No Author is an Island

I used to love the Timehop app. Just by scrolling through it, I could remember forgotten trips, funny life moments, time with friends and family. Plus, it shows milestones in history, which feeds my curiosity for random information.

But then, it happened. Typos.  

The bane of my grammar fetished existence. I pride myself in being above par with commas, prepositions, and sentence structure. In fact, I’ve earned one job from pointing out a typo on the company paperwork. I never text with acronyms, and I use punctuation. I know the difference between there, their, and they’re.

Yet the typos kept appearing.

Now, I can spot them with ease. Which begs the question: why couldn’t I then? The answer lies in distance.

These little imperfections we create shine brighter with the passage of time. When we create typos, we are often too close to see. It is like looking at a painting. When you are inches from the canvas you see something completely different than if you stand across the room. Time gives written work the across the room perspective.  

Enter the Editors of the world.

Editors provide fresh eyes to see your work from another perspective. This goes beyond nuts and bolts grammar. They can see where your story is falling short. You may see brilliant swirls of color and texture, but they can see the giant chasm of disconnect that section has to the rest of the story. Their fresh perspective enhances your manuscript and highlights those things to which your eyes have grown accustomed. You know that old adage, “two are better than one?” It’s never more true than with editing your manuscript.

I highlight this because I’m flabbergasted by some work currently in print. Just because it has never been easier to publish, doesn’t mean writers should be the only one to touch their manuscript prior to publishing. I have nothing against those who choose the self publishing route. I have everything against those who do so without hiring an outside editor. Can’t afford it? At least put your manuscript in front of a writer’s group. No, your friends don’t count. They love you and don’t really want to hurt your feelings. You need a group of ruthless critics, who value the quality of the finished product above your own emotions. Because, in the end, good writing is what sells, not a writer’s good intentions. 

No author is an island. The best works are those that have many hands in the pot. Don’t believe me? Read the acknowledgements. I’ve come to value the input of others in my work. Even the ones who are the harshest. Usually, their life experiences lend them to seeing new angles or problems. Often, their corrections lead me into a more complex, rich, and beautiful story.

And they catch my typos, so I don’t have to cringe later.

Join the conversation. What is your opinion on editing and editors?

Short Story - Unknown

I’ve been remise with my blog as of late. My apologies. You know how life gets crazy and passes you by without your knowing? Yeah, it was something like that, along with a pandemic thrown in. As a piece offering, I’m giving you a short I wrote. I wrote it for a contest where I had to create a story with 300 words or less and include: a comfort food, a song lyric/reference from the 70s, a mountain range, a new year’s resolution, and a horse reference. Can you pick out them all?

Hope you enjoy!

Unknown

“Stay,” he said.

She stuffed in one last box. Metal numbed her fingers as she closed her car’s trunk. She inhaled, drawing in the cold and hardening her resolve.

He sulked, but followed as she strode inside.

On the table, bowls of macaroni and cheese congealed. Crab dotted the surface, trapped in the yellowed paste. She scraped her nail around one chunk, catapulting it free. Jealousy towards the crab overwhelmed her.

He misconstrued the slight uplift of her mouth and embraced her. “Stay.”

She breathed in his scent, woody and warm. Familiar yet foreign. His lips brushed hers, savoring. A tear pooled in her lashes, and the riot within her began anew. She pushed him away before it ripped her in two.

A new year, a new start. She’d sworn it.

His shoulders drooped and his face paled. “Stay,” he murmured. “Please.”

The yearning in his voice choked her, and the tear slid from lash to cheek. She bit her lip. He searched for signs of concession.

Instead, she cut the tether. “We’re superficial.”

“We’re not.”

 “Your code is still symbols on a screen,” she said, “and my Van Gogh is still splotches of paint. We’re everyday aliens, you and I.”

Her finality unleashed his resentment. “Why don’t you come to your senses?” he said. “You’re not getting any younger.”

“I won’t die unknown.”

She grabbed her keys, but paused at the door. “One day, I hope you understand,” she said.

As the Cascades shrank in her rearview mirror, the road flattened and opened before her. Out the window, she spied a mustang, wild and unhindered. Its galloping feet drummed the rhythm of a new day. Pressing her foot against her pedal, she smiled and hurled herself into its dawning.

Pee on Your Writing

As soon as I walk in the door, the begging starts. A blur of white fuzz and wagging tail, Walter flitters from my feet to wherever he thinks I’m headed and back again. I linger too long by the entry, or connect my earphones to my phone, and the jumping starts.

He knows.

After a slight wrestling match to attach a leash, we head to the great outdoors. In our neighborhood is a large park, consisting of walking trails and tons of green. Breaking the rules (Shh! Don’t tell!), I let Walter roam free. He adores it. He explores everywhere with excitement; a newborn experiencing sensations for the first time, despite the countless visits we’ve made.

And everywhere he goes, he pees.

It struck me on our last walk that this is how writing should be. With each new story, every time we touch our fingers to our laptops (or take pen to paper), we should approach as a newborn. Our imaginations are made to be explored and we should never approach the world of our stories expecting. If we expect something to happen, we will force it, contrive it. If we go in with a game plan, without the leniency to change and explore possibilities, our words will become trite.

We go to the same park, but Walter sees it afresh. This trip had me thinking maybe we would craft better stories if we do the same. Go to the worlds we created, but see them with new eyes.

And then pee everywhere.

Explore worlds, but then leave our mark. Make it ours. It is an old adage that no story is new. Everything there is to tell has been told a million times. But not by you. Not by me. We create something new when we make it ours. We pee all over the plot lines and character motivations, the subtext and dialogue, and suddenly we have something unique.

We have a compelling story.

As you are sitting at your laptop (or with your pen and paper) this week, try looking with fresh eyes on your writing. Throw out all the preconceived notions, attitudes, and beliefs. Find something afresh that thrills you, moves you, floors you. 

Create with the wonder and excitement of the newly born and leave your mark all over it.

Exploring

Fodder of Life

Life. It is its own person, interacting with you in a diverse spectrum of emotional ways. It comforts, it replenishes, it annoys, it devastates. It beats you down and lifts you up.

This has never been more true for me than the past couple of weeks.

Recently, I accomplished one of my life-long dreams. I’m an avid learner, but have had an uphill battle finishing my degree. It’s not because I’ve had difficulty with the material. It was a lack of vision as to what degree to get. Because of horrible advice early on, I stumbled around avoiding the arts, and dually missing my passion. I’m ashamed of how long it’s taken to gain clarity. Don’t get me wrong; all those wrong turns have sculpted me and taught me. But how I wish that could have happened while I was also doing what I love.

On October 17th, though, I turned in my final assignment, and became the first person in my family to ever finish a four-year degree. In that moment, Life threw me up into the air like a father with his child, and I was giddy, weightless, slightly terrified but in awe.

A few days later, Life smacked me into the ground. Not just knocked me out of the air; Life threw me onto the pavement like The Hulk with Loki, then ground its heel into my temple. Migraines raged and made movement challenging, let alone functioning within my little world. All the while, members of my family and co-workers were bogged down with colds and fevers, and I was desperately fighting from getting caught up in the germy fun.  

In the midst of all this, I’ve been contemplating what I write. It is a common expression for aspiring authors to hear “write what you know.” Virginia Woolf takes it even further, saying, “Every secret of a writer’s soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind, is written large in his works.” So, I’ve been asking myself, what have these weeks of roller coaster Life deposited into my soul, crafted into my experience?  

Everything is fodder for creativity. Every experience is offered up upon the alter of creativity by Life, and awaits our interpretation and transformation.

The moment of hitting “submit” on that final paper and the weight of stress, strapped onto my shoulders like a two-ton backpack, rolling off. The intense pressure pounding into my brow with pinpoint accuracy and unrelenting fervor. The moment after the elation wears off, and the mundane returns, leaving the postpartum melancholy. Or the sweet release of pain when I open my eyes and the brilliance of day no longer burns but cheers. All these Life moments are the building blocks of great stories. They are fodder for my fiction.

What fodder has Life given you lately?