More on My Writing Life

On my last post, I left with a teaser. Why would a book inspire me to devote a dozen years to learning a new craft? Because Abigail Trafford told me that I could do anything I wanted in the decades after turning 50. (Actually this works for those who are under 50 but who want to change their lives and follow their dreams.)

 Trafford's thesis is that you can do whatever you want as long as you define that desire. And as long as you have the health and means to accomplish that goal. If you're 55 and want to be an astronaut, probably not going to happen. But if you're 55 and want to start a career, she encourages you to research what it would take to enter that career. She sites an example of an oil woman who went back to school after 55 and became a nurse. My cousin, who has been a psychotherapist for 20 years, decided to finish her doctorate. So, Dr. Vail is now practicing in Vermont. Her significant other went back to school at the same time, and he is now a nurse.

I believed Trafford's message. I knew I wanted to write. I ground out literally thousands of pages, most of them dreadful. Several friends offered books on the craft of writing. Imagine my surprise there was a craft of writing! I devoured the books and began putting much of the information in practice. I ground out more pages, many of them actually better, but not good enough.

I played around with a couple of writing groups in northern Virginia but didn't find one that fit. I tried a writing partner who didn't know much more than I did. That didn't work. Then, I moved to my permanent home at Smith Mountain Lake, found Lake Writers, found Valley Writers in Roanoke, and found writing partners who were not afraid to tell me what I had was all right but needed a lot of work. And so my transformation began.

The Naked Writers, A Critique Group

Most of you know that I'm a member of Valley Writers in Roanoke. We have between 15 and 20 active members. By active, I mean they regularly attend our semimonthly meetings and read poetry, essays, or parts of novels.

Those of us who write long-form works, e.g., novels or memoirs, found it difficult to get enough input on our work without dominating every meeting. That would have led to righteous indignation or a rebellion from the group. To encourage the long-form folks and help them improve their craft, we formed a separate critique group.

Called The Naked Writers, the group meets on a semi-monthly basis, is made up of five people, and travel from house to house for the meetings. Why Naked Writers? It's not because we write in the nude (although that's an idea for spring/summer), but that we bare our souls in our work. And we are silly enough to ask for constructive criticism.

This worked well -- until the bad weather began. We faced a dilemma: give up meeting until spring or use technology. We chose to try technology. We set ourselves on Skype, audio only, no video, hard or soft copy in front of each writer.

With five members, we learned at our first meeting that only two could be critiqued in a single evening. With around 10-12 pages, that's a lot of creativity to explore.

Last night, Skype worked for four of the five members. The fifth had his satellite Internet access die during the afternoon. We thought of him fondly as we ate cheese and crackers and sipped wine.

I was on the hot seat first. I write fiction and asked the group to workshop my second Mad Max novel. Input included grammos and typos (No, a secondary character is not named Sucks. It's Ducks, but it was a funny typo), sloppy transitions, a discussion on why a Brit would say "brilliant" instead of "terrific." Also had a discussion about doormen buildings in NYC. I don't think I'm going to explain why they are so good (you need money to live in one; they are safe for widows, etc.) Our Buck Nekkid Redneck Writer pointed out problems with voice that I hadn't seen.

The second writer is working on an allegory with strong Vietnamese overtones. Part of the problem we all had with his draft was forced use of an Irish dialect. He hates me, because every time the dialect became too strong, I kept calling for Barry Fitzgerald in Bells of St. Mary's. He didn't find it funny, but the only writer I can tolerate who writes in a sustained Irish dialect is Frank McCourt. Alas, my allegorist isn't yet a Frank McCourt.

Next time, the Buck Nekkid Redneck Writer, who writes "redneck" fiction (what else?!), the memoirist, and the YA fantasy writer are up. I know, that's three, but BNRW said his chapter would be short. We'll see. If we are virtual, I don't mind because I don't have an hour drive home after the meeting.

We still need to work out the kinks in using Skype, while at the same time working out how to provide positive criticism without putting everyone in the hot seat. Starting a meeting with a negative image so turns me off.

Wytheville and Fred First

Last Friday, I drove down to Wytheville with a writer friend of mine. It was the 26th annual Wytheville Chautauqua and writing contest. Both my friend and I placed in the essay contest. I was a little concerned about the title of the essay I submitted, "Balls," because I know the sensibilities of some of the people who coordinate the contest. But, since this had nothing to do with testicles and everything to do with juggling the various balls of life, I said, "what the hell" and sent it in. Took honorable mention.

The highlight of the day, of course, was getting to hear Fred First talk about eight years and 1,000,000 (yes, that is one million) words of blogging. Fred started with stray thoughts and images about the place he lives in Floyd County, VA. Very rural, gorgeous, and Fred's own special place. He read an essay from his first book, Slow Road Home, about how he hated canned, embalmed asparagus when he was a child. -- Hate to admit it. I still like canned asparagus, cold with wasabi mayo on a boat-nic. (That's a picnic on a boat.)

Fred's book is a direct result of his blog. He dumped his blog, formatted it for print, and self-published a few years ago. It's a hit and he's a wonderful speaker.

And I scored a promise to come to Roanoke and speak to the Valley Writers in 2011. Maybe I can get him on the same program with Jim Minick, who was also at the Wytheville event. What a day.

Bye Bye to Writer's Block

At last, this attack of writer's block has ended in a burst of near-normal productivity. It started with a small essay for NPR, a brief letter to the editor that was published in the Roanoke Times, two articles as a freelance writer, the start of a short story I am writing with Edna Whittier, a fellow Valley Writer, and a multi-day exchange with another Valley Writer, Keith Martin, on what was wrong with the second chapter of Max 1.

I think I finally figured out what was wrong with that chapter. Three agents commented on the same problem. I'm planning to read the chapter at Valley Writers on Thursday, rather than watch the NCAA National Championship game. Frankly, my dear writers, getting this chapter right is more important than either Texas or Alabama winning the football game.