Writing a novel means that there’s a weird stream of literary dialogue that follows me everywhere I go, like a puppy that needs to be fed.
Chances are, if you and I are having a conversation, half of my brain is wholeheartedly focused on you while the other half is hunched over my desk, scribbling about the intrinsic desires of my protagonist. My book-writing brain is like those two googly eye-balls you’d stick on your forehead as a kid, the ones that spin sporadically out of control and wobble back and forth like Jello. I promise I care about what you have to say; but finding myself immersed in excitement and inspiration about my book is a flashing neon sign that disallows me the privilege (the sanity?) of focusing on anything else.
If you look at it from afar, it’s almost comical – this nagging desire to write about something that didn’t happen to people who don’t exist. This light-hearted, airy approach to fiction feels nice at first; manageable; even fun. Like what I’m writing about isn’t actually important, and therefore, I can say whatever I’d like. I can make up a story, throw in some internal conflict and pop culture slang, then shoot that thing into the universe, like one of those free T-shirts that gets launched into the crowd at basketball games via a canon manned by the cheerleaders. Whoever catches it, catches it. And if no one catches it…well, there are plenty of other free T-shirts to throw.
But this is a lie.
To read well; to write well; to suck all the marrow out of the written word, we must respect it. We must lean in close, close, closer; so close that our breath fogs the glass; and study the art of what makes good literature tick.
For me, writing a book that moves someone, that inspires them to be better, that makes their life an inkling more beautiful than it already was, would be the greatest privilege. That’s why this is so important to me.
The problem is that it kind of sucks.
Sometimes (all the time?) I feel stupid, silly, irrelevant. I feel like a fraud, a fake, an imposter. I struggle to connect with my “why.” I struggle to effectively communicate what I’m feeling. It would be so much easier to just wad up a T-shirt and chuck it as far as I can.
A note from Stephen King that always grounds me:
“You can approach the act of writing with nervousness, excitement, hopefulness, or even despair – the sense that you can never completely put on the page what’s in your mind and heart. You can come to the act with your fists clenched and your eyes narrowed, ready to kick ass and take down names. You can come to it because you want a girl to marry you or because you want to change the world. Come to it any way but lightly. Let me say it again: you must not come lightly to the blank page.”
I’m not here to write a free T-shirt that lands in a sticky puddle of spilled Pepsi. I’m here to write a piece of art that is steeped in beauty, truth, light, and nobility; a story that harnesses the ethos of classic literature and sings the praises of writing as a craft.
Or, try.
This column, “Fiction,” is an exploration of the sporadic writing epiphanies I bump into throughout the week, like two acquaintances on the street walking brusquely in opposite directions (do I stop and engage them? Say hi? Ignore them completely?).
It will be serious, facetious, and probably a bit manic all at once. I’ll talk about my breakthroughs – what’s working vs. what’s not – and you’ll definitely hear some grumbling and complaining. Ultimately, this is a painfully honest exploration of what it means to write a book that matters, whatever that may look like.
If you want to toss T-shirts, this column might not be for you (and I say this with so much respect – you’ll probably make more money tossing T-shirts, anyway); but if you’re stumbling beneath the weight of the story you want to tell, then I want to take you with me on this journey. I want you to know you’re not alone.
Here we go.
1) Kurt Vonnegut and the shape of stories
Kurt Vonnegut wrote his masters’ thesis on the physical shape of stories.
He tried to merge scientific thinking with literary criticism, but for whatever reason, it wasn’t received well. I, however, find it helpful, and here’s why.
It seems that writers fall in one of two camps: a “plot person” or a “character person” – in the same way someone is a “reading/writing person” or a “numbers person.”
For me, I love writing characters. In my emerging novel, I connect deeply with my characters and find that they often surprise me (I try not to think too much about this because it makes no logical sense whatsoever…I just go with it). But I can struggle with plot and how to really push my story forward. And while many readers love a good ole’ musing on life, they also need to know what happens next.
Seeing the physicality of stories clicked with me. If I were to graph my plot like this, I imagine it would bring incredible clarity to my story. Where does the story plateau? Where is the climax? What’s the trajectory of the arc? What spaces need work? Where do I need to fill in the gaps? Visualization brings clarity that words cannot. The graph reminds me that my readers will be embarking on an actual journey when they pick up my book – so don’t waste their time.
I haven’t graphed my story yet (probably because I’m scared it won’t come together and I’ll have to start from scratch) but I have no doubt it will help me carve out the heart of my story.
2) Beginning at the end
I’ve wasted a lot of time writing and rewriting the same scenes of my book over…and over…and over again.
I can never seem to get them quite perfect. But like most things in life, we only gain clarity on the beginning once we get to the end.
When writing essays, I’ll often only understand what I’m trying to say when I type the last sentence. Then, I’ll have to go back and rewrite the intro – but it will be 1,000 times better. The problem is that essays are significantly shorter than a book (nervous laughter). But this is where the mental toughness of being a writer comes in.
Putting your head down and grinding out a really horrible first draft is a necessity; an absolute non-negotiable. It’s like shoveling snow. The path will be messy and zigzaggy and your back will hurt like hell, but when you’re done, you’ll look back and see the straight path emerging. You’ll know what you have to do.
Here’s a quote I love about writing:
I’m just coming to terms with this – that behind every bestseller is a really shitty first draft. But if this isn’t inspiring, I don’t know what is.
3) Curating mood boards/playlists to curb “shiny object syndrome”
I know, I know — some writers think this is just an aesthetic form of procrastination. But for me, I truly believe it helps. Having a mood board to glance at or a playlist to listen to that reminds me of my novel immediately sucks me back into the headspace I need to write it.
Enter: Pinterest or Tumblr. Why? It’s overflowing with gifs. I love gifs. They’re my secret weapon. Why? They offer the convenience of watching one specific movement in slow-mo, on repeat.
I can find celebrities or actors that resemble one of my characters, and I can study the heck out of them – how an unexpected laugh explodes from somewhere deep inside them; or the dark, tired hollows beneath their eyes; or the subtle shifting of tendons in their neck as they talk in casual conversation. People are poetry in motion. By studying the subtle, fluid movements of different emotions (joy, rage, grief) I’m able to paint portraits of my characters that would have otherwise felt flat and one-dimensional.
On top of this, mood boards harness a creative intangible; a specific vibe that you can return to again and again and be reminded of the story you’re trying to tell.
Is your vibe clean, white-washed, and elegant? Dark, moody, and mysterious? Bold, sepia, and tragic? In the same way a songwriter masters their album to establish a cohesive sound for each song, mood boards can help writers “master” the specific vibe of their novel, ensuring that every scene and every character compliments the next. Again, visualization brings clarification.
For me, this helps curb “shiny object syndrome” – when everything is exciting, so you find yourself trying to stuff every kind of “vibe” into your novel. But this is not the way.
John Mayer is famous for saying: “I don’t make music for the club; I make music for the Sunday morning after the club. And I need to be okay with that.”
Find your vibe and understand it; then commit to it. Don’t make music for the club just because it sounds cool. Your vibe may begin as a subconscious feeling, a Spidey-sense tingling in the back of your brain, but that’s how many novels are created. That nagging, unexplainable vibe is too tantalizing to pass up…and mood boards help capture it.
I’m also a huge fan of creating different Spotify playlists for the different projects you’re working on. For example, I listen to “lo-fi cafe” when writing essays, and “ink” when writing my novel. It’s a little Pavlovian…the specific playlist combined with the specific writing project helps launch me into a flow state quicker and quicker.
If you haven’t yet, give it a try.
I love this column, Grace. If all the issues are like this first one (and I don't see how they won't be), it's going to be an absolute pleasure waiting for them and reading them right as they hit my mailbox. Long life to Shouts & Writers :)
Love this, Grace! As a writer also diving headfirst into the novel pool, so many of your feelings and thoughts resonate with me. Like you, I'm 100% a "character person" and neeed the visualization to push me forward. I also find sounds deeply inspiring — playlists to set the mood, cafe sounds, rain. I haven't made a Pinterest board yet, but now it's on my list! Cheering you on! :)