Dojo Summer Sessions: I Shall Require Topics

Summer’s drawing to a close, and the winter writing season is very nearly upon us. The Muse is back from wherever she spent her summer vacation. It looks like winter will be coming early. There’s a sharp chill in the night air, and a certain gleam in her eye that says I’m in for it. She also appears to have acquired a new whip. Dear, oh dear.

So I’m furiously loading up on posts before summer ends in order to clear the decks for some marathon fiction writing. I’ll need at least 30 Dojo posts fired up and ready to go in advance. I’ve got about half that nearing completion, and I’m running a bit low on ideas.

Topics. I require topics. What haven’t I covered in the Dojo that you’d like to see covered? Pepper me with questions about all things writing, whether fiction or blogging. Tell me what you struggle with. Are there contentious issues in the wordsmithing world you’d like to see me tackle with nothing more than my wits and perhaps a rock hammer? Get them to me. If you don’t want to go public, you can always find dhunterauthor at yahoo. DM me on Twitter. Drop me a line on Google+, only you’d better do that before October, because I’ve plans to abandon it willy-nilly if it continues to be evil. You can even find me on Facebook: although I tend to neglect that place shamefully, they always notify me by email when something gets messaged or posted.

Right, then. Fire away.

Dojo Summer Sessions: I Shall Require Topics
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Dojo Summer Sessions: The Writer's Gut

My heart sister says important things about writing. And you may say to yourself, “Well, of course, Dana would think so – Nicole’s the sister she never had.” That’s true. Yes, I am partial. But there’s also another factor: Nicole writes for a living, so when she says things about writing, these important things, it behooves an aspiring author to listen for reasons beyond the fact Dana loves and trusts her.

She had this to say just recently:

I have to trust myself as I write these stories. I have feelings about which stories will work and which should probably be included only in my journal. And I have those feelings for a reason. My writer’s gut is telling me which direction to go. I just have to trust it.

As writers, it’s sometimes easy to trust other people’s opinions more than our own. After all, writers are seeking approval of fellow writers, agents and publishers and, ultimately, readers. We want to know that what we’re doing is going to be read and enjoyed by people.

But only you know the best way to do your characters justice. Only you know how to write your stories. You have to trust yourself.

She’s right. She’s right about all of it. And those last lines, particularly, are ones that are now burned into my writer’s soul and will not let go, because they are true, and I sometimes need to hear them stated that starkly so that I am reminded of the truth.

But what did I get hung up on? The “writer’s gut.” What is that? What is this “writer’s gut”? Why should I trust it?

I’m not one much for talk of instinct and intuition anymore. I used to be. Then I started hanging round with scientists, who subject their “gut instinct” to rigorous testing. They’re so often wrong, these intuitions, these leaps. The writer’s gut, you see, is an instinct. It’s an intuition. Why should we trust it?

Because those instincts and intuitions are hard-won, my friends. They only happen after we’ve worked ourselves bloody, after we’ve been writing for a long time. The writer’s gut is different from that first flush of creativity, that alluring idea, that wild self-confidence you feel before you’ve actually picked up a pen and run up against harsh reality. The writer’s gut is developed only after years, perhaps decades, of hard, lonely work.

It’s your subconscious writer’s mind, the one you acquired after a billion failed drafts and some writing classes and/or workshops and reading countless books on writing and blogs on writing, the one that listened to and absorbed what the experts (i.e., successful authors you worshipped) told you about how to write, watching the story unfold and clearing its throat meaningfully on occasion.

It plugs you in to a high-voltage current and gives you the buzz of your life when you’re on to something, when you’re working with an idea that will lead to a fantastic story. It takes your brain and gives it a good hard wrench when you’ve hared off in the wrong damned direction. It can’t always articulate what’s wrong and what’s right. But if you listen just right, you can tell what it means. And when you’ve learnt to listen to it, it can keep you on a path that everybody says you shouldn’t take but turns out to be the right one in the end. It can steer you round stumbling blocks. It can tell you when you’ve gone badly astray and must backtrack rather than stumble stubbornly ahead.

Is it wrong? I’m sure it sometimes is. But if you’ve honed it, you can trust it most of the time.

I don’t actually think of it as my “writer’s gut.” I think of it as the story. The story knows better than I do. It always does. It knows what it wants and needs. It knows if I’m the right writer for it. I’ve got a hard drive full of story ideas, amazing ideas, wonderful ideas that would make fabulous stories, but I know I can’t write them. My writer’s gut tells me they’re not my stories. Perhaps someday I’ll be able to give them free to a good home. They should have adoption centers for abandoned story ideas. But there are ideas that look up at me with those big, soulful eyes, and wriggle just a little, and I know they’re mine. I know, even if they look ridiculous to other people at first, that I can help them grow into something sleek and beautiful and enchanting. There are stories that are mine to tell, and I recognize them now. They make it easier to regretfully pass the other stories by, leave them for another.

My writer’s gut also knows when I’ve gotten ahead of myself. It knows when a story idea is mine, but I’m not ready for it yet. Then it slows me down to a gentle halt, directs me to do some more work before coming back to that story. I’m manifestly not ready now for some of the ideas I have got. There are plenty of others to work with in the mean time. My writer’s gut tells me that this is fine. All of my stories will be better served in the end by writing the ones I’m prepared for first. There are stories I told ten years ago I couldn’t tell now, and stories I’m telling now I couldn’t have told ten years ago. And eventually, with work and care, they’ll be drawn together into a body of work, whole and complete, and ready to make their own way in the world.

You may wonder why I haven’t tried publishing those stories. My writer’s gut again. It tells me to wait, just now. I write out of order. After long consultation with my writer’s gut, it’s been determined that this is the proper way for me to write, but not to publish. That’s fine. Stories are patient. These stories will be just fine waiting a few more years until their siblings are ready to join them in that grand adventure that is finding an audience.

I can hear the publish-or-perish crowd howling in protest just now, but they shan’t overrule my writer’s gut. Theirs tells them to push their work out in the world, and they are right – for those works. Not these. I used to beat myself up over not being like them. No more. No, I’ve learned to listen to that instinct that’s telling me it’s all right to wait until the stories are ready. Not forever. Not until they’re perfect, because nothing ever is, but until they are as right as they need to be.

The thing about this writer’s gut is, you know your stories better than anyone else possibly can. You live them. They are inside you. And that’s what gives you the instincts you have got. Instinct is just a word for something you know so well you can’t articulate it. But it’s not that silly intuition that’s no better than tossing divining sticks or a pair of gaming dice. It’s that intuition that comes from knowing something very, very well.

So, yes, when you’ve lived with your stories long enough to know them more intimately than you’ve ever known a lover, emblazon these words upon your wall, so that you will never forget them:

But only you know the best way to do your characters justice. Only you know how to write your stories. You have to trust yourself.

And then, write.

Dojo Summer Sessions: The Writer's Gut

Dojo Summer Sessions: The Writer's Rituals

I think most of us who write, no matter how skeptical or non-superstitious we are, have our little rituals to summon the Muse (not that the wretched entity comes when called). Consider this an invitation to regale us with yours.

I’m not picky when it comes to blogging. I’ve done it in my PJs, but usually sans Cheetos, thus not fully confirming stereotypes. Something arises I wish to pontificate upon, and so pontification occurs. I can blog any time of day or night, in a variety of settings, in various stages of dress or un, with or without prior preparation depending on the subject.

But fiction, that’s a different beast. I’ve successfully written a few times in places outside my home, but that’s a rare thing. Generally speaking, in order to summon the storytelling, I have to be ensconced in my comfy chair in my living room, within sight of my Yoshitaka Amano prints of Morpheus. I must be fully dressed. I’ve never felt comfortable writing fiction in my jammies, although I’ve managed it a few times when the Muse has rousted me out of bed. I must have music playing, and the music must be agreeable to the characters I’m writing. I’ve gotten involved with quite a lot of musical genres I had no use for simply because a particular character required them. Strange, perhaps, but there it is.

Some stories require a clean house. Some require sobriety, some a nice mixed drink. It’s nice to know these things in advance so that writing can commence.

There must be darkness. I have a terrible time writing in daylight, which is why Seattle winters are such a compliment to my writing and its summers make it nearly impossible. That’s fine. A writer needs to get out occasionally, experience life in order to create lifelike worlds, so I just use the summer to accomplish that feat.

I have a special hand soap I use, a very deep floral scent that washes away all traces of the day. I plug in a nice jasmine scented oil. Scent is an important component of emotional states, as science has proved, and those particular scents signal my brain that it’s time to shake off the remains of the day and get on with the real work.

Some stories are helped along by particular shows or movies, even if they aren’t the same genre or atmosphere as what I’m writing. So I might spend an hour or two watching one, before the real work starts. Then, shot full of adrenaline, I have one final preparatory smoke out on the porch, look at the stars (if the Seattle skies have obliged), and sit me down in the chair to invite further forays into the realm of Carpal Tunnel Syndrome.

It may sound a bit complicated and unnecessary. To non-writers, it probably smacks of madness. But there you are: without at least a handful of those rituals, I sit staring at a blank screen, and words too often refuse to come. I’m sure neuroscience will one day be able to calmly and dispassionately explain all in great detail. It might even come up with ways to persuade the Muse to work even on nights when the rituals have failed, and the brain remains as stubbornly blank as the screen. Until that day, I just stick with what’s worked so far, like a pigeon performing a crazy little dance in the belief that this is what makes the food appear.

Creativity is a weird and wonderful thing, innit it?

Dojo Summer Sessions: The Writer's Rituals

Dojo Summer Sessions: Connie Willis on Comedy, Tragedy, and Getting Married via LOTR

Comatose from traveling, I’m afraid. However, I have Connie Willis here to delight, surprise, and teach you. She’s one of the best SF authors in existence. Also, funny and surprising. Watch!

Don’t miss this next one for sheer geeky hilarity. Lord of the Rings has changed a lot of people’s lives, but I don’t think any of us knew quite how powerful it truly is.

Dojo Summer Sessions: Connie Willis on Comedy, Tragedy, and Getting Married via LOTR

Dojo Summer Sessions: The Pleasures of Longhand

I’ve just spent the past two nights taking notes longhand from various books and websites. I’ve got notebooks full of such scribblings, deep black ink on white paper, handwriting that changes according to mood, caffeine levels, and whether or not the cat wanted attention. It’s a dramatically inefficient way to take notes: using a pen takes far longer than typing. I can’t shuffle things about in various folders on the desktop; I can’t do keyword searches. So why, in this digital age, would anyone choose a pen and put it to paper?

I can’t answer for other writers, but I know the answers for myself. It forces me to slow down, pay attention to each word and phrase, rather than skim. When one is struggling to learn alone, to draw disparate bits together and forge them into a coherent whole, make sense of things barely understood, slowing down to that degree is immensely helpful. I’ve read one of the sections I took notes from several times, but it wasn’t until I started copying out the sentences that their meaning became clear. Things began to make sense. What I saw on the page began merging with what I’d seen in the field. And when I add to those notes ones taken from other sources, and can then read them as a unit, matters become even more clear.

I notice things and question things I wouldn’t have paid attention to otherwise. In one of the books I’m mining, the authors keep mentioning radioactive dates. Fine, yes, I know how that works, how ages are determined by the decay of radioactive minerals – but which ones? Was this potassium-argon, uranium-lead, something else? Taking notes longhand, walking the slow road, keeps me from missing such subtle omissions, and alerts me to where the gaps in my knowledge are. Not merely the great gaping chasms, mind, but the little cracks. And that prompts me to pay attention when something comes along to fill those cracks in later readings.

There’s also the aesthetic sense. There’s something sensual about writing longhand. I can feel the words in a way I can’t when I’m typing. Forming each letter is a kind of art. The physicality of it, the inability to erase mistakes without a trace, the gleam of fresh wet ink, brings me as close as I’ll ever get to more visual arts like painting. It satisfies the need to create something more like a drawing. And trust me when I say you’d much prefer I fulfill that desire in this way: my drawing skillz are teh suck.

Copying out longhand also puts me closer to other writers. I’m not just reading what they’ve written, but feeling it. I start to notice little quirks each author has, particular habits of word choice, signature turns of phrase. Even the strictest formal prose has an individual mind behind it. When you’re merely reading, or cutting and pasting blocks of text, or scribbling out a key concept or two, it’s easy to miss those subtleties. Not when you’re copying out each sentence word-for-word by hand. At this point, I can just about write a dissertation on David Alt and Donald Hyndman’s quirks. That kind of thing can be extremely useful to a writer. Getting a feel for how different writers employ language in prose helps you develop a style of your own. It’s another way of learning the good tricks that turn you from apprentice to master wordsmith.

And then there’s the purely practical matter of having all of these various bits and pieces collected in one place, in a form that fits easily on the arm of a chair, where they can be referenced without having to switch screens. And those notes stay collected, easy to refer back to for future missives on similar areas or issues.

Some idle thoughts have tickled my mind while I’ve been doing this. I wonder if kids a few years from now, with their pad devices, will find people like me hopelessly anachronistic. As I form the letters in my own personal mix of cursive and print, I wonder how much longer it would take to write longhand if one had never learned cursive at all, and whether anyone aside from specialists will be able to read cursive letters in the future. I wonder if any pad device with a stylus will ever allow me to do this longhand writing electronically, and convert my scribbles into nice clean lines, and if it would feel as right as this pen gliding across this paper. I wonder if I can ever train a cheap optical character reader to read my handwriting so that the next time I move, my entire collection will fit on a corner of a hard drive rather than taking up several boxes, and so that I can actually organize this crap. I mean, yes, I could scan it, but if I’m going to go that far, I want a program that will turn my notes into things I can search and manipulate, not merely stare at as one monolithic ensemble on the screen. I’d like it turned into neat and clean Times New Roman.

The way technology’s going, there’s probably something already out there, but I haven’t bothered looking for it. I’m enjoying my old-fashioned dead-tree-and-ink methods too much right at the moment. That stack of notebooks beside my chair is a nice physical reminder that yes, I’ve been working me arse off. And the cat likes them. All reasons enough, I should think, to keep on despite the glaring inefficiencies.

Dojo Summer Sessions: The Pleasures of Longhand

Dojo Summer Sessions: Taking Stock, Going With the Flow

Here’s a post I think all writers should read. It’s got important concepts and questions we need to keep in mind if we wish to succeed. It takes the economic concept of stock and flow and turns it into a metaphor for writing:

But I actually think stock and flow is the master metaphor for media today. Here’s what I mean:
  • Flow is the feed. It’s the posts and the tweets. It’s the stream of daily and sub-daily updates that remind people that you exist.
  • Stock is the durable stuff. It’s the content you produce that’s as interesting in two months (or two years) as it is today. It’s what people discover via search. It’s what spreads slowly but surely, building fans over time.
I feel like flow is ascendant these days, for obvious reasons—but we neglect stock at our own peril. I mean that both in terms of the health of an audience and, like, the health of a soul. Flow is a treadmill, and you can’t spend all of your time running on the treadmill. Well, you can. But then one day you’ll get off and look around and go: Oh man. I’ve got nothing here.
But I’m not saying you should ignore flow! No: this is no time to hole up and work in isolation, emerging after long months or years with your perfectly-polished opus. Everybody will go: huh? Who are you? And even if they don’t—even if your exquisitely-carved marble statue of Boba Fett is the talk of the tumblrs for two whole days—if you don’t have flow to plug your new fans into, you’re suffering a huge (here it is!) opportunity cost. You’ll have to find them all again next time you emerge from your cave.

Now, seriously, go read the whole thing. Then you can come back here and continue the discussion. I’ll wait. I’ll even put the rest below a fold so you’re motivated.

That post has stayed with me for some time, now. Very useful stuff.

There’s another aspect of flow, too, that may have been outside the scope of that post, but which I think is important enough for us to jibber-jabber about. And it’s this: flow isn’t only about keeping yourself in front of people. It’s also about inspiration and knowledge. It’s about staying connected to a community that can help you write.

My Twitter stream went from a begrudged necessity for keeping up with Erik Klemetti’s migrations to most valuable resource ever. I’m drinking from a firehose of wisdom. The folks I follow constantly post links to things that make my writing brain go “Oooo I could use that!” If I get stuck, there’s someone around who can unstick me. If I have questions, I can get answers, or get pointed in the right direction. If I run out of motivation, I can ask for a righteous prod to the arse.

My blog keeps me writing even when I haven’t got any desire to write. It provides me readers, Wise ones, who will upon request tear apart anything that needs tearing down in order to be built back up. And it’s a huge motivator: I can see people are reading what I write. I can see my words matter to them. When I fall prey to doubt and despair, the readers of this blog are there to remind me that no, really, I’m a good writer and I can write things people enjoy reading.

If I neglected flow to invest all my time in stock, I’d have none of those things. And it’s possible, although not likely, I’d give up the lonely enterprise of putting one word after another, stop courting carpal tunnel syndrome, and wander off to do something else. What, I don’t know, because without flow, who would I share all the lovely adventures with? Most of my meatspace friends get sick of me showing them pretty rocks after the first dozen.

As in all things, the trick is finding the right balance. The right mix in ye olde portfolio, if we wish to continue the economic metaphor. There are times when flow threatens to take over completely. There are others when stock is nearly all. But that’s okay. I can put a lot of stock in stock while going with the flow, and being kept constantly busy means less time staring in despair at a stubbornly blank screen.

So them’s my thoughts. The floor is now yours, my darlings, and it’s not just a writer’s forum: most of you here have stock (your work) and flow (your Twitter et al). How has each fed the other for you?

Dojo Summer Sessions: Taking Stock, Going With the Flow

Maligned Minerals and Serpentinite in Sun

Sunlight in Seattle has been hard to come by, and my poor beautiful chunk of serpentinite has been languishing in the house, unable to show off its colors. But the clouds cleared this afternoon, so I schlepped her out to the porch poste haste. Just look at her:



Hard to believe California tried to dethrone her as the state rock, isn’t it? In a way, I’m glad. When a clueless legislator slipped in language that would’ve nixed the category of state rock entirely, all because some people had no bloody clue where asbestos actually comes from, what it really is, or the fact that for it to do you any damage in its natural state, you’d have to crush and inhale it for years, the geologists went on the warpath. As a happy result, we got tons of excellent posts defending serpentinite, collected with an intense introduction by Silver Fox.

How could you not defend something this beautiful?



And special. You see, serpentinite isn’t just another pretty rock: it’s got a hell of a lot to say about plate tectonics. Read this gorgeous ode to the stone by Chris Rowan and this fact sheet by Brian Romans for its geologic and human history.



Do you see how her appearance changes as I turn her? Some rocks seem the same from every angle, but not this one. She reveals a different texture, a new bit of fascination, with every angle. No wonder Andrew Alden adores serpentinite.



I find myself adoring everything about her: her colors, her history, even her name. Serpentine. The name for her family of minerals comes from Latin: serpentinus, serpent rock. The smooth, sleek greens that sometimes form scale-like patterns do look like a serpent’s skin. And I’ve got a soft spot for serpents, after having done research on serpent mythology for a story I wrote. Those who limit themselves to Christian mythology are really missing out: serpent stories are cool. Serpents in many cultures were wise and wonderful, guardians of knowledge, and those are suitable myths for a rock that reveals so much about how our oceans open and our mountains rise.



For paens to her, you can read Garry Hayes’s series of posts celebrating and defending her. You’ll find that she’s more than just a stone with stories: some very unique life depends on her.

Get close to her.



Look in to her blues and greens, her faint traces of red. Look at her patterns. These next two photos will link you to Flickr, where you can enlarge her, explore her, and even download her if you wish.





And then, for a truly wild trip through texture, read Callan Bentley’s post on serpentinite and mélange. If you don’t start drooling, I’ll know you have no concept of beauty.

If California attempts to malign her again, I swear I’m filching her for the Washington state rock. We haven’t got one. How sad is that? All this glorious geology, and we haven’t got a state rock. Something in my soul is deeply offended. Luckily, I have this glorious chunk of serpentinite to cling to for some comfort.

And for those who want a little world serpent with their serpentinite, I’ve included an excerpt from that story below the fold.


This is from a story in which the Eternal Tarlah, masquerading as a human calling himself Anysos in 5th century BC Ashkelon, finds a hint that a fragment of one of his former allies still exists, and goes in search of him. He finds him in the guise of Níðhöggr, the Norse dragon (in some legends, serpent) who gnaws at the roots of the world tree Yggsdrasil. He takes on a Hebrew name in this discussion.


If this bit leaves you wanting the whole, I shall post it for you on ye olde writing blog. Those without access have only to ask, and they shall receive.

“Nahash, the serpent? Are you the same serpent they reviled in Israel?”

“They react rather violently to a little knowledge, don’t they?” Nahash grinned. “Imagine what they would have done had I been able to finish the business and give the woman wisdom as well. Of course, they say life, but those with wisdom know that wisdom and immortality are the same.” He patted the Tree. “I’ve given that gift of mine to many, some who appreciated it and some who didn’t. I’ve created many gods here, some who even turned on me later, thinking to keep wisdom for themselves. Which will you be?”

“None,” Anysos said. “I came to learn the truth of you. I have no need for your other gifts.”

“So it’s not fear that keeps you from tasting my fruit?”

“I have never feared you, Nahash. Not you, and not your gifts.”

Nahash took his hand from the Tree. “Well, then. The truth. Not many come here seeking that, at least, not that they’re aware of. They get a bit of it anyway, pity for them. The truth? The truth is, like you, I have many names. I was once Ningizzida, Lord of the Tree of Truth, and the Sumerians came to my garden without fear, without guilt, and with a healthy measure of respect. Perhaps too healthy: they respected me too much to partake too freely of my gifts. So things are.” He twined his arms around the trunk of the Tree, staring up into its higher branches. “In Egypt, Isis sent me to retrieve knowledge from Ra. Devious woman, that, stealing a man’s secrets. Thoth carried my symbol, and they worshipped him as knowledge. Such I was in Egypt, among other things.”

He unwound his arms, and spread them wide. “I am Shesha, the serpent bed of sleeping Vishnu, as he dreams the world. I once loosened the great mountain Mandara, and became Vasuki: they wrapped me around the mountain, and we used it as a churn for the milk of the heavens to make Soma, which some drank for immortality but the best used for wisdom.” He spun himself side-to-side, drew his arms in, and stopped. “We drank deep, in those days. We lost the making of Soma, but they still remember and honor me there in India. In fact, it was beneath this tree-” He slapped the trunk, and it became a Bo tree – “that Siddhartha sat those seven weeks, eating of my fruit and drinking of my waters. As Muchalinda, I spread wide my hood and guarded the future Buddha from the storm. Those are some of the places I was revered. There are others, older, before the coming of the heroes, that I was wife and mother, daughter and consort, the dark earth and the mystery. But they have mostly forgotten me as such. Go to some in Lydia, they will tell you of me: they still see me as the woman. Talk to others, and they will show you I bite my tail. I am the Ouroboros, circling the world, eternal.”

Anysos felt a shiver, deep in his mind. “You were, and are.”

“Of course. So what is Yahweh’s jealousy to me? He forbade mankind my fruits, and yet they still find their way to me, some in guilt, some in awe. And there are aspects of me even in Yahweh, much as they try to deny it.” He raised his fists to either side and shook them. “Heracles denied me – wisdom was his mortal enemy – but the snake goddess of Crete brandished me in either hand, and welcomed me. What does it matter, then, that Apollo cast me out of my oracle? Let him believe it’s his – the Pythoness could tell him otherwise.” He flung his hands at the ground. “They even sent Chronos against me: I let him cast me into the sea and take my crown. They hoped Time would defeat me, but what is Time to the eternal?”

-Excerpt copyright Dana Hunter. All rights reserved.

Maligned Minerals and Serpentinite in Sun

Dojo Summer Sessions: What To Do When the Muse Is On Vacation

I think my Muse has headed south for the summer.  The wretched dominatrix has this infuriating habit of vanishing about the time I need her most, and I get the impression she’s in one of those Mexican hotels that’s got a bar in its pool and a nice view of the Sea of Cortez, drunk off her ass and laughing at me.

Where My Muse probably is right now

So here I am, left behind, doing the dirty work of cleaning the house and feeding the cat and working ye olde day job, with nary a useful literary thought in my head.  Staring at the blank page results in tension headaches and perpetually blank pages.  Attempts at research end early and badly, as an overwhelming sense of, “WTF was I thinking?  I can’t do this any justice!” destroys any bits learned.  And it just seems so much easier to give up, go laze about in the sun and do my damnedest to imitate my cat (sans random attempts at homicide).

Almost every writer goes through these phases.  Your Muse, in fact, may be partying it up with mine right now.  And they’re not physical entities, so we can’t exactly hop a plane to Mexico (don’t we wish!) and haul them back by their scruffs.

What to do?

Well, for one thing, have a blog that you must regularly update.  Because then, it won’t matter how uninspired you are – you have to post something because you have readers, and your readers expect you to write.  Even if you only have one reader, that’s still a reader.  Don’t let that reader be all understanding about your inability to provide content.  Advise them when they try that, “It’s okay, I understand you’re not feeling up to it, blog when you’re ready” shit that it’s not acceptable.  They’re supposed to be your cattle prod, not your enabler.  So even if they think it’s okay for you to slack off, ask them to lie to you and say that it is not.  This will force you to come up with some words.

Do some reading while you’re stuck.  Or watch a movie, or go for a walk, or hang out with friends, or take in a lecture, or just about anything, really.  Walk away from the blank screen and get some life experience.  Do those things you’re not allowed to do when the Muse is standing over you with a whip.  Those things will, eventually, feed back in to your writing, and might just spark a little something.

Do something completely random and new, that you have not done before, while you’re at it.  Novelty may not always be pleasant, but it can shake loose some creativity.

Do creative things other than writing.  Edit photos, play with collages, build models, sew, paint, make music, whatever.  I’ve gotten myself through some dry spells by doing that.  It takes the pressure off the writing side of your creativity so it can recover, while still building your creative muscle.

Make a little list.  Break out the things you must write or do in order to write into manageable chunks, and do them.  Force yourself to spend an hour working on said task, no matter how badly you feel you’re doing it.  Then walk away and do something else.  Come back and take on the next thing on the list (or just pick the next thing that looks doable, no matter what order it’s in).  Lather, rinse, repeat, until hey presto – you’ve done some writing!

Organize your shit.  If you’re one of those writers who lets things get chaotic, now’s a good time to put your writing house in order.

Read up on the bidness.  Plenty of blogs and books out there that talk about everything from the nuts-and-bolts of storytelling to finding agents (if you’re going the traditional route) to self-publishing to marketing and all points in between.  If you ever want to make a living writing, you’ve got to keep up with the business side of things.  During a bout of writer’s block is as good a time as any, even if you feel you’ll never ever write a worthwhile word again (you will).

And if you have to, if nothing’s working, go do one of those writing exercises that are so often plastered all over popular how-to-write sites.

The Muses will return from Mexico.  Eventually.  And now you’ll have at least a handful of pages to wave in their faces and scream, “While you’ve been drinking yourself into oblivion in the hotel pool, some of us have been working!”

That’s always rewarding.

Dojo Summer Sessions: What To Do When the Muse Is On Vacation

Dojo Summer Sessions: Freedom to Explore

Some of you in the audience are probably quite a bit like me: mildly OCD.  We build up habits and concepts that are terribly difficult to change.

Here’s how bad I am: I cannot use any other program than Microsoft Works to write books.  I know there are people out there who use and love Word, or use it and hate it but use it because it’s the program everybody uses.  But I got my start with Works, and nearly had a breakdown when I got my new computer and had a horrible moment thinking that my old copy of Works, the one without the bells and whistles that made it look like that horrible icky Word, would not install properly.

It’s not that Works is a fantastic program.  It’s not bad, but it’s no great shakes.  It’s just that it’s what was on my first computer.  We’ve spent a lot of years together.  I’ve got it organized just so.  I know its foibles and how to deal with them.  I’m not distracted by the way it looks or acts.  It allows me to sit down and simply write.  Everything else I looked at didn’t have enough advantages to outweigh the fact that it looks weird compared to Works.  Because of all that, I’ve been extremely reluctant to try anything else.

Same thing with ebook publishing.  Fine for them as wants it, I told myself, but my magnum opuses and I are going the tried-and-true route.  We’re gonna write the book (eventually), then we’re gonna find an agent, and someday a publisher, and it’ll be just like we’ve always dreamed.  Unless, of course, something breaks down along the way, i.e., every agent and/or publisher hates it.

But this year’s different.  This year, I’m doing something I’ve never done before: writing a non-fiction book.  And I decided, seeing as how I’ve never written a non-fiction book before, I might as well branch out a bit.  It’s new enough I can use it to play around with other ways of doing things.  For a start, I don’t plan to shop it out to any agents or publishers.  No, we’re going to try this new-fangled self-published ebook thingy.  Because, frankly, I think it might suit me.  However, I refuse to use my magnum opus to beta test this crazy idea, because it’s too precious to me to potentially fuck up.  My lovely Lingua Lithica is also important, but we haven’t spent the last ten or twenty years with each other.  If something goes horribly awry, it’s okay.  The situation can be rescued without seeing my entire writing life burnt to ashes.

That’s a very freeing thing.  That makes my writerly OCD slink off and sulk in a corner.

And then my coblogger Steamforged told me that Scrivener’s now available in a beta version for Windows.  I’d heard of it through Ed Yong and other professional writers who sing its praises to the highest heavens, and I’d wanted to try it, but there was no way I was going to drop a few thousand dollars on a Mac just to give it a spin.  But a beta version for Windows?  Sign me up!  I’ve never beta tested anything in my life, and I’d never ever ever put my magnum opus into a beta version of a program, but Lingua Lithica won’t mind the risks.  So I’ve downloaded Scrivener, and aside from not knowing what the hell I’m doing and its distressing tendency to crash every few minutes when I’m editing a line of Japanese text, I love it.  So what if it’s got some weird foibles and it’s completely unfamiliar?  It’s beta.  So is Lingua Lithica.  By the end of this little experiment, the full version will be out, writing Lingua Lithica in it will have given me the confidence to dump my magnum opus in and continue on with a far superior writing program, and things should be all unicorns and rainbows, with a possibility of champagne and roses.  Unless it’s not, in which case we’ll have an amicable divorce.

The point is this: a project completely outside your usual fare is not only a good way to build up your writing muscles, but an excellent way to give yourself some freedom to explore.  You go into the thing knowing it’s an experiment and knowing it might fail, and so the stress level is quite low.  It gives you the chance to try all those things you’ve wanted to try but couldn’t because you are, when it comes to your precious baby of a writing project, too risk-averse to so much as step a toe outside of your well-worn rut.

You may never want to, and that’s okay.  As my coblogger told me when I shame-facedly admitted to still using Works, “Also, it’s not silly to use old stuff if it’s what you know and what works.  Even when upgrading to a ‘better’ program, it takes time to adjust to the new workflow and design of it, and that’s time spent not writing!”  Well, exactly.  So not experimenting with an established project is perfectly valid, and like she said, it’s not silly to use your old stuff.  But when you’ve got a brand-new type of project that’s an experiment to begin with, and you’re going to be adjusting to a new workflow anyway, you’ll never have a better opportunity to say, “Oh, what the hell,” and download something potentially better.
 

Dojo Summer Sessions: Freedom to Explore