Trust your readers (or Sue will tell you stories of Clay Aiken)

There is a woman in my office, let’s call her Sue, who always has a story to tell. It’s usually about how she spent her weekend, or her arduous journey into the office. It can range from her amazing experiences with the Clay-mates (oh yes that’s right, the Clay Aiken fan club*) to how she slipped on the ice that morning (sometimes she falls, sometimes she doesn’t, always she doesn’t want to hear what you have to say about it, just listen).

I work in a fairly quiet office, so when people are talking, everyone can hear them. This is fine. And I don’t mind Sue's tales, really I don’t (they’re entertaining in an I-can’t-believe-she’s-actually-saying-that kind of way) but one telling is enough for me.

It is not, however, enough for her.

She tells every person she works with, as they come in, the Same Exact Story. Over and over. And, because of our lovely work environment, every person she’s already talked to, plus those of us (me) who don’t merit a direct telling, gets to hear it again. Over and over.

By 10 o’clock I’m usually reaching for my Ipod just to block her out and the guy in the cube next to me is banging his head on the desk.

This is not ideal.

The same can be said for writing. Everyone has their limits when reading a book—that thing that an author does that really irks you. That thing that makes you want to throw the book across the room—even if you’re loving the story/characters/voice/etc. That one thing can kill it all.

For my roommate it’s excessive description. It kills her when the author gets too carried away, painting each scene in meticulous detail. If it irks her enough she starts skimming through to the action. If that doesn’t work? Book, wall, thud. Next.**

For me it’s that dang dead horse.*** I can’t handle it when an author, like Sue, works so hard at getting a particular point across that it gets repetitive and annoying. It could be the character’s lack of confidence in her appearance (this one, in particular, drives me crazy) or the weirdness/evilness/aloofness of her parents, or the awesomeness that is her best friend.

I don’t mind if these things are in a story, far from it. But I find myself wishing the author would trust me, the reader, to get it. I don’t need to be told by the narrator each time her father is in a scene that he doesn’t understand her—put it in his actions, absolutely, but don’t state it in her head, again and again. Readers are smarter than that.

So I try (Keyword: TRY) in my own writing to avoid the redundancy. Sure, I am well aware that there are a few key points that I’ve been throwing in again and again in this first draft. And you better believe I’m going to get rid of them eventually.

But it’s a hard thing, trusting your reader. What if they don’t understand my character? What if they didn’t catch that hint? Should I throw in another one? Maybe just one more? It could go on forever. At some point you just have to take a breath, and let it go.

If you’re getting tired of writing about your narrator’s hatred of her curly red hair, your reader will probably be tired of hearing about it.

So maybe more than trusting your reader, you should trust yourself.

And feel free to tell Sue to just shut it already. We get it, Clay rocks.

*These days are the BEST days. *sigh*

**This is an exaggeration, as there is no actual book throwing. Though only because she reads on a Kindle.

***Stop beating it already!

Letter to a Stranger (or how I almost hit someone at Midway)

Dear Man in Front of Me in Line,

It's cold.

I agree, Chicago at midnight in January = cold.

I know this, you know this, the hundred and fifty people standing in front of us in this Taxi line know this. But really, it's not that cold.

Now, my irritation in your line-standing behavior may have something to do with my flight having been delayed two hours or landing at midnight when I know I have to get up for work tomorrow at 6am or the million other people who are, for some reason, trying to get a cab into the city. But I'm not thinking rationally at the moment.

So I'm just going to blame you.

Here is why:

1 . I can pretend to understand your desire to bundle up out here, (not really, because I'm standing behind you in an unzipped jacket and am Not Cold At All, but I'll let that go) but it would have saved a lot of time (and kept me from losing my mind) if you would have put on your scarf, gloves, hat, earphones, and ski mask* before coming out and getting into line.

2. That backpack you're carrying does not look very heavy. (Of course, I've got a computer bag slung across my back and a second carryon on my shoulder that are filled with books--heavy books**--so I might just be feeling jealous.) I'm curious about why you aren't taking advantage of the handy straps on that pack and wearing it on your back.

This is an only barely exaggerated account of your twenty minutes in line. (Also known as the twenty minutes in which you were nearly clubbed in the back of the head with a heavy book.)

You get in line. (I line up a second later thinking, "Damn, if I had just knocked down that slow couple in baggage I would be further up in line.") You set your backpack down. Take out your gloves. Put on one glove. The line moves. You pick up backpack, take a step, drop other glove, set backpack down, pick up glove, pick up backpack, pull luggage, move forward 4 steps.

You set down backpack (I start to feel the press of impending mental breakdown.) You put on other glove. Get out scarf. Line moves. (I bounce on my toes, "Move, move, you idiot," I think.***) You toss scarf over your shoulder, pick up backpack, take 4 steps forward, set down backpack, wrap scarf around your neck.

This pattern continues with your headphones, and your hat (which you also drop), and again with your scarf. (Seriously, we, the others in line, don't care how you're wearing your scarf. Over your jacket collar, under it, looped, knotted, draped, Stop Messing With It!) Can you see what I'm getting at? Irritating.

And when you are paired with the man behind me, who keeps mumbling "What's he doing? That idiot. Is there another line? What is he doing? *sigh* He's doing it all wrong..." about the airport employee who is organizing the person to taxi process, my brain is starting to bubble and boil and someone is gonna get clocked with these books.

But we are reaching the front of the line. You get in a taxi. I drag my stuff to a cab and the over-worked employee even loads my million pound rolling bag into the trunk for me. And all is good in the world again. (Minus the fact that it is now 12:30 and I won't be home till one and then I'll only get four hours of sleep. But this I cannot blame on you. Unfortunately.)

Also, I hope you overheat in your cab. Are you sweating? Bet you are.

Your truly,

Ashley

*To be honest, there was no ski mask involved, but I wouldn't have been surprised if he had whipped one out. (Haha, whip it out.)

**It is a sign that you have a problem when you leave for vacation with 3 books and come back with 11. Oops.

***Again, I am aware that thinking that your slowness has anything to do with how long we'll be in line is irrational. There's nowhere to go, even if you are on your game. But still. My brain would like to blame you.

Ready for a break (or, how Ashley is losing her mind!)

It’s the holidays. (No need to act surprised. I assume you already knew this.)

Christmas is a few days away, New Years after that. You’ve got a lot to deal with: family, friends, presents, eating too much, losing your marbles…all the normal end of the year stuff. More than anything, the holidays are a much needed break from life (with crazy relatives and family drama thrown in just so you don't get bored).

I need this break. Bad. Because, apparently, the long year has caught up with me and I’m now running on brain fumes.

Yesterday was one of Those Days. You know the ones. You trip while running up the stairs to the el, you forget to get off the bus, you miss your train completely…and that’s all before you even get to work!*

For those not “in the know,” I work part time as an editorial assistant for a science journal. *Snore* Anyway, the first hint that my brain had vacated the premises (à la Elvis) came at 9:15 am when I realized I hadn’t clocked in on my computer. Even though I had been at work for an hour, and even though I do this Every Day without fail. Not a big deal. My boss has to click a few things, pray to the online timesheet gods, turn around three times, and my hours will be fixed. Great. I forgot about it, chalked it up to lack of sleep.

Then the end of the day rolls around. I’m tired. I’m ready to get the heck out of this cubicle! So I clock off,** bundle up (scarf, gloves, giant coat, 180s), and walk out. Once I get outside I call my cousin—she asked me to babysit her two girls and I wanted to let her know that I was going to come straight from work. This is how our conversation went:

Me: Hey!

The Cuz: Hey, what are you doing?

Me: Leaving work!!

The Cuz: Uh, did you get off early today?

Me: *oblivious* Nope, I always get off at 3:30.

The Cuz: It’s 2:30.

Me: …

Oops.

I could have sworn my clock said 3:30 when I left. But no. I left work early. An hour early. (This would have been fine, had it been intentional. But, of course, it wasn’t.)

Again, I say: oops.

I was only halfway to the train station. So I turned around, walked back into my office building, strolled past the security guard (yes, he gave me a weird look***), sulked into my boss’ office in my winter gear to tell her what I had done (She laughed. A lot.), stripped off all my layers, turned on my computer, and worked for another hour.

Apparently, I really need this holiday break! My brain has stopped working. It is like mush, sloshing around in my skull, useless, with a bad aftertaste and awkward texture to boot.

At first, I thought (as you might be too) that all this had nothing to do with writing. That this post was just a way for me to share my crazy with the world. But no, I have found a connection!

This past weekend (and by weekend, I mean Thursday through Sunday, as those are my days off****) I didn’t get much writing done. None, really. Between the making of a million chocolate peanut butter balls, holiday parties, and complete and utter laziness, I would say I got down maybe a thousand words. Maybe. And that’s a big decrease in productivity, friends. Yikes. I had actually planned on writing about “Making time for writing” before my brain melted, because it seems I need a reminder about how to keep myself motivated.

So, I’ve decided to blame all my mind-matter mush on not writing. Had I channeled my creative energy, flexed my brain, done something other than drink wine and watch Food Network over the weekend, I would not have been a worthless drone this week at work. And I would have been that much closer to finishing this draft.

Writing for me = higher brain function.

Lesson learned.

Note: Surprisingly, the Cuz was still willing to leave her babies with Crazy Ashy for a few hours. She either has a higher trust in my brainpower than I do...or she just really wanted out of the house.

*No, these things didn’t all happen to me yesterday. But I, um, may have experience with some of them…alright, all of them. (Let’s just say that commuting to work is…exciting?)

** I wasn’t going to forget this time! "Take that timesheet gods!" I say. (There may have also been a fist pump slash Molly Shannon Superstar pose involved.)

*** Though not half as weird as when I walked out again an hour later.

**** I know you’re jealous. You should be. Of course, take a look at my bank account and all that jealousy will disappear. It’s like magic.

Lessons from Writers in Movies (or how a mug is not an external hard drive)

Sundays are a truly wonderful thing.* Sundays with Colin Firth are even better.

This past Sunday The Roomate and I did absolutely nothing. And it was awesome. We sat in the apartment and watched four movies while a blizzard turned everything outside our window white and frigid. I repeat…awesome.

Most people who know me know that I love movies. More broadly, I love stories. (Hence, the writing.) But for a few years I thought working in movies was the answer to that pesky little “what do you want to do when you group up” question. So I moved to LA after college and put in almost two years there-working on a few ABC Family-esque movies, suffering through the writer’s strike, and then stumbling into reality TV casting.** (This is a much longer story, best saved for The Future. For now, just know...Ashley hearts movies. Big.)

One of the movies we watched on Sunday was Love Actually. This movie rocks my socks on so many levels. We have Emma Thompson being her usual amazing self. Liam Neeson and the freaking cutest kid ever!*** The 'To me you are perfect' guy. And don’t get me started on the Hugh Grant dance. I die. (I think I'm getting all mushy in my old age. Not to worry, I'm still cynical about most things.)

But the most relevant and educational story line for us writers would be Colin Firth’s character, Jaime. He’s an author, he’s working on a first draft, he’s adorable.

(If you have not seen this movie, I’m going to need you to stop right now, go watch it, enjoy the amazing, then come back. We’ll wait.)

And now…I give to you, you wonderful people...****

Lessons from Writers in Movies.

(Mr. Darcy? *swoons*)

1. Find your own writing space

After his girlfriend cheats on him with his brother (poor Colin), our movie writer decides to pour his anguish into writing…in France. (Duh, where else would you go? Don't say Starbucks. You can think bigger than that.)

Now, most of us don’t happen to own quaint cottages in France. But the idea is the same. I can write anywhere, but sometimes (most of the time) I need to be in my own writing space. For me, it’s my desk. (Boring, I know.) It’s huge and beautiful and tucked away in a corner of my bedroom where I can close the door and ignore the outside world for a while. Of course, if any of you DO have a cottage in France, complete with lakeside gazebo, I’ll happily retreat there. I’ll even bring the wine.

2. Know your genre

When housekeeper/maker of tea/love of his life Aurelia asks***** what kind of book he’s writing, Colin doesn’t tell her that he’s writing a romantic young adult fantasy crime novel with dystopian elements. And you shouldn’t either. Pick one. Just one.

Also, making Psyco-like hand gestures (a la Colin) at the agent or friend your pitching, is probably frowned upon as well.

3. Back up your work (Colin, pay attention to this one.)

This is especially important when you’re writing on a typewriter. (Really, Colin. A typewriter?) But is just as important with your computer. (You know, the one that is sure to crash as soon as you type The End.) I don’t follow this advice as well as I should, but do as I say, not as I do.

Save that draft everywhere! (Email, disc, flash drive, hard drive, whatever.)

And if you are like Colin (and don’t you wish you were) do not, I repeat, DO NOT take the only copy of your first draft outside with you.

By the water.

With no rubberband. No paperclip. No folder.

For goodness’ sake, Colin. What. Were. You. Thinking.

And if you do decide to write outside. (This is not as nice when you're NOT in France.) And you do, for some looney tunes reason, take your loose-leaf, only-copy-in-the-world first draft out there with you. Do Not use your mug as a paperweight. What happens when you want to drink, Colin? It is windy in France.

(Also, wouldn't it be nice to have a writer assistant person to clean and cook for you while you work. Genius, Colin. Pure genius.)

If you don't know. Aurelia ends up moving the mug, the pages go flying, and then she strips down and jumps in the lake. Obviously.

(This scene, while amazing in all its eel-infested water gloriousness, makes me want to shake Colin Firth. Bad writer. Protect those words. And do not call it rubbish. Yes, I heard you say that. You may think it. We all do. But don’t say it out loud while that rubbish is flying towards the water! *headdesk*)

And that concludes today’s Lessons from Writers in Movies.

Thank you, Colin Firth, for the wonderful lessons. (And for being you.) (Also, I'm so excited for The King’s Speech…yay!)

What other lessons can we learn from Colin?

* That is, if you can forget the fact that they come before Monday. Stupid Mondays.

** Oh, the crazy!

*** “Worse than the total agony of being in love?” I mean, come on! Adorable.

**** Or just my mom. Who is wonderful, yes, but also probably the only one reading this. :) *****And by ask, I mean acts out with her hands. Since, you know, they don’t speak the same language. But they do speak the Language of Love! *sigh*

The Voices Stopped Talking (or why writers are similar to mental patients)

It's frustrating when I've decide that "Today, I'm going to write!" and the voices never come.

I grab my writing necessities: Laptop? Check. Notebook and colorful pens? Check, check. Candy, soda, water, coffee, tea, gum? All there—and yes, I drink A LOT while I write. It’s a problem.

So I take my bag of writerly goodies, jaunt down to the local café (Panera, Seattle’s Best—depending on the day) and settle in for some quality time with my work in progress. I buy myself a coffee. (“Drinks again?” you ask. “I have to buy SOMETHING,” I say.)

I open my document. Sip. Reread the last chapter. Sip. Silence. I stare at the blinking curser with my hands poised over the keys, ready to fly. Sip. Nothing. Okay, time for a break. I check Twitter—Oh, Maureen Johnson, why you so funny? I check Facebook, another friend pregnant—I’m falling WAY behind, annoying, back to Twitter.

Eventually I force myself to turn off the wireless on the laptop.

Back to writing. More staring. More sipping. Chocolate? Why, don’t mind if I do. I type a few sentences. I delete the sentences. How bout some tunes? Music always helps, I say.

Except some days it doesn’t. Some days I sit there drinking my coffee/water/tea/soda and only get out a few measly paragraphs that I KNOW I’ll end up cutting later. There are no voices in my head. Where did all the voices go? I must have left them at home on the couch where I wish I had stayed to watch that Law & Order SVU marathon.

It’s frustrating when this happens. I’ve set this day aside, I’ve made the time, ignored my laundry and the million other errands I need to get done on my day off, just so I can write. But no. The voices in my head refuse to make an appearance.

I can push through it, and force myself to write something (Something is always better than nothing, in my opinion—I can always fix it later, and sometimes it will turn into something I can work with.) or I can pack it up (Literally. I’ve spread my crap on every inch of this table.) and go home.

Either way, it’s a frustrating day.

The fact is, though, that there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. Some days the voices just won't stop (don't tell any medical professionals, please) and some days they don't show up at all (for most people this is a good day, but no). And all you can really do it keep writing. Even if it's bad. Even if it's a struggle to get through even one sentence. If we only wrote when the voices were loud, then nothing would ever get finished.

Self-bribery (or book-deprivation for my own good)

I think, for many of us, much of our life is dictated by bribes. Now, you may call them incentives or rewards—those are really nice, sparkly words—but let’s be honest with ourselves here. When your mom said, “Eat all your green beans and you can have ice cream for dessert,” that was a bribe.*

This continues in life, evolving slightly to more important things than vegetables (extra credit in class if you participate, an extra slice of pizza if you work out, time to read some funny blogs if you do 20 minutes of work**).

As we get older, and more “mature” (ahem, yeah right), our bribing evolves. We no longer need someone else to do it for us. We are more than capable of dangling that carrot in front of our own noses. Two things are necessary for this self-bribery to be successful:

1. Somewhere, deep down in our tiny, selfish hearts, we must actually want or need to accomplish the task. If I’m trying to bribe myself into cleaning my closet I can guarantee it won’t work. I don’t really care about a clean closet,*** so promising myself Oreos if I organize it is pointless.

2. The reward has to be really good. Otherwise you might find yourself in a situation like this:

Mama Juju: Eat your green beans and you can have an Ice Cream Sandwich [Yum, remember those!!]

Me: But I don’t want an Ice Cream Sandwich.****

MJ: *sputters*

Me: *smiles innocently* [Read: I win.]

If you’re struggling to get something done, whether it’s eating your vegetables or writing a book, try a bribe (or reward, if you want to be all glowy and positive about it). Learn what will work for you as a writer and go at it:

“Finish this scene and you can have that Diet Coke.”

“Write for twenty more minutes and you can watch Glee.”

“2000 words and you can shower.” [Note: using hygiene as a bargaining tool can be dangerous. Leave this one to the professional self-bribers, please. For all our sakes.]

So, if it takes a bribe to get you to sit down and be productive, I say do it. Just make sure you’re following through on both ends of the bargain. I’m currently bribing myself with good books. (And let me tell you, I already want to cheat.)

I bought two books yesterday: Stephanie Perkins’ Anna and the French Kiss and Richelle Mead’s Last Sacrifice. They’re sitting on the bookshelf right next to my desk, taunting me, begging me. “Read me, read me,” they whisper. But so far (less than 24 hours in) I’m holding strong. When I get to the part in my story where the MC finally confronts the villain (and this has been a long time coming, ya’ll), then I can read them.

And I have no doubt that both will be just as delicious as an ice cream sandwich. [Also, go buy those books here and here.]

*This is, of course, the positive reinforcement version. Some of you might have gotten a more negative, life-of-hard-knocks version such as, “Eat your green beans or no dessert for you!” This is more threat than bribe and, though common, I’m going to ignore it. It doesn’t fit in my Bribes-for-life theory, so I’m pretending it doesn’t exist. #Science

**Sorry, boss.

***Sorry mom.

****This is always a lie. Obviously. But sometimes, it just feels good to argue, right?

The End (Or how come it feels like I'll never finish writing this book?)

It should be easy.

Just type The End and be done with it, right? Apparently not.

I've been on the downhill side of my WIP for a couple of months now and gravity says it should be getting easier, moving faster the closer I get to the bottom, but it isn't.

It is SO far from easy.

Sometimes I just stop and think* about when it was easy, way back at the beginning. “Remember the day you pounded through the first 10k words like it was nothing?” I say aloud. “The words just came and you knew they were right. What happened to that? When did your writing get so repetitive and boring. Just finish already!”

Don't get me wrong, excitement and a love of the story are in there too (somewhere). But at the moment they're getting out-shouted by the negatives.

The loudest negatives being dread.

Finishing means actually moving forward in this process. It means revising. And revising some more. And eventually it means querying (which, let's admit it, is freaking scary). Right now I'm living in my little writing bubble--not telling too many people about what I'm working on, and letting even fewer of them read some scraps of it. I like that bubble. No pressure but my own in my bubble—and that's plenty.

But at the same time I feel like I’m treading water. I keep writing and writing, the plot keeps getting more complicated with every scene, and that list of revisions that I’m keeping (but trying not to look at) is getting longer.

And as much as I’ve enjoyed this story and discovering what it’s truly about in this first draft (and despite the complaining, I have enjoyed it**) , I can’t wait to get started on revisions.

Oh, I know what you’re thinking. And you’re probably right.

I say that now and then in a month I’ll be complaining about those too. (“Damn revisions, why can’t I go back to happy writer-bubble-first-draft time.”) But right now, I have a good idea what changes are going to need to happen and I’m excited about them. I know they’ll make this story better. Of course, this makes staying focused and finishing that much harder—I’m ready for the next step!

But no.

I guess, I need to find the fun in this rough*** draft again. I have some big, exciting, important scenes still to write. I have some characters to *ahem* kill off, and some others to torture some more with annoying boys and way-too-peppy friends.

There’s no lesson here. No solution. Sometimes you just have to keep your butt in the chair and keep taking those baby steps towards the end—no matter how much you wish you could skip over the journey.

And since it's the holiday season and all...just follow Kris Kringle’s advice and keep putting one foot in front of the other. (But keep your butt in the chair while you do it! You cheaters.)

* This ‘thinking’ is really just a form of procrastinating and happens often when I should be forcing myself to finish a scene. It’s usually followed by me reorganizing my desk and stalking people on Twitter.

**No, really. I can tell you don’t believe me but for the most part it has been great. Frustrating at times? Yes. But I learned a lot. About myself, my writing, my characters. You name it—I even learned which candy helps me write. (Peanut butter M&Ms, if you’re in the area and want to bring me some. I’m looking at you, roomie.)

***Oh man, the roughness.