10/30/2016

Letting your book-child play with strangers

My debut novel, After the Bloodwood Staff, is in the throes of production. I am incredibly fortunate that My Publisher, Odyssey Books, allows its authors input into the cover design, and I just had a very exciting and collaborative discussion with My Cover Artist. She was eager to hear — and very respectful of — my ideas. Moreover, her own ideas were almost alarmingly synchronized with mine. This is looking a lot like one of those situations where artistic collaboration goes really well.

It doesn't always, of course. Writers, in particular, can have a hard time with it. We're used to utter control over what our characters do (I'm not one of those writers who say that their characters control them, but I'll say no more about that right now). So letting other people control the timing, the look, the edits, the marketing, the media relations — it can be intensely anxiety-producing. It's hard to accept that a different idea, someone else's idea, about our own work could possibly be better than our own. It's hard to come to terms with the fact that someone could bring insights to our work that even we, mighty and wise parents of our book-children, had not anticipated.

But for those who can manage it, letting others join in the fun of creation is exhilarating and a source of genuine artistic growth. If a reader tells you about the profound meaning they found in your work, and it's nothing like what you intended, don't argue! Rejoice that you could write something so deep and gloriously complex that it allowed a stranger to bring their own experiences to the work to reveal new meanings. Rejoice that you had the artistic generosity (whether you knew it at the time or not) to leave space for others' insights. Rejoice that your editor, your cover artist, your publicity manager, the people gracious enough to blurb and review your book, all thought your work worthy of their time, attention, and even love. Your book isn't yours anymore: it belongs to everyone who reads it and everyone who helps you bring it to your readers, as much as it belongs to you. Let their genius teach and inspire you to take more risks, learn more skills, trust yourself more.

It's risky; of course it is. There's potential for great pain if someone misunderstands, misappropriates, or misrepresents your work. But at the same time, there is such joy in the moments of discovery and creative rapport! How wonderful if your work is the basis and the reason for this joy! The next time you have the chance to relinquish a little control over your work, why not risk it and see what happens?

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10/17/2016

Why Butt-In-Chair Is a False God

I’d like to do my best to destroy yet another writing myth, one I consider to be dreadful, deleterious, and downright dangerous: the so-called "butt-in-chair" mantra. According to this principle, only those writers who grimly force themselves to joylessly stare at their screen/notebook while feeling the synovial fluid around all their joints gradually congeal, hour after hour after hour, are proper writers. Before you object, I will say that yes, it’s important to actually write if you’re a writer. But the whole butt-in-chair thing usually does more harm than good. Here are some reasons why.
  • A fit writer is a better writer. Writing requires physical and mental stamina, which in turn requires moving your meat-self around in a way that feels vigorous. Professional martial artist, multi-published and award-winning writer, and general-purpose badass Alan Baxter says:

    "The sedentary lifestyle is trigger for most morbidity, and few lifestyles are more sedentary than writers’. Sitting literally kills us, so the longer we sit the less healthy we are. Our bodies are made to move. They function by moving. Your legs are literal pumps for your blood, backup to the heart itself. So we need to move to function properly. We also need to move to be emotionally and mentally well — the correlations between exercise and mental health are legion, and backed up by numerous studies. Given writers (artists in general) are often prone to mental-health issues (for where does art often grow from but pain?), movement is essential. AND, writers are solitary and exercise will often get us out and about among other people."

    It’s important, of course, to find an activity that brings you joy. I have Xena, Warrior Princess aspirations, so anything that puts me in the middle of a good swashbuckle will make me happy: fencing, horseback riding, climbing, hiking. A good story attached to what you’re doing can make everything more fun, actually. I utterly hate to run, but it’s becoming something I actually enjoy because I listen to the Zombies, Run! stories when I head out, and they’re pretty immersive. (I also got a lot of exercise playing Ingress for a while, and I’m told some writers find Pokemon Go (which is essentially the same game) to be useful.)

  • Shame shuts down creativity. You can’t disinhibit the inner editor if you’re already in a judgy place, hating on yourself to humiliate your dusty ass into that chair. Researcher Dr. Charles Limb has been studying what actually happens in the brain during times of creativity, and he can show you which parts of your brain light up when you’re in "the zone" and which when you’re discriminating and judging — and they are different. (Here’s the hardcore version, and here’s the TED talk.) "But what about self-discipline?" I hear you wail. Okay, yes, of course, there’s a place for pushing yourself. But if butt-in-chair starts to be a fetish, it starts usurping the place that rightfully belongs to the joy and commitment you feel as a writer.

  • Not everybody creates in the same way. I write slowly. I pace. I juggle (yes, literally, see this video). I pace some more. I go grocery shopping or fencing or whatever. When I literally can’t sit still anymore, I know that lots of words are about to come out, and they’ll be good words. Keepers. The words happen in different ways for different people. If I, for example, forced myself to sit still in the chair every time I needed the words to happen, they wouldn’t. And I’d be miserable and fidgety. Who needs that?

  • You are the captain of your own starship. Anyone’s absolute rule — no matter how attractive it seems, no matter how much you hope this one will fix everything — erodes your own agency. Own and trust your gift! Experiment! Find out what works for you! Apologize to no-one for it! You are the adamantine Captain Janeway, you are the roguish and iconoclastic Han Solo, you are the brave and resourceful Debbie of Maddox!

Butt-in-chair, butt-out-of-chair, these things are irrelevant. Do you write with joy? Do you honor your uniqueness? Do you cherish your gift and seek to use it wisely and well?

All right, then.

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