Aliens Have Feelings, Too

I’ve often heard people say that writers should write what they know, but I’m not sure if that is always true.  If you are writing science fiction, for example, it wouldn’t be much of an adventure if you stuck to simply what you know.  Not many of us have been into space, or met an alien, or been shot at by a laser gun.  Writing what you know would not get you very far.

I’d rather say, write what you love.  Write what you dream about.  Write about the fantasies that captured your mind as a child and stayed with you as an adult.  But keep your dreams and fantasies grounded with character elements and emotions that you know. 

I’ll give an example.  Once I saw a woman and her daughter waiting in the school parking lot.  They were an unusual looking pair.  The woman was very short and extremely voluptuous.  She had stocky legs, and quite a bit of “junk in the trunk,” as well as large breasts.   But instead of fighting her shape, or trying to disguise it, she seemed to embrace it.  She wore a tiny skirt and a tight tank top in bright colors.  She’d gathered her mass of curly, dark hair into a series of ponytails that stuck out of her head at odd angles.  She wore sexy sandals, and her brightly painted toes stuck out of the top.  Her daughter looked and dressed just like her, and, as I watched, them, I could tell they felt confident and beautiful about how they looked.  It was obvious from their body language that they were completely comfortable in their skin. 

As I watched these ladies, trying to imagine their backstory in my head, another girl joined them.  She had straight, shoulder length brown hair pulled back with a navy blue headband.  She was wearing a plain white t-shirt and navy blue shorts.  She had on navy blue sneakers.  She was of medium height, medium weight and medium size.  She was very, very normal looking.

When I saw her get into the car with the mother and daughter, I had to wonder if she was part of their family.  And that is when it began, the “what ifs.”  What if the average looking girl was the daughter of the flamboyant woman?  What if she hated having a mother who was so different looking?  What if her sister was just like her mother?  What if they were actually aliens?

“What ifs” are the beginning, middle and end of every great story, and the basis of every great character struggle.  Begin with what you know, with an idea that inspires you, and built on it until you reach something completely different.  The “what ifs” propel your story, but writing what you know keeps it real, even if you are writing a complete work of fantasy. 

Mixing what you know with what you dream about is the key to creating great fiction. Adding bits of your own experiences and observations can add depth and breadth to your characters that make them feel more realistic to your readers.  I might not know any aliens, but I know what it is like to be part of a family, and to have a mother and sisters I care deeply about.  Adding those elements can keep your story grounded, and will make your readers feel more connected, even if the story you are writing is about aliens you met while waiting in a parking lot.      

Stupid Daylight Savings Time

Daylight Savings Time.  How can one little hour throw my life into such a tailspin? 

First, I must explain.  I’m chronically and annoyingly early for everything.  My children have learned that arriving ten minutes before we are supposed to is the norm, mostly because being late makes me crazy.  They sigh, they wait, and they accept it.  But yesterday, the first awful Sunday of DST, I was running late for everything. 

I woke up feeling foolishly refreshed since I thought I’d slept until 8 (and I never, never, ever am able to sleep until 8).  I decided to bake, imagining the joy on my children’s faces when they awoke to the tantalizing scent of banana muffins.  My youngest was delighted about the muffins, but worried about me.  He looked at the clock and said, “Don’t you have to take me to Rock Academy?”  Somehow it went from being 8am to noon in an hour.  I threw on some sweats, yelled for my son to get in the car, and sped off to Rock Academy.  We arrived exactly on time – a first for me. 

After dropping off Rocker Child, I returned to my previously mellow state.  I felt like I had all the time in the world, until I remembered I was supposed to be at a tennis class for rusty (aka old) players at 2.  I couldn’t understand how the time changed from 12:30 to 1:30 in seven minutes.  I rushed home, asked my husband to drive child number two (aka Tennis Boy) to his lessons, and reminded him to also pick up the little girl in our carpool (aka the Girl My Husband Always Forgets to Pick Up).  I grabbed my racquet and headed off to tennis, arriving exactly on time. Very strange.

I felt vaguely unsettled all day, in spite of not actually being late for anything, which led to a restless night’s sleep.  It was that way for everyone in my family.  My husband couldn’t fall asleep.  Tennis Boy visited us several times to say goodnight.  Once, he came after we’d turned the lights off and scared the crap out of me.  When I woke up at 6am, which was actually a cleverly disguised 5am, Rocker Child was already in my room.  “I didn’t sleep all night,” he wailed.  “Yes, you did,” I said.  “I checked on you.  You were sleeping.”  “Nooo,” he said as he threw himself face down on my bed.  “I was pretending.” 

It appears, after a bleary look at Facebook this morning that everyone was in the same boat.  How can one little hour so disrupt the entire space time continuum?  Yesterday went faster, and last night went slower.  People were posting at all hours.  They were up at 4am cleaning.  They were watching reruns of really bad sitcoms.  Why couldn’t we sleep?

I understand the concept of DST, but is it really necessary?  As Rocker Child munched on his breakfast of olive and garlic focaccia this morning (we were out of banana muffins, he really likes focaccia, and I was too groggy to protest), he looked at me over his glasses and muttered, “Stupid farmers.” 

 
I don’t blame the farmers, and I like the time change in the fall.  I just hate it in the spring.  But I was too tired to argue.  I just poured another cup of coffee, grabbed a bite of his focaccia, and yawned.  “Stupid Daylight Savings Time."

How To Find An Agent

It was nearly a year ago that I signed with my agent, Marlene Stringer of The Stringer Literary Agency, www.stringerlit.com.  She is a fantastic, hardworking, dedicated advocate for my books, and I realize how fortunate I am to have her on my team. Since last year, many people have asked me how I found Marlene, and I have to admit it was a combination of preparedness, research, and pure, dumb luck.  I can’t help you with the dumb luck part, but I can share with you what I have learned about the process.

For me, this journey began in September of 2011, when I began looking for an agent to represent my first book, AMAZONS.  I wanted an agent, because I had learned very early on that publishers are far more likely to look at a book represented by an agent than a random unsolicited manuscript rotting away in their slush pile.  It’s very simple.  If an agent sees something in that manuscript worthy of representation, the publisher is more willing to give it their attention.  Also, agents work very hard to cultivate long term relationships with publishers.  They know what different publishers are looking for, and try to provide it.  Someone once told me it is harder to get an agent than it is to get published.  I don’t know if that is true or not, but I was sure I didn’t want to go through the complicated and overwhelming publishing process on my own.  I needed help.  I needed an agent.  And so my search began. 

I knew nothing at all about finding an agent, so I read everything I could on the subject.  I bought books and magazines.  I listened to what more experienced authors told me.  Finally, I felt I was ready, and I began sending out my book.  In the course of a few months, ten agents asked to see my full manuscript for AMAZONS, but I had not signed with anyone yet.  During this time, I finished my second book, SO PRETTY, and began sending out queries for that book as well.  Ten days after I started, I signed with Marlene.

My story is not typical.  For some writers it takes a lot more time and effort to get to where I am today.  I still have a great deal to learn, but there are some things I would like to pass on to those people just starting out.

1.         Don’t send out a manuscript until it has been edited, revised, reread, and made into the best possible version of your story that you can create.  Have others take a look at it, too.  I have a trusted friend, Andrea, who has painstakingly gone through each page of my books for typos and inconsistencies.  I have rewarded her occasionally with lunch, flowers, or chocolate, which is far, far less than she deserves.  Find a friend like Andrea.  I also use my children (shamelessly) to judge if a story line I am playing with is really working on not.  If I catch their interest, I have a chance of catching the reader’s interest.  If my twelve year old sees holes in my plot, then my manuscript is definitely not ready for submission.

2.         Learn how to write a query letter.  This is really, really (can I stress it one more time?), REALLY important.  If your query letter sucks (excuse my French), then there is a very good chance the agent will not even look at your story.  I bought books on writing good query letters.  I researched it online.  I looked for examples of winning query letters so that I could see what worked and what didn’t.  Your manuscript must be as good as you can possibly make it, but your query letter must be perfect - no typos, no spelling errors, and no grammar mistakes. Don’t misspell the agent’s name.  Don’t send out mass emails and expect a personal reply.  Don’t brag about how great your book is, show how wonderful it is by writing a fantastic, and yet concise, description of it.  Imagine you are writing the paragraph that will be used on the back of your book to entice readers.  This is what you should put in your query letter.  Write about your book, let the agent know if you’ve been published before, and, perhaps, list any professional affiliations you might have.  The query letter is not about you, it is about your book.  Don’t lose sight of that.

3.         Research agents carefully.  You can buy books with information about agents, but these are usually not up to date, and you have to buy new editions every year.  Instead, I used a site called www.querytracker.net.  This was extremely useful and also free for basic service.  You can be very specific with this site, and the more specific you are, the better chance you will have of finding the agent who is right for you.  For SO PRETTY, I looked for agents currently representing Young Adult (YA) and Science Fiction, and that is how I found Marlene.

4.         Research the agency as well.  Once you find an agent, don’t stop there.  Go online and look into the agency.  Each agency has different submission guidelines.  Follow them exactly.  Some agencies want to see the first ten pages of your manuscript, others want the first chapter.  Take the time to give them what they ask for, and be certain you are sending a query to the right agent inside the right agency. You will be happy that you did, and so will they.  Rejection is not fun.

5.         Get used to rejection.  This is the central truth to being a writer.  Don’t take it personally.  Not every story is a match for every agent, or every publisher.  It might have nothing at all to do with your story, or your talent as a writer, or your worth as a human being in general.  Finding the right person for your book is as much as matter of luck as it is skill, but if you don’t have the skills to back it up, you don’t have a chance at being lucky. 

6.         If the agent likes your query, the agent will ask to see a full manuscript.  This is the reason for suggestion number one on my list (aka make sure your full manuscript is ready).  If an agent likes the first chapter of your manuscript, and wants to see a full manuscript, they will not be happy to hear that is all you have written so far.  Just to give you an idea about how hard it is to get to this point, I was so excited about the first request I had for a full manuscript that I immediately Googled the agent to see what else I could learn about him.  I found an interview in which he said he got about 400 query letters each month.  Out of those, he sent out about 3 or 4 requests for a full manuscript.  From those, he signed with about 5 or 6 new writers a year.  Those are not good numbers, but I tried to see it in a positive light.  I was one of those lucky 4 out of 400 writers who sent in query letters that month, and that is pretty amazing.  The good news is, if I could do it, so can you.

 

7.         If the agent likes your manuscript, they may ask to represent you.  Oh, glorious day!  But before you sign on that dotted line, make sure you are a good fit for your agent, and that your agent is a good fit for you.  Once you sign with them, your agent will represent your full body of work (not just the book you are currently submitting, but your other books, as well).  Make sure that person is someone you want to be working with for the long haul.

The most important advice I can give you as a writer, is to keep writing, keep learning, and keep trying.  It isn’t easy, but it isn’t impossible either.  I’ve encountered so much negativity from other writers, many of whom told me with definitive authority that I would never get to where I am today.  I think this is the same mentality that makes some women tell expectant mothers horror stories about their own childbirth experiences.  Just because it was bad for them, doesn’t mean it will be bad for everyone (although going through the publishing process can feel like giving birth to a ten pound baby over and over and over again, trust me, I know).  But just like childbirth, the rewards are well worth the time and effort you put into it.  Yes, you are sending your newborn off to be judged, criticized and probably rejected right after it is born, but there is a chance you might be sending it off to be cherished, nurtured, and maybe even loved.  You’ll never know, unless you try.  And Andrea, please let me know if there are any typos in this.  I’ll owe you some chocolate.

 

 

 

Happy Birthday, Dr. Seuss!

 

Theodor Seuss Geisel was born on March 2, 1904.  My oldest son was born on the very same day, exactly ninety years later.  Now my son is all grown up, a college student with a hairy face and a busy schedule, but every year on his birthday, I think of Dr. Seuss, too.  I remember the days of holding a warm, little body next to mine and reading about wockets in pockets and fox in socks.  The colorful pictures, the silly prose, the rhyming nonsense words are something universally appealing to young children, but there is more to it than that.  It doesn’t matter how old the books are, children still worry about what problems the Cat in the Hat will cause, and if Horton will hear the Who, and how the Grinch will be able to save Christmas. 

I read those books over and over again to my first son, and then my second, and finally to my third.  I enjoyed the rhythm and cadence to the words, and by the time my youngest child was born, I had several of the books memorized and we owned a complete collection.  I loved watching my children’s faces light up when we’d get to their favorite parts, the anticipation and the excitement.  I would pause, just for a second, to enjoy the expressions on their little faces a bit longer.  Soon, during those pauses, they were filling in the words for me.  Before long, they were reading the books on their own.

It was a sad day for me when my youngest son grew too big for the sweet silliness of Dr. Seuss.  I moved the books from his room, to a bookshelf in our family room (hoping that one of my nephews or nieces or a random stranger would ask me to read them), and then to another in our basement.  Finally, I packed them up in a box labeled, “Books To Keep,” and put them in our storage room.  I try to donate most of our old books to family and friends, but there are certain ones that are simply too precious to part with.  Maurice Sendak, Shel Silverstein, Margaret Wise Brown, Eric Carle, Graeme Base, and Chris Van Allsburg are a few of the authors featured in that box, along with every book we have ever owned, no matter how battered or worn, by the incomparable, irreplaceable and completely magical Dr. Seuss.

The Next Big Thing – Blog Tag

Writer Teresa Frohock (author of MISERERE, www.teresafrohock.com) tagged me in “The Next Big Thing – Blog Tag.”  She answered ten questions about her work in progress, and now I’m answering the same ten questions about my book.  I’ve tagged a few of my writer friends – check out what they are working on, too!

What is the working title of your book?

The title of my book is SO PRETTY.

Where did the idea come from for the book?

This was originally a short story that won third place in a science fiction contest for Writers’ Journal magazine.  The idea came to me when I saw a family once in the park.  The mother was a full figured lady wearing short shorts, bright colors, and several unrelated floral and animal prints.  Her hair was in a high ponytail on the side of her head, and she had tucked a big flower behind her ear.  What struck me about this woman was that she really seemed to be confident about her body and obviously enjoyed how she looked.  She had one daughter who looked and dressed just like her, but standing off to the side was another girl.  This girl was thin and pretty and wore tailored, monochromatic clothing.  I’m not sure if the other girl was her daughter or not, but it made me wonder – what if she was?  That, combined with my son’s experience of being the only male member of the high school cheer squad (he was the mascot for two years), fused the idea for this book in my head.

What genre does your book fall under?

My book is science fiction for young adults.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

I’d love to see someone like Jennifer Lawrence play the main character, Starr Valentine.  For two of my male main characters, I’d like to aim big and suggest either Taylor Lautner or Josh Hutcheson for Julian, and Hunter Parrish for Adrian.

What is the one sentence synopsis for your book?

Beautiful and popular, Starr Valentine has a perfect life; until she finds out her parents are from another planet with a very different standard of beauty and she has to learn to live in a place where she is no longer pretty.

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

I am represented by Marlene Stringer of The Stringer Literary Agency.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

I wrote SO PRETTY in about ten weeks.

What other books would your compare this story to within your genre?

SO PRETTY isn’t dark or scary.  There are no vampires or werewolves.  It’s light and funny and addresses the question of beauty and our own perceptions about beauty.   I realize these aren’t books, but my character Starr does remind me a bit of Cher from the movie Clueless and Elle from Legally Blonde.  Just imagine Cher or Elle trapped on another planet where no one thinks they are pretty -  very traumatic.

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

While I lived abroad, I learned that the ideal of feminine beauty was very different in different places.  In one country, the woman all struggled to be pale, while in another country having light colored eyes was important.  My friend who lived in Africa told me that where she lived it was said a bride should have a bottom “as big as the wedding table.”  I wrote SO PRETTY so that girls could understand that the idea of beauty is not something that can be put into one narrow definition.  I think there is so much pressure on teenaged girls today regarding how they should look, and I want girls to ignore this and find their own beauty.

What else about this book might pique the reader’s interest?

SO PRETTY is funny and light, and yet it holds a serious message.  How can a person who has defined themselves by their beauty go on when they are no longer beautiful?  Starr had to lose her beauty to find herself, and in doing so became a better and happier person.  She also defeated bad guys with some killer cheer leader moves, saved her family, and preserved the political stability of her entire planet.  Not bad for a prom queen from Ohio.

 

Tag – you are “it” to:

Kate Studer (www.katepawsonstuder.com) 

Beth Orsoff (www.bethorsoff.com).
Kristy Baxter (http://kristybaxter.com/blog/)

Here's another ghost story for October.  I wrote this a few years ago, and it won an Honorable Mention in a contest for Writers' Journal Magazine.  The contest required the story begin with the prompt, "Hey, what are you...".  This story grew from that prompt.

My friends in Beaver will probably recognize the town in this story, including the gazebo, the river, and the bakery (I was thinking of Kretchmar's - yum!).  Nutsy Bob was also a real person, or at least that was what my Nunny called him.  I can remember sitting on her front porch on warm summer evenings in Beaver Falls when I was very small.  She'd see him walking down the street, roll her eyes and say, "Oh, great.  Here comes Nutsy Bob." I didn't realize that wasn't his actual name until I was nearly eight years old. She had a name for everyone in the neighborhood, and most of them were hilarious.

I strongly encourage anyone interested in writing to enter contests, and also to stretch their writing skills by attempting things outside of their own chosen genre.  Any practice is good practice, and the results may surprise you!

Red Sky

            “Hey, what are you doing here?” I asked the little girl standing next to me on the doorstep.

            “I think you know, Maggie,” she answered in a singsong voice, a small smile playing on the corners of her lips.  Her eyes, as blue as the sky on a cloudless summer day, were focused on the horizon as if she could see the sun about to rise.  “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.  Red sky at morning, sailors take warning.”        

“Lucy, what are you trying to tell me?” I asked, kneeling down so that my dark head was level with her small blonde one.

            “I’m not trying to tell you anything,” she said, her voice completely devoid of emotion.  “I’m trying to warn you.”

            I reached out to touch her, but before my hand could make contact with her skin, she disappeared, like fog evaporating in the morning light.  I sighed, sitting down on the damp cement.  The cold entered my body through my thin running pants, but I didn’t get up.  I rubbed my face with my hands, wishing I could begin this day again.  Seeing the ghost of my dead little sister before I’d even had my morning coffee was not a good start.

            I looked up and watched a bright fuchsia color stain the eastern sky as the sun slowly began its ascent.  It had been nearly twenty years since Lucy had died, but I still couldn’t seem to move on with my life.

My parents had forgiven me long ago.  They blamed themselves for allowing a teenager to watch an eight year old on the crowded shores of a lake.  Grief had eventually made them hate each other, but not me.  It made me feel even worse, because I knew the truth.  I was to blame.

“Are you going to sit there all day or are we going to run?” asked my best friend, Christie, taking me out of my reverie.  Her pale hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, and she jogged in place as she waited for me.  I stood up and joined her, the cold moisture from the step still clinging to my skin. 

We ran slowly through the town, down tree-lined streets and past rows of elegant Victorian houses.  My thoughts were still on Lucy, but soon the rhythmic sound of our feet hitting the pavement calmed me.  People were just beginning to wake up, and several called out a greeting to us as we passed.  We were fixtures in this place, as regular as clockwork.  Christie and I had lived here our whole lives, except for brief attempts to live in the city right after college.  We were known here, and we were as much a part of this town as the river that ran along its border.  We couldn’t escape it, and, at this point, we really didn’t want to.

We stopped, as we always did, at the bakery for coffee and a donut, completely negating the efforts of our run.  As we walked back, warm coffees clutched in our hands and the sugary feel of the donuts still on our tongues, we saw Nutsy Bob out walking his dog, Clementine.

Nutsy Bob was another fixture in our town, like the bell over the courthouse or the gazebo in the park.  Something had happened to him during the war, and he wasn’t quite right in the head, but he was harmless and sweet.  Clementine, on the other hand, was another story.  She was a nasty little Yorkie who liked to chomp on my ankles whenever she had a chance.

Nutsy greeted us as he always did.  “Howdy do, howdy do,” he said, a giant smile plastered on his face and a completely vacant look in his eyes.  His dark hair was slicked back with some sort of cream and his black, horn-rimmed glasses were wider than his face.  He wore a plaid shirt, impeccably ironed, as always, and jeans that had been ironed as well.  I looked down at my wrinkled and stained t-shirt.  I hadn’t come close to an iron in years.

Clementine snarled and moved to attack me.  I jumped away, nearly tripping on her leash.  I heard Christie smother a giggle and I glared at her.  Nutsy Bob reached down to soothe the irate little dog.

“It’s okay, Miss Clementine,” he murmured, and the vicious demon dog licked his hand lovingly.  I moved to apologize, but the dog immediately started to growl so I backed off.

“That dog really hates you,” said Christie, taking a sip of her coffee as we walked away.  I could hear the smile in her voice.  She was enjoying this too much.

“The feeling is mutual, trust me,” I said.  “She almost got my ankle this time. Maybe that was what the warning was about.”

“What warning?” asked Christie.

“It was nothing,” I said, feeling my cheeks get hot.  Christie stopped in her tracks, her eyes huge in her face.

“It was Lucy again, wasn’t it?” she asked.  I didn’t say anything and she groaned.  “Maggie, you have to start taking this seriously.  You need to talk to someone.”

“If I tell anyone, they’ll think I’m crazy,” I said, “and they would probably be right.”

“You aren’t crazy, Maggie,” Christie said softly.  “We have to figure this out.  Every time she has come to you, it’s been for a reason.”

“I know,” I said, throwing my empty coffee cup into a garbage can.  I pictured Lucy’s face from this morning, her sweet little eight-year-old face, and sighed.  “I don’t know why she would try to help me.  I don’t deserve it.”

Christie touched my arm, but didn’t say anything.  She knew how I felt.  Two minutes of distraction and selfishness had cost the life of my sister and my family as well.  The last words I’d said to Lucy were to tell her to stop bugging me so that I could hang out with my friends.  I wasn’t paying attention when she waded into the lake, leaving her little pink bucket in the sand, and, because of me, she’d died.

I walked Christie to her house, and tried to ignore the look of concern on her face as I waved goodbye.  I shoved my hands in the pockets of my jacket and walked aimlessly, not realizing where my feet were taking me until I reached the banks of the river.  I sank down onto a wooden bench and watched the dark, muddy water flow past me.  The river, swollen because of recent rain, looked powerful and threatening.  Usually this was my favorite place to relax, but somehow the force and speed of the water made me anxious today and unsettled.  I got up to leave, just as a dark cloud covered up the sun and the morning suddenly felt like the edge of night. 

I shivered.  A prickly sensation on the back of my neck made me think someone was watching me, but no one was near.  It looked like it was about to rain, and sensible people were safe inside their houses, not out wandering next to dangerously high rivers.  I shook my head, getting annoyed with myself, and decided to be sensible as well.  I took one last glance at the river as I left, and that is when I saw it. 

Something was in the river.  At first I thought it was a log, but then I realized it was a person, clinging to a fallen tree in the water and waving feebly.  I ran down to the side of the river, and saw Nutsy Bob, holding Clementine and trying to keep her head above water.  She looked like a bedraggled rat and he didn’t look much better.  I could tell he didn’t have much time.  His face was pale and gray and he seemed to be losing his grip. 

I dug into my pocket for my cell phone, calling for help as I grabbed a long tree branch that had washed ashore and waded into the river as far as I dared.  The icy water pounded against my legs, and the thick mud pulled at my shoes, making each step difficult.  After a few terrifying moments, I got the branch out far enough that Nutsy could reach it and pulled him slowly to shore.  Clementine, shivering in his arms, growled at me halfheartedly as the skies opened and it began to rain.

The ambulance and firemen arrived moments later and put Nutsy on a stretcher. “He must have slipped off the path and fallen in,” said one of the paramedics, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders.  “It’s a good thing you were here.”

Nutsy was mumbling something through chattering teeth, and when I leaned down to hear him, his words made my heart stop in my chest.  “Red sky at morning, sailors take warning,” he said, over and over again as they wheeled him slowly away.

Writing Lessons - Part One

As I prepare to teach another summer session at the Young Writers' Institute, I find myself thinking about the process of writing and what I have learned - and how I have learned it.  I'm posting this for all of my writer friends out there, as well as my creative and artistic friends since the same lessons apply to all of us.  Happy writing!

Whenever I read something I wrote a few years ago, I feel horrified and embarrassed.  I am painfully aware of each glaring mistake and flaw, but being able to see those things is actually a gift - proof of how much I am learning and growing as a writer. 

I remember very clearly the day I learned a fabulous and yet very simple secret - to write forward, and write that way with wild abandon.  What this means is to stop analyzing every word.  Let yourself be free.  I’d been shackled before, spending so much time on the first sentence of the first page of the first chapter that I never got anywhere.  When I finally let myself go, I wrote three chapters in one day.  Most of it was garbage, definitely, and ended up being cut out of my final edit, but I needed to write that garbage first in order to figure out where my story really started.  Editing is the time you fix mistakes, but I had been editing the whole time I was writing.  Once I stopped doing that, it was so much easier, and more enjoyable.  I was able to focus on the story, and not minor details.

Making mistakes is part of the process.  Editing is the time you address those mistakes.  Embrace imperfection as part of being a writer, and a human being.  Save all of those things you have written in the past, not in order to torture yourself, but so you can realize exactly how far you have come. 

I advise all of my writer friends out there to try this simple exercise.  Set your timer for five minutes.  Light a candle, if you’d like (it’s not mandatory, but it can help!), and start writing.  Don’t try to have a direction.  Don’t overthink it or worry about making mistakes.  Just give yourself five minutes to go where the muse leads you.  You might be very pleasantly surprised.