Do you ever feel like you’re wandering through a snowstorm in your writing? You can’t quite see your way through your plot and your vision is obscured. Or maybe you’re struggling to start writing your story? You have an idea, a vague mass of a story. Like having flour and water but you don’t know how to make bread with them. You mix them together and all you get is a sticky, wet lump.
Here are 3 tips to get your story moving: Read more
Writers spend a lot of time talking about how much they love to write. And so they should! Writing is a tremendously gratifying, passionate pursuit that feeds our souls.
But writing is also hard. And lonely. It’s sometimes emotional and often angst ridden. But let’s not dwell on the more challenging aspects of our calling. Read more
The Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary defines home as “one’s place of residence” but also as “a place of origin”, which are often two very different places. If this is the case, where truly is home? The concept of home is a familiar theme in many stories. Characters often need to return home for one reason or another. Perhaps to take care of a loved one, or because of a death. Sometimes it is to find their way home during a long adventure, or even to fight an evil murderous clown. Over the years I have left and returned to the Owen Sound area for various reasons, though thankfully none of them was ever an evil clown.
And What Happens When You Find Yourself Without Time to Write.
Beware! Your Dream Self may have Plans of Her Own.
This is based on a true story (more or less).
While sleeping Friday night…
I’m enjoying a fantastic ride along a vivid dreamscape. My dream self, with my dream sisters, impulsively decide to charter an enormous cargo boat to cross the Atlantic Ocean to Europe. Excitement runs high and they dance along the decks, giggling and high fiving each other as the boat cruises through the water.
The Captain, a wire thin man with a hunched shoulder, occasionally removes his eyeball to nibble on the backside, like a nervous habit whenever he’s stressed. After, he slips eyeball back into the socket with a sucking sound, chewed end towards his skull so no one can notice. There’s a First Mate, but he’s sly and mute fellow, never quite seen clearly, like a shadow. The only other person on board is The Engineer, who drives the boat like he’s drunk, often getting it stuck in shallows and taking the curves at high speed so he could bank the boat on its keel (I know, we’re technically in the ocean, but dreams tend bend reality). With all the twists and turns, he ends up getting them lost.
They come upon an unknown land. On the cliff banks, there’s a semi-deserted town, half in ruins. Children hide in doorways and cats lick their paws on cinderblocks. They discover a back laneway leading to two-story building that sells scraps of junk. The owner has a short beard, a kind voice and invites them to wander through his yard of wonders. As they trudge deeper into fray, it extends on and on like an unwinding skein of yarn.
This is when my dream self slips away from the others, on the excuse of looking for a bathroom. She enters a steel constructed building and in its depth, she discovers a windowless room. Inside, there’s a tub holding a sleeping baby. Like in the historical pictures of Inuit children, the child is bundled in layers of fur and circle the face giving the baby an owl like appearance. There’s a tiny toilet – which my dream self uses – slightly disturbing to me, but no, I didn’t pee in the bed. And where a counter and sink might be, instead is a desk with a flat screen computer.
Yes! I am no longer a virgin!
I will have to say, Saturday was one of the scariest moments of my life. Entering a room full of about sixty people, armed with six copies of 10 pages of my own original writing, about to hand it over for semi-strangers to read and give their analyzed comments and criticism to me. They don’t just write down their comments on your manuscript – NO – these cringeworthy words are said OUT LOUD for ALL to hear. Okay, not everyone in the room is listening, thank goodness, just the six people at my table and any eavesdroppers who were lurking (yes, I was even worried about eavesdroppers).
So, what’s the big deal? They read it, they comment on it and you go home, right? WRONG. Read more
These days my life revolves around filling my head with knowledge at school. It’s quite challenging and takes up a lot of my time. I’m very dedicated and have always loved a good challenge. I knew that this program would be intense, but I really had no idea it would be quite as consuming as it is. I find myself wishing I had time to express myself more creatively.
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Robert Ray, in his book “The Weekend Novelist Re-Writes the Novel”, provides the following tip: “Plant a sacred object on page one that recurs in Acts Two and Three. By the midpoint, that sacred object could be growing into a symbol. Symbols can make you famous. That sacred object, grown into a symbol, should make you proud. A happy writer.”
I know the importance of characters and setting in a story. But objects? What’s he talking about? With the lure of “famous, proud and happy” on the hook, I decided to find out.
Someone once wrote “writing is a lonely business”.
We all know the familiar cliché of the author sitting at his or her desk, coffee cups scattered about the work surface, dirty dishes with half-eaten food lying about, and wadded pieces of paper littering the floor and overflowing out of waste bins (ok, maybe only old people like me know that cliché).
The thing is, after all the lectures, grammar rules, tips and recommendations for better play/ novel/short story/ screen play/ writing, – well, the fact is, you’re the only one who can write your work. You. Sitting there, with your note pad, your tablet, your laptop, your desktop.