Tweak it, Turn it, Repackage and Resell

Whatever you've written, it's been done before.

I know it's cynical, but it's a part of the process. At some point, you have to accept that someone, somewhere, at some point in history, has already written this basic story.

And that's good.

I used to get so frustrated with my story ideas because I always knew what my influences were. A story I read here, a TV show or movie, a poem. Someone's random statement. I knew that my ideas were in no way original. Until recently, that was a huge irritation for me. That and forgetting stupid common words and having to dredge the thesaurus until they reemerged.

Here's the deal. We like familiar things. We like stories that follow familiar patterns because it reinforces a sense of community. Other people have had similar experiences and have survived and turned out relatively ok. Or, they follow understood paths to predetermined ends, and we just like watching the progress unfold.

What we really like, though, is when we get knocked sideways in the midst of the familiar. The plot twist. The reinterpretation. The change of perspective.

Like Hamlet from the perspective of Rosencrantz and Gildenstern. Red Riding Hood told as a mystery. Fairy tales where the princess has to rescue the inept prince. Well-worn paths, reimagined. Stories that play off what we already know and take for granted. Twisted tropes. Fractured Fairy Tales.

The other night, I read a story by Lovecraft ("The Outsider," in case you're curious) that got my little hamster wheels creaking. Lovecraft's stories are out there. People are ghastly or see ghastly things or get swept up into demonic events that reduce them to quivering masses (or sometimes free them). We don't have experiences like that. But we do have experiences that parallel them in more mundane ways. Instead of climbing out from under the canopy of an eternally dark forest, we climb out from under depression. Or grief. Instead of being so physically abhorrent that people run scared from us, we have emotional and psychological scars and gashes that drive people away. Outwardly normal, inwardly putrid. Like Dorian Grey.

A story began to glimmer through all this introspection. Not a Lovecraftian gothic horror, but a more mundane tale of discovering how your circumstances can disfigure you socially and emotionally.

Lovecraft uses the word "nepenthe" in "The Outsider," which automatically makes me think of "Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" from Poe's "The Raven."

What if Lenore didn't die? What if Lenore was "lost" in another way? And what kind of "nepenthe" would she take to forget her lost self? What would that do to those around her?

What if...I take the basic plot of "The Outsiders" to explore poor Lost Lenore? Hmm...

Lots of ideas, lots of influences. But the story is mine. It's not glittering new, but it's different. And that's the important part. It's mine.

Critiques

I sent part of my YA story to a friend, Cody, who sent it back to me bleeding and trembling. Poor thing. It hid behind the fridge and I had to let it rest for a few days before it would let me near it again. Even today it whimpers a little when I mention Cody's name.

Cody has asked me to copyedit his short story collection. And I've realized something important that might help me win back the love and trust of my story. I like my friend's writing style. It's raw and kind of painful. He doesn't hold back, and has a tendency to tackle painful topics. He's a good writer. I don't like everything he does, but he doesn't like everything I do, either.

That's what is so liberating about sharing with other writers. We can respect each other's style and choice of topics, but we don't have to agree with each other's critiques. After reading a few comments about my word choice, I got a little...disheartened. I have a tendency to reuse words a few times in paragraphs, something that Cody doesn't like. So I turned to one of my favorite authors, Neil Gaiman, to see how he does it. Know what I found?

Gaiman does it, too. He reuses words multiple times within the same paragraph. And it doesn't really stunt his style.

I'm in no way suggesting that I'm as good as Gaiman. But if he repeats words, I don't feel too bad. And I'm hoping I can coax my little story back into the light. Without whimpering.

Breaking Through

I haven’t finished a story in over a decade.

Not a gleaming start for a writing blogger. Blog entries, I have plenty. But finished short stories? Nada. Novels? Zilch. So I started asking myself why.

Part of it is the Red Dot syndrome I talked about before, but there’s something deeper and more insidious. It’s good old fear.

As any student of great literature, I’ve read some amazing stuff. Stories that altered my view of the world. Writing styles that made my mind fizz like the foam of a fresh soda. Books that I’ve read over and over for the simple joy of getting lost in them. One I reread immediately after finishing it the first time round. Books that made me wonder how the author lives with all those dazzling fireworks careening around in his or her head. Characters that I mourned like close friends. And some whose demise caused heartfelt cheering.

And then I look at my own writing.

Stunted, shallow, formulaic swill. Why do I even try?

It’s not that bad. But compared to (insert name of literary genius here), it’s less than splendid.

Then one day (ok, yesterday) after hearing it a zillion times, the phrase “Comparison is the thief of joy” hit a few of the right binaries in my head. I’d been comparing myself to Austen and Dickens and Lahiri and all these other authors and of course my writing is crap in comparison. But the point is not to put my stories next to those of a published and celebrated author and despair. The point is to write, and let the writing polish the roughnesses away.

But what really got me was when a painter explained that her final product wasn’t achieved whole and at once, but was the cumulative result of dozens if not hundreds of mistakes and rough drafts. That’s a lot of chances to say “I suck; I give up.” But she didn’t. I don’t remember who she was, but I’m glad I read the article.

I have been afraid that my work isn’t on par with my favorite authors and is therefore rotten and unworthy of submitting. Hell, not even submitting, just finishing. Not having perfect work spring forth from my mind unbidden made me think I had no talent at all. And while there are those whose talent does reach that effortless level, they are not the only ones with talent period. And even the greatest literary geniuses had editors. And critics.

So, what’s holding you back? Comparison?  Try incorporating some of the author’s style into your own just for fun. Fear? Fight it. Write anyway. And have someone give you an honest, gentle critique of it. Learn from it. Improve. Can’t focus on one story? Try devoting a specific day or amount of time on the story and do nothing aside from writing on that story. Give yourself a deadline for the story and stick to it.

I say all this, and I’m learning how to do it myself. It’s still a little scary, but it’s better than measuring out my life in story stumps.

It's getting loud and crowded in here...

I never finished the first story I remember writing.

It was an assignment in 5th grade, and while I had the illustration finished, I hadn't actually finished the story. It was about a girl's first ride on a roller coaster (write what you know! I had ridden my first coaster the previous summer), and I got caught in the trap of first writers: I described everything. Details that weren't important, what the characters looked like down to the design on the clothing, what the coaster looked like. Given enough time, I'd have described the bird poo on the sidewalk. But I don't think I ever got to the actual roller coaster ride. As my teacher gathered other students' finished products, I was still scribbling away at all the details. And I had to hand it in unfinished.

In a way, the story of my life.

I collect story stumps. Ideas for stories, paragraphs, plot synopses, one liners that I don't want to forget. I have two novels in the works at the moment - one of which has been in mental cold storage until a song I heard on Pandora while at work inspired a scene and I had to write it before I lost it (thankfully it was a slow day at the office).

I have a Pinterest board where I post visual ideas for stories or things I want to include in the novels. There's one picture that started as a "how in hell did that happen?" and somehow wormed its way into a scene.

And when I start a story, I have complete, heartfelt intention to finish it. But then I might hit a plot snag, get bored with a section and put it away until inspiration strikes, or I come across another brilliant idea and the process starts over.

I tried NaNoWriMo three times. Even bought the writing software to help keep track of my lilypad-hopping writing style. I have two stories and a poetry collection on the writing software. And I’ve just started another short story. Writing ADHD.

So, while I have all these great ideas, they remain ricocheting around in my head, causing considerable psychological damage while I pounce on the next shiny thing.

It’s my own form of chasing the red dot.

I realized recently how many stories I have clanging around in my head because it occurred to me that I haven’t finished a story since college. That was over a decade ago.

No wonder my mom said I’m not really a writer.

So recently I’ve started hammering away on the story with the most vocal character – not surprisingly a teenage girl. The YA novel. It’s the most fun, too. And I have set a deadline for finishing the most recent short story. Off to my first reader on Monday no matter what.

It'll make my head that much quieter.

Poem: Phage

Phage

I hate the blank page’s contagion

The way its stark void instantly infects

If I don’t pin me down to the page

With the points of p and q

Discover the creeping rot

And cut it out

I might lose whole pieces

To my plight

Words are my incision and my deep penetration

The lens of my microscope

My agur and autoclave

The tiny pills that cure by killing

By my filling this infectious space

Willing to let tiny pieces of me die

To save the whole

I need an IV of saline tears and blurred ink

On a page slowly losing its infectibility

Shrinking beneath the rush of my words

I fill my pen with my blood

Inject it into the fiber and lines

Stain the page and watch the contagion die.

I'm A Writer, Really!

A few years back, I said something to my mom about being a writer, and she uttered The Dreaded Phrase.

"You're not paid for it, so you're not really a writer."

Thanks, Mom. Let's ignore that I've written stories since elementary school, have worked on literary magazines, have been published twice (once in high school and once in college, but those don't count, apparently), won an award (also in college, though, so see above).

But she just said what many writers and non-writers think about the writing craft. If you don't make money at it, you're not really a writer. It's an unfair and unrealistic assertion. But there it is.

The truth is that for every published author on Amazon.com, there are dozens of writers vying for the next open slot, and hundreds more who don't write for the money, but for the sheer joy of writing. There are also many of us who are struggling to discover and hone our signature voice. We may not be professional writers (yet!), but we are writers.

That's where I am right now. A non-professional, unpaid writer struggling to discover my little shimmering element, attempting to find words that glow.

I will once in a while include excerpts of my stories, links to writing craft articles and blogs, and other topics related to writing and literature. This is, above all, a space to explore writing, a place to play around and innovate.