Why write Fantasy? How about Science Fiction? Autor Michael Taylor shares his reasons.
I had planned on posting about my new writing project, but there’s plenty of time for that. Instead, something else caught my attention. Today when I opened my account, WordPress happily reminded me it’s been three years since I started my blog.
Really? It’s been three years? Doesn’t seem that long ago since I looked at the overwhelming programming here and wondered what I was doing. It seems such a short time ago, I was wanting to be a writer. Dreaming of writing a book.
Anniversaries are a good thing. They remind us of where we have been. How far we’ve gotten in our journeys in life. Sometimes they are a painful reminder of losses and failure, but for the most part, the anniversaries in my life make me happy.
This particular anniversary reminds me I pursued a dream and made it happen. I may not have made it as big as I would have liked, but I accomplished the simple act of creating, writing, editing and getting produced not only one book, but two. And during the journey I learned how to post and be in countless social accounts, learned to blog, learned out to market and format, found a whole world of internet friends, and reconnected with long lost friends!
While I may not be in the best seller market, I’m totally amazed I’ve made it this far. It seems like years ago I first wanted to write a book and despaired that it would ever happen. Now, here I am. The satisfaction from just accomplishing my goal is a reward in itself. My hat is off to all who have succeeded in making their goals as well. Now it’s time to go and celebrate!
Are you feeling unnoticed, unloved and down now that you’ve written that book? Does it feel like it’s lost in the vortex of Amazon? Today I ran across this on Facebook by the Buddha Bootcamp and it kind of fit a writer’s life. It opened my eyes……..
We also have an incredible and unlimited capacity to love, but the question is: can we do it like a flower? Without needing to be admired, adored, or even noticed? Can we open our hearts completely to give, forgive, celebrate, and joyfully live our lives without hesitation or need for reciprocity?
It seems like sometimes we go beyond taking things personally and are noticeably deflated when unappreciated. In-fact, devastated, we wilt in sorrow and then attempt to guard ourselves by withholding, using all sorts of protections and defenses. We get hurt (even angry), if our boss fails to recognize an astonishing feat, if a lover pulls their hand away, or when a friend forgets our birthday. Can you imagine a flower copping an attitude for not being praised, or the moon dimming its glow because we’re too self-absorbed to notice it more often?
Each chapter in Buddhist Boot Camp invites you to make an effort to shine no matter what, to love unconditionally, and to be a kind and gentle soul (even when nobody is watching).
And, if you’re so inclined, hug the next tree you see and say, “Thank you!”
So it is Christmas morning and you are excited to open all your presents, except when you get to the Christmas tree you find all the presents unwrapped and just sitting there underneath it.
This is like a story where an author feels compelled to let you know everything that the character is thinking, saying and doing.
I wish sometimes I had just remained a reader being totally clueless to anything but what I liked or didn’t like. In the days before I studied writing I could blissfully read through a book and tell you simple things like “Great plot,” or “It didn’t keep my interest,” or “You should read it too.” Unfortunately this has changed since I slipped to the dark side of writing.
Nowadays, after reading a book, I’m more of a critic. Before I couldn’t have told you why a particular book was boring. I understand now it is because of simple things like the author not trusting their readers to have the ability to figure out what is going on behind the scenes without being told.
I want a story where the characters backstory comes out like a slow strip tease. I enjoy putting together the puzzle piece by piece with a final reveal that makes me think “aha!” Take for instance the book I’m currently reading. There is a pregnancy that has complications and they don’t have the medical set-up for it. So far five different characters have noted this and discussed it.
Or the opening of the last book where the character thinks over their entire childhood and then again, a couple chapters later, repeats certain key points of this very same childhood to their friend.
Then there are the characters that go through a scene reporting in their heads what the other person is probably thinking or feeling and all the reasons for that.
When I first heard the ‘show don’t tell’ mantra, I was frustrated as a writer. It is so much harder to show something than just explain it. But remember, humans are observers. Only 20% of communication is through verbal skills. The rest is observation of the actions, facial expressions or body movements. In order to create a feel closest to the actual experience we must write the other 80% as observation.
As a reader, ‘show don’t tell’ is my medium. I understand a furrowed brow, a wink, or a slap across the face. I want the mystery and the chance to solve the emotions or motives behind these silent communications on my own.
I hate it when I read, “She raised her hand, slapping his face with all of her puny strength, feeling really mad. ‘He deserved that,’ she thought angrily.” I would much prefer, “Her face contorted into an animalistic mask of rage as she swung her open palm at his face, connecting with a resounding clap.”
To write an observation, or a ‘show not tell’ scene is hard. It is so tempting to make sure our reader understands what we are trying to say. As a beginner, I’ve made so many of the mistakes I now read in other’s stories. Information dumps, to many adjectives, and descriptions full of to much prose have been a challenge for me. But I know practice makes perfect so I continue to study, edit, pay attention and read.
The one thing being a reader has taught the author in me, don’t baby your reader. Allow them to go on the journey and feel, hear, see, touch and experience it through your character’s eyes.
The tiny five foot frame of Viola, could not contain her enthusiastic spirit for living. It spilled out in unseen waves and touched anyone she came into contact with. I was blessed to be one of those it touched.
While working together on our Church newsletter we got to know each other. I took in the articles, did the layout on my computer then Viola would edit and get it printed and distributed. During the conversations over proper grammar we also shared our past, dreams and family stories.
We had a lot in common despite the thirty year difference in our ages. Down to earth, fair minded and confident, she had an easy acceptance of her role as a woman. Fiercely independent, she easily raised children, helped her husband in his construction company and faced the inconveniences of living in rural Wyoming.
It was her innocent, fun-loving sense of adventure that drew me most. We traveled together many times to different conventions that held something of interest to us. Through all of this I shared my desire and biggest secret – my passion to write.
Viola was my greatest admirer and critic. She pulled no punches when it came to editing. When I would write an article for the newsletter, she would rave about it yet point out all its flaws. I invited her to a writer’s convention and in her spritely way, she enthusiastically agreed to go. In her seventies, she still traveled by herself quite often and thought nothing of taking off on adventures such as flying up to Alaska to visit family.
Set in the lush grounds of the Broadmoor in Colorado Springs, at first we both were impressed and overwhelmed. Surely these authors had some special talent that we lacked. But Viola wanted to learn to write memoirs and in her modest, humble way helped me to gradually become comfortable in the company of the successful.
During luncheons and dinners agents were seated at the tables so we would have access to talk to them. At one lunch we had an editor from a romance press sitting between us. Viola had outgoing social skills, while I was reserved, so it was no surprise to me when she struck up a conversation with the woman. Once the introductions were over she launched into a brag session about my skills and dreams. I blushed profusely explaining I had an idea, but had not yet put pen to paper. In the end, the agent was so impressed with Viola’s sale skills; she asked for my information and gave me her card telling me to contact her when I had a manuscript ready.
On the way home we threw ideas together and created the outline for what would become “Windswept Hearts” five years later. Every Sunday, every time we got together she encouraged me to write. Eventually, as I saw time erode away her vitality, I knew I had to write the story. I wanted her to see it in print before she went home to the Lord.
Not only did she help edit it, but she was my greatest support and encourager during the process. When I gave her the first signed copy, she beamed through a myriad of wrinkles, and ordered ten more copies for her family.
Last month, as I attended her lively, peaceful memorial, I realized what gifts she had given me. The world was less bright, my dreams of writing a little dimmer as I realized I was now on my own in my journey.
Viola’s impish spirit continues to peer over my shoulder at times when I type and I take the confidence she helped me build to go out and continue to pursue my passion for writing. That same spirit will most likely appear in a character or two, being immortalized forever. I can see her now, giggling and telling me, “Oh, that’s not like me at all and by the way, there are several missing commas!”