What I do when my writing isn’t going well (aka spice organization!)

How’s your novel coming along?[1]

It isn’t. It’s horrible. It’s awful. It’s so difficult. Not a single talented, published, critically acclaimed writer I know will say it’s easy to write a novel. And it doesn’t get easier with time or experience. Even if you win a Pulitzer, you just start over again when you sit down to write the novel-after-the-Pulitzer. It’s an uphill climb through swamp and rain and snow and rocky terrain, all around.

When my novel isn’t coming along, when the ideas don’t come, when the words for the ideas don’t come, it’s like the worst case of constipation, ever. You know what you have to do (push out that G*dawful brick of a turd), but knowing what to do, isn’t the same as having it happen. So you wait.

The ideas are swirling around in my subconscious, and they’re just not coming together just yet. They’re just stuck. I know what I’ve got to do –I’ve got to integrate a new character into my novel revision, and I’ve got to re-design another character, before I can really earnestly dive into this next revision. But. It’s not. Coming. Together.

So what do I do when my writing isn’t going well?

I go bookshopping. I read. I eat. I go to yoga (well, not nearly enough). Hell, I even bake.

I bake chocolate peanut butter cookies:

I had to give many of them away. I’m a weird animal; I bake for the sake of baking. I like making exact measurements, and throwing them together into a concoction that when exposed to heat, becomes something else entirely. I like giving people baked goods, watching their faces light up.

I like butter. I love sugar. I respect flour. What a triumvirate.

I make blueberry pancakes (flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, salt, milk, egg) from scratch, with homemade blueberry maple syrup (blueberries, maple syrup). Liquid to fluffy solid.

How I Learned to Read

I had a tremendous time reading for the Men Undressed anthology at San Francisco’s Lit Crawl this past weekend.

But before the reading I had to learn to read.[1]

This was not my first reading; however I’m not, historically speaking, a good reader. In fact, one of my trusted Famous Writer mentors told me this past summer, “That’s awful! You can’t read like that,” before turning to the rest of the group and adding, “C’mon guys. You gotta learn to read better. Who else is going to speak for your work?” For serious. He said it because he knew I could take it from him, and because I’d take his advice and use it to improve.

I decided to become a good reader.

So I practiced reading my excerpt. And I practiced some more. I read it aloud. I videotaped myself reading aloud. I watched myself on video (gah). I made myself read as slowly as I could. I asked a good friend (who happens to be a storyteller) for her feedback. She offered some kind but focused words. I was reading in that measured slow way like poets do, she said. The speed was good, she said. I got it. I worked on inflection. I practiced reading again. And I practiced some more. My husband gave me feedback. Modeled what he thought might be better to me. I was impressed; he was way better than I at reading my own piece.

At this point, I wished that I had taken some voice acting classes, or taken drama in junior high school. (Omg! James Earl Jones, Clint Eastwood, Christopher Walken, Jack Nicholson, Holly Hunter, and Kathleen Turner are genius)! I was also inspired by Kathleen Chalfant reading alongside Jessica Hagedorn at Hagedorn’s book launch party for Toxicology. Chalfant showed me what writers can achieve when manuscripts are read with flair and power. (And also, what we writers often miss in our own readings). I was enraptured when she read aloud from Toxicology.

Writing and stellar voice performance are mutually exclusive, but I’m a strong believer in hard work. So I practiced some more. I marked up my manuscript with cues; symbols and underlines and exclamation points and stars for where I should slowly crescendo (arrow up), or decrescendo (arrow down) my voice, where I wanted to sound light and airy (dots) or gravelly (squiggly lines) or read more slowly (underlines), or pause (vertical line breaks). Or paaaauuuuuse. (double vertical line breaks).

I watched myself read on video. Gah. I practiced some more.

I watched the time. We each were allowed eight minutes to read. I cut and cut my piece down to six minutes, because as an audience member, I can’t stand when readers go over the time limit. It’s *rarely* an enjoyable experience listening/watching a writer read on and on and on. I cut paragraphs throughout, paragraphs in the middle, toward the end, all the ones that didn’t translate well to being read aloud.

I thought about my excerpt and what I wanted to convey. About being in the scene with my character. Made more tweaks as to relay the mood of the scene, of the actions involved.

I thought about memorizing as much as I could so that I could lift my head and make eye contact with the audience. And I made an executive decision: I wouldn’t be doing that. I didn’t have time to memorize, and it was lower priority. I’d just read it heads down. I’ve seen lots of great literary readers do just that, and it didn’t bother me at all that they never looked up.

And then I practiced reading aloud, again. On video. In front of my husband. Alone. I sighed. It was, I thought, the best I could do. And at least it was better than before. And then it was time.

I’d packed a summer dress for my reading. I get hot when I’m nervous. Not hawt. I’m talking sweaty hot flash, hot. You’ll never see me in a sweater for an event at which I know I’ll be nervous. (On the other hand, there are people who get colllld when they get nervous, in which case, they should wear sweaters and not summer dresses).

I don’t know about you, but a nice outfit can change my whole perspective on self. So I packed my favorite summer dress.

I had a cocktail beforehand–unplanned, but there was a bit of a wait before the doors opened, and I thought I’d have a drink. Which chilled me out. Which was good.

I had written notes to myself with cues for the reading on a post-it, and I’d stuck it on my manuscript. Notes about how to introduce my piece. Notes reminding me to introduce the next reader out of the Men Undressed anthology. I knew I’d forget otherwise. And I was glad I did, because the readers who went before I did, forgot to introduce the next reader.

And then I read. In a dark room in the Mission during Lit Crawl, where the night was lit up with literary energy, and where I knew a few good friends lingered in the audience. And then it felt magical, and I found myself improvising pitch while up on stage, inspiration that would not have come had I not practiced.

Moral of story:

1. Practice reading.
2. Get feedback.
3. Practice some more.
4. Make notes on your manuscript.
5. Practice some more.
6. Get into your story/scene/poem.
7. Wear what makes you feel good.
8. Get a posse together, if you can.
9. And then–have fun. If you need a drink, go for it. If you don’t drink, that’s fine, too–but figure out a way to loosen up beforehand. And then, have as much fun as you can.

[1] And I’m sharing with you how I learned to read, because the advice out there is generic and not as practical or specific (e.g., “Read slow” or “Look up every once in awhile”) as I needed when I needed tips.