Personal Essay from an Almost Adult)" by Meg

p.s. I now feel inspired to write a post on my favorite media featuring the girls n' ladies, so look for "Taylor Swift Deserves Better Pt 2," coming soon to a blog near you.

Summer Session's Over

Some shots of Seve's students from the production of Cartoon.

I've kept this blog quiet for a long time, but I think all my close online friends eventually wandered away from their blogs too, save a few. About a year ago I wrote a post on loneliness, and how it was kind of consuming me ever since we made the move to Twin Falls. But the truth is loneliness has always been a constant companion in my life, an ugly shoulder-angel that I'd ignore until it was the only thing I could see.

I've never taken medication for anxiety or depression because I've been afraid to, and I've only sought counseling once. It didn't go well. I showed up 20 minutes early to an empty office where the receptionist finally popped her head in 5 minutes past my scheduled time; while I was filling out paperwork the counselor came out, angry that I was "late" and kind of took it out on me during our session. I'd made her late for dinner, apparently.

I'm not one to put myself out there. As mentioned in an earlier post, I made a great friend but she moved away. We now have some cool neighbors across the hall, but I still feel life a goof in my attempts to relate to them. 

So this past year I turned to writing, and made my book characters my friends. Writing helps to turn my depression off, though I know it's not the permanent answer. But writing is something I can do well and feel comfortable in. I've had short stories published in the past and I've read at art festivals and literary conferences (though getting up in front of all those people made me want to throw up all over said people). I'm currently submitting to writing competitions and more publications in an attempt to make a name for myself, and one day get an agent for my novels.

Thus the revamping of my site, and return to blogging. I could simply have a cold, distant professional website for all this, but I'd rather have an open blog where I attempt to relate to people and hopefully they can relate to me. That's why I write, anyway. To find like-minded folks.