wild ink

The Lamppost

Late night, no moon, stars hidden by cloud cover, rain slashing down. A man on foot hurries home through dark streets, wishing he’d remembered to bring an umbrella. Businesses have closed. An outage has interrupted power to the streetlights. With his head down against driving wind, the man crashes straight into a lamppost. He stumbles back a few steps, rubs his eyes, turns and keeps walking. This time he bashes into the lamppost with his left shoulder. He staggers around, winds himself up and moves forward, only to run smack into the lamppost, hitting it with his right shoulder. Afraid and disoriented, he flings himself away, striking the lamppost with his back.

“Oh no,” he laments. “I’m surrounded by demons!”

When writing a book from start to finish, writers often have close encounters with lampposts—and I’m not talking about the sort of lamppost found in Narnia. This chapter examines some of the obstacles you may run into as you work to finish your book. If you have no trouble finishing, you won’t need this section. But if you’re anything like me or my writing buddies and you get stalled when a big heavy post seems to hit you upside the head, keep reading.

I know what it’s like to wobble and wander and wend my way among unlit lampposts. I also know what it’s like to finish a book—whether a novel or a book of nonfiction. And when all is said and done—or written and done—there’s nothing like the feeling of holding that book in your hand or viewing it in beautiful layout on an e-reader.

So how do you get from page one to the end? There’s more to it than chugging away with a good idea. Often, you’ll wrestle hefty demons—demons such as doubt, fear, and rejection. I confess it took me a while to get past those demons. Not only do they have steel ribs, they also have faithful cheering sections, endlessly chanting.

I’d never claim to be graceful about the way I deal with doubt and fear when they are looming large. But it doesn’t really matter whether I’m graceful or not, so long as I keep writing. And it doesn’t matter if you’re graceful, either. What’s important is to move ahead.

I’m going on the assumption that you dream of writing a book in the YA genre. Chances are you’ve had this dream for a while. If you’re reading this chapter, your personal demons have probably knocked you off course more than once.

Maybe you’ve heard too many tales of overnight success, and you’ve talked yourself into doom and gloom, believing your dream is located in a permanent blackout zone. It’s easy to forget that the “overnight” part of a success story is hardly ever true. We don’t hear how well a dream is going until that dream is actualized. We don’t receive reports on a triumph before it’s accomplished. Only afterward.

Going for a dream involves uncomfortable quantities of risk. So much work must be done without any assurance from the future. But we all take plenty of risks every day, whether riding the light rail to work, investing in real estate, or eating sushi. You might as well take some risks on behalf of the writing that matters to you.

I’m about to give you the best writing advice I ever received. Interestingly enough, the advice came from a teenager. I was writing The Healer’s Keep. As usual, I was in the throes of doubt, wondering whether the book was frightful rubbish or had the potential, perhaps, to be a good read.

My daughter Rose, an avid reader, has never minced words. I knew I could count on her to tell me what she honestly thought, so I gave her the unfinished manuscript. Rose was about 14 at the time. She disappeared into her room for a couple of hours. When she came out, she went straight into the kitchen and started fixing herself a snack without saying anything to me. In fact, she was acting miffed. She handled the bread with more force than necessary and slammed the lever on the toaster with a loud clack.

Finish it. When Rose urged me to finish, I had one of those “aha” moments. I realized not only that she’d liked the story well enough to be upset when it stopped midway, but also that she was giving me the best advice I’d ever receive: Finish it!

It can be easier to hope than to act, easier to imagine a large book deal than face a rejection letter, easier to daydream while doing the dishes than to invest the time needed to write down a story. But if we look closely at pressures and obstacles, we stand a better chance of getting past them.

Here’s a list of some common obstacles (cleverly disguised as lampposts) that writers tend to stumble into.

Lack of time seems to be the top complaint of people trying to complete a book. What takes away our time? Jobs, family, friends in crisis, health problems, community involvement, need for sleep, chores that have to be done, closets that need to be cleaned . . . fill in the blank.

It took me 5 years to write my first book, by the way. I didn’t really know what I was doing and had to grope my way through. Never a morning person, I began to get up early to write before the day’s routine began. Doing so messed with my biorhythms for a while, but then I fell in love with the quiet magic of predawn. Time took on a quality like taffy. When my spirit was clenched in some way, time resembled hard taffy—unyielding and tough, seemingly impossible to work with. Yet when my spirit was open and light, time turned soft and malleable. It stretched a long way, much farther than I would have guessed it could, with flowing strands, flexible and sweet. And I finished that book.

I know that your life and mine are different, but we’re all issued 24 hours a day. Look for chinks in your schedule. When you find them, use a crowbar if you have to, but widen those crevices. Seize the opening. Write the book! One usable page a day yields a 365-page book in a year. A hundred words a day (a couple of light paragraphs) yields a 75,000 word book in 2 years.

Maybe you, like me, do not churn out pages quickly. I used to think it was a fatal flaw to be slow. Then one day I looked at my garden. Different seeds sown on the same day germinate at different rates. But I don’t berate the cucumber seeds or accuse them of being lazy if they’re slower to grow than the carrots.

How long does it take to write 100 words? Well, naturally, it depends on you and what you’re writing. But if you type 50 words per minute, that’s only 2 minutes. Add in a lot of pondering and rewriting and throwing away. It’s not unreasonable to say you could write 100 usable words in an hour.

It’s all about finding your own pace within the schedule you have, and then making the most of it. Do you get time away from your job during lunch? Instead of going out, pack a sandwich and bring a notebook. Can’t think creatively in the middle of your workday? Try getting up early to write when the day is fresh. If short bursts aren’t your style, schedule a block of time during your weekend, evening, or morning. Do you watch TV or surf the net? How many hours? Cut back, and watch your manuscript grow.

The girl doesn’t, it seems to me, have a special perception or
feeling which would lift that book above the “curiosity” level.

I haven’t come across anyone who deals really well with rejection. Rejection feels terrible. Knowing you’re in good company is small consolation.

Dr. Seuss’s first book was rejected 28 times before being published. His books went on to sell more than 200 million copies. J. K. Rowling’s first Harry Potter book was rejected 12 times. We all know the next chapter in that story. Jack London received more than 250 rejections before first getting published, and he was the J. K. Rowling of his time, his books selling millions of copies. Those are just a few of many examples.

Books are rejected for many reasons. They may be poorly written or lack marketability. The publisher may have recently signed a similar project. But sometimes it’s just a matter of differing tastes.

You probably remember the first time a friend raved about a book that left you shrugging your shoulders. Likewise, you might have a favorite story that doesn’t move your friend one bit. Your contrasting opinions won’t make either of you sob into a pillow, I presume. Yet somehow, if something we’ve written fails to pass someone else’s taste test, it’s harder to accept. Fiasco! Defeat. Blood-curdling agony.

Take a deep breath. It’s okay. I know, that’s easier to say than to feel. But as one who has occasionally flung herself into the pit of despair over rejection, I recommend humor as a more effective way to cope. Try running a copy of your rejection letter through a paper shredder, creating confetti. Hold a party in your honor. Serve chocolate. Laugh it up. You’re doing something right. At the very least, you can’t get rejected if you’re not putting yourself out there.

Some writers have used their rejection slips like wallpaper—which seems to me like pretty awful feng shui. Some make their rejection letters into paper airplanes and fly them into a fireplace. One way or another, we all find a way to deal.

How many rejections should you expect to receive? As many as you do. Sorry to be flippant, but unlike my fictional character, I’m not a seer. The average number of rejections for published authors is supposedly 10, but I don’t know how anyone could tabulate the numbers.

All in all, rejection is not, in and of itself, an accurate assessment of worth. Plenty of writers have felt the sting of rejection and then persisted to build wonderful careers. So think of rejection as an initiation rite of sorts, an entrance requirement to the author’s club.

I don’t know what form your self-doubt takes. For some, it’s a vague paralysis that creeps over the mind. For others it may be articulated in nauseating detail. Whatever the form, self-doubt is usually a variation of “I can’t do this” or “There’s no point.”

Where do all those doubts come from? Well, feeling doubt while you’re in the process of creating makes a peculiar kind of sense. After all, knowledge brings confidence, but creativity is all about touching the unknown. Knowledge asserts “what’s so.” Imagination, on the other hand (according to dictionary.com), is “the act or power of forming mental images of what is not present; the act or power of creating new ideas.”

And it’s within that iffy zone that we find opportunities to create. In that same zone, doubt thumps its chest and utters convincing challenges. It’s the nature of the beast, I’m afraid.

Navigating Darkness

When I was 17, I went to college in Santa Fe, NM. I had lived the previous 6 years in humid Wisconsin, at sea level. Santa Fe sits at 7,000 feet, and the desert dust makes sunsets that fill the sky, not only in the west but around the compass.

Behind the college was a small mountain named Monte Sol, part of the Sangre de Cristo range. It was uninhabited. I wasn’t the only one dazzled by the New Mexico sunsets. A group of us decided it would be a great experience to see the sunset from the summit of Monte Sol. One bright afternoon, several classmates and I set out, climbing the steep makeshift trail to the top.

The sunset was even more resplendent than we’d imagined it would be—a blend of red, orange, and gold. As the last rays grew dim,

it suddenly occurred to us that after sunset, night falls! We still needed to get down the mountain. And we had not a flashlight among us.

In fading twilight, we found the dirt path. This was not Wisconsin dirt, which holds together well; this was dry, sandy dirt, which slips away, especially when the path is steep. We scrambled along, clutching at scrubby piñon trees, while night thickened. Soon we couldn’t see the trail at all, couldn’t even see our own feet in the darkness. After a long, bumbling trek and many scratches and scrapes, we made it back to the college grounds.

To me, that journey up and down the mountain is analogous to what happens when undertaking a new writing venture. Imagination inspires us, and we act. It’s easy, in the beginning, to be so struck by a glowing vision that the thought of darkness is forgotten. We begin boldly, climbing high on the strength of the vision. Then we encounter darkness, and we must stumble through it.

As artists, we wouldn’t want to miss out on the darkness altogether, any more than we would want to skip the light of day. Louis Armstrong, child of poverty and prostitution, wrote “What a Wonderful World.” He sang of the “bright blessed day.” He also sang of “the dark, sacred night.” Why did Armstrong call the dark sacred? Maybe he was referring to the way that heartache and hard times can deepen creative urges. Or maybe he was talking about the unknown.

That unknown is mysterious. It resists control, cannot be contained by formulae, refuses to be ruled. By its nature, it does not engender confidence. But it also bestows the sort of wisdom that guides our footsteps when knowledge cannot help.

Imagination isn’t limited by what is present, leading the way instead to what is not. This has profound implications for writers, who get to go into the unknown whenever we start a new book.

I don’t have anything against knowledge. But when knowledge takes over, we run the risk of getting set in our ways, trapped in the territory we have already explored.

When stumbling through darkness, unable to see, it’s tempting to try to use knowledge when imagination is what’s called for. It’s especially tempting when the darkness is deep. At that point it’s hard to believe that what we don’t yet know will help us the most.

Anyone who takes excursions through the unknown is likely to encounter the uglies of doubt, fear, isolation, frustration, and more. Sometimes they rise up with great fervor and make things very difficult. This is natural, normal, and to be expected.

There’s a lot of talk floating around about “fulfilling your dreams” and “following your path.” Sometimes the implication seems to be that if you’re following your path to fulfill your dreams, obstacles will melt, or the whole experience will be so joyous, any drudgery will transform into bliss. Along those lines, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard, “I was planning to write a book, but I guess it wasn’t meant to be.”

How many people do you know who will go that extra mile for their job and be amazingly patient with all the bumps in the road on the job—and then tell themselves a dream should just fall into place or it isn’t meant to be?

Art does not have a special exemption from sweat. Images of writers as artists whose work flows effortlessly or not at all are false. Equally untrue is the idea that artists must live for a while in the gutter dressed in elegant black, and then when they’ve suffered enough, their difficulties will magically resolve.

If you were first starting out at a gym and someone told you, “Getting in shape is going to feel fabulous from the get-go. Burning fat is going to be a blast every day,” you’d probably know that was a lie. Certainly after soreness kicked in, you’d know—or when you were huffing and puffing while building up an oxygen debt.

Plumbing the depths of your adolescent self, coming up with a story that really hangs together, writing that awful first draft, going over it all again and again—takes work. Intensive, sweaty work. It ain’t easy!

So if you’re struggling to get your book written, there’s nothing inherently wrong with you. Go to it, sweat it out, huff and puff. Keep going.

Every writer loves the days when inspiration thrums in the air, when the words are flowing like babbling brooks, when the pages of deathless prose are piling up.

I can count on one hand how many times those days have come along for me. And in each case, sad to say, by the next morning it became clear that what I’d written was in desperate need of revision.

Everyone’s different. Maybe you’re the sort of writer who can afford to wait until you feel wildly inspired before you get going. Me, I find it helpful to approach writing the way I approach exercise.

The more often I exercise, the easier it is to exercise again. Then I can depend on my body for energy when I need it, and if there are sudden, unexpected demands in my life, I have more reserves available to deal with them—reserves built up by regular exercise. In a similar way, the more often I write, the easier it is to write again. It’s a level of writing fitness, exercising my dream body.

Dream body? Imagine the dream inside you as a body—a body that’s visible to your soul. When your dream body is neglected it gets out of shape—puny and flabby and the whole bit. Undernourished. Sometimes it might even seem to be dead. But it isn’t, and if you start taking care of it, it will get stronger.

It wouldn’t be smart to load up on the heaviest weights your first day in the gym. And you can’t expect your dream body to lift your entire dream immediately. Give it time, attention, nourishment, and exercise so it gets stronger. And as with any fitness program, there’s a lot to be said for making yourself accountable when exercising your dream body. Set a few goals. Realistic goals. Start with a paragraph a day if you have to. Make a daily appointment with yourself. Then keep your appointment!

When you set a time or clear a space to write, inspiration will feel invited. Like a dear friend, it will pay you a visit. Do your friends like to call first before coming over? Do you like to have coffee, tea, and muffins ready? But what if you believed the sign of a true friend was to beat down your door at unexpected times and insist on barging in?

Treat inspiration like a friend, and it will be a friend to you. Don’t wait for it to beat down your door. You might wait a lifetime.

So there you have it—a list of lampposts you may bang into as you write your book. You may have encountered one or two—or all—of the above. My hope is that by naming and facing them, the lampposts lining your way will start shedding light to guide your direction.

Chapter 5

Obstacles and
Demons

Chapter 5

Obstacles andDemons

Obstacles and
Demons