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In this issue:
Hello!
The Dialogue
Short Story Challenge Stats
Weekly Writing Prompt
WWT Tool Kit Craft Card
Hello!
I’ve been sitting on this post for a while, unsure how to redo it, how to present it so that it’s not so… what it is… a Socratic dialogue. But I finally figured, hey, it if it’s good enough for Plato, it’s good enough for me.
So, let me set the scene: I’m feeling like I don’t want to write, because writing is hard, so I take my pen and notebook out to my favorite deck chair in the backyard, and I start journaling2...
The Dialogue
Meg: Hey, you there, Smarter Meg?
Smarter Meg: Yeah.
Meg: I noticed recently that I’ve been telling myself that storytelling is hard.
Smarter Meg: And so it has been?
Meg: Yeah.
Smarter Meg: I see. So, what benefit do you get from defining storytelling as hard?
Meg: … ???
Smarter Meg: It’s natural law: humans do things because—and only do things when—they think they will benefit more from doing them than from not doing them.
Meg: Um… oh-kay…
Smarter Meg: So, if you’ve bought into the definition of storytelling being hard, then it’s only because you believe that definition benefits you. So, how does it benefit you?
Meg: Well, I guess, for starters… I hear people say all the time that if writing were easy, everyone would do it. So, if writing is hard, then it makes me special for having accomplished it. That’s a nice benefit.
Smarter Meg: Okay, decent start… but is it true that everyone would write if it were easy? I’m pretty sure that most people would agree that reading is an easier hobby than writing, and yet lots of people still have no interest in reading, even though it’s easy. So it’s unlikely more people would write just because it was suddenly deemed easy.
Moreover, if the writing process were easy for you, wouldn’t that make you and your stories extra special? Isn’t that the tale publishers get the media to spread about authors whose debut books become bestsellers? “It came to her in a dream and she wrote it in a nanosecond with nothing but a toothpick dipped in blue toothpaste and a single roll of toiletpaper…”3
Meg: Actually, yeah, that is how that works…
Okay. So, what about this: maybe defining writing as hard gives me an excuse to not do it. If it’s too hard, then I can beg off for the day, go do something else I’d rather be doing.
Smarter Meg: If you’re not writing becuase you’re doing something else you’d rather be doing, then why are we having this conversation?
Meg: Exactly. Because it’s not stuff I’d rather be doing. I’d rather be writing. But it’s hard.
Smarter Meg: Haven’t you been trying something new lately? What did you call it… Leaning into the Block?
Meg: Yeah, I’ve been following my bliss, my excitement, wherever it leads.
Smarter Meg: How’s that working for you?
Meg: Pretty well actually. It’s amazing just how much is getting done in all aspects of my life, not just writing. I’m doing more workouts, going on more adventures, cooking more yummy healthy stuff instead of grabbing for something easy, spending more time with my favorite people. But I still wish I were writing more.
Smarter Meg: And we’ll get you there,4 but first… If following your bliss is your new and better compass, then do you need the writing-is-hard excuse to go do something else you’d really and truly rather be doing? Can’t you just admit you’d rather be doing something else right now, instead of writing, and go do it?
Meg: Yeah. And lately I have been doing just that. I’ve been asking myself: Do I really want to be doing this? If yes, I keep going. If not, I go do something else more exciting. And writing has been one of the options on both ends of that conversation. But I’m not choosing to do it as much as I want to be choosing to do it. Because it’s hard.
Smarter Meg: So you’ve said. But let’s stay on track with the benefit currently in question: Would you agree that it no longer benefits you to use “writing is hard” as an excuse to go do something else because you now have a better compass—your Bliss—for making that decision?
Meg: Yes.
Smarter Meg: Great. So… what else you got?
Meg: I don’t know. Maybe I should come at this differently. I keep saying It’s hard. What do I mean by “it”? I mean “Writing a story.” So… Writing a story is hard.
Smarter Meg: No, it’s not. You can sit down in the morning and write into the dark, by the seat of your pants from nothing but a prompt, and have a short story by the afternoon. I’ve witnessed you do it many times. Easy peasy.
Meg: Okay, then, writing a good story is hard.
Smarter Meg: Ehnh. After a few duds, your written-into-the-dark stories started getting pretty good. Try again.
Meg: Okay, then, writing a well-liked story is hard?
Smarter Meg: You mean a story where someone bestows it with their good opinion upon reading it?
Meg: Yeah.
Smarter Meg: Meh. Opinions are fickle. The same person (or group of people) might not like a story one day, be in the mood for it another day and love it, and read it again a decade later and not see the appeal anymore. So who’s opinion are we after? And at what point do we take its temperature?
Meg: Oh-kay… How about writing a story that I think is good?
Smarter Meg: And now we’re getting somewhere. Good. Go write one.
Meg: But it’s hard.
Smarter Meg: How so? Can you tell when you’re liking it—both the story and your process? Can you tell when you don’t? Can you tell the difference between not liking it because your creative sensibilities are hearing a wrong note versus not liking it because you’ve slipped from feeling good about your story (and yourself) to feeling bad for some reason, which has opened the door for critical voice to have its say?
Meg: Actually, yes. I’ve been at this long enough that I can tell the difference. But why does the slip happen?
Smarter Meg: Because as you’re writing, you’re having lots of thoughts about what you’re writing. The slip happens when you have a thought that triggers an unserving belief. Like the one we’re dealing with, hmm?
So, for example, you’re working on a scene, thinking you’re almost done for the day, and you turn the page in your notebook and realize you have four more pages to go through. You also have a belief that writing is hard or that it should be hard, and so this realization about the extra four pages gives that belief an opportunity to exert itself, and when it exerts itself, you feel bad. You feel overwhelmed and irritated and confirmed in your belief that writing is hard, that this just became hard.
But is it any harder?
Meg: No. It’s the same degree of easy-hard as it was before. There’s just more work to do now before the scene is done.
Smarter Meg: Exactly. And when we step back like we are now, that’s easier to see. But in the moment, you may not realize that you have an opportunity to choose your response to this emotional feedback.
You can indulge the belief—Ugh, why is writing so hard?—and slip down even further.
Or… you can take a moment to remind yourself that it’s only your interpretation of those extra four pages that’s making you feel one way or another—
Meg: “There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.” That’s Shakespeare.
Smarter Meg: Yes, yes, he was very wise. And he would say that you can see those extra four pages and think (as your unserving belief would have you do) that you shouldn’t have to deal with them. Overwhelment. Irritation. Grrr.
Or, you could think, Oh, huh, four more pages. Well, finding these is a neutral thing. I can be annoyed, or I can focus on finding a benefit. Here’s one: by finding and working through these pages, I will either confirm the scene already has everything it needs, or I’ll remind myself of something I want to include. Good for me either way.
Meg: But what if I wanted to be done by six, and now, thanks to these four pages, I’ll be late for my date?
Smarter Meg: If you were looking forward to finishing, but after finding the extra pages, you feel like now you can’t stop for the day, well, why can’t you? Tomorrow’s another day.
Meg: But what if I have a deadline? What if the project is due today?
Smarter Meg: Would you feel better:
(i) finishing now, without looking at the four pages?
(ii) looking at the four pages and pushing through to finish today regardless of previous commitments? or
(iii) leaving them for another day?
Meg: Uh…
Smarter Meg: There is no right answer. Allow me to let you in on a little secret: If you stay positive and make peace with the metaphorical unexpected four pages— interpreting all unexpected things (which are inherently neutral, as Shakespeare said) as somehow benefiting you—then you will feel the best path forward and all will be well.
Meg: Well, then, I guess, if I had to make that decision right now, I’d take a break.
Smarter Meg: And have you made that decision from an accepting place rather than a place of being annoyed (with me 😇)?
Meg: Yes. I’d take a break to remind myself that everything has a benefit, I’d try to figure out what the benefit of these four pages was, and then I’d proceed from there, either quitting or skipping or pushing through or whatever.
Smarter Meg: Is that hard?
Meg: No. It’s different—a different process from what I’m used to doing—but it’s not so dissimilar to the thinking process I’ve been using to follow my bliss. Which isn’t hard, now that I’ve been practicing it some. It’s becoming easy. Maybe even automatic.
Smarter Meg: So, then I ask you: can you tell when the story you’re working on is good; when it still needs attention; and when the attention you’re giving it needs reframing?
Meg: Yes. I can tell when a story is good; when creative voice is hearing a wrong note; and when an unfolding in the process is triggering a belief that I can choose to feel, uncover, and release, rather than indulge and strengthen. And I can do all this while remaining positive about the whole thing.
Smarter Meg: So then, what’s hard?
Meg: …? I don’t know. But it still feels hard. Writing a good story still feels hard.
Smarter Meg: Is “playing with” or “working on” the story hard?
Meg: Well, I’ve been at this a while, so I know what to do. And the doing is fairly step by step. Oh, but here’s something: One reason I might be thinking it’s hard is because I’m thinking of it in its completed state and that I have to complete it all in one go on the first attempt. But I know that’s not true. I can break the story telling into parts. Acts, parts, sequences, scenes, elements of scenes. I can break it up into pieces. And I can break that up too: First, I generate material—
Smarter Meg: How do you generate material? Some say that part’s hard.
Meg: There are many ways, and over the years I’ve shown myself that I can use them all, whichever one appeals to me most in the moment: I can write into the dark. I can answer questions laid out for me in craft books. I can look at the definition of each element in a scene and ask myself what my character might do to fulfill the ask of that element. I can write by hand, type, dictate on my walk. Basically, I can either let my imagination riff off the cuff or I can give it questions and prompts. Either way, words flow. Whether they’re good or not… ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Smarter Meg: Do the words need to be judged good or bad right then?
Meg: I guess not.
Smarter Meg: Because…
Meg: Because generating material is just the first step. Then I go through the rough material and make sure all the story and scene elements are covered. If there are elements missing, then I generate more material to fill the need.
Smarter Meg: Is that hard?
Meg: It’s reading. And sorting. And organizing parts.
Smarter Meg: Is that hard?
Meg: No, but sometimes I worry about sorting things correctly or ordering things correctly.
Smarter Meg: “Correctly”?
Meg: One thing I learned while finishing my last project is that there’s a particular ordering of words that, when found, will produce the optimal flow of the story and its telling, and… and now that I am writing that, it sounds like a needless worry: we’ve already discussed that my creative sense will pick up on any wrong note, any un-optimized order, and when it does, I’ll know to correct it.
Smarter Meg: Is that hard?
Meg: Well, I don’t know when it will happen.
Smarter Meg: Do you need to know when the optimizing will happen?
Meg: Well, there’s when in terms of date/time and there’s when in terms of the action, the writing or revision action, that I must take to achieve the optimized result.
Smarter Meg: I hate to tell you this, but those both seem like things that are out of your conscious control. The first, date and time, is a true When. The second, the actions necessary and the order they come in, is the How. Neither When nor How are in your control. They’re taken care of by… well… by another aspect of us—but don’t ask me how she does it, because Smartest Meg is so named for a reason. Although I think it has something to do with vibration and collaboration and logistics and 🤪. Better her than us, I say.
But I ask you: does it matter that you don’t know When or How the story will unfold until after it’s done?
Meg: Does it matter? I mean, I get by not knowing, but it sure would be nice—
Smarter Meg: Would it though? If you knew when the big insight was coming—say, three weeks from now, or three scenes from now—wouldn’t that change how you feel about the writing that still needs to happen between now and the insight’s arrival? And probably not for the better?
Meg: I suppose I see what you’re saying. I’d be even more aware that it wasn’t happening right now, and what was going on right now would feel more like a slog, like wasted time.
Smarter Meg: So while you’re waiting for the When and the How to reveal themselves, do you know what to do in the meantime?
Meg: Actually, yes, I think I do know what to do. I just keep plugging along: I generate material. I order it. I make sure all the story elements are present. I pay attention to my creative sense. I use my craft, and my reference and craft books, and my skill and talent and experience, to generate and order the words to the best of my creative ability, using all the tools available to me….
So, no, I guess I don’t need to know When or How something specific will happen. I’ll know moment by moment, with the help of my creative sense, whether the scene I’m working on is done for now or not. And when all the scenes are done, I can use my tools to check that all the things like butter and series and arcs and whatnot are all accounted for and singing sweetly. And I’ll know when I’m done-done because I’ll feel that there’s nothing more to do.
Smarter Meg: So, is that hard?
Meg: Not hard, but lengthy. I can envision reaching the end, but I can’t tell when I’ll get there.
Smarter Meg: You just said that you don’t need to know When. But that’s fine. Let me ask you: when you’re doing a puzzle, do you care how long it takes? The joy is finding and fitting each piece. So do you care how long it takes?
Meg: I hear you, and with a book, you get to make the pieces, too, before you fit them, which is an additional part of the joy. But the difference between puzzles versus stories is that the sooner I finish a story, the sooner I can sell it.
Smarter Meg: Why does selling it matter?
Meg: 🤔 Are you sure you’re Smarter Meg?
Smarter Meg: Okay, I hear you. You have a dream. But you’re getting ahead of yourself. Let me put it this way: If you feel/believe that writing is hard, then I’d hate to learn how you feel/believe about selling… You get what I’m sayin’?
Meg: Um… yeah. Yup. Yippirdo.
Smarter Meg: More than that, skipping steps, getting ahead of yourself with the selling bit when you’re still wadded up in the writing bit, usually just slows down the whole process and creates expectations and assumptions, which turn into insistances—
Meg: None of which serve me. Yeah. I learned one that the hard way.
Smarter Meg: So, then? Who cares how long writing a story takes? If you’re following your bliss, like you say you are, and staying positive when story (and life) throws you curve balls, then—
Meg: Everything will work out. I will have all the resources I need for life. And my story will be finished with perfect timing and detail, too.
Smarter Meg: Exactly. And when you get to the part where external deadlines are part of your bliss… Smartest Meg will take them into account as part of the When and the How, just like she did back when teachers gave you schoolwork deadlines. I promise.
Meg: Okay. But it’s all starting to sound a little cheesy.
Smarter Meg: The good life is cheesy. So pass the cheese, I say. Now… do you still think it’s hard because you can’t know the How or the When?
Meg: No.
Smarter Meg: I’m hearing a distinct lack of enthusiasm. So, let me ask you: would knowing the When and the How make the writing more enjoyable? Because if you did know the When and the How, then you would ultimately have a process that you would have to follow, precisely, one that may not account for all the other things in your life that you deem important. Not knowing the When or the How allows everything important in your life to be included and accounted for.
Meg: Yes, yes, I get that. But you’re right, I’m still not quite past the hard. And I think I know what it is: What about inspiration? How do I get that to happen?
Smarter Meg: I think you just answered your own question, because, as we’ve covered, How—
Meg: —is not my work. Okay, but it feels like my work, like it should be my work.
Smarter Meg: Okay, let me ask you something. You’re in the shower, shampooing your hair, and there it is: INSPIRATION! It’s there! In your brain! What do you do?
Meg: I do a little celebration dance, and then I scramble for pen and paper and I write it down.
Smarter Meg: And then?
Meg: … ??? Um, if the inspiration comes with a person, place, or thing—a noun—I know little about, I usually follow the trail, look stuff up, read stuff, see what else might spark that I can write down, but that’s pretty much it: I write it down.
If it’s a fresh inspiration, like an idea for a new story, I usually run the idea through a set of story prompts to see if it’s got all the elements it needs. I write all that down.
If I’m already working on the story and I know where the inspiration goes in the story, then I write it down in the appropriate spot.
But yeah, that’s pretty much it. When I receive it, I write it down.
Smarter Meg: What if you’re busy with the story at the moment the inspriation strikes? You’re already in the middle of a writing session, writing away, and there it is: INSPIRATION! What do you do?
Meg: I write it down.
Smarter Meg: So—and not to belittle your part in all this, which is absolutely essential, but—it sounds to me that no matter what’s going on with the Whens and the Hows and the INSPIRATION and the creative sense of your project, your job is (just) to write things down.
Meg: And move things around, and change things, add things, cut things, read things… But yeah… I see your point. It’s largely mechanical. No matter what, all I’m ever really doing is writing things down.
Smarter Meg: And all that stuff, the moving, changing, adding, cutting, reading, and writing things down stuff, is that stuff hard?
Meg: Each on its own? No. Maybe it used to be once upon a time when I was still fresh in the learning, but I’ve now got decades of reading, writing, and learning experience, both in general and specifically related to storytelling. My creative sense is well honed.
Smarter Meg: You trust it?
Meg: I do. And that makes doing each of those things, and knowing which of those things to do next, pretty easy now. I never know what the story will want from me next month or even next week, but I’m usually pretty clear about what to do with it next, today. And it’s never not today.
Smarter Meg: And you trust all these unpredictable moving parts—How, When, INSPIRATION, Smartest Meg—to do their part to get you from Initial Spark to Finished Story?
Meg: … I guess I do. I mean, we’ve done it before. No reason why it wouldn’t happen for us again. And again. And again…
Smarter Meg: So, I ask you one more time: What is it about writing—about your part of storytelling—that’s hard?
Meg: It feels weird to say nothing and mean it, but… nothing.
Whoa.
Short Story Challenge Stats . . .
Week ?
Wed: Dictated a bunch of planning words, most of which won’t make it into the MS.
Thurs: Dictated a skeleton draft.
Fri: 1578 words in the finished-for-now scene.
Sat: Dictated a bunch of planning words. A rough draft of this scene already exists, though I’m feeling like most of it won’t probably make it into the final draft.
Sun: 2338 words in the finished-for-now scene. Also dictated half of the planning words for the next scene, which already has a draft.
Mon: Dictated the second set of planning words; sorted 9000ish words down to 5000ish.
Tues: Dictated the first half of planning words for the next scene.
Total Words: NA
Average Words Per Hour: NA
Challenge Totals
Words (Rule 1): 59,995
Stories (Rule 2): 10 plus WIP
Submissions (Rule 4): 9
Average Words Per Hour: 599
Weekly Writing Prompt
Character: MONK / NUN
Light attribute: Selfless devotion and single-minded dedication to Spirit.
Shadow Attributes: Negative judgment of the physical world. Excess piety.
Setting: Community Center.
Object: Gemini says a hydro flask, reusable coffee pods, or a smartplug.
Emotion: COMPASSIONATE. Empathetic, caring, sympathetic.
WWT Tool Kit Craft Card
As mentioned before, I’m making a deck of craft cards to quickly remind myself of techniques while also having a convenient place to keep track of elements like character, conflict, and theme specific to each story. This week’s card is a summary of the dialogue:
Thank you for reading!
I hope this helped you, and I hope your writing goes well this week.
Keep at it,
Megan
WritesWithTools
site: writeswithtools.com
ko-fi: https://ko-fi.com/writeswithtools
wishlist: http://tinyurl.com/WWTWishList
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Which, as we all know, is completely different from writing. 🤪
JK Rowling, if I remember correctly, wrote her first draft on coffee shop napkins. Lee Child famously wrote his first draft with a pencil and a yellow pad, refusing to get a laptop until after he’d sold his first book. Stephenie Meyer’s debut came to her in a dream, and she lay in bed thinking about it until she had to get the kids ready; and then later that day, finally, she was able to sit down and write (even though famous writer and writing teaching, David Farland, who also taught Brandon Sanderson and others, has said in his bestseller courses that she asked him to help her plot out a vampire story about a year and a half prior…)
And Smarter Meg wasn’t lying. This dialogue happened weeks ago, end of June/beginning of July, but check out my stats now…