A lot of my writer friends like to treating writing like any other job: there are deadlines, quotas to meet, specific goals to achieve. And I get that. If you just keep endlessly working on the same book forever, you’re never going to get to publish it any move on to something new. But I also feels like it gives short shrift to the creative aspect of what we’re doing here.
Everyone decries inspiration as a fickle, fleeting muse, as though waiting for it to make an appearance is a form of weakness in a writer and a sign that they’re not a True Author (TM). As if the only way to really, truly being a professional in the field is to spend each day putting words on the page, some good and some bad, and then going back and editing them to make them all polished gold or something.
That strikes me as a bit disingenuous. Each of us started writing because we were struck with some bit of inspiration. Maybe it was just a scene, or a character, or even a word or phrase. Maybe it was a line of dialogue, or the brief description of an action or something. We all started from a place of inspiration, not a place of discipline. And while I think it’s great that some writers can crank out words every day without concern for whether or not they’re good words (or they’re words that can be fixed in editing), I’d still rather take my time, maybe not get something on the page every day, and make sure I put down the right words the first time ’round.
And maybe that’s arrogance on my part. Maybe I’m not being as clear here as I’d like to be. Writing about writing is always fraught with hand-wringing and sounding full of yourself. “The Process,” y’know. I always roll my eyes when creative folks talk about their Process. It sounds so pretentious. And I’m sure talking of inspiration sounds that way, too. It’s a lot more down-to-earth to talk about being a writer through the self-discipline of writing. You sound like a human, or like anyone could do what you do if they just built that discipline themselves.
But I’m not sure that’s true. Maybe it’s a bit elitist, but not everybody can do everything, even with discipline. I could practice every day, hire the best trainers and go through intense regimens, and still never be a better basketball player than LeBron James or Michael Jordan. I could push myself to practice for hours a day, doing riffs and runs and arpeggios, and never be as good a guitar player as Prince was. Those are (or were) all highly-disciplined people who spent years honing their crafts, but they started with the inspiration. I’m just saying maybe we shouldn’t discount that part quite so much. Discipline without inspiration is just so much hard work for nothing.
Whenever I tell someone new that I’m having a novel published, the question is inevitably asked:
“Oh? What’s it like? What’s it about?”
And I get to sit there for a second like a twit trying to come up with a concise, clear way of describing it. I usually go with something like, “It’s a hard-boiled detective novel with bizarre sci-fi science elements and ninjas. And an ape-in-a-suit named Vinny the Pooh.”
I’ll tell you, the weird looks I often receive in return aren’t reassuring. Maybe my description is lacking? I struggle with describing my creative endeavors, whether they’re comics or stories or poems or songs or freestanding dioramas portraying the inevitable betrayal and death of a beloved Joss Whedon character in one of his shows.
Part of me wants to be able to just say, “Here, read the first chapter. That’s what it’s about. That’s what it’s like.” Unfortunately, I can’t carry around copies of the first chapter for that specific purpose; I’m pretty sure the administration would start to give me funny looks if I upped my copier use that much.
It’s probably best if I just come up with a snappier, more effective description. I’ve been trying out the term speculative noir to describe the story, though that’s drawn some confused looks, too.
I like the term, though. It encapsulates basically everything you need to know: speculative fiction is all about near-future tech and science and society, and the weird ways things are similar to and different from the future. Noir, of course, hearkens back to the works of Dashiell Hammet and Raymond Chandler, or films like The Maltese Falcon (a Hammet story, if you don’t know) or Touch of Evil. There are shifty characters, individuals with dark secrets, and a central character who doesn’t so much have a character arc as he has a drinking problem and a curiosity that he can’t shake even though it threatens to get him killed all the time. And hell, that’s Eddie Hazzard through and through.
Sure, I still have to explain what I mean with speculative noir, but once I have it does a pretty good job of getting my idea across.
Of course, I still have to mention the ninjas. Because, c’mon, ninjas.
I’m an unapologetic Bob Dylan fan. I’ll even listen to the crappy late ’70s/early ’80s born-again Christian albums that everyone agrees are absolute crap. But my favorite, the one that I could listen to over and over again for the rest of my days, the one that would be in my “Desert Island Discs” top ten, is Highway 61 Revisited.
Yeah, it’s kind of the obvious choice. With “Like a Rolling Stone,” it’s guaranteed to be one of the best-known of Dylan’s albums, standing alongside his earlier folk albums and Blonde on Blonde as the ones that all the casual fans know about and probably have.
But I’m not some hipster who thinks popularity makes something bad. There is, I think, a good reason that so many people like this record: it’s just really damn good. Peak Dylan, firing on all cylinders and writing with a passion and a fire that could barely be contained. From the first firecracker snare shot of “Like a Rolling Stone” to the plaintive harmonica wail that brings “Desolation Row” to an end, Highway 61 Revisited is everything I ever wanted in a rock and roll record. Dylan is by turns thoughtful, aggressive, playful, and mystical, tapping into a mythic America that seems somehow more real than the actual one.
Though I’d deny it until my dying day if someone asked me directly, I am a bit obsessed with my appearance. Over the past few years, I’ve become something of a clothes horse, building up a vast array of shirts and pants and shoes that I can mix and match to create a variety of (what I consider) stylish outfits.
I do a bit of accessorizing, too, but only on my left hand.
That may sound strange, but there’s a totally legitimate reason for it.
See, for as long as I’ve worn any sort of accessories (specifically, watches, which I wore habitually for pretty much all of middle school, high school, and college), it’s always been on my left hand. When I got married, the wedding band naturally went on the left ring finger. For a time, I wore my Fitbit on my right wrist, but it always felt weird and I always had to take it off when I played the guitar, since it would hit the strings and add lots of extra steps I hadn’t actually taken as I strummed. So, I put everything on the left hand, ’cause it’s the one that doesn’t do all that much. My right hand is for strumming, drawing, and writing. Wearing stuff on that wrist/hand just gets in the way. But the left wrist feels natural and comfortable, and I don’t end up with those extra unearned steps.
So, if you ever see me and my left wrist/hand seems over-accessorized compared to the right, you know the reason. It may be a strange, silly reason, but it’s the one I’m sticking to.
Sadly, writing does not (yet) pay the bills. No, like so many other writers, I have to have a day job. And mine happens to be high school teacher.
I’ve been teaching for the past decade in Northern Virginia, just outside of Washington, DC. It’s a very different place from where I grew up out in Oklahoma. Academics are far more competitive, for a start. Back in the land of prairie grass and oil rigs, it’s all about football. I remember everyone in town coming to the high school football games on Friday nights: not just students and people with connections to the school, but old guys who graduated thirty years earlier but still wore their letter jackets, trying to hold on to those old glory days like a character in some Bruce Springsteen song.
Out here, it’s all about the academic achievement. Where I grew up, maybe 1/3 of students went on to college, if that much. Out here, it’s closer to like 90%. So there’s a lot of pressure on the students and on the teachers to perform.
Things are a bit different for me. I’ve always worked in special education, with students who have a variety of learning disabilities and associated Other Health Impairments (a category that covers ADD and ADHD), maybe some emotional disabilities or something on the Autism Spectrum. I love working with this population, and not just because we tend to play the same video games and watch the same movies and read the same comic books. There’s something deeply satisfying about working with a group that is so often maligned and mistreated in our society. Learning disabilities are often treated as punchlines to jokes rather than conditions that can lead to so much frustration, anxiety, and even anger in the classroom and everyday life. I’ve worked with a broad spectrum of students, from those who were capable of college-level academic work to those who literally cannot dress themselves or bathe themselves. I’ve had students who could discuss Shakespeare, and students who could not remember my name from one day to the next.
It’s a job that has its bad days, that’s for sure. Those days when you have what you think is a well-crafted lesson plan that falls apart five minutes in. Or the ones where you think something will only take ten minutes, but it takes 50. Or you think it’ll take 50, but it really only takes 5. Of course, then there’s all the standardized testing you have to get them ready for. Everyone loves the standardized tests, except that none of us do.
Teaching is far more challenging than most non-teachers think. The teaching itself may be straight-forward and even simple, but with special education especially, that’s not the hardest part of the job.
No, the hardest part is having to be constantly on. From the moment you walk into the building until the moment you leave at the end of the day, you are performing. You have an audience, one that senses fear and mistakes and will jump on either and tear you apart if you’re not careful. Every action you take, every word you say, it all has to be carefully thought out before you do it, and you are never given the time to actually do that careful thinking. Decisions must be swift, downright immediate, or you risk everything spiraling out of control. You can’t let yourself relax or lose focus for even a second, because that’s when disaster can strike.
But it is a rewarding job, as day jobs go. There’s a sense of satisfaction when you see a student master a new skill, or remember information they didn’t think they’d be able to recall, or see them become interested in a subject they’d detested or thought they could never get into. Those are the moments that make teaching something I love doing, and something I continue to drag my carcass out of bed for each morning.
I’ve…never been good at organization. If any of my previous English teachers are reading that sentence, they are muttering to themselves that it is the single greatest understatement in human history, ranking up there with “the Beatles were a pretty good band” and “maybe Hitler was not a very nice man.” I’d like to blame it on my ADD (like that guy from AWOLNATION, who capitalizes the entire band name for some reason? Maybe that’s the ADD’s fault, too), and it’s probably a significant culprit, but executive function has just never been my bailiwick. It bleeds over into my planning and plotting on a book, too. A few months ago, I wrote a guest post for Hart’s Romance Pulse where I talked about plotting by the seat of my pants. I’m not going to completely rehash what I’ve already said pretty clearly somewhere else, but I did want to address it a bit here on my own site.
Some authors, of course, craft very detailed, very specific outlines, with plot beats planned and scripted in a rigid text that is to be adhered to like a holy book. I am not of their ilk. A lot of my plot beats are created in the spur of the moment, following a general theme of, “I’m kinda stuck at the moment, what if someone started shooting at the protagonist?” It’s served me pretty well so far.
Generally speaking, when I’m writing, I’ve got a couple of plot points that I know have to happen. I usually know how the story will end. What will happen between my starting point, those important plot beats, and the ending? Only God knows for sure, and He likes to make me work it out for myself.
Mostly, it’s a lot of bad guys shooting at the hero.
As a writer, I sorta have to acknowledge my influences. There are many, and I wouldn’t be who I am today as a writer if it weren’t for them. So, to assign credit/blame where it’s due, this will be the first of several posts outlining my influences and what they’ve done for me. Today, it’s the work of Terry Pratchett!
Sir Terry Pratchett is, of course, the beloved author of the Discworld series, 40-odd books set in a world where magic is real and the world is a flat disc sitting on the back of four elephants that in turn stand on the back of a giant space turtle, the Great A’Tuin.
It’s still hard for me to talk about Sir Terry, who passed away last year from complications related to a rare form of early-onset Alzheimer’s. He
wrote right up until the end, crafting books with speech-to-text software when his brain betrayed him and forgot how to read and write. But his sense of humor, his love for the absurdity in the world, was still as strong as ever. So was his sense of anger. Neil Gaiman, his friend and writing partner for the novel Good Omens (one of my absolute favorite books of all time, and the novel that introduced me to both Pratchett and Gaiman), described Sir Terry as a man driven by a deep sense of anger with the injustice of the world. Whatever else Pratchett wanted, he wanted justice to be done and for good to win in the end. It may not be a clean win – in many of the Discworld books, the “good guys” win, but with compromises and conditions. Pratchett was, behind the jokes and the satire and the fantasy tropes that he constantly subverted, a bit of a realist about human nature. Folks aren’t usually good or evil, right or wrong. There are gray areas, and you have to acknowledge them if you want your writing to have any real depth to it.
I guess the biggest thing I learned from reading Terry Pratchett’s novels was that you can tell a ridiculous story, one with fantasy elements or bizarre sci-fi elements, and it can be funny and affecting and emotional and real in a way that non-genre fiction often can’t be.
Favorite Terry Pratchett Novels:
1. Small Gods. Sir Terry’s beautiful examination of the value of faith and belief, not just in some higher power, but in yourself.
2. Thief of Time. The Monks of History are tasked with making sure effect follows cause, that past comes before present, but the building of a mysterious clock in Ankh Morpork (where everything big always happens) and the weird powers of a thief-turned-novice-monk might not mean the end of the world, just the end of Time itself.
3. Witches Abroad. The Witches novels are my favorites, but that’s because I’m partial to Granny Weatherwax and her pragmatic approach to magic (or what she calls “headology”). This isn’t the first Witches novel, but it’s probably the best, and it carries the idea of the power of stories and narrative causality to a perfect conclusion. Someone is using stories to get their way, and it’s up to the Witches to stop them. Assuming some jerk doesn’t drop a house on their heads first.
4. Reaper Man. Death takes a holiday as Bill Door, works on a farm, and sorta ends up saving the universe from the Auditors.
5. Guards! Guards! The first of the Commander Vimes novels. Ankh Morpork’s Night Watch is where the worst of the worst end up, the folks too lazy, dumb, or not-self-aware who can’t hack it in the daylight. But when a dragon mysteriously starts appearing around the city and causing random havoc, it’s up to Vimes and his small team of nearly-useless fellows to solve the case and save the day.