How Can You Choose?

Quick! Name your favourite authors! Yeah, I can’t do that quickly, either (the list is much, much, much too long). But that’s my point. There are so many terrific writers, some of whom are big names that everyone has heard of, some of whom are niche authors. Some may be, technically speaking, not very good, but have nonetheless have captured your heart. Some you may admire because they’re skilled to an astonishing degree. Some may have been your favourites way back when. Some may be your new favourites. Some may not have been favourites before, but are now.

However many stars there are in the night sky (and astronomers estimate that’s 200 billion trillion—and that’s a lot!) there are just as many (or, let’s face it more) emotional reactions to books. That’s huge of bandwidth for us to work with as writers. It’s a good reminder that we can’t set out to “be the favourite” because, well, whose favourite? And when? But we can be a reader’s favourite—even if we’re not published. You can love a story you read by a family member or friend. You can love a piece of writing you read online. You can love your own writing. How’s that for a challenge? Write so you become your favourite writer! 

To me, the concept is freeing. I can focus on what I want to write, how I want to write it, to the best of my ability, rather than attempt to satisfy impossible, nebulous—and artificial—metrics. 

Together On the Write Track

Did you know writing is hard? Shocking, I know. What’s (not) surprising is how many writers think it shouldn’t be. Even seasoned writer—in fact, I’d argue especially seasoned writers who’ve done it before and therefore think (wish) they can easy-breezy do it again—try to convince themselves that all they have to do is get words on the page. 

Yes, absolutely that’s what you have to do—as your starting point. But watch the credits the next time you finish a movie. See that long list of names? Now replace your name with each and every one of those roles. That’s what you’re doing. You’re doing all that work. You’re set designer, costume designer, dialogue coach, screenwriter, director, actor—you’re everything (even if you work with a book coach or editor or writing community or beta readers; they’re there to offer guidance and feedback, not to tackle the work themselves). 

So yes, writing is hard. Writing is layered. Writing is nuanced. Writing is circular. There’s no way you can ace every aspect of a good story on the first draft (or the second or third or tenth), despite how non-writers might have delusions to the contrary. (“Oh, I’ve always wanted to write a book!” “Yeah? You ever put in the blood, sweat and tears?”) 

I say again: writing is HARD! If you’re struggling, that’s normal. You’re on a tough journey—but remember, you’re not alone. We’re all on our own writing path, yes, but we’re still travelling together. 

Ignore Those Numbers

I read a dispiriting figure recently: more than 10,000 books are published in the U.S. every week. As published authors, how are we ever supposed to find our readers in that morass? And, as not-yet-published authors, how do we even break through to get to be one of the 10,000 books??

Uh, yeah, sorry, I don’t have the answers. I wish I did. I wish I had the magic bullet and could pass on the gun from which it was shot, but alas, I am as enmeshed in the quagmire of books as everyone else. 

Yes, there are a million examples of come-from-behind authors finally making it big (and a million more of those very same type of authors not succeeding in the conventional sense). There are the one-hit wonders and the rocketing, rising star, and yes, I hope that at least some of that fame can be yours (and mine) but the harsh reality is that it may never be.  

Instead, I have only my philosophy to offer you as comfort. Bonus: my philosophy also includes an action plan: write the best book you can. Keep honing your craft; keep practicing your skill.

We’ll always need stories—we’re hardwired for them—and that’s also why we’ll always have a plethora of writers, but that’s okay! It’s a good reminder that what we do matters.

So do what you can do is write and write well, and then, like I do, ignore the numbers. 

Create Your Own Monster-Hunter

There’s a voice in my head. Yours, too? It tells me all about how I’m an imposter, and how I’m not good enough and how I’m never going to make it as a writer. Yours, too? It doesn’t believe in logic, nor evidence. Yours, too? 

But you know what I realized? This voice sounds suspiciously like a cartoon, caricature, cardboard villain. In fact, if I wrote a character with the same personality as the negative voice in my head, I’d give myself a pretty damning review. The voice has a one-note trill; it’s neither melodic, nor original. It’s not a siren song luring me to the evil darkness of its message; it’s not even that intriguing.

Yet I buy into it. Don’t we all? It’s easy to fall prey to its tenor, and I don’t blame me (nor should you blame yourself). As harsh as it is, it preys on our own insecurities, making them sound like they’re real. 

But for every antagonist in our stories, we have a protagonist. We have a character who, against all odds, is going up against our villain. It’s not going to be easy—we, as their creators, will make sure of that—but (for most of us) they will win. So if we’ve created a monster in our minds, why not create our very own monster-hunter? 

I think my brain has enough capacity to house a different voice. A more encouraging, empathetic voice. Yours, too? 

Communication of the Imagination

I learned Dutch as a child, since my family is Dutch, and I learned French in school, since I live in bilingual Canada. I took classes in Russian and German in university, and even Swahili when I lived for a summer in Tanzania. I’m no longer fluent in Dutch and French (you don’t use it, you lose it—there’s a reason for that expression!) and I could hardly make sense of any of the other languages anymore, but my interest in languages remain. 

My current obsession is the language of imagination. It’s not a language the way we define the others, but the concept of translation and interpretation remain analogous. In our minds—our imagination—reside the perfect stories. We may not know all the details but we can feel the story in our heads/hearts/minds/souls. The problem is—like any language—translating what’s inside your head into something the outside world can understand. That’s why writing is so difficult! We think we should be able to spout what’s on our mind, pour our thoughts onto paper, but that’s not enough if we want readers to make sense of what we’re trying to say. 

Enter the principles of storytelling, the need for structure, the use of conventions, the expectations of readers. The more you learn about the “grammar” of stories, the more successful you’ll be at conveying your ideas. Writing, then, is the communication of the imagination. 

What History Teaches Us About Writing

My daughter was taking a Cold War history course at university. She thought she had a handle on the subject, but was amazed not just at the complexity of world politics (which was expected) but the interconnectedness of events. Because this happened, then that country responded in this way. Because that country responded in this way, then that happened. Because that happened… and so on and so forth. 

Two thoughts occurred to me as I listened to her: 1) we can never truly see ourselves in the moment—we don’t know how, precisely, our actions and decisions will affect the next thing; we’re in the middle of the action (at a political and a personal level) we don’t yet know the effect.  2) It’s our job as authors to know the effects of our characters’ actions and decisions. 

The foundation of a good story is based on cause-and-effect. Because a character did this, then that happens. The action propels the story forward; we don’t want vague coincidences or things that just happen, conveniently, to our protagonists. It may often feel like our lives are random; not everything that happens to us has an obvious through line. But a discussion about a history class reminds me that, in fact, there is a thread—and it’s our job, as writers, to find it and follow it. 

Given that our lives—and the world—often feel chaotic, isn’t it nice to find at least some continuity with our characters? 

But Striving for Satisfaction

Back in high school, after my first break-up, I despaired I’d never find another boyfriend—a dramatic reaction, perhaps, but not atypical for a heartbroken teen. Stop looking for one! My friends told me. Uh, not helpful. But of course, they weren’t wrong. By the end of university—and the end of a few failed relationships—I’d given up. Enough with this dating crap! In fact, I ended up confiding in a new friend about how much I did not want a boyfriend. He was so kind as he listened to me rant. 

He’s now my husband. 

So yes, I believe in the concept of not chasing happiness. It’s the same for the concept of success, too, particularly as a writer. We can’t control our conventional “success” (bestseller status, award winner); instead, we need to reframe success as a feeling. Something that just happens when we’re not striving for it, when we’re not paying attention to it. It’s about focusing on what we can do—write the best book we can—and letting the chips fall where they may. That’s not to say we sit on our laurels; we need to put in the work—and that’s what we need to enjoy. 

It’s not easy—just like my (non) search for my soulmate wasn’t an instantaneous switch in my brain—but if we’re going to be striving for something anyway, why not strive for satisfaction in the writing itself? 

Assumptions about Assumptions

My husband was chatting with a work colleague he hadn’t seen in a while. “How was your trip?” he asked, assuming she’d been on vacation, her normal routine at that time of year. 

“I wasn’t away,” she explained. “My whole house burned down. I had nothing left except, literally, the clothes on my back.” She paused. “Well, and my car keys because I went back inside to get my purse.”

Wow. How dramatic and tragic. What we’d assumed—she’d been enjoying herself on a beach—had been the exact opposite of how she’d actually been living—homeless, until she could make temporary arrangements.

It reminded me how easily we do that—make assumptions. It’s not that we have to walk around thinking darkness lurks around every corner, but it made me appreciate how we could ask differently. Though I would have done the same as my husband, now I’m wondering if a better question might have been “How was your time off?”

Being aware of assumptions is crucial to our job as writers. It’s how our own characters act and react. It’s how they get into—and out of—situations. It’s how they communicate with the other characters in your story. It’s how they think. But we are not our characters. We are the authors. We need to know more, see more, understand more. Maybe one place to start is to consider our own assumptions in our own world. 

Writing Fitness

I recently joined a gym. Normally, I’d sneak down into my home gym, alone, where there was no judgement. And I don’t mean no judgment from others—I mean no judgment from me about myself. 

Yet, buoyed by a desire for change, I ventured out. No surprise I was met with people who were way fitter than me. But I was here for me. I’d go at my own pace. 

And yet… 

It was hard to look at other people and not feel like a failure, no matter how objectively I knew that wasn’t true. I had two choices: return to my basement, or keep going and retrain my brain. 

I’m retraining my brain because the effort is just as applicable for writing. It’s so easy for us to compare ourselves to others. We don’t feel good enough or accomplished enough, no matter how much we know they may have had more time, experience, or luck. It still feels like we have to compete. 

Only we don’t. We can’t. No one has lived your writing life and you haven’t lived theirs. 

I’ll never be as fast or as strong as the other people in my new gym, but in only a little while, I am faster and stronger than I was before. That’s the measurement I’m going to stick with. 

Because writing, like fitness, is always going to be personal. 

When To Write

My two daughters have both moved out of the house for university. Besides the fact that I’m not allowed to turn their bedrooms into extensions of my home library (a policy we’ll have to revisit later… 🙂 ), I’ve adjusted to the empty nest. All my extra time can now go to writing. 

There were a lot of years when I couldn’t do that. Write. Or know what extra time even was. And I often berated myself for that. Why couldn’t I do it all? Intellectually, we know it’s not possible; emotionally, I succumbed to the guilt. 

In retrospect, it’s easy to see what I’d say to my younger self. Life gets in the way. That’s okay! I don’t know that I’d believe me, but I love the message regardless. Life did get in my way—but I wouldn’t have changed how much time and energy I poured into my kids. And now life isn’t getting in my way, so I’ll take advantage. I’d forgotten—or couldn’t see—that our lives ebb and flow and it’s the long game we’re holding out for. 

So if you’re in the crunch of your life, and you can’t find as much time to write as you’d like, that’s okay! I can’t promise you when or how the demands on your time will ease up, only that the odds are that they will. In the meantime, cut yourself some slack. You’re doing the best you can. The writing, like I’m rediscovering, will always be there.