Writers in the Storm

Kathryn Craft

A writer’s life is full of conflict. Sometimes it seems as if we are always fighting, whether heading out into the world to improve our craft and gain notice for the results or turning inward to fight our fears and insecurities. This struggle can be even tougher if the loved ones we lean on for support expect immediate results, or even worse, have no clue why we bother.

That was my situation the first time I went to a meeting of other writers. But after the discussion began every cell in my body relaxed. Here, I did not need to fight. I’d found a group of people who shared the same language, customs, and beliefs.

I had found my tribe.

A few years later my artsy brother, who was struggling with addiction, came along to one of the group’s workshops. He said, “I can’t believe how supportive everyone was. It’s like AA only you don’t need to be an alcoholic to belong.”

Writers complain about how they must forge on alone, but I know for a fact this need not be true. For a writer I have quite a social life. That feeds me in countless ways.

Writing organizations. My goal was clear at that first writers’ group meeting: I wanted their storytelling mojo. Storytelling was a weakness in their programming, though. So I accepted leadership positions, rolled up my sleeves, and initiated programs that brought me the high-quality mentors I sought—all while helping others. In time, my weakness became my strength and passion, and I started a developmental editing business in 2006.

Informal groups. When lectures and workshops failed to sate my hunger to connect with other writers, I founded a program that encouraged local writers to cheer successes, analyze failures, and share resources. After I moved to a new community I discovered a similar program already existed there—and as a bonus, it offered no-holds-barred access to published authors. Four years later I became one of them.

Writing conferences. Writers who attend conferences have worked hard to figure out what their writing has to offer and are eager to talk about it to agents, editors—and other conferees. This aura of dedication, vulnerability, and nervous sharing can forge fast friendships as conferees cheer one another on. I love the vibe so much that for twelve years, in addition to sampling a handful of conferences across my state and country, I chaired two conferences and served on two different conference boards. I met a writer who has become a trusted beta reader. Now, I teach at these conferences.

Online groups. Writing groups on Facebook, LinkedIn, Yahoo, critique groups—I belong to so many. The dearest to me is the Tall Poppy Writers, a marketing cooperative of published women authors that has been a remarkable source of camaraderie and wisdom. But it is the groups committed to meeting in person that net the strongest relationships. Once frozen in airbrushed profile pics, faces animate and inspire with human imperfection; thoughts set in type morph and grow within dynamic discussions.

My local independent bookstore and library. I go to any events I can to meet new authors and swap ideas. I want to support the industry that I hope will support me.

My neighborhood. Feeling out of place at a baby shower in my new community a few years ago, a few other middle-aged women and I migrated toward the sushi tower—and I walked away having started what became a supportive kaffeeklatsch of writers in my new community that saw me through many revisions of the memoir material that would become The Far End of Happy. A month later, a conversation at the gym resulted in an invitation to join the neighborhood book club, whose members have heartily supported (and discussed and debated) my first two novels.

My grocery store. For several years I’ve met every Wednesday in the café of a local Wegman’s with a group of other women. We witness efforts as we tap on our computers all morning and then solve problems and share tips over lunch. You can’t argue with the results: in the three years we’ve been together, four of us have gotten agents, six have published, and two others earned an MFA.

My living room. If it weren’t for my winter Craftwriting workshops in PA and the summer writing retreats I host in NY, I would never force myself to devise writing prompts or write pieces based on them. The activity stretches me to think about craft anew. The array of creative results that can grow from one prompt reinforces time and again the reassuring fact that in this great wide world of writing, there is room for us all.

My head. All of these interactions define my world. More than a “platform” or “network,” these are friendships that lift me up when I’m struggling, cheer me on when I taste success, advise me when I’m clueless, and spread the word when I have a new release. That’s invaluable. But beyond that, my social writing world nurtures my relationships with the characters in my head.

Speaking of which, I think I hear them calling now…

Let’s celebrate community! In the comments, give a shout-out to your favorite tribe and the way it feeds you, or use this supportive blog platform as a place to announce your commitment to finding a tribe in 2016! Still not convinced? Read Jamie Raintree’s December post, “Why Writers Need Human Connection.”

About Kathryn

Kathryn Craft is the author of two novels from Sourcebooks: The Art of Falling, and The Far End of Happy.

Her work as a developmental editor at Writing-Partner.com, specializing in storytelling structure and writing craft, follows a nineteen-year career as a dance critic. Long a leader in the southeastern Pennsylvania writing scene, she hosts lakeside writing retreats for women in northern New York State, leads workshops, and speaks often about writing.

Kathryn lives with her husband in Bucks County, PA.

Twitter: @kcraftwriter
FB: KathrynCraftAuthor

Why you should never despair over the novel that got away

by Kimberly Brock

I’m a slow reader. I take my time with the language and I have to process the imagery and characterizations, the settings and the metaphor. I savor words. I wonder at settings. And so, it shouldn’t surprise anyone to know the same can be said about my writing process. And if I’ve told you anything about the book I’m working on and then some day you ask me when it will be finished, my canned answer is always the same.

“Never. That’s the novel that got away.”

People assume I’m being sarcastic or despairing. And when I originally uttered the phrase, that’s probably how I meant for it to be interpreted. But the more times I’ve said it, the more I’ve come to realize that the meaning behind my flippant response has actually become exactly true for me. And I’m glad.

I remember about a thousand years ago when I first tripped over the idea for my current work in progress and it was such a juicy little nugget that I broke out in a sweat and felt my head spin with the possibilities. It was that dizzy kind of lovesick that propelled me to spend hours researching and piling up articles and photographs and any little tidbit that would help flesh out the ideas bobbing around in my head. Discovering an idea for a new novel always feels like discovering a long, lost sibling who is exactly the best friend I’ve dreamed of having. We can finish each other’s sentences. We stay up late giggling and telling secrets. We are perfect for each other. The new book is the book I was always meant to write. It’s freaking destiny. When I die, I am sure something will be written about it on my headstone.

This is how we all feel, isn’t it, when we meet our stories? It’s love at first inkling. And it should be! These stories, or the first little glimmers of them, are all the things we believe them to be and rightfully create our euphoric experience. Our first glimpse of a story is the thing we’re all longing for on this search – a divine purpose. We are meant to tell the stories that spring from our hearts, or more aptly, our subconscious. Our stories are the most profound creations that we are humanly capable of delivering to this world.

However, here’s the rub. It’s the delivery that changes everything. The delivery, always, inevitably, as it should, breaks the spell.

You can tell a friend, tell an agent, tell the moon – your beautiful story will unfold before you like the yellow brick road and shine, shine, shine to the satisfying, happily ever concluded. But the moment the first key is struck or the ink meets the page, when things get metaphorically concrete, our perfect stories are doomed. Here’s why: the road will always fork. I like to think that a wise writer (me) will one day realize after much gnashing of teeth and cutting of bangs that it is in that instant, the real magic of writing begins within us. The writer’s mantel falls heavy on his or her shoulders with this hard truth: we must choose.

And I suppose first and most importantly, we will have to choose whether to abandon a work at this point when our clarity is lost? Many do. Or will we try to force the story to contort itself to our original vision? I have.

I’ve pitched stories in their complete and glorious whole, with that golden patina of an unwritten word shining and spectacular. I’ve believed I could see the entirety of the novel laid out before me, delivered on a golden fleece. And then, I sit to write and the thing vaporizes and becomes nothing but a dreadful frustration. Madness plagues writers for just this reason. We call it as many names as there are those of us struggling with the delusion that a story is a contained and solid thing from conception. If you can tell it from start to finish, why, why, WHY then can’t you write it the same way? Because of choice.

Because a story (don’t hate me) is a journey. How many times have we sat through classes and workshops or slogged through the pages of books that promise to tell us the real secret to writing a novel lies in the characters’ journey? Why then, should it be different for the writer? It can’t be. And if it were, I suppose I believe it would be pointless. Where’s the divine purpose in starting and finishing in exactly the same place?

So, here’s what I say. A story is a journey the writer is meant to take, not one merely to be observed.

We are meant to chase the idea of it and wrestle with it and lose it and find it again. We, as writers, even more than our characters, must be changed by our stories. We must be heroes. We must be villains. We must climb and fall and discover and grieve and sacrifice and slay dragons to reclaim our souls. We must watch our breadcrumbs being gobbled up and then still manage to take one step, then another, until we face our worst fears and lose all heart in the darkest of nights. Only then can we look up from the work, from the blinding beauty of the last sentence, to mumble, “Well, hell. I’ve come home.”

Breathless, we can sit back in our chairs and wonder that the shape of our stories are familiar, and yet nothing we could have imagined until we’d allowed ourselves the grace of learning what the story had to teach us. These are the stories that will be everything we knew they could be and only some of what we planned and something more than we could have ever known when we first believed we knew everything. Because the stories we are meant to write require bravery and courage and change in the writer before they can ever be worthy of a reader.

So ask me again. Please. Ask me every time you see me. When will I finally finish writing that story I told you about all those months or years or decades ago? Never! I’ll say. That one completely got away from me.

Oh, how I hope, never. And I can’t imagine where it’s going.

And, you?

About Kimberly

Kimberly Brock is the award winning author of the #1 Amazon bestseller, THE RIVER WITCH (Bell Bridge Books, 2012). A former actor and special needs educator, Kimberly is the recipient of the Georgia Author of the Year 2013 Award. A literary work reminiscent of celebrated southern author Carson McCullers, THE RIVER WITCH has been chosen by two national book clubs.

Kimberly’s writing has appeared in anthologies, blogs and magazines, including Writer Unboxed and Psychology Today. Kimberly served as the Blog Network Coordinator for She Reads, a national online book club from 2012 to 2014, actively spearheading several women’s literacy efforts. She lectures and leads workshops on the inherent power in telling our stories and is founder of Tinderbox Writer’s Workshop. She is also owner of Kimberly Brock Pilates.

She lives in the foothills of north Atlanta with her husband and three children, where she is at work on her next novel. Visit her website at kimberlybrockbooks.com for more information and to find her blog.

This will not be a post on grammar.

It will, indeed, be a post on shit.
Aren’t you glad they haven’t invented scratch and sniff computers? :-)
Okay, okay … seriously.

Over the last few weeks I’ve found myself stewing in a somewhat odd shift in my writing career. I’ve gone from writing with the hope that some day my work will be seen by others to revising with feedback from an editor who saw, liked, bought!!! and writing a new manuscript—with an option clause as the push to finish.

Most authors I know have, at some point or another (some more often than others), had that overwhelming flip-flop between loving what they’ve just produced and wondering if they need to adjust their medication.

I have subscription seats to the crazy, I-can-do-it/I-can’t-do-it show so none of this is technically new—or surprising. But I was not prepared for just how paralyzing it can become.

Knowing your shit

I can write a novel. I’ve written four. Two will likely never see daylight again but that’s not the point. Point is, writing a book. First words, saggy middle, the end. Once you realize you have that many words and word combinations and alternates to those words in you, you can write more books. And more books.

You take workshops and devour craft books. You write and rewrite, polish and buff those words until the writing gods shine on you and your crit partner/beta reader/agent/editor/cat wipes a tear from their eye and says it’s one of the best things they’ve ever read.

You know how to write a book. You know your shit!

Knowing you’re shit

Then one day, you’re armpit deep in revisions and everything stinks. You’re showered and even used deodorant so it’s obviously not you (you hope), but holy wow. How is it possible that you wrote something so awful? You write, delete, write, delete, change, change back. And the entire time, you’re absolutely convinced there is no possible way you can salvage this manuscript. Your editor will laugh at the revisions. Readers will hate every word you write.

Or it’s time to start a new project and there’s the cursor, winking at you from a blank document. Not a flirty, you-can-do-it wink but a cheeky, ‘sucker’ wink. That last manuscript must have drained the word-well dry.

Why did you ever think you could do this? You know—just know—that you’re shit!

STOP!

Go back and look at the pile of words you’re working on or an old pile of words. Yup, you’ve written a novel. It may not be perfect yet, but it’s written. How many people do you know who haven’t even gotten that far?

Now reread something you wrote—a scene that stole your heart, feedback from a crit partner or agent/editor that gave you a warm fuzzy.

See, you really do know your shit.

And if you’re still stewing that you’re shit, print off the meme above and stick a pushpin in the apostrophe!

How do you change your perspective when you’re in a writing funk?

About Orly

After years of pushing the creativity boundary in corporate communications, Orly decided it was time for a new challenge. Three women’s fiction manuscripts later (plus a handful of picture books), it’s safe to say she’s found her creative outlet. When she’s not talking to her imaginary friends, she’s reading or at least trying to ignore everyone around her long enough to finish “just one more paragraph.” Orly is the founding president of the Women’s Fiction Writers Association. She is rep’d by Marlene Stringer, Stringer Literary Agency LLC.

Orly’s debut novel, The Memory of Hoofbeats, will be released by Forge in 2017.

You can find her on Twitter at @OrlyKonigLopez or on her website, www.orlykoniglopez.com.