5 Ways Marriage has Improved my Writing

I was terrified of getting married. I’ve always placed a high premium on my independence, and I think part of that was to protect my writing. Relationships take time and energy — and any time and energy given elsewhere is time and energy taken away from writing. I’d seen relationships where one’s significant other actively interfered with their beloved’s passion. In college, a writer friend of mine was dating a girl who scorned his writing, making it something he had to do almost in secret. My sister dated several men who were “jealous” of the devotion she had to her passion, horses, because it meant time spent away from them. When my mom got married, she gave up her horses because there wasn’t a place for them on my dad’s farm. Being single allowed me to avoid this quagmire of competing passions.

I also had a semi-conscious belief that intimate relationships were a liability in my dream to become a writer. I thought loneliness was part of my calling. It was not for me to engage intimately with others, but to observe; to ponder; to record. If I got swept up in a love affair of my own, so much of my creative energy would go in that direction, and I wanted that energy for writing. (There’s a belief that sexual energy and creative energy exist on the same chakra, and perhaps being raised Catholic contributed to my idea that celibacy was the best life path if I wanted to devote myself wholly to my creativity.) If I got caught up in my own life, it might wipe clean the dozens of lives I imagined in my head, each of them providing a different outlet for all the things I wasn’t experiencing on my own. If I was close to someone to whom I could pour out my soul, how many pages in my journal would be left empty? I wanted to live many lives, not just one. And so I held back from living my own, from carving out a singular path that would close off other options, and thus, close off a bit of imaginative possibility.

When Ivan and I were still dating, we watched Phoebe in Wonderland, a movie about a little girl with Tourette’s syndrome and OCD tendencies whose family, especially her mother, struggles to accept her illness. The mother in the movie is a writer — and as the movie progresses, we discover that a significant part of her internal struggle is caused by the tension she feels between her responsibilities as a wife and mother, and her desire to write. Ivan asked, “Are you afraid having a family will interfere with your writing?”

I said, “Yes.”

We didn’t speak of it further than that, but the fact that that fear was out in the open meant that I no longer faced it alone. And after the dust settled from the wedding and the honeymoon and the move, I found that the opposite of my fear has come true. Marriage allowed me to focus more on my writing than I’ve ever been able to before because …

1. Two people means two incomes, which means if I make a little less money per week because I’m doing a little more writing, the lights will stay on and I won’t starve.
2. Two people means shared chores, which also frees up more time for writing. I still do a fair amount of dishes and laundry, which offer prime daydreaming time.
3. My husband has dreams of his own. As the co-founder of Coppergoose.com, and as someone who works full-time in addition to pursuing his own business, he needs time while he’s “off” to devote to developing the site. This benefits my writing in two ways: First, seeing him pursue his passion goads me into giving the same sort of attention to mine. Second, when he’s wrapped up in Coppergoose work, it’s a prime time for me to get some writing done. In particular, he takes a half-day off every Friday to devote to Coppergoose. I’ve begun doing the same, using that time to focus on research and development related to my writing, something that was usually on the back burner so that I could use all my writing time for actually, well, writing.
4. He’s an additional reader, which means additional feedback. I often read acknowledgments by authors in which they mentioned a spouse as a first reader and valued critiquer, and I always hoped that I could someday have such a marriage relationship. Last week, Ivan finished reading my most ambitious novel, then gave me 45 minutes of “big picture” feedback that I’m still mulling over — and he brings the novel up occasionally when additional feedback strikes him. He’s not another writer, which means his feedback is pure reader feedback. This is a good compliment to my writers’ group feedback, which comes from their dual perspectives as writers and readers.
5. Most importantly, I now live with someone who cares about me reaching my dream as much as I do. Ivan doesn’t often ask me what I’m writing, and he doesn’t give me the kind of accountability that my writers’ group or my writer friends do when they ask about progress on specific projects. But he does ask me, particularly when I’m stressed or overwhelmed, “Are you getting enough time for writing?” Fortunately, the answer has not been no yet — but I know that if it ever is, I’ll have someone to help me correct that.

I’m not about to advocate marriage as a “solution” to any writer’s woes (or as a solution to anything, really). Unlike many people, I don’t see being alone as the worst possible outcome, but being with someone to whom I’m ill-suited. I still think that the single life provides particularly fertile ground for writing, especially if you have the self-discipline to make the most of that freedom and alone time. I was incredibly fortunate that, before Ivan, I had friends who stayed up past their bedtimes to read my drafts and who asked, “When am I going to get another Lacey story?” So while I don’t advocate marriage for the sake of writing, I do know this: writing can be lonely. If you have people in your life who truly care about you reaching your goals, who see writing as a worthy pursuit even if it’s just “for the sake of writing,” who ask you when your next draft will be ready or whether you’re getting enough time for writing, keep those people in your life. And if you are going to balance an intimate relationship with your dream of writing, you could certainly do worse than having it be with one of those people.

The Next Big Writer?

I’ve just discovered another website for writers, The Next Big Writer. At first glance, the site seems a lot like WeBook. It’s another online community where members can post any type of writing to get feedback from other writers and readers. It holds frequent contests for (smallish) cash prizes and publication. It boasts that many of its writers have gone on to achieve book contracts, mostly with small presses.

I’m not sure exactly what I think of The Next Big Writer. It charges a fee of about $8 a month for the right to use the private site, claiming that because the site is private, you won’t give away “first rights” to your work as publishers consider you to have done if you publish your work publicly on the Internet (I’d like to do more research to see if publishers really do view self-published Internet work this way). It also works on a credit system. In order to post work, you need credits. You  get credits by reviewing other people’s work–or you can buy credits.

In perusing their books that have been published, I don’t recognize many of the publishers, but they do have the look of self-published work. Some of them have been published by BookSurge, Amazon.com‘s self publishing arm. Part of their publication “prize packages” for some contests includes a publishing package with BookSurge. So essentially, the author is getting a publishing package from a self-publisher for free, but it’s not exactly the same as a publishing contract with Random House.

I’m also a little suspicious of the pay-to-use/work-to-use set up. I think the credit system makes sense so that you don’t have members who take from the community without ever giving anything back. But pairing the credit system with a user fee seems to provide a few too many “gates” to site usage: you have to pay to post your work, but paying isn’t enough to post your work. You need to work to post your work, too. It’s sort of like college, where you pay to work.

I wanted to take a peek at some of the posted work, but I couldn’t without a paid account, so I’m not sure of the quality level (it says writers of ALL levels are welcome, but the typical writing quality can reveal a lot about how serious the users of a certain site are about writing). At any rate, I think I’d explore WeBook for Internet critiques first, if for no other reason than it’s free. But I am a strong believer in the importance of workshopping your writing, and I think that any site like The Next Big Writer is bound to turn out a few writers who come out more proficient than they went in. That speaks to the value of critiques themselves, not necessarily to the value offered in the particular site.

If You Love Poetry (or even if you don’t)

Tomorrow, July 31, is the last chance to submit poetry to WEbook’s Poetry Vote. Even if you don’t submit poetry, WEbook is worth checking out for the writers’ community it provides. When I put a few of my poems up, I didn’t expect to get much feedback on them, since I didn’t have time to really develop my relationship with the community there. Plus, the community is HUGE, and I suspected my poems would get lost amidst so much writing. But I received several comments, suggesting that this community really does what it says it does — connects writers with one another to improve everyone’s writing. Now that things are slowing down a bit, I plan to return the favor by leaving feedback on a few pieces.

If you DON’T love poetry, there’s a place for you, too. WEbook is teaming up with Level 4 Press for an upcoming anthology called “I hate poetry.” Even if you aren’t a WEbook member, you can submit your writing directly to Level 4.

Amateur Writers — Who, us?

Every morning, I read publications for writers before I come here. This morning, I read an article in The Writer about writer’s block that advised writers not to share unfinished work with their writers group, proclaiming that sharing such work would simply lead to “the blind leading the blind.”

Whoa. On behalf of my writers group and writers groups everywhere, I felt affronted. Now, the author of the article happens to be a professional story analyst–someone who gets paid to critique authors’ work. Methinks she had a tad bit of personal interest in writers not finding good writing groups. I also get paid to critique other people’s work, but I wouldn’t wish lack of a writers’ group on anyone. In fact, after my move, I’m going to make my best efforts to return here once a month so I can continue working with my group. Here’s why:

Although the writers in my group may not be professional editors, they are readers who are experienced in my genre. Not only that, but they bring something to the table most casual readers don’t: an understanding of what goes on “behind the scenes” when writing. That means that they don’t passively read; they read with an eye to how you crafted the story, and how they could envision it differently. And no matter what anyone tells you, agents, editors, and “story analysts” are really just glorified readers. If you want to improve your writing, having readers is the first step.

Unfortunately, most fledgling authors don’t have a ton of readers. This can make it all-too-easy to get mired in self-doubt or self-aggrandizement. It can also reduce any sense of accountability.  A writers’ group expects you to have written something new before the next meeting. It gives you feedback when you feel totally stuck. It can give you the motivation to go on, knowing that somebody out there wants to see what happens next. It can also give you a new way to envision your story, making you more likely to rewrite or refocus and less likely to abandon your work.

If someone were simply to listen in on our writers’ group to try to glean some pearls of writing wisdom, they’d likely leave frustrated and confused. One moment, we’re telling a writer that she’s said too much, telling the readers “what we already know.” The next minute, we’re pressing her to include MORE details or to make the connection between events more explicit. There isn’t a single writing rule that applies all the time (i.e.: always give lots of details; always be subtle; always be explicit). It’s all about context — and the only way to truly get the context is to be a reader.

Now, there is something to be said for not letting your writers group dictate your life (or your story). I think the bit of (misguided) advice about not showing your work to “amateurs” may be rooted in a belief that “amateurs” will give bad advice and steer you wrong. But as a writer, it’s YOUR job to work through the feedback and decide what will steer you right, what will steer you wrong. Sure, you might get feedback with which you disagree (consider it carefully anyway), and you might decide to ignore it. That’s both your perogative, and your duty: you must stay true to the story you’re telling. Ultimately, you’re NOT selling your story to your writers group, and therefore, you have no obligation to make the changes they suggest. You can disregard the advice that isn’t helpful — just as I’ve blithely disregarded this crazy bit of advice about not sharing work with a writers group.

6 Tips on Giving a Good Critique

My writers group meets this Friday, so I’ve spent most of my writing time this week doing critiques. This has me reflecting on what makes a good critique. Below are some of the things I’ve come up with both from being a critiquer and a critique-ee*, with the disclaimer that I don’t always achieve these ideals when I give a critique.

1. Remember that you’re there to help. As one of the first readers of a manuscript, your role  is invaluable. Everything matters — if something made you laugh, let the author know. If something confused the heck out of you, let her know that, too. As nice as it is to hear, “This is perfect, don’t change a thing!”, that’s only helpful if the manuscript really is perfect (and I’ve never read a perfect piece of writing, including published stuff).
2. Be specific. Comments like, “Funny,” or “Sad” jotted beside certain parts of the work are specific enough if the writer can see what you refer to, and they’re helpful in letting him know whether his writing is having the desired effect. But when pointing out something that’s not working, being specific can save a writer a lot of frustration. “I don’t like this,” scribbled beside a paragraph isn’t nearly as helpful as, “I get a little lost in this section because there’s so much information crammed into each sentence.”
3. Establish a hierarchy of concerns. Most writers won’t get every comma or capitalization right on their first draft, but don’t get too fixated on this if it’s the pacing of the action or the character development in the story that needs work. Remember that a lot of a writers’ first drafts will be rewritten, and some of those commas you’ve painstakingly inserted will be deleted and become irrelevant.  Think big picture first, then zero in on “little picture” stuff if the big picture’s lookin’ good. (Of course, you can always be like me, who tries to think big picture but compulsively inserts commas into sentences that will probably be deleted, anyway. It’s like a sickness. I can’t help it.)
4. Use humor. My favorite part of my group’s monthly meetings is the laughter. Humor doesn’t have to poke fun at someone’s writing or be derogatory; all it takes is one critiquer’s misinterpretation of a sentence to have us wiping our eyes with laughter. Humor helps us see all the strange possibilities that exist in every arrangement of words, and  it helps us redirect our sentences toward a clarity that hopefully won’t leave our future readers scratching their heads or smirking at inappropriate times.
5. Remember to point out what you like. Sometimes, as critiquers we get so focused on being “critical” that we forget that our job is to point out what works, too. I’m guilty of letting pages of beautifully writing go by without comment because I’m too enraptured to pick up my pen. But without making a comment about that, the writer doesn’t know whether his pages were perfect or whether I just stopped paying attention.
6. Be kind. No matter how early the draft you’re looking at, a critique should never be needlessly harsh. I’ve learned a lot from my fellow critiquers on this one, as I used to be a pretty harsh critiquer. But remember that a writer is trusting you with something from her mind and her heart, and that producing what you hold before you was hard, gut-wrenching work. Ultimately, your writers group needs to be built on trust, and you create that trust by handling one another’s work with care and respect.

A few that didn’t make the list: read the material you’re critiquing more than once (I never have time to do this, but it’s SO helpful if you do), don’t try to edit everyone’s writing to sound like yours (let your writing be yours, and theirs be theirs), write an “overall impressions” paragraph at the end of a critique, and, of course use fun-colored pens!

* This sounds like a new species of cricket.

Step One, Intimacy; Step Two, Distance

I’d like to follow up on yesterday’s post about the vulnerability of putting a lot of “yourself” into your writing. I think that the blurred boundary between self and characters during the writing process is incredibly beneficial. Why would you keep returning to these characters again and again if you weren’t personally invested in them? If you think of them as extensions of yourself, or as your “children,” the thought of neglecting them is rather painful, immoral, even. This is all good. It also ties into my advocacy of honest writing. If you’re truly being honest, sharing your work is going to feel a little scary, whether it’s a first draft of a novel or a letter to the editor.

This kind of intimacy and blurred boundaries are less healthy when revising. That’s why part two of my advice is this: when the first draft’s been written, allow yourself distance. Accept the reality that those characters are NOT you, nor are they your children. When someone doesn’t like what you’ve written, or when a writing buddy does an honest critique — good, bad, and ugly — they are not disliking or criticizing you. Just as a child must “grow up” and learn to differentiate herself from her parents, your writing must “grow up” to exist without you.

So rather than get defensive when someone says something seems unbelievable (“What do you mean?!? That’s how it really happened!!”) or when someone points out that a character comes across as whiny (“What?!? I am NOT a whiner!!!”), take a step back. Don’t jump in to defend yourself or your character-extension-of-self. Let the critique settle with you–it will point you to the truths you might have been too close to the situation to see. Just as the “customer is always right,” the “reader is often right.” Sure, you’ll get readers here and there who clearly want something totally different than what you’ve written, and you have to take their feedback with a grain of salt. Yes, as the writer, you have the ultimate say over what you’ll change and what you won’t (I know I’ve certainly dug my heels in on certain points). But if the reader is telling you she doesn’t buy it, listen. And listen well.

At the end of the Mary Sue Litmus Test, there’s a question that asks, “Do you think of your characters more like tools than like friends/children?” This question has stuck with me since I first read it. Yes, think of your characters as friends and children to motivate you to spend SO much time with them. But after the initial draft, remember that they ultimately are tools, to be wielded and refined as you see fit, for that all-important task of telling your story.