On Writing No. 2: Finding Craft Books and Essays That Work For You

"Above Tower Falls, Yellowstone" by Thomas Moran

After going back to graduate school in 2017 for an MFA, I made a concerted effort to engage critically with writing from several perspectives. I wanted to learn craft, and the best way to do that—for me— is to read and then put what I read into practice. However, I did not want to limit myself to the things I’ve always enjoyed reading, which would be YA, fantasy, science fiction, and Jane Austen novels. 

My previous graduate degree in English/creative writing helped me in this regard. I was exposed to writers and literature I would never have discovered organically. I came to love realism, particularly writers like Willa Cather and George Eliot, and I found that I did not hate memoirs as much as I thought I did. Essays that I once considered too dry suddenly developed hidden oases. (I will discuss the topic of reading in more depth next month, but I need to mention this to go to the next point.) 

This change did not come overnight. I had to stretch my mind by reading about craft from multiple points of view, particularly those of writers I admire. I began with some well-known books: The Art of Memoir (Mary Karr), On Becoming a Novelist and The Art of Fiction (John Gardner), Bird by Bird (Anne Lamott), and Aspects of the Novel (E.M. Forster). 

From reading about writing, I understood that it was in questioning your work that you grew as a writer. Anyone can throw down some words on a page, but the writer then looks back at what is there and is dissatisfied. 

This realization led me to seek out writers who also questioned their writing, who were not satisfied with first drafts, and who found themselves drawn to engaging dialectically with their craft and with other writers and readers. 

I was on a quest of the type found in those novels I love. Admittedly, the stakes were not nearly as high as for Frodo Baggins or Taran the Pigkeeper, but I found it enjoyable all the same. 

On this trek, I discovered Ursula K. Le Guin’s books and essays on craft and several interviews with her, including Ursula K. Le Guin: Conversations on Writing with David Naimon. I absorbed them like heat into cold flesh; they were my fire. From this place of warmth, I trailed outward, becoming a many-tentacled thing, reaching and finding (sometimes rediscovering) authors like Jorge Luis Borges because Le Guin would mention them in her essays and interviews. (I’d read Borges in undergrad and loved his short stories. The collection Labyrinths still haunts me the way good prose and a mystery that isn’t quite solved always do.) 

From craft books like these, I realized what a craft book should be. It should compel you to keep going, find more ideas and words, and dig in the shelves for another taste of inspiration. 

Books about writing need to be personally applicable and accessible. A lot of these “helpful” books are dry or too centered on teaching you how to achieve your goals in a certain amount of steps. Steps have their places, but if the author doesn’t show you how to walk those steps, then they won’t do you any good. You’ll keep tumbling back down or founder at the first few. 

I guess what I mean is that the book and the author need to speak to you on a level you know. In even simpler terms, it must be relatable. A few of those books I mentioned at the start are quite dated and very dry, a bit like reading textbooks. They contain good ideas and expert knowledge, but I found it difficult to relate to them. 

In order to wrap up this post, I’m going to provide a bibliography of some of my favorite books on writing—the ones that felt familiar and truly helped me understand my own writing. 

• Meander, Spiral, Explode: Design and Pattern in Narrative by Jane Alison
• Upstream: Selected Essays by Mary Oliver
• The World Split Open: Great Authors on How and Why We Write (TinHouse Books, 2014)
• No Time to Spare: Thinking About What Matters (2017), Words Are My Matter: Writings on Life and Books (2019), Dancing at the Edge of the World: Thoughts on Words, Women, Places (2017), and The Wave in the Mind: Talks and Essays on the Writer, the Reader, and the Imagination (2004) by Ursula K. Le Guin (I placed Le Guin’s together because she is really quite prolific and often carries certain ideas over, such as the “wave in the mind,” between essays/collections so that her collected essays feel less like separate works and more like a larger undertaking comprised of a lifetime of experience and growth. And these are not all of the collections, just the ones I own.)
• Reading Like a Writer: A Guide for People Who Love Books and for Those Who Want to Write Them by Francine Prose
• Writer to Writer: From Think to Ink by Gail Carson Levine (If you were obsessed with Ella Enchanted—the book—as a young person, you’ll love this book on writing.)

On Writing No. 1: The Inevitable Question

Soon comes the day when some well-meaning person asks the inevitable question of any writer: Why?

It’s happened to me quite a few times, in fact. All anyone wants to know is the answer to this question, as if knowing it will explain the intricacies of writing. What they do not know is that often, the writer is unsure about the Why as well. 

Sure, we know the lowercase why behind our writing. We write because we are writers. It’s a simple response that encapsulates the projects, the struggles, the deleted words, the breakthroughs, the drafts, the multitude of documents saved in various locations with names like Novel1.5.4FORREAL, and so much more. 

But Why do we write what we write and Why does that question send a bolt of panic through us (or is that just me)? 

Personally, I like asking this question of myself. I enjoy applying the nuance of context to it. Instead of a blanketing ‘Why?’, I look at each individual application of this inevitable question to my writing once I have answered the initial question to my own satisfaction. 

So, I sit down, or I go outside and follow my three-year-old around on his various adventures, and I deliberately question my process and whatever I am currently writing. Why did I choose this point of view for the narrative or the poem? Why did I begin at this point? Why is it in the past tense? Why, why, why, why, why, why, until I finally exhaust that line of inquiry and at last travel into the others: the ‘woulds,’ the ‘hows,’ the ‘whens,’ the ‘whos,’ and, at last, the ‘what ifs.’ 

It is only upon reaching ‘what if’ that I get to the heart of writing. Answering a what-if question requires thinking on several fronts—past, present, and future. It also brings me back full circle to other questions, so questions beget questions, and all of those threads add up to something wonderful: words. Those words build worlds, ideas, memories, and so much more. 

Questions—even those we dread—are worth heaps of dragon gold. Using them to revise or expand a work in progress is an act of careful creation. 

                                                                                                    

Why do I write?

A confession: I did not always like to write, and I dreaded anyone—even myself—questioning the things I did write. The Inevitable Question would invariably send me into a spiral of self-doubt while stoking my feelings of inadequacy. 

It is here that I feel school failed me. I found solace in reading other’s words. I devoured books and always carried one with me. 

However, if a teacher assigned me to write about one of those books? No thanks. I was quite comfortable digesting it internally without putting my thoughts into visible words for someone else to read and grade. Despite my hyperlexic ability to read, comprehend, and remember vast quantities of written information from a very young age, which translated to doing exceptionally well on tests of my knowledge, I was not a strong writer. I struggled to make A’s in my English courses in high school. 

As a G&T student, I was in the upper-level courses—the pre-APs and the APs—and making less than A’s in those would have tanked my GPA. The feedback I consistently received from my teachers was that I was a mediocre writer, lacking source integration and too reliant on personal reflection. I’d make up for these grades by taking tests where I could flex my knowledge retention and recall. 

I sure showed them on the ACT. Well, except for the math portion, where the 25 brought my overall score down to a  32. 

But those reviews of my writing haunted me still. I decided never to write again and to pursue a visual arts degree after high school. No writing there, I thought. Or math. 

It was not until college—and a rather strange freshman Honors English composition course—that I discovered writing was not as scary or restrictive as I assumed. And that those high school teachers were very limited, not only in their feedback but also in their mindsets. 

An alternative hippie taught the class. She wore platform combat boots and fishnet stockings. Her round sunglasses perched on a face devoid of makeup except for thick black eyeliner. Her smoky voice would begin each class with questions: Soooooo, who wants to start the class with an observation about the reading? Why did Barthes/Sarte/Barthelme/whoever we were reading that day write about what they wrote about? What does any of this have to do with us right now? 

She introduced us to Morning Pages and Artist Dates from The Artist’s Way (by Julia Cameron). We did not write traditional research papers like they taught us to write in high school. We wrote personal reflections on the readings. We were investigators. We interrogated the works she had us read and then interrogated ourselves. 

In sum, we learned to ask questions. Suddenly, I grew hungry to write. Here was this incredibly odd woman, sharing ideas with me and encouraging me to write, and I did not feel as if my words were any less worthy than those on the assignment list. 

Why do I write? I write because this one college instructor made me write every day and did not discourage me. She helped me find the writer within me when I was certain that version of me did not exist. 

I write to question the world. I write to investigate life. I write because sometimes I wonder why I still write. 

I always end up here. 

And why not? 

Until next time…

Introducing a New Writing Series

Harlech Castle, North Wales by Thomas Moran

A few months ago, I teased the idea of a new series here on the blog. I'm not talking about a book series. This is purely for this blog and any readers I might still have after such a long hiatus. (Sorry about that.) 

I took some time after I finished my MFA thesis to consider my next steps. I didn't write anything for a month. Such a break felt entirely necessary after cranking out a thesis over a few months. For some reason, I could only seem to finish things in a massive rush right at the deadline--and it must be the final deadline. Fake deadlines don't work. 

Recently, I've discovered that this compulsion to only work under pressure is related to ADHD, a condition I have but did not know I had (at least not in any official capacity). I'm being treated now after a late-in-life diagnosis, and the difference in my ability to work is astonishing. I can write without the necessary pressure. I can fold laundry without feeling as if my bones are going to break from the agony of boredom of such a non-dopamine-rewarding task. 

Back to the blog post series. 

I'm going to call it my "On Series." Each post will be "on" a different topic, and yes, I understand that all posts are technically already "on" different topics. However, each month will be themed and every post in that month will be "on" a different aspect of the theme. For example, November is--as we writers know so well--NaNoWriMo. While I will likely not be participating, I do want to write a series of posts "on" writing. 

"Very original, Bailey," you might be thinking. "No one has ever thought to write about writing before." *eye roll*

Guess what? I don't care. This is a personal blog. You're just a figment of my imagination until we actually meet in person, and since I'm not the type of person who goes around wanting to meet new people in the flesh, that's not likely to happen. 

So, let's get to it. Let us discuss writing. Let me share my thoughts on writing as an art, as a practice, as an escape, as a dance, as a science, and as a communion with the past, present, and future, with you, my (perhaps not so) imaginary blog friends. 

The On Series (3 months)

November: On Writing

December: On Reading

January: On Change

What Does Time Feel Like

It feels like a toddler mangling pronunciations and jumping over sticks. 

It feels like an ending of a relationship. 

It feels like seeds germinating, growing, climbing a trellis, producing flowers, attracting bees, and handing out ripe pea pods for picking. 

It feels like the thunder and the wind preceding a summer storm. 

It feels like old posts removed, and new ones to come. 

It feels like moving on. 

Time is an accumulation of growth, decay, and regrowth. Time is not numbers. Time is a current. Time is a  place/space/stretch of dirt road.

I lost myself for a time. I had to pull myself out of the waters and onto the shore. 

This post marks a new start for this blog. I hope once again to devote my time to crafting posts about books, writing, and the intersections of life. 

Coming up...

A Reintroduction

An Introduction

What's Happened Since Starting an MFA Program

As always, until next time...

Mastering the Fine Arts

Hello blogland! Honestly, it has been way too long. I wish I had some really convincing reasons for being absent, but alas, I do not. I let myself get consumed by my instructor internship the past two years and now that has nearly come to a close.

You know what that means. That's right. I have the graduate school bug once again. So, I sent my writing samples out to two schools I thought were pretty cool and it turns out that they think I'm cool too. Yay!

I've been pre-approved for admission to two really great MFA in Creative Writing programs and now I am simply waiting on the results from the graduate schools in both places. I will finally be able to assume my alter ego of ImagiGirl.

ImagiGirl: creating worlds, characters, and intriguing plots to save society from boredom and bad literature!

This is all really good news. I love sharing good news. It's...good.

😣

But life isn't about always having good news. My husband will be gone for about a year starting in August, right about the time I'd be beginning my new graduate program.

His unit is shipping out to the Middle East (I don't know where) and they will be ping-ponged around the countryside taking down American military bases, building roads, and sundry other horizontal engineering unit duties. It's safe to assume nothing vertical will be built by his unit. (LOL)

I've been putting off coming to terms with his absence. As a military wife, I know deployments are inevitable. I've been lucky that my first two years of marriage have been relatively absence free. A few training sessions here, a long weekend away there, nothing I can't manage. I'm fine with being alone.

Or so I thought. I think I mostly tell myself I'm okay with solitude because to admit--even to myself--that I need someone around me, even if they aren't constantly with me, seems like a weakness. I'm a strong, independent woman, but I need my man. Even writing this seems like a betrayal of the sisterhood.

So, to help myself cope with all of this, I intend to write a poem every week he is gone. Then, when he finally does come home, I will have something to give him to show him how much he means to me and my family.

I may periodically post a poem on here, just to get feedback from you wonderful blog friends.

Until next time...

Uncle Tommy

Thursday
This weekend was rough. Actually, I don't think "rough" is an adequate description. I lost someone very dear to me, someone dear to quite a lot of people--some I know and many I don't know. We had no warning. Just a phone call Thursday afternoon that my Uncle Tommy was admitted to the hospital for heart related issues. We were told it was serious but not to worry. Just pray.

So we did.

Friday
I went to bed that night like any normal night. But when I woke up, it was to a text message from my mom saying he'd passed away in the early morning hours.

How does one react to such news? It had been a while since I'd lost my grandfathers--my first face-to-face with death--but I am older now. I discovered there is no difference between a 14-year-old's reaction to sudden loss of a loved one and a 25-year-old's. I cried.

Shock. Disbelief. At first, it was just a few tears, but then it devolved into an avalanche of racking sobs as the full enormity of it came crushing into me. He was gone. He is gone. And nothing I or anyone here on Earth can do can bring him back, even for a second.

I tried to comfort myself with the knowledge that he is with the Lord. (And John Wayne, his hero.)

Like any member of the Millenial generation I found an appropriate John Wayne quote and shared it on my Facebook page. Family and friends reacted. But it wasn't enough.

So, I cried a bit more. I went over to my parents' home and cried there with my sister, mother, aunt, and grandmother, standing in the kitchen, hoping the nightmare would end but still being productive--it's bean canning season.

The familiar smell of freshly canned green beans washed over me like a clichéd soothing tide. Uncle Tommy loved to grow things. I knew with certainty that he would approve of the steaming pot on the stove and smell.

Since then, time has been a bit wonky. We were in a state of suspended animation it seems, waiting and yet not waiting, for that moment when we would all gather together, as is custom, to say our goodbyes. We drove from all over to meet, homing in on his location like geese seeking shelter. We found him and, yet, we didn't.

Saturday
I was supposed to be hosting a house warming party at our first home together. The Husband had been working so hard all week to get the outside of the house ready, while I worked inside to finally unpack all of those miscellaneous boxes.

Instead, my husband drove a Dramamine-d and Klonipan-ed me nearly four hours to Alexander City. I'd never dreaded arriving there before. The place of so many family gatherings and summer excursions to Lake Martin became a place I wished miracles of life could happen spontaneously, and if not, that time would stop and I wouldn't have to see the same look I saw in the mirror reflected on the faces of people I love.

Time didn't stop. Before I knew it, we were there and I was surrounded in a sea of grief. But, because this moment was about my Uncle Tommy, mingled in with the tears were choked laughs as we recalled stories about him. His wish was for a celebration, so we tried, in our weak human way to give him that.

It's easy to be selfish and want to prolong the crying part of a loss. Yet, Uncle Tommy never took the easy way and expected us--no matter what we did in life--to do our best, even if our best took us down the harder, less-traveled path.

Sunday

Monday

Tuesday

So, here I am. Chopping away at the undergrowth of my own mind, reforging that path I traveled eleven years ago. I'm refinishing a cabinet for my fine china. It's calming. Each scraping swipe with refinishing spirits removes the old stain and I imagine it is cleansing me as well.

Soon I'll apply a fresh tint to the wood, making my mark on this piece that once belonged to someone else. I imagine Uncle Tommy smiling and telling me to be sure to go with the grain. Don't ruin the integrity of the wood. Don't rush the process. Do everything with love.

Defending a Creative Thesis

Dear Blog Friends,

The time has come, once again, for me to defend a large body of words in front of a committee of my choosing. The deed will go down this Monday at 4 p.m. Any warm fuzzy thoughts you can send my way at that time will be greatly appreciated. I feel like the past two years have flown by, but I guess that's what happens when you're having fun. I think the best decision I've made in my entire educational career is switching from a literature/critical concentration to a creative writing concentration.

Sure, it would have been easier for me to write another thesis about someone else's work, analyzing it in some "new" way that would bring something else "new" to my field. BUT, and this is a critical one, I think there is enough of that in the academic community right now. What we really need are more creative works (not that I'm placing my thesis among such greats that we study), and I think that the people capable of writing these works need to stop being afraid of doing what we love. That's what it came down to for me. I knew--deep in my gut--that I could write another critical thesis and that it would be good enough for me to get my M.A. in English, another box checked. However, my true desire wasn't that. I wanted to write something of my own, something free from style constraints and works cited pages.

And I had a story inside me. It needed to breathe the fresh air and its characters wanted to be heard. They still do. I've only chiseled away the detritus from a small piece of it, but the support I've received from my mentors and friends is enough to encourage me to continue carving.

As I meditate on the past two years, I am pleased with my progress as a writer and as a perpetual student. If there is one thing that I've taken away from embracing the creative process, it's that learning never ends. There is always something new behind the next door. So, whether I go on to get my Ph.D. in English, my MFA, or simply sit on my master's degree and laugh at the world, I am content.

I thought about making this a post with advice to fellow creative thesis writers about the whole process, but then I decided not to. Each of us has a path and yours won't be like mine. The best advice I can give anyone who is thinking about pursuing a master's degree in creative writing (or who just wants to write a book/short story/poem, etc.) is to listen to your inner voice. Not the one saying you will fail if you try. That's not you. Listen to the other one. The one that says, "I'm here, too. And I want to tell a story. 'Once upon a time...'"

Until next time...