Vicki Hinze on Writing

 

Effective today, I will be posting my blogs on my website.

My Kitchen Table

      Writing:  art, craft, business and life.  (Also permits access to the Writer’s Library.)

 

Faith Zone

     Spirituality

 

The “Vicki Hinze on Writing” blog articles will be incorporated into the MY KITCHEN TABLE blog.

The website url, should you have link challenges or desire to paste into your browser is: http://www.vickihinze.com

Blessings,

Vicki

P.S. If you’re viewing this via reader, you’ll need to visit the www.vickihinze.com website to view any updates. I apologize for any inconvenience, but I’m paddling as hard as I can, and I just can’t keep up, so I’m having to consolidate where and when possible. Appreciate your understanding. Vicki Hinze www.vickihinze.com  

WARNING:  This is a no-edit zone…

 

Writing is an art.

The artist creates a world, peoples it, and draws readers into that world through the senses so that they might experience the story.

Writers write for as many different reasons as there are types of writing.  Each brings to the artist’s palette his or her universal qualities (human beings, those things most of us consider good and valuable and bad and destructive) and his or her own unique qualities (his or her unique perspective, collective experiences, insights and attitudes, hopes and dreams, likes and dislikes–all the things that are specific to that one writer).

These assets are reflected in the writer’s voice.  And that is the heart of that individual’s art.  It can’t be replicated or duplicated or copied in whole by any other artist.  Another might attempt it, might copy the artist’s style but it can’t be maintained through the novel because no two people will make the exact same choices each and every time a choice is required or made during the course of creating a book.

Remember that when a writer writes, s/he is creating something from nothing.  Everything, even those wherein the writer is basing the novel on actual events, is created.  What I mean by that is the author chooses what to write–the events, the people, the conflicts, the results, where events occur, who is present and why they are present.  The writer chooses what details to reflect, and cues the reader on what those details mean–to the person perceiving them.  To the persons present, informed of them, impacted by them.

The writer manipulates the emotions of the characters and readers’ reactions through choices.  The tone of the scene, the events occurring in them, the reactions infused into the other characters.  It is the writer’s depiction that makes the rest of us fall in love, fear, doubt, feel humbled and/or awed.  It’s the art.

Whether you’re writing literary or commercial fiction, all of the above holds true.  We write because we have something to say that we want others to hear.  The format in which we do so is also a choice.  And regardless of which choice we make, the very moment we choose to sell what we write, we take on a whole new set of choices.  Those have to do with things like reader appeal and marketability.

Some refuse to include those considerations in the crafting of the novel.  Some have learned that including those considerations and crafting the novel around specific marketing expectations greatly enhances their ability to sell the novel once it’s written.

It’s a personal choice for each writer.  How much emphasis is placed on the purity of the art and on the purity of marketability of the art.  A healthy balance can be found in respecting both.  Love the book you write, or change it until you do, but also consider the marketability of what you write when you’re constructing and building your novel.

If you’re writing in genre, you should observe the conventions of the genre.  Otherwise, you violate reader expectations.  No artist wants a disappointed reader.  So the balance is to write a story that you love that respects the genre dictates.  Can you stretch the boundaries?  Yes, you can.  Can you try to expand the current genre by introducing a new element?  Of course.  New sub-genres are formed in these ways.  

Note “sub-genres.”  That means the writer followed the genre dictates but added something new.  That something new didn’t toss out the old.  It added to it.  For example, the paranormal romance.  In 1988, I wrote a book that was what today we’d call a paranormal novel, MAYBE THIS TIME.  In attempting to market the book, I spent more time trying to explain what kind of book it was than I spent pitching the story.  Publishers were resistant.  They had to be.  There was no defined marketing niche for a “Romantic Fantasy” which is how I tagged the book.

Publishers love books.  They love to buy books.  But they can only buy books that they can sell.  It’s a significant fact worth remembering.

Anyway, with no defined market, getting someone to read that book was a challenge.  It took several years to sell it.  Editors read it, liked it, tried to get it approved in committee, and failed.  Four years later, one managed.  Two years after that, the book was released and it did well.  And a few years later, my “romantic fantasy” because part of a new sub-genre, the paranormal romance.  

Today that sub-genre is mentally equated to things like vampires and shapeshifters and ghosts and such.  That book contains none of those things.  It’s a reincarnation theme, which just wasn’t heard of at the time.  So not considering the marketability, while elating from an artist’s perspective, wasn’t a brilliant career move from the marketing perspective.  I knew that when I did it, and elected to do it anyway.

And that’s the point of this article.  I made a deliberate choice to upset the balance between art and marketability that I knew carried bottom line consequences.  I gladly paid them because, frankly, I loved the story more than compensation for it in sales.

When you’re deciding what to write and how to write it, how you resolve the balance between art and the bottom line is wholly your call.  There is no wrong or right answer.  The important thing is to understand that there is a balance and to deliberately choose what it will be in your work.  It’s equally important to know that neither art nor marketability is mutually exclusive.  One need not be forfeited for the sake of the other.  They can function together in harmony.  

Remember, you are artists.  And artists are creative.  If a way exists, use it.  If not, create one…

Blessings,

Vicki

©2008, Vicki Hinze

www.vickihinze.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

©2008, Vicki Hinze

Once, I believed that Writer’s Block did not exist. Sincerely, truly, and—I thought—irrevocably. Then, I woke up.

Actually, that wake-up call came in the form of it being pointed out to me that soldiers who go to war (and people who are in accidents) and lose limbs still feel toes or fingers no longer attached to their bodies itch. Amputated knees ache. Missing arms throb. All long after the physical trauma to the body of losing that limb has passed. These sensations are commonly referred to as “Phantom Pains.”

Doesn’t it stand to reason then that if the physical body can suffer phantom pains that the creative body can as well?

Okay, I conceded. I was wrong. If phantom pains can exist in the physical, and there is in fact harmony and balance in all things—as I believe there is—then logically I have to accept that phantom pains can exist in the creative, emotional state.

That concession made, I firmly chose to deliberately convince my logical mind that writer’s block doesn’t exist. Why? A purely selfish reason, I admit. Because thoughts have power. And if I refuse to believe Writer’s Block exists, then I can’t get it.

Sounds goofy, doesn’t it?

Topically, I agree it does. But who cares how it sounds if it works? And this does work. In ten years, I’ve seen excellent writers agonize with Writer’s Block, and yet I’ve miraculously avoided it. That blessing set me to wondering, Why?

I’ve drawn a few conclusions that, I hope, will help you avoid suffering this debilitating, excruciating, and painful plague.

First and most powerful, I think, is recognizing that thoughts have power. If you “think” you’re blocked, “believe” you’re blocked, you will be. The reason isn’t at all mysterious. Our every thought feeds directly into our subconscious as fact. The subconscious can’t interpret; it takes in everything in a literal sense. It doesn’t interpret and it never forgets. The subconscious can’t differentiate between truth and falsehoods or speculations, or fears voiced, either. So if you think you’re blocked, then take it to the bank, because your subconscious mind will convince your conscious mind that you are blocked, and then you will be.

The solution is to “think” yourself into creative freedom. Believe you can write and write and never run out of words. It’s a simple solution, but its power is complex—and effective.

Sometimes writers feel blocked because they have drained their reserves. Remember, your body needs fuel to run. So does your creativity. When you constantly pour out creativity without refueling and taking in things that feed your creativity, you deplete your reserves and you end up with an empty creative well.

When you dip into an empty well, you can’t draw out water. The well is dry. Same holds true for the creative well. But is this writer’s block? Truly?

The effect is the same, but it’s really only a matter of refilling your creative well, of feeding your creative self.
How do you do that? Read. Read novels, nonfiction books on topics that interest you. Magazine articles, newspaper reports. Watch movies. Listen to conversations, take walks and observe nature. Daydream.

Indulge yourself in fantasies. The more you put into your mind—your well—the deeper well you have to draw from.

Ever wonder what it would be like to be a surgeon? Ask one. Observe a surgical procedure. Watch a heart beat, a liver quiver. It’s truly fascinating. Want to be a judge? Sit in on a court hearing. Get your juices flowing by feeding your interests. That fills your creative well.

Sometimes we feel blocked because we don’t have a clear picture of exactly what we want to say. Do you know the theme of your novel? Can you put it down in concrete terms, in a few sentences? If not, think about it until you can. If you don’t know what you want to say, how can you work a story into saying anything in particular? You can’t. You sit and write and take off on tangents and work hard and harder still and end up with a lot of material that’s not a cohesive whole.

Interpretation? Writer’s Block. But is it?

Not really, though the result is the same. It’s a lack of specific focus, of direction.

Other times, we tumble to a stop because we don’t really understand our characters. We haven’t fully explored these people and so we don’t have a firm grasp on what makes them tick. What do they love, hate, admire, and respect? What do they fear? How are they going to grow and change during the course of the novel? Motivation. Conflict—internal and external—is essential, but so is knowing what makes each character universal and unique.

If you don’t know your characters as well or better than you know yourself, how can you write how they’ll react to a given novel situation? You can’t. And so you stumble to that stop without a clue as to how to proceed. And that is often interpreted as writer’s block.

The solution to work past it: interview these people. Author, Kim Kozlowski, crafted a wonderful character interview that is indispensable. It takes time to complete, because it’s very thorough, and you won’t use all the information you glean in preparing it. But you will know these characters, and you will know what they wouldn’t or wouldn’t do in any given situation. And in interviewing them, they will spur the plot—one that is custom-made to highlight their goals, motivations, and conflicts, and enhance their novel purpose. Result: no more writer’s block.

The same situation with character holds true for plot. Without a clear path on where you’re going in the novel–and what story events you intend to incorporate to take you there, you can write yourself into countless corners, brick walls, dead-ends with no logical way out. And while this too is often interpreted as WB, it isn’t. Not really. It’s a lack of planning. Of knowing how you intend to get from Point A to B. One way to eliminate this situation is to use a plot board.

Do a synopsis, lay out your chapters and scenes. Then check that plot board for all manner of things.

Character growth and development, conflict, motivation, logical succession of events. You can check for logic gaps, natural progression, character consistency. You can check your time line—make sure things are happening in the right order, sequentially. Check your settings to make sure each is compatible with the mood and tone of the scene. You can check essentially all elements of the novel on this board.

In addition to realizing that thoughts hold an enormous amount of power, that creativity must be nurtured and that well refilled to be able to meet demands of putting out, knowing the novel them, the characters and their deepest secrets, fears and desires, and having a plot plan, I think it’s essential that a writer feeling blocked examine the whole. I mean the whole novel, and more. I mean the whole writer.

First look at the novel. Do you love this book? Does it tap into your emotions? Make you want to laugh, cry, choke the living daylights out of something? Does it arouse your passion? If not, change it until it does. If you don’t, then apathy sets in, and you’re setting yourself up for more blocks. And for rejections. You can’t arouse empathy in anyone else if it isn’t put there by you, the writer. If you don’t feel it, how can you stir it in others? So get passionate. Write something that matters to you. If you can’t do that on this novel, then ditch the project. If your passion is aroused, you’ll have plenty to say—and tons of ways to say it. Passion arouses all the nebulous creative juices and they make the work flow.

As a writer, how do you feel about writing this particular book? Are you writing a category novel because you love them, or because you’ve heard that so many of them are published your odds of breaking into publishing are greater by writing one of them? Are you writing your novel because it’s the kind of story you love to read? The kind you’ve always done and changing is too hard, or intimidating?

Writer know thyself. Know why you’re doing this project. And if the reason is anything other than for the joy of it, because you love the story, do yourself a favor. Recognize the odds of it being your best work are shot before you pick up a pen. Why waste your time—this is your life, you know?—working on a project that doesn’t matter to you? Feigned interest and enthusiasm is glaringly apparent, and it’s as offensive as anything else that is hypocritical. You can’t fake it. You have to feel it.

WB is an unforgiving term. It can cause writers a lot of pain and agony. It can have numerous tentacles and each one of them can choke the writer. With each choke, fear and doubt that you’ll ever be able to write again gain strength. But you have the power to work past it. By analyzing each tentacle, writers often find that they’re not blocked at all. They love writing as much as they ever did. They’ve only burned out and not recharged their creative batteries, they’ve forgotten the value of passion, they’ve stepped off the trail and gotten mired in the brush.

Well, get a sickle. Hack through that brush and more often than not you’ll discover you’re truly not blocked, you’re suffering phantom pains. Ones that are rooted in exhaustion, splintered focus, too many demands. In structure, discipline, and definition—lost limbs.

The best news is that once you identify them, you can form a concrete plain of action to combat them, and these limbs can rejuvenate. It takes effort, a little indulgence in spending the time and energy to figure out the root causes of the problem. But when you have, you can rejoice because you’ve worked your way through writer’s block.*

©2003-2008 BY VICKI HINZE 

There are times of uncertainty and doubt in every writer’s life. Times when all the hard work, the frustrations, the efforts, and the isolation inherent to executing the craft seem to narrow to one question in the writer’s mind: Is it worth it?

 

Is it?

 

We give up our hobbies, or limit our time investment in them, to focus more intently on developing our skills. We lower our standards in areas of our lives that we once had adhered to fastidiously. Now, we consider it far more noble to ignore chores in our homes to study, so that we might get past that psychic distance challenge we’re facing in Chapter Three of our current Manuscript-in-Progress. By necessity, we isolate ourselves from those whose company we enjoy–during deadlines, even from our families. We’re confident that our dedication will propel us to success. Our investment is worth it. We will reach our goals.

 

And then something traumatic happens (our publisher ceases operations, our line at the house folds, our editor leaves) and we’re tossed into a pit of despair where investment doubts return with unrelenting vengeance to assault us with that confrontational: Is it worth it?

 

We debate, mull, and consider. Discuss our uncertainties with our families, our peers, our mentors. We weigh and measure and, somehow, we adjust to our new circumstance, then focus on alternatives, on solutions, on new paths to explore. We endure. Our creative selves survive. And we again convince ourselves that we are spending our time wisely–and exactly as we must spend it. We are writers. Writing is worth the physical effort, the emotional investment, the sacrifices it demands. We go on, pursuing our dreams and working toward our goals.

 

As if being rewarded for our persistence, some small success (which seems large to us, due to our need) comes our way and we feel vindicated. The investment was wise, the struggle worth everything it took, and more. Confirmation smells so sweet and brings us such contentment.

 

Until the next time we’re dumped into the pit and doubt assaults us.

 

Then we suffer a focus shift because Is it worth it? now has company. A new question lands on the scene to torment us: When will these doubts stop?

 

Obviously, I can’t answer for everyone. But I can answer for me. My doubts ended on January 8, 1995 at 12:50 p.m. CST: the moment a beautiful writer named Suzanna died.

 

Suzanna exemplified my vision of a heroine. She was clever and courageous and beautiful, inside and out. Her battle with death was a long, hard one that she fought admirably. She inspired smiles, and she radiated strength.

 

In excruciating pain, two days before her death, Suzanna reached out to friends, saying she needed their strength. These friends were a group of writers on GEnie’s Romance Exchange. I was one of them.

 

Most people are uncomfortable with death, and shun it. Writers are not immune to this discomfort, yet we rallied and wrote individual letters to Suzanna. I was very worried about writing this letter. Suzanna had been such a tower of strength throughout her illness. A person who reached out to help others, but rarely asked for anything herself. Now, she desperately needed support, and I didn’t want to fail her. When I sat down at my desk, I knew I would be composing the most important writing of my life, and I wasn’t at all sure I was up to the challenge.

 

I prayed for the right words, for the ability to link them cohesively and clearly, to say precisely what needed saying in the right tone and style to give Suzanna what she hoped to find on the page—strength. I prayed for competence, for the skill to convey a message of sincere support, but not of pity. Suzanna was far too remarkable a person to pity. And I remember being comforted because I wasn’t alone. I knew all my GEnie sisters were composing their letters, suffering these same fears and doubts, praying these same prayers.

 

The decade’s worth of studies and struggles, of time and effort, the wisdom gleaned from my many mistakes, my every trial—all merged inside me, and I wrote the letter. I did not use the word heal nor death—the time was near, we both knew it, and I would never insult Suzanna’s intelligence or the courage she’d displayed by pretending otherwise. Yet I somehow was blessed with not being reduced to falling back on time worn clichés. I reminded Suzanna of all the kindnesses she’d shown others. Told her that she had made a difference. And I wished her peace.

 

Along with those of my GEnie sisters, my letter was read via phone to Suzanna. Within moments, I plunged into the pit of doubt. Had I said the right things? Said them the right way? Was the tone comforting? Would the strength she said she needed be there for her in what I’d written on the page? Again, I feared, but I wasn’t alone. I knew that all my writing sisters were suffering these same doubts about their letters.

 

The next afternoon, I got that most dreaded call. In her husband’s arms, at 12:50 p.m. Central Standard Time, Suzanna had passed away peacefully.

 

Peacefully.

 

My doubt died.

 

While I’ll never know for certain if my letter had any part in bringing about Suzanna’s peaceful passing, I do know that writers rallied and showered her with heartfelt support when she needed it most. And I know that she knew her life had value, that she mattered. I know because I told her. Many of us told her. There’s a great deal of comfort in that.

 

And if I should never write another word, then every moment I’ve spent studying, struggling, and sacrificing to develop my skills still has been time well spent.

 

In the length of one letter, I received indisputable proof that, yes, it is all worth it.

 

The day Suzanna died peacefully.

 

Blessings,

 

Vicki

 

Vicki Hinze

www.vickihinze.com 

 

 

 

 

 

   

“Fearlessness may be a gift but perhaps more precious is the courage acquired through endeavour, courage that comes from cultivating the habit of refusing to let fear dictate one’s actions.”  

                                                                                                                                                                         – Aung San Suu Kyi

 

 

No less than three times in as many days have I had a writer tell me:

 

1.  She was afraid to submit her work because as soon as she did, she’d read a group of things she’d done wrong and wish she hadn’t and she couldn’t be sure she was ready.

 

2.  He hadn’t submitted his work because he didn’t think he could stand getting back a rejection.

 

3.  She submitted her work and then contacted the individual and pulled the submission.

 

 

If as a writer, you’re waiting for a time to come when you don’t see changes you need to make or ones you wish you’d made AFTER the submission, consider your experience an oddity.  Epiphanies have a way of sneaking in and zapping us after the fact.  Recognize that it’s normal and happens more often than not.  Note it and when the opportunity arises, edit and incorporate.

 

As a writer, you continually seek to grow and master your craft.  Because you do, you will encounter this challenge–and if you aren’t, you’re either very, very lucky or you’re not studying craft and continuing to grow.  Warning:  that leads to stagnation, and stagnant things die!

 

I’ve been in this business nineteen years and I don’t think I’ve ever been sure a project was ready to submit.  Yes, I know I love them.  Yes, I do allow them to cool to make sure what I think is conveyed on the page is conveyed on the page.  Yes, I do strive to submit only my best work.  And I have enjoyed many bubbles in the gut that shout, “oh, this is strong.  This really works.”  But to feel that there is nothing–not one word–that could be changed to make the work stronger?  

 

If I ever get there, believe me, I’ll be broadcasting it, so you’ll know.  So far, this has escaped me.  Which is one of the best reasons to solicit outside readers.   It’s true that many projects are submitted too soon–before they’re polished and splendidly shine.  By having a couple others read the work and getting their reactions, you will get a cross-section of responses.  

 

Vary these readers.  One who loves to read this type book.  One who is familiar with the subject matter in the book.  One who is sharp on writing craft and construction and novel structure and characterization and mechanics.  Barter.  I’ll read and comment if you’ll read and comment (with another writer).

 

On rejection.  Understand that if you’re a writer, you will be rejected.  Not you, the person.  Your work.  Accept it and then press on.  I know only two writers who haven’t received–and I mean all during their career no matter how high up on the career ladder they’ve gotten–rejections.  And both have multiple readings and edits before their work is ever submitted.  I know no one who has penned the perfect book.

 

This is why we create and then edit and edit and edit.  We’re striving for the best we’re capable of producing at the time.  Then we have others read and we shove (or smother) our egos, hear and listen to what they have to say.  What we agree best serves the story, we incorporate.  Only what we agree best serves the story do we incorporate.  

 

Often agents ask for revisions.  Then editors suggest revisions.  Then copyeditors ask for more.  Often more than once!  

 

So do strive for perfection, but don’t expect that your perfection is perfect.  Others will see things you miss.  Know things you don’t know.  Catch mistakes that save the book, save your backside, and sometimes they’ll save your hair–spare you from pulling it out by the roots in frustration.

 

Develop rhino hide, understand that revision recommendations are given for a single purpose:  to strengthen the book.  Everyone involved in the process (and no one more than the author) wants the strongest book possible.

 

Rejection might not be about the work, but about what best sells to the readers.  Marketability.  List balance.  Suitability.  House focus and/or direction.  A million other things.  The point:  it’s not about you.  And it might not be about the work.  It might be connected to strengthening the salability of the book.  

 

Writers get rejections.  That’s what happens when they submit, stretch and grow and experiment and make all manner of effort.  This is not a bad thing and it rarely has spit to do with the author so it should never be taken personally.

 

There are times and situations in which a writer pulls a submission.  Shoot, there are times when an author contracts a book and then buys the book back.  But this isn’t something you want to do or something you do without considering all aspects of it and the consequences.  Tread lightly.

 

Remember, first impressions are just that.  One-shot deals.  You don’t get a second chance.  So if you must pull a submission, make sure it’s for an excellent reason and that you don’t make a habit of it.  And be wary of the second-guessing trap.  It’s easy to talk yourself into thinking something is awful and unfit–especially if it’s a purpose-driven novel.  If you must do this, be extremely judicious.  And it goes without saying to do all you can to make sure you’re ready to submit before you do so initially.

 

 

It takes courage to put yourself out there.  If you do so with a realistic view on potential, then you’re in a far better position to cope with the results.  Understand what rejection is and isn’t.  Understand that continued growth nearly promises you’ll have post-submission epiphanies.  And understand that the best way to avoid having to pull a submission is by doing the necessary work and expending the effort before submitting.

 

Blessings,

 

Vicki

 

©2008, Vicki Hinze