The Power of (Imaginary) Friends

When I was young, I had an imaginary friend. Only, she didn’t spring from my imagination; she came from the mind of Lucy Maud Montgomery. Anne Shirley, who first appeared in Anne of Green Gables, embodied everything I was not: bold, expressive, confident. And she had a bosom friend named Diana. Well I had a best friend named Diane, so therefore Anne and I were simpatico. 

But as I grew up, I shunted Anne aside. I stripped away her magic. She was a fictional character, after all. Not real. 

Yet neuroscience shows us that how we react to fictional characters is the same as if they were real.

Which means when I’m struggling to write my own stories (and yes, I always struggle!), I try to think of my characters as if they’re real people. Call me crazy, but I “chat” with them about their lives, and their experiences and I “listen” to them as they tell me their story. It’s not a magic bullet to writing a good story—I also need to focus on technique and craft—but it does help me keep in mind my end goal: to share my characters’ journeys with the world.

And really, what better job is there than hanging out with your friends all day? 🙂  

Writing Reward

Misery loves company, right? Well, let me assure you, that if you are, or have been or expect to be miserable in your writing life (as I assure you, you will be), then you and I are joined at the hip. 

I have wallowed in misery in my writing; I have shrugged off misery in my writing. I have fought it off and kept it at bay and failed at keeping it from tearing at my soul and have drowned again in it. 

Because writing is hard. 

It’s my mantra, you’ll notice, because I fear we have a disillusioned view in our society of the writing process. Slap a few words on the page, change up a couple of them in revisions and bam! You’re done! You got a story! 

If only… 

But with great challenge (misery included) comes great reward. I’m not talking publishing deals or movie offers. I’m talking about the intense satisfaction of extracting the vision in your head and putting it on the page. Because that’s what’s in our control. That’s what we do.

Misery loves company; I’m in the trenches with you. But euphoria also loves company, which means I’m also with you on the clouds. 

Respect Your Own Journey

Not long after we graduated from university, my friend Jeremy, a brilliant writer, got his first book published. Then he moved to Paris and lived in the iconic Shakespeare and Company bookstore. He founded an independent literary magazine, then wrote a successful memoir about his time in Paris. I heard him interviewed on national radio; he’d gone far. 

You know what I was doing when I heard that interview? Washing windows. Of my cookie-cutter suburban home. After a long week at my boring corporate job. Here he was, living La Vie Bohème, and I was living a mundane life. 

But then I read his memoir and I realized there’s a reason I didn’t follow his path. I didn’t want to be the starving artist in the freezing garret. I liked a hot shower and a soft bed. I didn’t want the uncertainty of where my next pennies would come from. 

But I did ditch the boring corporate job. I found teaching. A steady paycheque that also allowed me to immerse myself in stories. Not much time for my own writing, especially not when my own children came along. 

But I made my choices. The right ones for me at the time. And now I’m making different choices. The right ones for me now.

So whenever I feel a twinge of envy when I hear about the success of an author, I remind myself of two things: I don’t know the details of their journey and I respect my own. 

Accepting Success

Congratulations to client and friend Cathey Nickell on landing a literary agent for her middle-grade novel A Night Without Light! It’s a huge, well-deserved milestone on Cathey’s writing path. Yay, Cathey!

It also got me thinking about how we as writers approach success–it looks different for all of us: traditional publishing, hybrid publishing, self-publishing, finishing a draft, or just getting some ideas on paper. But I’ve learned that we’re a stubborn bunch, too, we writers. Sometimes we can’t recognize success when it’s staring us in the face.

After years of rejections, perseverance, multiple manuscripts, a Titanic-load of learning, and an ocean-full of roiling emotions, I finally signed a publishing deal with SparkPress. My YA fantasy novel, The Violet Feathers Chronicles: Heaven will be published in the fall of 2022.

A lifetime away. 

My husband, always cheering from the sidelines, couldn’t understand my muted reaction. 

“This is what you’ve been working for all these years!” he exclaimed. 

“Yes, exactly,” I replied. “Disappointment and me are old friends. Which means that, before 2022, something will derail this project.”

Scott scoffed, amused. “Like what?”

“The company may go bankrupt.”

“Oh, Jen…”

“Fine, then a fire will burn down the publishing house.”

“Oh, Jen…”

“Fine, then a rampaging giraffe will trample the publisher.”

(Brooke, please stay away from giraffes, okay??)

So I’m still learning how to accept success, too. 🙂

There is No “Should”

The 1997 movie Amistad is based on a real-life story of an 1839 rebellion aboard a slave ship. The Africans, illegally abducted into slavery (not that any abductions should have been “legal”) were put on trial. Their lawyer, Roger Baldwin enlisted the help of a Mende translator, James Covey. After the Africans won their case, Baldwin learns the government plans to appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court. He asks Covey to translate as he explains the crushing turn of events to the Africans’ leader, Cinque. Confused, Cinque demands an explanation.  

Cinque: You said there would be a judgment and we would go free.

Baldwin: No, no, what I said was that if we won it at the state level…

Cinque: That’s what you said!

Baldwin: All right, yes! I said it! I said it but I shouldn’t have! What I should have said…”

Covey (the translator): I can’t translate that.

Baldwin: Can’t translate what?

Covey: I can’t translate “should”.

Baldwin: There’s no Mende word for “should”?

Covey: Either you do something or you don’t do it.

I love that line. Either you do something or you don’t do it. 

Get rid of the shoulds. Or shouldn’ts. 

Write or don’t write. 

Whatever you decide, it’s up to you. It’s right for you.

And do you know what that means?

NO GUILT. 

The advice is incredibly freeing. 

You Determine Who You Are

I grew up in a liberal Christian church and, especially during dark moments in my teens, my faith sustained me. Then, in university, I asked a church friend to become my roommate. It was a great arrangement. Until one day, when I went to volunteer with the church, as I had for years, an official pulled me aside.

 “It doesn’t look good that you and Brad are living together.” 

I gawked. We weren’t living together, we were sharing a house—and even if we were living together, what business was it of this old man’s?

“It sends the wrong message to our young people,” the old codger continued. “I’m sorry, but both of you can’t work together here.”

I was incensed, but I had no choice. I had to step back. Because Brad’s job was the church’s youth minister.

For years, I was bitter and resentful and I turned away from my faith. Until I realized I was bitter and resentful at a group of people with a misguided view of religion. They did not determine my faith. 

It took me a long time to see the parallel to my writing life. That people who claim to know best do not have a claim to my identity as a writer. I accept that the gatekeepers in publishing do not have to accept my writing, but I don’t have to accept that they define who I am. Nor do you. 

If you feel you’re a writer, you are a writer. 

The Writing World’s Dirty Little Secret

Rejection sucks. It’s the dirty little secret of the writing world. Oh yes, it is, despite the fact that everyone knows rejection is a horrible, frustrating, inevitable part of the writing life. 

Because the secret is what we hide about rejection: how much it hurts. 

The agents or editors (the ones who do respond) tell you it’s not personal. And it’s not—on their end. But it feels personal, doesn’t it? You pour your heart and soul into your writing and then it takes an enormous amount of courage to send your darlings—your words, your characters—out into the world. Only to have other people say they’re not good enough? 

It’s not what they said, of course. Your story, your characters may very well be good enough—just not for those particular agents or editors at that particular time. But it doesn’t ease the blow any less, right? So why do we pretend it does? Why do we brush off the hurt and disappointment? We tell ourselves to suck it up. It’s part of the gig. We signed up for it. All true, absolutely, but why can’t we also admit that it’s hard and it hurts? 

So yes, I’ll be persistent and yes, I won’t give up, and yes, I’ll weather the rejections, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. And that doesn’t mean I have to pretend that I do.

Because, as I said, rejection sucks.

When You Feel Like a Fraud

“Imposter Syndrome” is a persistent sense of profound doubt in one’s abilities and a chronic fear that one will easily be exposed as a fraud. Sound familiar? I haven’t met one writer yet who doesn’t relate.

Why do so many of us (yes, absolutely me, too!) feel this way? Because we live in a society of external validation. If you want to become a lawyer, doctor, engineer, teacher, mechanic, tradesperson, then you do the work until other people decide you’ve met the bar to be certified. When we start to write, we think the same thing: if you want to become a writer, then you do the work until other people decide you’ve met the bar to be published. Then you’re a real writer, right? When other people determine you’re good enough. 

But the reason those other jobs have certifications is to protect the public—a small group of experts take on the responsibility to ensure competency so the public doesn’t have to figure it out on their own. But you know what? For writing, the public doesn’t need protection from a small group of experts—the “publishing industry”—because the public themselves can decide competency. 

So take the risk. Call yourself the writer you are. Because no one can tell you you’re not. 

The Joy in Writing

I have homework for you. 

Go to YouTube or, if you’re old like me, unearth an old DVD of your favourite TV show or movie and search out the clips with the bloopers. 

Funny, right? There’s a reason they’re often called “gag reels”.

You know the clips I love best? When one actor—especially during a serious scene—starts laughing and can’t stop, which sets off the other actors and then when everyone tries to get back in character, someone won’t be able to keep a straight face. 

The laughter is contagious, right? I dare you to keep from laughing yourself. 

These moments are curated, absolutely. We don’t see the behind-the-scenes of frustration or anger or boredom or angst. But the lesson from these bloopers, for us, as writers, is still valuable. 

Writing is hard. And there are moments of frustration and anger and boredom and angst. But we often forget there are also moments of fun. 

Remember when something just clicked in your scene? Remember when you wrote the wickedest, coolest, funniest line for your character? Remember when your closest family member read the funniest part of your book and burst out laughing where they were supposed to? 

Writing ain’t all sunshine and roses. 

But writing can include sunshine and roses. 

So in the bright light of day, don’t forget to stop and smell the roses.

Then laugh uncontrollably. 

Writing the perfect first draft

Are you a perfectionist? Especially when it comes to your first draft? You won’t move on to the next scene because you know the last scene isn’t “perfect”? 

Yet for us to judge “perfection” we need to know the criteria, right?

If you say the criteria of a completed novel is strong characters and an engaging plot and inspired writing you could therefore judge the work as “perfect” or “not perfect”. 

But why do we assume the criteria of a first draft is the same as the criteria of a finished novel? They’re completely different entities. Beasts, creatures, as varied as a tiger and a house cat. Do we expect a tiger to sit passively on our couch without scratching the furniture? Then why do we expect to tame our first draft into something it isn’t? 

I challenge you, therefore, to re-think the criteria of a first draft.

Does your first draft get words on the page? Slap down some of your ideas? Read like a masterpiece in some places and a hot mess in others? Then you know what? Your first draft is perfect. It’s living up perfectly to the criteria you’re judging it against. A whole lot of bad—and good—and everything in between in a story that’s not yet complete. 

So, Perfectionist, slap yourself on your back. Because you’re succeeding in writing a first draft the way it’s supposed to be. Perfect. For a first draft.