Writer's Block Fix!

Sometimes writing feels like careening blindly down the road to hell. 

And it's not like it's a quick trip, nor is it always obvious you are on the Highway to Hell. 

Nope, you may actually believe you are on the Candy Land Freeway, but then something happens and suddenly those bright jewel-tone jujube hedges that whip by as you zip along, don't look so tasty. In fact they seem to have melted into black pools of gummy goo, sort of like your thought process. You plod along for a while, stall out a few times as your words become more elusive and harder to pin down. Finally you come to a dead stop when your red licorice expressway decays into a fiery stretch of hot lava.

Your imagination is tapped. The writing has ceased. 

As the Soup Nazi would say - No Words for You! 

This process is repetitive, which is hellish in its own way and makes you wonder about the sanity of writers. Why bother to continue? Simple answer; we'd feel crazier if we stopped.

Sometimes I return after a brief lull in creative creation, with heady anticipation. My characters eager for further adventures, my plot bubbling, as excitement drips from my fingers onto my key board. Ew. That sounds sort of gross and my drippy fingers may be more the result of a broken air conditioner and wackadoo hormones, but I digress. What I was trying to say is my typing skills are maxed to keep pace with the seemingly endless perfect words that explode from my imagination. Trust me. This happens and it is sublime. (Love that word. It is so sublimely sublime.)

Other times, like right this very instant, my words hide from me, just out of reach. I've been nearly wordless for the entire summer, peeps. Writer's Block to the extreme. But I have a plan. This weekend I am off with my writing group, The Anitas, on our annual retreat to Grindstone Provincial Park at Christina Janz' cottage. It has been the solution to my past writing woes, so I am certain  hoping it will be the fix to my current predicament.

How can I be so sure?

There will be zero distractions; no kids, Internet, phone, laundry, wall scrubbing or window washing for me. Stop laughing. There was this one time I washed some windows.  My point is I will be hyper-focused, obsessed even, with stalking those verbs, nouns, prepositions, and conjunctions from their cozy hidey-hole in the back corner of my brain. (I can sense they are chilling out right behind the grey matter that controls my constant cravings for chocolate.)

Crap. Now all I can think about is brownies. And Hershey Kisses. Wait, what if there was a Hershey Kiss brownie? Must Google...

Sweet Mama! There is an entire Hershey Kisses site!

Hershey Kisses Recipes

What was I blogging about? Right. Writing distractions. 

I do believe I have made my point.

Has Anybody Seen my Plot?

Missing: Plot for Romantic Comedy

Last Seen: Weaving through the 226 page manuscript; Who Needs Romeo, A Tale of a Modern Day Juliet

State of Mind upon Disappearance: Unfocused, scattered. Unable to string together cohesive story

A few months ago, I submitted my rom/com manuscript to a publishing company I respect. It was read by an editor I greatly admire and was ultimately rejected. But and this but is huge, (and not to be confused with my own ever expanding katookis) two great things occurred:

1. I received a very useful critique outlining what they loved and what they, ahem, not so much loved.
2. I was asked to revise and resubmit my novel.

This second point is equivalent to getting that second chance on American Idol. It’s that rare occurrence where a contestant belts out a gawd awful song, the kind that renders Randy Jackson speechless. We, the audience, think that singer has blown their one and only chance at stardom, yet something in the quality of their voice; the tone, or pitch, or maybe it’s that "je ne sais quoi," that prompts the judges to request a second song. Hence, a second chance.

Most often we’re treated with a Whitney Houston rendition that leaves us all cheering in our living rooms.

That’s the opportunity I’ve been given. Now I just have to send them my best, most perfect rewrite that leaves them speechless, with contract in hand. Gulp.

Since receiving this valuable critique, I have been focusing my attention on the character arc. I need to show the protagonist, Julia, significantly changing from the start of the story to the climax where her big decision leaves the reader thinking, “Aha! Of course she’d do that!”

I’ve rewritten portions of the story, again and again, each time unsatisfied with the result. Every time left feeling slightly more uncertain and with head in hands, wailing,

“What if I can’t do this?!”

This struggle has been going on for a few months now. Sadly, not an exaggeration.

This past weekend was our 2^nd Annual Anita Factor Writing Retreat and I went with one goal in mind – to fix this story!

I knew it wouldn’t be simple, so I took along supplies and reference materials; Writing Great Books for Young Adults, by Regina Brooks, to guide me; For Writers Only, by Sophy Burnham, to inspire me; and Helene Boudreau’s synopsis outline to focus me. Oh yes, and bags of macaroons, rosettes, and mini peanut butter cups. Like gas for a car, chocolate fuels my creativity. No need to judge. And yes, I realize my fondness for all things sweet may be the cause for my aforementioned tuckis expansion.

I began, by drawing out my story arc like so:

 

and very quickly realized my plot points, well, sucked.

 
In an attempt to calm my rising panic, I read a section on character motivation from Writing Great Books and it dawned on me.

Shouldn’t Julia be more affected by the inciting incident? Shouldn't this event rock her to her core? Shake her very soul?

Because if she isn't greatly affected, there is no reason to be interested in her journey, no reason to care about her, and most importantly; There. Is. No. Plot.

By then I was hyperventilating, so I fled to the beach to clear my head and to avoid the curious glances of my fellow Anitas. I tucked For Writers Only under my arm, to ensure my moment of despair didn’t evolve into a crisis of confidence.

Grinstone Provincial Park, Manitoba

After strolling along the sand, staring out on the vast beauty of Lake Winnipeg, my plot sailed into my head.

I actually spoke these words out loud, “Of course, she is devastated by the break up. I must show this in every thought, action, and reaction.”

Why is this "aha" discovery important?

Because it’s the crux of my lost plot. It’s what motivates the main character through the remainder of the story. It drives all further action.

So thank you Regina Brooks, Sophy Burnham, and Helene Boudreau.  

You helped me find what was right there in front of me all this time.

My plot.

 

I highly recommend these writing resources:

http://www.amazon.ca/Writing-Great-Books-Young-Adults/dp/1402226616

http://www.amazon.ca/For-Writers-Only-Sophy-Burnham/dp/034540405X



Helene Boudreau's Blog:
http://www.heleneboudreau.com/?page_id=84

Check out her Real Mermaid's series:


http://www.amazon.ca/Real-Mermaids-Dont-Wear-Rings/dp/1402244126/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1349278780&sr=1-1



 

 

 

 

Serene, peaceful, writing retreat weekend...ear plugs required.

Months of anticipation and planning are almost over. Finally our writing retreat weekend is less than two weeks away. Two solid days of lake-side writing; no phone, no kids, and no interruptions, unless you count the dawn to dusk scheduled jack-hammering of the paper mill they're demolishing down the bay.

Seriously.

Planned deconstruction times: 7am to 7pm Monday to Saturday.

The owner of the B&B actually said, it's so loud, you can't think. A possible hurdle for five writers looking to find their inner zen and tap into a flowing stream of words.

All, is not lost, for we are a resourceful bunch and I have suggested, what I like to call, "Carmichael's Cozy Cottage and Camper Plan B." Five eager writers, one six hundred square foot two bedroom cottage, and a mondo camper in the back yard.

So, when your dream retreat in the wilderness turns into an ear-piercing power tool nightmare, I suppose you could use the complementary ear plugs (found next to the elf-sized shampoo bottles in your bathroom), grin, and pretend you are such a dedicated and driven writer that can work through even a sonic boom, or...you could graciously accept the offered deposit refund, pick up a crisp bottle of chardonnay, and flee to the relative calm of Chez Carmichael.

Fingers crossed the neighbours decide to postpone their deck building party.