Someone Who Writes

Are we writers if we don’t have readers? It takes both to create a memorable story, so if we haven’t yet gotten our work published—or we don’t even want to publish it, not in the mainstream market anyway—are we still writers? 

Yes. A resounding, unequivocal, absolute YES. 

Many, many, many writers I know doubt this. Imposter syndrome rears its ugly head. How can I call myself a writer if I’m not published? 

Because you write. 

Full stop. 

You may choose to write for yourself, or for your family or for your friends. You may choose to write for a bigger audience and you may struggle or succeed in getting your book out there, but none of that matters to who you are. A writer. If you write, you’re a writer. 

Full stop. 

My first published manuscript, Evangeline’s Heaven, was, in fact, the fourth novel I wrote. The third novel I wrote, Amaranth (coming May 2024) will be my second published manuscript, which means, I published “out of order”, if you will. If I went by the theory that I wasn’t a writer until I was published, that meant I wasn’t a writer when I wrote Amaranth. Yet, it’s of a high enough quality even before my first published novel that it was accepted by a publisher, so that argument falls flat. 

It’s easy to get sucked into the rhetoric that you’re only a writer if you’re published. It’s more rewarding to resist it. 

No Formula

You know the expression “know the rules before you break the rules”? Yeah, well, in writing there are no rules. There are best practices and methods to follow. There are suggestions to get better and ways to improve, but there are no rules. 

Which is, of course, a double-edged sword. Wouldn’t it be nice if we had a simple (or even complex!) formula? Plug in the variables and you’re good to go. But not even a plot outline structure or even AI software can actually give you that. You could use them as a starting point, but to write a good, solid book about which you can be proud? That takes imagination, creativity and a whole lot of je-ne-said-quoi.

Which is actually the good news! You don’t have to stick to the “right” way to write because there is no right way. There are ways that work for some writers and ways that don’t. There are ways that will work for you, and ways that won’t. Part of the challenge—and exhilaration—of writing is figuring out what does work for you. By all means, hire a book coach (I know a good one 🙂 ) or take online courses, or work with critique partners. You can get guidance, but what writing comes down to, what writing always comes down to, is you and your story. Your way. 

Sharing Ourselves

There’s a line in my YA fantasy, Evangeline’s Heaven, when Michael, Evangeline’s enemy-love interest expresses his admiration for her. My kids chuckled “Didn’t Dad tell you that when you started dating?” No one else would catch that detail, though, so I was “safe”. 

But did that matter if people knew or not? 

Which got me thinking, how personal is too personal in our writing? If you’re working on a memoir, it seems obvious, but just because you want people to know your story, doesn’t mean you have to give them everything. Same with fiction. We often use our own experiences or the people around us (disguised or not), but how much is too much? 

Answer: the amount you’re comfortable with. Writing does make us vulnerable. It’s about being brave. But there’s a balance between what you want to share and what you want to keep to yourself. I fear that much of the rhetoric is “bleeding yourself onto the page”—putting it all out there—but that’s not necessary. You can still have a strong, cohesive story, even a memoir, if you limit how much of yourself you expose. Instead, it’s about being true, honest and open with what you do choose to share. Michael’s line will go unnoticed by almost everyone. That’s the way I want it. 

So yes, “write what you know”, but ultimately, it’s your story, so in fact, we should alter the expression: “write what you want to share.” 

Old Habits Die Hard

I’ve learned a lot over the many years I’ve been writing, both self-taught lessons (often the hard way!) as well as from professionals. I have a much better idea of what works and what doesn’t. But absolutely there are (a lot of) times where I feel stalled, flummoxed, despairing and hopeless, no matter how many manuscripts I’ve written. 

Yet I’ve also found a counter-intuitive way to get past some of that writer’s block. I actually revert to old habits—some that had never worked for me before.

Example: “pantsing”, the art of writing whatever comes to mind without a plan of action. No outline, no brainstorming, just writing (and hoping!) that the story will come together on the page. It works for some writers; it hasn’t worked for me in the past. BUT! I found when I’m stuck, I go back to it, and, like a form of freewriting, I let myself go. When I surface, I feel better about words on the page, even if I know they’ll be changed. And that’s the difference from before—I appreciate how and why I may be missing story elements and can then go back and fix it. In the meantime, though, forging ahead without a plan has freed me from my paralyzing doom. 

That may not be your old habit, but if you’re stuck, trying something you’d otherwise moved on from. A little nostalgia may be all you need to re-spark your confidence. 🙂

Writing Hope

What do you do when you’ve tried everything you can? You’ve tried to carve out enough time to write, but it’s not working. You’ve tried to rewrite your outline dozens of times, but it’s not working. You’ve tried to finish your first draft, but it’s not working. 

How in heaven’s name do you make it work? 

I wish I had the answers. I’d be bottling it up and making myself into a gazillionaire. But since there isn’t one simple answer, all I can do is remind you you’re not alone. We’ve all been there; we all feel that. There’s always one step (or more) of the writing process that will drag us to our knees and crush our spirit. 

But we’re also here. As in, we’ve survived—or are surviving—those moments, which means you can, too. When you have hope, even a glint of it, that you’ll finally, someday, somehow be able to get yourself unstuck, it’s much easier to persevere. That’s what you have to hold onto. Faith in yourself that you’ll find a way. Trust in yourself that you’ll figure it out. Your answers to your version of writer’s block may come after a pause, hiatus or sabbatical from writing, or it may come from discovering a different perspective or process. It may come with only one minute of writing a day or one hour. But if you take a deep breath, and search out that spark of hope, you’ll move forward. One precious, hope-filled word at a time.

Writing and Confidence

Sometimes it’s not just life that gets in the way of our writing. Sometimes it’s us. I’m not just talking about the Inner Critic (who, you may remember, I try to call the Outer Critic as a reminder to speak to myself in a way I’d speak to others). I’m also talking about our actual, objective assessment of our writing abilities. The ones where we look over our work and say, yes, it needs work. It’s important we cultivate that skill—separating our Critic from our actual abilities—because we won’t improve as writers unless we recognize where and how we need to improve as writers. 

But even if we can finally assuage our Critic, and look closely at our own work, we can still easily fall into despair. We think we’re terrible writers because, well, we’re still comparing our work to other books. And even when we remind ourselves that we’re not reading their first draft, it can sometimes feel that our final version will never measure up. 

There’s only one answer to that: practice. Study the writing of those you admire, learn what you can from their works, then learn how to apply those lessons to your own writing. It’s not about imitation—many artists can copy the Mona Lisa—but about absorbing what you can from the authors you love. 

Which mean, reading is also on your to-do list of writing tasks. Isn’t it nice when your interests align? 🙂

Rainbow Connection

I once saw a gorgeous recipe for a rainbow cake. It was six layers and yes, each layer was one colour in the rainbow. Obviously, the picture in the magazine made it look perfect, but still, I wanted to try my hand at it. I wanted to make that perfect rainbow-layered cake. 

While I was mixing my ingredients, with flour all over the counter, food colouring staining my hands and eggshells fallen to the ground, I despaired. Who did I think I was to create this beautiful cake? I’m no expert baker; my effort looked nothing like the picture. 

Until it did. 

I had despaired in the middle of the process, when it wasn’t time to despair. Even the professional who’d baked that cake for the magazine would have had a mess at one point. I was getting ahead of myself, thinking my process had to look like the product. It didn’t. 

Same with writing. Our process—brainstorming, outline, first draft, revisions, revisions and more revisions—aren’t by definition going to read like the final version. It’s impossible to include all the elements at the same time. Instead, like my cake, we need to work in layers. I had to make each colour of cake before I could assemble it; as writers, we have to work on each element of our craft before we combine them. 

It’s easy to forget, when we’re enjoying our favourite book, that the writer didn’t start out with this “perfect” version. Like baking the cake, it took time, effort, mess and perseverance. 

After that, it’s all sunshine and rainbows. 🙂

Because We Care

In the span of two days, I had two clients ask the same question: “Does every writer feel like this?” 

This being the sense that they’re overwhelmed, that they can’t do this, that they were stupid to start, that what the hell was I thinking??

I can’t answer for every writer under the sun, but I can answer for more than the 100 writers I’ve worked with. I can answer for myself and every one of the half-dozen manuscripts I’ve written or am working on: YES. An unequivocal, resounding, incontrovertible YES. 

Yes, we all feel this way. Yes, we all feel like maybe we bit off more than we can chew, like maybe we’re not equipped to handle this challenge. Even seasoned writers feel this way when they start a new writing project. 

Starting a story, whether it’s fiction or a memoir, whether it’s a short story or a novel, requires a leap of faith and with that faith comes doubt. Roiling, gut-wrenching doubt. Because writing isn’t easy. And writing isn’t easy especially when we get emotional. By that I don’t mean crying into our coffee (okay, okay, I do mean that, too!) but that we have a lot invested in our stories emotionally. If it’s a memoir, it’s because we’re writing about our lives. If it’s fiction, it’s because we’re writing about what is most important to us. 

We wonder if writing is the smart thing because we care. 

But that’s exactly why it’s the right thing.

Because we care. 

On Why You Write

So I wrote my Oscar acceptance speech the other day. 🙂 For best adapted screenplay based on my bestselling novel, of course. 

Obviously, it’s not actually ever going to be used. I’m not a filmmaker, actor, make-up designer, production artist or, indeed, even a screenwriter. 

But that’s irrelevant. The point of the speech isn’t to deliver it on stage, but to remind myself of why I write. If you listen to the winners’ speeches, they often acknowledge for whom they create their stories, and why. They explain who they hope to inspire, and why. They recognize who their giving a voice to and why. 

And they remind us of the multitudes of people in their lives who have supported and nurtured and loved them—something every artist, no matter their art, needs to succeed. 

So go ahead: imagine yourself on stage. It doesn’t have to be the Oscars, or even an awards ceremony specifically. Instead, it’s about distilling what’s most important to you about your craft in only 45 seconds. 

That’s the way to not only keep your focus, but keep you inspired. 

Then again, maybe you will make it to that stage. In which case, you can thank me for already having your speech prepared. 🙂

It’s Worth Relearning

This is SO not a new insight, but it’s one worth repeating. Over and over and over.

Recently, I’ve been watching the actor Pedro Pascal in both The Mandalorian and The Last of Us TV series. He’s terrific! A real breakout actor. 

Except, “breakout” actor isn’t the same thing as “new” actor. We often make that correlation because the actor is new to us. 

But I learned that Pedro Pascal isn’t even wholly new to me. He had a small role in one of my must-watch shows from the 1990s, Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I certainly didn’t remember him, not until Sarah Michelle Geller (Buffy), posted a throw-back picture on social media. Pedro’s reaction? “What I just found out… is that Sarah Michelle Geller remembers me.”  Even he was surprised that a superstar remembered a guest actor in a small role. 

It’s a reminder that Pedro, like many, many creative people, toil away for years in obscurity. How and when we get “discovered” is rarely up to us. It takes timing, the right people and the right alignment of the planets, magic, media and a boatload of luck.

But if Pedro hadn’t persevered? We’d still never know his name today. 

I can’t guarantee you fame or recognition. But I can guarantee you eternal obscurity if you stop writing. So you might as well stick with it. 

And if you never get discovered, after all that? Well, you’ve at least written for yourself. 

That, ultimately, is the most worthwhile audience of all.