Is it our darkest moments that give us inspiration? Do we only regurgitate what we know? Or do writers have a special ability to create wonderful new ideas out of nothingness?
I am an infant in the writing world. I consider myself innocent in this business and even in my personal life. I claim to have experienced many things in my short time on Earth, but still I can't even imagine some of the feelings that accompany the events that certain writers go through and use like material for their work. I stumble at the idea of using pain, loss, and tragedy as thread to weave an interesting quilt. Sure, bright colors are more compelling when compared to darker ones. Is it necessary to have more experiences in order to create better stories?
My main character, Daisy Gale, in my (hopefully) soon-to-be debut novel, deals with many tribulations that I have never experienced in real life. However, my own mother called me in distress after reading certain chapters to interrogate me on the truthfulness of some of the events. "Did that ever happen to you?" she kept asking. "You can tell me anything, I'm here for you!"
What I'm trying to say is that I believe within all of us is the ability to empathize so deeply that we can stir up emotions we have never actually felt before. When I was in my first year of college, I studied acting. One of my teachers swore up and down that the only way to truly be 100% real on camera was to BE the part. No pretending, actually being. If you're character is an insomniac, stop sleeping. If you're character has eating disorders, then you should too. Of course, I thought that was way ridiculous and if you can't act well enough to be convincing with pretending alone then you aren't really much of an actor. But I remembered what he said because I feel, in a less extreme way, his theory applies to writing.
Daisy Gale is similar to me in many ways, I make my foundation something that I know. When it comes to the things that she experiences that I never have (thankfully; I tend to torture my protagonists a little) I just imagine what it would be like. I close my eyes, or lay awake in my quite bed, and play out the events in my head. Every attack, every awkward moment, every character on scene, I play out what I would do if I was them. I factor in their personalities (as I writer, I feel that I didn't create them, they have always been known to me), I think about their setting, I alter things as I go to see where the results will get me.
I believe that is how stories write themselves. I know what I want to happen, but so much like life, goals and what actually results from events don't always line up. The story of Daisy Gale began as all my stories do, with notebook pages filled with outlines, ideas, character descriptions, and drawings. I love to look back on them after the book is finished and see everything I never could put in because the events went in a different direction than I originally planned.
So much like life are the stories I write.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Quiet Place
Still no news on my short story progress or on Daisy Gale. I wonder which will get noticed first...
With my classes, work, friends, writing, and all the other things I think about on a daily basis, I find myself missing my old spot in Los Angeles. I lived there for a year for my first two semesters in college. I went to the American Musical and Dramatic Academy, studying the art of film acting. Behind the school down Ivar street was the most pleasant little spot in the entire city. On days that I felt overwhelmed I usually ended up standing at my quiet place.
Leaving the school's gates I would turn East and head to where the street met with Ivar. That whole block was a Hispanic district and the smells of food and the sounds of laughter and music were my escorts to my spot. I would walk the uphill road and my shoulder would be brushed by the flowers that draped down the sides of the wall that separated my school from the sidewalk. It felt freeing to be outside those walls, smelling and hearing things that didn't remind me of school or any of my other troubles.
I would come to a stop at the top of the hill. The road wound away and back toward my school where it would split up, joining the overpass or headed back into West Hollywood.
Standing ontop of the hill I felt above the city. A busy interstate highway circulated below me, a large billboard to my left across the road, and the empty overpass down a ways to the right. The Hispanic district behind me on one side, and my towering school behind me on the other side. Drapes of purple and pink flowers on both sides.
Once I took off my shoes and let my bare feet stand on the grass next to the road. California grass doesn't feel like Illinois grass. It sounds strange, but I never touched the alien stuff again.
I would read the billboard and think about it's messages. "NEED A BREAK? DO WHAT YOU LOVE!" was one sign advertising Vegas. I love many things, but most of all I love writing.
That quiet place ontop of the hill in LA helped me realize my calling. It wasn't acting, it was writing. When I feel like I'm slipping on my priorities, or if I'm letting myself get overwhelmed, I often picture my quiet place. I can hear the sound of the traffic below me. Occasionally a roar of laughter will sound from one of the houses. The smell of spices and cooking meats will surround me. I'll put my own sign on the billboard and let it guide me.
Right now my sign says, "KEEP TRYING! DO WHAT YOU LOVE!"
And I will.
With my classes, work, friends, writing, and all the other things I think about on a daily basis, I find myself missing my old spot in Los Angeles. I lived there for a year for my first two semesters in college. I went to the American Musical and Dramatic Academy, studying the art of film acting. Behind the school down Ivar street was the most pleasant little spot in the entire city. On days that I felt overwhelmed I usually ended up standing at my quiet place.
Leaving the school's gates I would turn East and head to where the street met with Ivar. That whole block was a Hispanic district and the smells of food and the sounds of laughter and music were my escorts to my spot. I would walk the uphill road and my shoulder would be brushed by the flowers that draped down the sides of the wall that separated my school from the sidewalk. It felt freeing to be outside those walls, smelling and hearing things that didn't remind me of school or any of my other troubles.
I would come to a stop at the top of the hill. The road wound away and back toward my school where it would split up, joining the overpass or headed back into West Hollywood.
Standing ontop of the hill I felt above the city. A busy interstate highway circulated below me, a large billboard to my left across the road, and the empty overpass down a ways to the right. The Hispanic district behind me on one side, and my towering school behind me on the other side. Drapes of purple and pink flowers on both sides.
Once I took off my shoes and let my bare feet stand on the grass next to the road. California grass doesn't feel like Illinois grass. It sounds strange, but I never touched the alien stuff again.
I would read the billboard and think about it's messages. "NEED A BREAK? DO WHAT YOU LOVE!" was one sign advertising Vegas. I love many things, but most of all I love writing.
That quiet place ontop of the hill in LA helped me realize my calling. It wasn't acting, it was writing. When I feel like I'm slipping on my priorities, or if I'm letting myself get overwhelmed, I often picture my quiet place. I can hear the sound of the traffic below me. Occasionally a roar of laughter will sound from one of the houses. The smell of spices and cooking meats will surround me. I'll put my own sign on the billboard and let it guide me.
Right now my sign says, "KEEP TRYING! DO WHAT YOU LOVE!"
And I will.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Short Story Mania
My writing projects are blossoming before me. I sit amongst a pile of papers upon which themes and short story ideas are scribbled hastily. I had a brainstorm attack between classes yesterday. I have been researching literary magazines and thought that maybe I should write more short stories and submit them like crazy, getting my name in print as often as possible.
This is a challenge that I find exciting and very fun. Writing short stories is nothing like writing novels. I find that I put in an extreme amount of detail and then have to go back and cut huge chunks in order to get the story between 1,000-500 words. The closer to 500 words I get the more I believe a lit mag will be inclined to read my work.
There's this other thing, too...
I was printed in my college magazine last spring. That sentence alone sounds pretty cool. I would like to state that I go to a community college and the magazine was printed in all black and white on regular printer paper. I submitted two stories and both were printed in the magazine. This may sound impressive, but one of my stories was put into the same issue of the magazine twice. Yeah, I'll bet they just copied and pasted emails onto Word documents, slapped on a header and footer, and stapled it to a glossy cover and called it a magazine.
That damages my confidence a little. It is pretty funny, and I'll laugh about it when I'm printed in a real literary magazine.
I'm trying so hard to be noticed by an agent. It is a constant test of will and desire to keep putting myself out there and getting zero response from people. I feel pretty invisible right now. Even as I make this blog I have yet to attract any subscribers. I'm following 60 people on Twitter, who are mostly published writers, publicists, editors, or agents. I have three followers. An intellegent writer, C. William Davis III, an old friend from my freshman year of college, and Publishing Talk. Three followers I am very fortunate to have, but still I feel like a drifting piece of dust in the cyber world of writing. I feel as though I'm shouting out to a world full of people already making conversations, and I'm not in any of them.
My love for writing is something that can never be discouraged or ignored. I know that, even if no one in the world reads what I write, I will continue to put my ideas out there proudly. I love my work, even if I'm the only one. For now :)
This is a challenge that I find exciting and very fun. Writing short stories is nothing like writing novels. I find that I put in an extreme amount of detail and then have to go back and cut huge chunks in order to get the story between 1,000-500 words. The closer to 500 words I get the more I believe a lit mag will be inclined to read my work.
There's this other thing, too...
I was printed in my college magazine last spring. That sentence alone sounds pretty cool. I would like to state that I go to a community college and the magazine was printed in all black and white on regular printer paper. I submitted two stories and both were printed in the magazine. This may sound impressive, but one of my stories was put into the same issue of the magazine twice. Yeah, I'll bet they just copied and pasted emails onto Word documents, slapped on a header and footer, and stapled it to a glossy cover and called it a magazine.
That damages my confidence a little. It is pretty funny, and I'll laugh about it when I'm printed in a real literary magazine.
I'm trying so hard to be noticed by an agent. It is a constant test of will and desire to keep putting myself out there and getting zero response from people. I feel pretty invisible right now. Even as I make this blog I have yet to attract any subscribers. I'm following 60 people on Twitter, who are mostly published writers, publicists, editors, or agents. I have three followers. An intellegent writer, C. William Davis III, an old friend from my freshman year of college, and Publishing Talk. Three followers I am very fortunate to have, but still I feel like a drifting piece of dust in the cyber world of writing. I feel as though I'm shouting out to a world full of people already making conversations, and I'm not in any of them.
My love for writing is something that can never be discouraged or ignored. I know that, even if no one in the world reads what I write, I will continue to put my ideas out there proudly. I love my work, even if I'm the only one. For now :)
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
February 29th?
Clocking into my clinical at the hospital this morning I noticed that the date stamped on my card said February 29th. When I laughed and attempted to share this funny fact with a tech she shrugged and walked away. I suppose she's right. It's still too much like February to actually be March.
My finished project that I'm attempting to publish (I'll call it Daisy Gale because I'm still terrified of theft of any of my ideas) is still waiting for an agent to notice it, love it, and need it published. Daisy Gale has been polished a thousand times, devoured by others that I trust dearly, and has been demonstrated via query to a handful of agents. I know the story is not what failed to marvel them, it was me. Checking over the latest email query I sent out to an agent I was DYING to impress I noticed that in the very first sentence of my short bio I wrote "commited." Yeah, I should be committed for missing such an obvious mistake. This was my first typo on a query ever and it could have blown such an awesome opportunity.
That's okay, there are plenty of other jewels in the mountian, now all I need to do is keep digging.
My newest writing project is a werewolf novel that I'm very excited about. I'm still processing it, not allowing myself to write yet. I tend to be too hard on myself when writing and if I have to go back and fix a bunch right away I convince myself that the entire thing is junk and quit. I've stopped pretty good stories with that method. So I've got all of my very intriguing characters and I've discovered their many depths and attitudes. I'm most excited about my antagonist. She's so incredible because she isn't evil or bad at all. She doesn't hurt any innocent little creatures or laugh bitterly at people with good intentions. She is only doing what to her seems right, and it involves killing the dark monsters that are werewolves. She's the antagonist only because the main characters are werewolves who are just trying to live normal lives. But is she really mistaken about werewolves? They might be just as awful as she thinks.
My notebook full of ideas is calling me and I must answer.
Sending more queries for Daisy Gale tomorrow!
My finished project that I'm attempting to publish (I'll call it Daisy Gale because I'm still terrified of theft of any of my ideas) is still waiting for an agent to notice it, love it, and need it published. Daisy Gale has been polished a thousand times, devoured by others that I trust dearly, and has been demonstrated via query to a handful of agents. I know the story is not what failed to marvel them, it was me. Checking over the latest email query I sent out to an agent I was DYING to impress I noticed that in the very first sentence of my short bio I wrote "commited." Yeah, I should be committed for missing such an obvious mistake. This was my first typo on a query ever and it could have blown such an awesome opportunity.
That's okay, there are plenty of other jewels in the mountian, now all I need to do is keep digging.
My newest writing project is a werewolf novel that I'm very excited about. I'm still processing it, not allowing myself to write yet. I tend to be too hard on myself when writing and if I have to go back and fix a bunch right away I convince myself that the entire thing is junk and quit. I've stopped pretty good stories with that method. So I've got all of my very intriguing characters and I've discovered their many depths and attitudes. I'm most excited about my antagonist. She's so incredible because she isn't evil or bad at all. She doesn't hurt any innocent little creatures or laugh bitterly at people with good intentions. She is only doing what to her seems right, and it involves killing the dark monsters that are werewolves. She's the antagonist only because the main characters are werewolves who are just trying to live normal lives. But is she really mistaken about werewolves? They might be just as awful as she thinks.
My notebook full of ideas is calling me and I must answer.
Sending more queries for Daisy Gale tomorrow!
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