She wondered how it would be to backpack with Dan. She didn’t know him that well, they’d dated at school. But now they were here, she was glad she came. He was at his best in nature, so happy to show off his backcountry skills and the high meadows of  yarrow and lupine and Indian paintbrush. The Colorado sky was Van Gogh blue, straight out of the tube.  Five days in the Lizard Head Wilderness, just the two of them.

Dan had planned the whole thing, traced their route on the green topo maps. He’d completely repacked her backpack, eliminating extra pants and sweaters and shirts she was sure she’d need.  Scrapping all her toiletries. Dr. Bronner’s Peppermint soap would be her major toilet item. All one, All one.

Now she saw how right he was. She hadn’t needed any of it.  He’d packed perfectly– aluminum camping dishes, fitted knife/fork/spoon sets, all nested together. Dried food, ground and measured coffee. A tiny stove, no bigger than a takeout box. Everything weighed and measured, every ounce pared away. Her pack was only 35 pounds, he took 60, all the heavy items–tent and food and fuel.

She loved Dan in the out-of-doors. Holding her hand when she had to balance on  switchbacks, encouraging her to cross a fallen log straddling a creek. He was never this nice back at school.  Mostly he kept to himself, or drank himself stupid with his roommate Chuck.

She liked nature. She had gone to Y Camp in the San Bernardinos, though it was nothing like this. He laughed at her when she woke the first night and thought there was a streetlight outside the tent. She was 19 years old and had never understood that the moon rose.  She’d stood outside the tent in her long underwear and gaped at the full moon.

They pressed on toward Lizard Head, skirting timberline, rising up into high meadows, dipping down into cool fragrant pines or trembling aspen.  He had  it down. They didn’t even have to carry much water, he’d planned the trip never to be far from a stream. They filtered the water with a little gizmo so they wouldn’t get giardia. Though it looked clean enough.

So self-sufficient. “Well, you have to be, out here,” he said.  “You can’t just run down to the hardware store.  You forget the flashlight, you’re SOL.”

They’d found the perfect camping spot–a clearing in the pines, two downed logs, the stream close-by–but not too close. Put up the tent, set up their ‘kitchen’, made some lemonade, settled in..  She took out her watercolors and painted him reading, lying on his Therm A Rest-padded log. She wandered, identifying woodpeckers and wildflowers. There was nothing they needed, they had everything–tent, sleeping bags, food.  It was perfect.

The light soaked the afternoon mountains in rose-gold when they saw the lone figure struggling up the trail.

They’d made their camp almost astride the path, having no idea anyone  might walk right through it. They hadn’t seen anyone since the trailhead.  “Who the fuck is that?” Dan said. “Look at the size of that pack. What a moron.”

Now they saw, it was a boy, wearing shorts and enormous hiking boots. He humped an orange backpack, bigger than he was.  He climbed slowly, he seemed to be making no progress at all, just this dot, green shirt, an orange pack, laboring up the mountain.

As he got closer, Jen could see he was exhausted, pushing himself, hands on his knees, as if he had to force each leg in turn to press the earth and carry him forward. But finally, he was within hailing distance of where they sat on their Therm A Rest pads. He grinned and called out, “Boy am I glad to see you! Wow.  That’s some trail, huh?”

Dan didn’t even say hello, just stared at the intruder, a boy, smiling, chestnut haired, about sixteen.

“Hi,” Jen said. Trying to distract him from Dan’s glower. “How long you been climbing?”

“All day. Wow,  that’s was some hike.”  He stood looking back to where he’d come from, gasping, cheeks red, fingers hooked around the straps of his enormous orange backpack from which a cast iron frypan hung. A fishing pole peeked out the top.  The frypan alone must have weighed ten pounds.

Jen could tell he wanted to drop the pack and join them, but he was offput by Dan’s unwelcoming vibe.  Well, unexpected things happened, whether Dan liked it or not. “Take off your pack and sit awhile. Want some lemonade? Cold from the stream..”

Dan gave her a withering look.

But she couldn’t exactly send the kid on his way, not like that. That wouldn’t be friendly at all.

The kid awkwardly lurched from his pack–it tilted and fell like a tree, hard, and clanging, the frypan and other jangly stuff that sounded like cans of soup and metal spoons.

She poured the lemonade they’d made from packets of instant and their filtered water into an aluminum cup. The kid drank it straight down. She poured him some more. What a pretty boy, his freckles, his dauntless smile.  “Where’d you come from?” she asked.

“Durango,” he said.  “My parents are staying down there. I hitched a ride, some cowboy.  It’s amazing up here, isn’t it?”  He sat down on the log next to Jen’.  Sighed. The view was tremendous, the craggy outcrops all around them.  He pulled a pennywhistle from his pack, played a lively tune.

“Wasn’t there anything you left at home?” Dan said from his side. He was rolling a joint. “What else you got in there, golf clubs?  A surfboard?”

Jen smiled awkwardly. What was it to Dan what the boy was carrying? He was always so mean to people who did things differently.  Or was it was the boy’s happiness he envied?

The kid toed his orange monstrosity. “Yeah, I guess it’s a little heavy. But I didn’t know what to take so I just threw a few things in.” He was eying the reefer.

Dan finished licking it, lay back on his Therm A Rest, lit up. Dan was one of those people who brought his own bottle to the party and drank from it.  If you went Chinese, he ordered the one thing he wanted, and didn’t share. He didn’t want to try yours, either.

He was at his best when it was just him and Jen, like on this trip. The other Dan, the one who couldn’t stand in line, the one who thought everyone else was a moron… she tended to put that Dan out of her mind. Excuse it.

The kid’s name was Jesse. He’d come up from Austin with his family, who were staying in Durango.  A friendly kid, open-faced, laughed easily. Jen stuck her hand out for the joint. Reluctantly, Dan passed it to her. She handed it to the kid.  That grin.  Sweet. “Thanks, man.”

She took a good hit on it before passing it back to Dan.

“So where you trying to get to?” Dan asked, begrudgingly entering the conversation.

Jesse shrugged, hitched his aching shoulder under the green t-shirt that said There is no Planet B. “Nowhere in particular. Just checkin’ it out.”

Dan snorted. “Do you have a map?”

Jesse said, “No, just thought I’d follow this trail, find somewhere to sleep, rinse and repeat.”

“No map?” Dan said. “You’re up in the Rocky Mountains and you have no map.”

Jen felt sorry for the kid. She was used to Dan and his mockery of what he felt was the idiocy of others.  It wasn’t so different than other guys at school.  But now, she was embarrassed.   “I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Jen said, patting the kid’s sweaty shoulder.

“It’s how people die up here. They bring the shower curtain and the barbeque but no map.”

“I’m not going to die, dude.  It’s not that big a deal.  I’m going to go up that trail, and I’ll come down the same way.”  He stood up and dusted his hands on his shorts.  “Look, thanks for the bud. You guys have a good one.”

Jen wished he’d stay and play his little pennywhistle.  Have dinner with them.  She liked his attitude, his fresh, open smile. She envied his way of meeting the world, even if it was a bit haphazard. Even if that pack probably weighed 100 pounds. It didn’t bother him, he wasn’t complaining.  Jen helped him on with it.

“Get tired of Mr. Sunshine there, I’ll be right up the trail,” he whispered under his breath.

She laughed, and watched him climb up the trail, the afternoon light catching the red in his hair, the ridiculous frying pan hanging off the back of his pack like a manhole cover. The sound of an Irish pennywhistle filled the cooling air.

“Probably won’t even hang his food tonight,” Dan said.  “The bears’ll get his stuff and he’ll be one hungry puppy.”  He seemed to savor the thought.

But Jen didn’t think the bears would get his food. And even if they did, Jesse probably wouldn’t mind.  He’d be hungry, but he’d get down the mountain somehow. She’d give him half of hers.  In any case, she bet that even bears wouldn’t dent the boy’s good humor.

She lay on her log, listening to the light sound of the pennywhistle echoing off the mountain peaks, getting fainter and further away.

Part  of a semi-weekly series of short short stories based on a writing exercise, The Word.  “Inspired by a simple word, chosen at random, write a two-page double-spaced story, using the Word at least once.”

 Next week’s word is: FOIL

A youngish man with graying hair stands on the sidewalk of the elegant Via Ariosto, looking up. Across the street, an older woman follows his gaze, up the building’s third story to where a young woman stands on a balcony in her slip. A young brunette woman in a white slip, tall shutters half-open behind her.

Milan, summer, twilight.

Leaning over the art nouveau railing, lush dark hair full over her shoulders, the young woman drops a white handkerchief–no, something wrapped in a handkerchief–to the man looking up. He misses the toss. Leans over and picks the package up.

It is an Italian movie. A key. Dropped from the third story balcony to the lover below.

What she remembers are those slender arms, the flutter and flash of a white handkerchief, the white slip, the glossy brown hair, the smile, and how the youngish man unwraps the handkerchief, climbs the steps, lets himself in with the tossed key.

Now the older woman stands alone on the Via Ariosto. The youngish man with the graying hair is gone. The slender-armed, graceful, barefoot woman on the balcony, the woman in the slip, has disappeared inside the half-shuttered room.

The other woman feels it, a deep ache. That she would never drop a key in a handkerchief from an elegant balcony before shuttered doors, wearing a white slip, for a handsome graying youngish man, in a midsummer twilight on an elegant Milanese road.

She’d just come back from the leafy corner café, where she drank a vino bianco alone under the trees–elms? Her divorce already cold. She is 56 years old, and she would never stand on a balcony in a white slip… god, they’d call out the Carabinieri! Her ashbrown hair streaked with gray would make no appealing picture, her plump bare arms tossing a key–to no one.

And yet, the beauty of this movie is unmistakable, heartpiercing in the twilight. She is slightly drunk. The fierce heat has ebbed to sensuous luminous blue. A man stands on the curb reading a newspaper lying in the street. His hands remain in his pockets, he has no intention of picking it up. An older man, older than her.

It is too early to return to the hotel. She strolls along the leafy street, remembering the loveliness of the woman on the balcony. Wondering, did loveliness need to be one’s own to give one happiness?

And what if she were the woman on the balcony? That Giulietta or Giovanna. Would she even know how beautiful she was? No. Truly, she would not.  She would be thinking of her lover, of their evening ahead, the salad she would make, a light salad on a night like this. But not the beauty of this moment.

It’s all merged into one single thing–the woman, the man, the twilight, the street. How evanescent–life, beauty. But this, this is hers alone, this moment–she, with the eyes of a traveler, she is the one who caught the key more surely than the graying youngish man.

Part  of a semi-weekly series of short short stories based on a writing exercise, The Word.  “Inspired by a simple word, chosen at random, write a two-page double-spaced story, using the Word at least once.”

 Next week’s word is: PAN

After the windstorm

the massive eucalypt

lies prone across the stairs

the familiar fleshy trunk

barber-poled in green pink beige

skin

pocked in places

(successful battles

with borer beetles)

pale branches

two feet around

helpless

felled.

The tree man arrives.

He says: Six men.

A full chainsaw day  and  maybe two.

Even sideways, it’s twenty feet high.

Shakes his head

and gives me a good talking to.

Had I pruned it

reduced its shaggy bulk

subtracted boughs and limbs,

it might be alive today.

“Took that wind like a sail,”

he says.

But I’m learning lately

maybe you can’t control everything.

Trees fall

and there is change.

A death, much like our own.

And we too will leave

a hole in our own backyard world

sun and sky where once

a great tree plumed.

A hundred feet

of shimmering fragrant grayish-green

the twisting limbs

of a sensual giantess.

The eucalyptus lies on its side

across the hillside stairs

stunned at the change of posture.

It’s very slow to recognize

what’s happened.

Its leaves are still so green.

such is the life locked in its woody girth

too vast for sudden death.

But the tree man says

we can’t make a table,

or even a set of garden benches.

We’ll be lucky to get it down at all.

It must be reduced

to wood chips, to be fired out

onto a freeway embankment.

Carried out as firewood.

Like a sail, the man said

reproachfully.

It died resisting the wind.

Huge and defiant.

I find myself taking the  lesson opposite

The tree man’s intention.

I say, good for you, tree.

You died whole and grand

Utterly extended into the silhouette

you were born to inhabit.

Yes, I think it’s better to live like that

Immense, ungainly even

Than to let caution trim us small

and live as half of what we could have been.

It was the thing about love, thought Allie, as she nested food into a lettuce leaf and rolled it like a cigar.  We called love love, but she had been in love many times, and every love was as different as… what could be so different, so varied?  Dogs maybe. Some were big and some were small, some were diggers under fences, others shed all over you, some jumped up and knocked you over.  There were lazy, lie-about loves, and nervous ones and ones that slobbered or made ‘mistakes’ indoors.  Some dogs were companionable and alert, and others were clowns, and some were just plain vicious and had to be put down.

She gazed at this man across the table in the Vietnamese restaurant, rolling a spring roll into a transparent sheet of wonton.

“What?” he asked.

And what was their love? what kind of a dog was this, this unlikely creature they were together?  A pound dog, maybe.  After all, he hadn’t dated in years, had kept himself busy reading, learning languages, collecting vintage microscopes and magic lanterns and Victrolas. He painted pictures for dollhouses.  He’d used the word ‘repudiate’ in a sentence on their first date, and ‘legerdemain.’ He knew how to pick a lock, and opened her door once to show her.  “Don’t tell anyone, it’s illegal.”  He needed a haircut.  He wore a shirt he bought at a gas station.  He could recite Shakespeare’s sonnets and half of the Tempest, but didn’t know where downtown was.

And she was a woman who knew the difference between Baskerville and Goudy Old Style, could find Surinam on a map, an enthusiast in all things.  She could solve codes and ciphers, she loved traveling and wearing wigs, she liked songs in languages she didn’t understand. She made linoleum prints and assemblage art and got a 1400 on her SATs.  She read poetry, but could never learn anything by heart.  She was sentimental and gregarious.

Their kisses had resonance, like a good drum.  That surprised her. Mostly, he surprised her.  Because he could take her all in. Not just a part.  All of it. She didn’t have to leave anything out, she didn’t have to pretend to be more conventional, or moderate, so she could be understood. He could meet her everywhere.  When had that happened in the history of the world?

A matched pair. Not dogs. More  like the parrots people let loose in the cities of America, who found each other in parks and backyards.

Yes, like birds.  Like in the Magic Flute.  Not the romantic stars of the piece, Prince Tamino and his ladylove Pamina.  But rather, the comic foils–the lonely bird man, Papageno, who finds his bird girl, Papagena, at the end of the final act.  Allie knew that for Mozart, this had just been a mopping-up of a loose plot thread. She’d never even liked Mozart operas, or comic operas at all for that part, having always preferred operas where at the end everybody was dead and the stage was awash in blood. But there was no question that this was the Magic Flute, and there was magic even for someone so ridiculous, so full of enthusiasms, as her. There was another one out there, perfectly suited for her.

She had always thought her life was a tragedy.  It never occurred to her it would turn out to be a comedy.  That she was a comic character, Papagena in her feathers, made in heaven for some Papageno in a t-shirt from a gas station.

He was looking at her.  Sometimes he looked at her like this.  She reached out and he took her hand. “What,” he said.

Part  of a semi-weekly series of short short stories based on a writing exercise, The Word.  “Inspired by a simple word, chosen at random, write a two-page double-spaced story, using the Word at least once.”

Next week’s word is: SLIP

It was the last peppertree summer.  The fronds on the shaggy old peppers hung down like a mermaid’s long hair, their green laden boughs studded with pink berries, flowing over her as Page rode underneath.  She’d set her fine, pale hair and sprayed on half a can of AquaNet, but it never stayed put. It just wasn’t hair made for setting.  She rode over to the new development going up on Vanowen, dawdling along the unpaved streets, the horse’s hooves beating out their lazy cadence. She tried to imagine all the families living in these new houses. Hard to picture what Van Nuys would be like without this big mustard field, only houses.

Her last summer in California.  Riding Daisy bareback with only a hackamore tied across her black nose, her pedal-pusher clad legs hanging long on either side  of the mare’s round ribs. Eighteen years old.  She felt the force of time, ejecting her from everything she’d known, squeezing her out of her life like a winged sycamore seed.  She was restless, she didn’t want to be around her friends, googly-eyed over Dion and Eddie Fisher.  She only wanted to sling a blanket over Daisy’s straw-gold back and wander the sleepy dirt backroads of Van Nuys, their passage noted only by the audience of ponies hanging their heads over the fences hard by shacks and orchards, surrounded by all the green and golden smells of late summer, corn growing high at Leary’s, apples fattening at Gommer McQuade’s.  She lay down onto Daisy’s neck  and pressed her face into that sleek summer coat, drinking in the smell, drawing her fingers through the black mane, arranging its pattern against the creamy gold. The last summer.

In a few weeks, she would be going east to college. Her mother had already bought the camel’s hair coat and wool plaid skirts and Shetland sweater sets. She would see her first red autumn, her first snowfall. Her roommate had already written to her, a girl named Hillary, from New York. Page had never been out of California except for a trip to the Grand Canyon when she was nine.  She should be looking forward to it, she told herself, but she was scared, and more than that. She was sad.  It was stupid,  nobody she knew was going to college back east. It was ridiculous to be sad.

The cicadas buzzed in the dusty afternoon, and she rode Daisy in and out through the stout pepper trees, letting their leaves brush her face like they were hands, caressing her, memorizing her.  Would she like it in Boston?  Would she understand it?  People were so different there.  So sophisticated and all.  Hillary had paper with her name engraved on it.  Did they have pepper trees in Boston?  Hot dirt road summer days and horse sweat and barn smells, western saddles, hawks that circled lazily over the canyons?    And what would happen to Daisy?  She would be so fat by Christmas…

The mare grew bored and inattentive, she stopped and leaned down to bury her black nose in the dry grass growing at the base of one of the shaggy peppers, and Page let her, why not.  What did she care about Daisy’s bad habits now. By the time she got back at Christmas, Daisy wouldn’t even remember her.

These pepper trees. So ancient. Peppers came up from Mexico with Father Serra and the missions. Page was sure they didn’t have pepper trees in Boston, or buckskin horses.  She would wear nylons, and heels, and set her hair and go sledding, throw snowballs… She should have gone to Stanford. At least it was in California. Why had she been so quick to leave everything she knew and loved?

But the Valley would always be here, she told herself.  Just like this. These dirt back roads, the produce stands, the little farms and orchards, clutches of quail breaking from the brush and running across the road, roadrunners chasing lizards, standing with them proudly dangling from their yellow beaks.  Whenever she came home, it would all still be here. Just like this.

Part  of a semi-weekly series of short short stories based on a writing exercise, The Word.  “Inspired by a simple word, chosen at random, write a two-page double-spaced story, using the Word at least once.”

Next week’s word is: FLUTE

Georgia brought her mother dinner on a tray, El Pollo Loco, rice and slaw. Her mother lay propped in her bed, in a less-than-clean pink tracksuit and thin, draggled hair–which she insisted could only be washed once a week by Tami at the beauty parlor, set and sprayed to last the following week. Pro Wrestling blared on TV, her mother’s new hobby. Friday Night Smackdown.

“Sleeper hold,” the old woman called out, pointing to the TV. “Look, Georgie.  Aw, that Viper’s a monster.”

By the time she looked up, a nearly naked man in a mohawk and hip boots was smashing another man over the back with a folding chair.

She could barely recognize her mother these days, her face and legs all puffy. T The doctors had run test after test, they couldn’t figure out what was wrong. They’d been trying to control the swelling with diuretics, but so far nothing worked. Worse, she’d been forgetting medication, or else pulling stunts like applying half a month’s worth of analgesic pads all at once, so they’d had to arm-twist the pharmacy to refill the prescription ahead of time.

On TV, two large oiled men grappled and grunted. One got hold of the other and attempted to pound his head into the floor. Her mother lifted the rice to her mouth, not taking her eyes from the screen, getting half of it on her bosom.  “Piledriver.”

Georgia wished she’d been firmer about getting her mother out of the house,  back when her father died. But she hadn’t, so here she was coming over after work to feed her mother before going home and throwing something together for herself and Arthur. A good stiff drink was what she needed.  She was tired. She was fifty-six years old and bone weary. Sometimes she would like to just take her mother and apply the sleeper hold.

She went back downstairs to see if there was anything that needed throwing out. She’d asked Charlene, the caregiver, to keep the refrigerator updated, but the woman wasn’t getting paid enough to care about milk souring in the refrigerator. Her mother was sure the woman was stealing toilet paper, canned goods. “Why does she need to bring shopping bags to work?”   Georgia checked the trash, the refrigerator, sniffed the milk.  Everything was fine. She went around the kitchen like a hound, sniffing.

The floor proved wet around the old Westinghouse washer.  She was tired and hungry, and now there was this leak. She saw it all.  The repairman, late. The expense. It was an old machine, should she bother repairing it? But to replace it, for what? She took a mop and some bleach and mopped up the wet floor. If only Charlene could put the damned machine in her shopping bag, and the rest of the house too, and good riddance.

She knew she should just go home.  It was almost eight, a long day.  But the smell was stronger in the hall.  Noticeably so.  With a great deal of trepidation, she opened the door to the closet. Yes, there it was–musty, stale, like old ladies.  Age, decrepitude, feebleness.

It sapped all her strength. She’d always been the youthful looking one, of all her friends, everybody said so, but now nobody said it.  Her jaw, softening, her neck had its own flesh turtleneck. She wasn’t sleeping well, and she’d noticed just this morning how much she was coming to resemble Somerset Maugham.

Steeling herself, she pushed the coats aside, freeing up the area that led to the basement.  The smell flooded up. Dank, cold.

She didn’t like basements.  Her own house didn’t have one. Who had basements in Los Angeles?  Even as a child she was afraid of it.  It was dark, earthy smelling.  You could hear the creaking old house settling overhead. She’d gone down there just a half-dozen times in the fifty years her parents lived in this house, and only with her father, holding his flashlight.  The rotting ship’s ladder of a stairway.

Of course, the flashlight was dead. She went back out into the kitchen and found a 12 pack of D batteries. Outdated, useless.  She found two more flashlights, three, but none of them worked. Finally, armed with her cell phone, she returned to the dark opening of the basement and shone the feeble light down.

Water lapped halfway up the water heater. Water covered the lower vents of the furnace. Dirty, stinking, stagnant water  Water hid the bottom two rungs of the flimsy ladder.

Georgia sat on the top step and gazed into the murky water.  She felt the weight of the house on her shoulders, the house and her mother in it.  She had no ideas. Not a single one.   Tears slid down her cheeks, and she didn’t even bother to wipe them with the back of her freckled hand.  She could feel her mother upstairs, watching men in Mohawks and skull masks grapple and pin one another, roaring with outrage and murder.  But this, this water, this is what was happening to them. It wasn’t a wrestling match.  It was the slow filling of basements, the thing that eroded the foundations.  Silently, only announcing itself by the smell of decay.

She went up to the room and kissed her mother’s forehead.  “There’ll be a plumber coming tomorrow.”

Her mother tried to see around her as a man in a Batman mask threw himself at a man in black leather pants with flames coming up the sides,  wrapping his legs around the other man’s neck. “We need more toilet paper, that woman’s been taking it by the sixpack.”

Something was being stolen here, but it wasn’t the toilet paper.  “Sure Mom, I’ll bring some tomorrow.”

Part  of a semi-weekly series of short short stories based on a writing exercise, The Word.  “Inspired by a simple word, chosen at random, write a two-page double-spaced story, using the Word at least once.”

Next week’s word is:  pepper

Here’s the complete post:

What is Art For?

In the past three weeks, I’ve been thinking with you about writing and writer’s issues. But when we talk about What Is Art For? we’re now turning around and asking, not just why we do this personally, how it fulfills our own creative needs and urges, but also, why we read, why we as human beings require this thing called art, this thing called literature. What is it we need here, why do we turn to literature to examine some of the deeper questions common to us as human beings?  And then how does that mesh with the needs of the artist as one individual, to create this thing called art.

Do you hate it when teens try to write/create ‘deep’ pieces of art or writing and it ends up forced and artsy fartsy?

Do you think that sometimes there should be no hidden meaning in a work? Just beauty?

Here is an interesting paradox, everyone is looking for the meaning of life, but what if there is no singular encompassing meaning of life? Do you believe that the meaning of life is different for everyone then? (Cassy blue)

I think that one arrives at deep places through a detailed consideration of the conflicts and problems of human existence. What’s cheesy and forced is to try to “be deep” without going through the work of living through something and having the characters actively moving from their own problems to the bigger issues inherent in those problems, and then coming back into the specific, the real.  A writing teacher I had once used to say, If you can have a character eat dinner and think about dinner,  or eat dinner and think about God, have them think about God.  Move to the big issues. People read literature to help them think bigger, to help them get out of just fixing dinner or drying out the basement.  Great writing has a girl and a boy breaking up, but then the character thinking more deeply about love, is it a curse or a blessing, does it exist, etc.  While dealing with the actual love and dinner and homework on the physical level.  Art is “for” thinking more deeply about what it means to be a human being on this earth. Explain it to someone from Mars.  Not in the abstract, but in terms of what really happens to us day to day.

I don’t think in terms of a hidden meaning in a work. I think the meaning, the sense of what it is to be a human, the bigger issue, is always there if a work is art–like the wood of a table. It’s an intrinsic part of what’s going on.

But I do believe in meaning, not just beauty, when we’re talking about writing.  Because you’re unpacking human experience. Words are not just colors–they’re individual capsules of meaning, like atoms, and we work them into chains, like molecules, called sentences, and they become organisms, that are called stories. There’s nothing but meaning. Or at least the potential for meaning, if the writer wants really shape a great table.

There is no single encompassing meaning of life–or let’s say, I don’t think a work of fiction is designed to carry it.  But I think each story is reflective of the writer’s sense of the world.  Do good people get screwed? Is optimism a good thing even if things don’t always work out? Each story conveys its own sense of the world, its own view of life.

Beauty is like the sugar that makes the medicine go down.

Although usually I don’t know what I think until I’ve written a story, searching always for “what the heck DO I think?”  As a writer, I come to know my own attitudes and world view by creating stories that I think are true.

I think there are some great themes in human thought and that we write, and we read other people’s work, to think about them more deeply. To become more human, more aware, more thoughtful, to expand our lives and experiences by living other people’s lives as well as our own.

Some of this week’s questions have already been answered in earlier topics. If you can’t find the answer to your question below, look at the earlier posts (and then a link to find them).

Do you think art/literature/etc is supposed to have some deep and hidden meaning or just be clear and simple in what it’s trying to express? Which do you prefer: the abstract and convoluted type that makes you think, or the clean and clear type that is easy to understand?  And thanks for answering so many questions! ^___^ (Annie)

I think things can be easily accessible or presented in a more mysterious way… it’s always the writer’s choice.

Do you see writing as an art, or just a profession? What is the difference between being an author and being a writer? (Fish Fingers and Custard)

I see it as an art.  It’s a profession for very few people (i.e. they make a living at it.)  Making a living has nothing to do with creating art.  An author is a published writer.

As an artist myself, I know that good art can mean many things for many different people. So what do you look for in art? Should it have meaning, good technique, beauty or a certain style? (Zara Olympia)

I look for all of the above.

Do you think writing is something that will always evolve? If yes, why do you think it keeps evolving? (Storm Adrian)

I think certain things keep evolving, style, formatting, attitudes, morality… but that the human being will always look to narrative to explain in some way this chaotic world we human beings live in. What’s nice about fiction, say, is that you can see the problems we all face sooner or later–but when it’s in real life, it usually happens too fast and in too overwhelming a manner to think about. Fiction is sort of our asbestos gloves, they help us handle these really hot problems before we go through them ourselves, figure out what we think.

Why do you write? (Kaitlyn Watson)

Because I don’t know what I think before I write.

Do you see your writing as a statement about yourself or a statement about the world? (Astralhaze)

Ah… aren’t I part of the world?

What makes us want to create something? Is it for us or for others? (Charlotte Jordan)

Usually it’s for ourselves–from our point of view…. but if we want to produce something more than a doodle, we’re aware that the writer only writes part of a work, the reader creates the other part in his or her head.

Why do we all keep on going? Why don’t we just stop and give up when we have writer’s block? What do you think makes us try harder? (Violet)

We don’t all keep going. Only the people who love sentences and meaning and narrative and the imagination enough to want to suffer the insecurity and doubt and sheer grunt work will keep going.  We want to try harder because we want to get it right, and because we admire writers who have gone before us.

How do you know you’re a writer? What makes us different from other artists? When do you know it’s the right time to let a story go and move on? (Caspian)

If you write, you’re a writer. Different from other artists in that we handle units of meaning. Our work really has no materials but ideas in the reader’s head.  We create a world in someone else’s mind.  I let a story go when I’ve finished it and it still doesn’t satisfy me.

Does art and writing really have a meaning or are we making up meanings? (Zara Olympia)

I don’t think there’s any difference, in the case of writing.  Not necessarily a hidden meaning, like a secret drawer, but the work itself resonates meaning.

Is a picture really worth a thousand words? (Incendio)

No. Especially not now in the age of photoshop!  (That was in the day of “I’ll believe it when i see it.”)  They do two different things. I don’t think they’re interchangeable.

I get inspired to write by my art, and I am inspired to paint by my writing. DO you feel the same way about writing and another form of art like I do? (Savannah Ettinger)

Yes, that’s why I’m always exposing myself to the other arts.  Definitely.

Art describes things with pictures whereas writing describes things with words. Which is better to you, describing things with words or pictures? Which one is more eloquent? (Zara Olympia)

I wouldn’t ordinate them.

Is the meaning of different stories easier to find then the meaning of different art pieces? (Zara Olympia)

The word, the literary arts, are nothing but meaning.  Visual art stirs us on other levels.

Should art show a story or convey emotions, or do both? (Zara Olympia)

The story is the means to create the emotion.

What is your favorite thing about art? (Zara Olympia)

It reaches into the deepest parts of our souls. It makes us more human, it helps us understand the reality of other human beings.  It creates empathy and dignity and respect.

What is your favorite medium? (Zara Olympia)

The word.

What is your favorite color? (Zara Olympia)

Depends. Like green a lot now. But have a lot of red in my house, my car is red.

What inspires you to draw and write? Is it the way something looks, an object that sparks an idea? (Zara Olympia)

The challenge. Can I describe this? Can I use words to capture that light, the way it’s falling on that tree?

If you could have any piece of art which one would you have? (Zara Olympia)

Piece of visual art?  Sigh… Van Gogh’s Arlesienne? Degas’ Red Room (lady with fan)?  Vuillard’s big garden on brown paper?

Have you ever seen any of your stories “come to life” in the real world? (Deepshikha)

I find that I write things and people say, “Oh, that exact thing happened to me.” Often. It’s a thrill.

What is your muse, what inspires you to write, and why do you write? (Emiana West)

Great writers of the past are my muses. They were the ones who made me want to write.

When you write, do you ever feel it is pointless, like no one really cares? What keeps you going? (Lucy)

No.  I never feel it’s pointless. I do it because I am curious, and I like the life of the imagination.

Have you ever written a small unpublished book about food, people eating food, nutella, or some food that has been poisoned? Those books are really interesting if you think about it… (Britt. That’s It.)

You should always put food in your work. Food, someone to worry about, some kind of battle or cause or desire, and light.

What inspires and motivates you? (Megan G)

Writing itself inspires me. I write a sentence I wasn’t intending to write.  Wow!  Where does that go?

How do you develop characters? Do you model them after someone you know, or make them up completely? And how do you decide on their names? (Megan G)

They’re usually a piece of myself that want to be expressed in the form of someone who’s not me.  I get their outer form from other people, even actors.  I just feel my way into their names.

Would you still write if you couldn’t share your work? (Hyphen Norso)

Absolutely.

Do you understand modern art? (In general, I don’t…so just wondering.) (Holly Blackwood)

Art needs to be felt–there’s also a history, each work is in conversation with the art of the past and the times in which it’s created.

In your opinion, what defines an artist? (Holly Blackwood)

Someone who wants to express something inside using materials of art.

They say a picture is worth 1,000 words. Do you agree? (Holly Blackwood)

Depends on the picture, depends on your words.

In your opinion, is a writer an artist? (Holly Blackwood)

A writer with the goal of creating art is an artist. Without – just a laborer.

What are your favorite types of art? (Holly Blackwood)

ALL.

How do you think an artist differs from a writer? (Holly Blackwood)

A visual artist vs. a literary artist?  Fiction writers work with narrative which is meaning and time. Visual art can be seen all at once, and is not about meaning necessarily.

How do you feel about the smell of paint? (Holly Blackwood)

(I hate it.)  I like oil paints. My aunt was a painter, it reminds me of her.

What do you think motivated VanGogh to chop off his ear? (Holly Blackwood)

Don’t remember.  He was mentally ill at the time, I think.

Do you buy individually sliced cheese? (Holly Blackwood)

No.

(I just had to ask) Sorry for the question overload and thanks for your time! (Holly Blackwood)

After finding inspiration, how do you go about putting it into words? (Sofie Stone)

I start in, and the words roll. Then I question the words–’it was high’–well, how high was it?

Can I think a bigger thought here?

How far out of your personal experiences do you feel you can accurately write? (Rachel H.)

As far as the imagination will take you.  But then make sure you check after you’ve written and make sure you get it right.

When you think of art, do you think of one kind of art (such as just writing, or just theater arts)? (Maria E.B. Brandt)

Love all the arts.

Some of my friends love writing, yet are afraid to show their (wonderful!) writing to the world. What would you say to them? (Maria E.B. Brandt)

Show it to someone they KNOW will love it, loves them and will love whatever they do. Never criticize or “help” someone in this position.

Art and writing is a way of describing yourself, so how do you think your art and writing describes you? (Zara Olympia)

Ah. In some ways it’s a perfect blueprint of me and my anxieties and interests. But this will have to remain mysterious.

Do you put part of yourself in your art and writing? (Zara Olympia)

Yes, absolutely. My heart, my soul, my everything.

Which do you think can hold the most meaning at a glance: a picture or the written word? (Nox Zand)

A picture. It’s experienced all at once, where fiction or even poetry, is experienced, in time, one word after another. A person with Alzheimer’s can enjoy a painting or a bit of music but cannot assemble words into a narrative in their minds.

Have you ever written about a bad experience to cope (or maybe just a conversation with your friend, you know, something like that) and then it just blows up into something bigger? Not necessarily a novel but something developed and plotted and whatnot? (ASM Michellins)

Sure, all the time. But fictionalized, happening in a heightened or clearer way.

MISCELLANEA

Are you a writer that draws on events and places in your life for settings and book? (Cassy blue)

Yes, but in disguise.

Do you feel that writing about your hometown could mark you as being lazy? (Cassy blue)

Absolutely not.  Who knows it better than you? Ask Faulkner, he wasn’t lazy at all.

Have you ever considered turning your books into comics or graphic novels? (Cassy blue)

No. Though it would be fun to do one from scratch.

Do you draw your characters before you can write the book, otherwise it is futile? (Cassy blue)

No, I know some of them and as I write, I get to know them better.

“Which came first the chicken or the egg?” Do you hate questions like that? (Cassy blue)

The egg came first.  Because before the chicken there was a lizard, which also laid eggs. And before that a fish, that also had eggs.

Have you ever felt that you need to finish a story, even though another story calls you so enticingly? (Cassy blue)

Often that other story entices you because it’s hard to finish a story. Make a few notes and go back to your story.

When your computer doesn’t work, do you view this as a punishment by the universe? lol (Cassy blue)

No, I usually think it’s my fault for not backing up.

Do you visualize what your character will be like before putting pen to paper? (Marissa S.)

Yes, in a fuzzy sort of way.

Do you like Harry Potter? Why or why not? (Venatrix Captrix)

I am a big proponent of people reading books that are a little harder than what they can comfortably read. Harry Potter would be right for someone nine or so.  I have nothing against it, but I think people who are capable of reading tougher books should read ‘up’.

here’s the complete entry:

WRITER’S BLOCK DEFINED:

What does “writer’s block” mean to you? I know that when I have the legendary “disease,” it’s not the inability to write, but the inability to write something that I’m proud of. (Roberta Shaprio)

Writer’s block is fear. Fear and an absence of ‘inspiration.’ You’re afraid to write because it won’t be as wonderful as what you imagined, what you can see in your mind. This is a disease called Perfectionism, and is the killer of artists. This is what my last book, Paint It Black, is largely about. Perfectionism is knowing how great literature can be, art can be, music can be, and fearing that what you produce doesn’t measure up. So we don’t write at all because it can never measure up to what’s been done in the past. Michael, my character who commits suicide in Paint it Black, knows a lot about painting, and is afraid he doesn’t measure up. His mother, a classical pianist says to him, “There’s no room in the world for a good enough pianist, there are too many geniuses. And you are no genius.”

But the truth about perfectionism is that, in the creative arts–writing, painting, choreography, music composing–our flaws, what we can’t do, become our signature. Bob Dylan is interesting because his voice is lousy, and yet he does interesting things with it, making it a more interesting, memorable voice, very expressive of himself and his cynicism. The expression is more important than the perfection.

Now Josie, the protagonist of the book, is a punk rocker. And the essence of punk rock is, it doesn’t have to be great, forget perfection, you don’t need anybody’s seal of approval, just get out there and make a sound. Just bang away. There’s a great story about Patti Smith‘s guitarist Lenny Kaye, who used to be a rock critic. He was interviewing some punk guitarist and just envying the hell out of him, he said, “I’d kill to be a musician like you.” And the guy said, “Well, why don’t you?” and Lenny said, “Well, I can’t play the guitar.” and the guitarist said, “Well, neither can I.”

Just go out. Just make a sound. Play it loud.

So Josie–and punk rock–is all about permission. Giving yourself permission to go out and maybe be lousy–so what? YOu’re expressing something.

For me, art is created between those two poles. You have to aspire to greatness WHILE AT THE SAME TIME allowing yourself to just make a sound. We slide back and forth on the scale, sometimes aspiring to more, sometimes just giving ourselves permission to be lousy and what of it? Sometimes you have to just make a sound.

That’s the key to writer’s block. When writer’s block strikes, it’s a sign you need to slide more toward the punk rock side of things.

What do you do when you feel as if your writing in itself isn’t good enough for the plot you’re trying to do? How do you overcome your self doubt? (Amelia McElveen Zombie)

The secret is, it’s NEVER good enough. Literature and the other arts are a field in which there is no upper end. You’re always in the middle of a ladder that extends into the stratosphere. The antidote is–make a sound. Write from where you’re at.

Also remember this–THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS PERFECTION IN THE PHYSICAL WORLD. Which means that once you create something REAL from an idea in your head, it will never be as perfect as the idea. You have to allow that. The most perfect book is the one that remains unwritten. If you want a real book that someone can actually read, it will never be as beautiful as the one in your head. But it will be real!

What do you do when you write a piece, but then realize you absolutely hate it? Do you keep it the way it is (You are your worst critic), or change everything? (Asian Swag)

If I do write it and then absolutely hate it, yeah, I scrap it and try again. I’m doing this right now with my latest short short on my blog. “Tear” is the prompt. I’ve written it three or four times. Oh well.

THE JOURNEY INTO THE UNKNOWN:

Often I have an idea in my head and I’m ready to write, but I just get bored. I know what’s going to happen and I’ve already written the next couple chapters in my head but I just can’t stay focused and write it. I’ll frantically type/scribble words down but after a couple sentences I stop working and am in just kind of a lull. Has this ever happened to you? How do you keep going easily? (Cailin Plunkett)

Some people outline, it suits their subject matter and their temperament. Mystery novelists, for example, are all outliners. Because a mystery novel is a little machine, all the gears and levers and springs have to work together to solve the plot. It is a plot driven form.

On the other hand, I write character driven stories. Which means I follow the character, scene by scene, and see what they do, how they react to situations, and watch the changes within them.

When I started writing, I didn’t know anything about all this–there was no Figment to clue me in–but I read this book that said you take index cards and you plot out what’s going to happen, scene by scene, and put them on a bulletin board. Then you take the first card down, and write that scene, then the next card down and write that scene, and when the cards are all gone you have a book.

I tried it. Did about three cards and then I was so bored I couldn’t bear doing one more. I felt like I’d already written the book, and I hadn’t even started yet. Because I knew everything about it. ZZzzzzzzzz… Writing it was just drudgework.

I’d much rather go on a journey, not knowing things, but keeping my feelers out. Then the writing of it is as much a journey for me as it is for my reader. In White Oleander, I didn’t even know Ingrid was going to jail. But sometimes I know a couple of things–in Paint it Black, I knew that Josie was going to live with Meredith for a time, because I had written a short story about it.

A good way to avoid writer’s block is to write the scenes you can see clearly, and when you have a good pile of them, then see if you can put them in some sort of order. Then you can see what you still need to write.

It seems what you have is a pileup–where there are so many things you have to write and you see them clearly, but it just seems like such a job to get them out on paper. The trick to that is to write in scenes. Just pick a scene you can see clearly, and write that scene.

(Scene defined: one time, one place, one movement from one emotion to another emotion, and something happens where things can’t go back to the way they were before.)

Then write another scene. Think of them as fenceposts. You probably won’t even have to go back and connect them, readers are pretty savvy. Like in movies, you have an action scene and then suddenly you’re in the dining room of a posh restaurant. We don’t have to see them going home, sleeping, getting up, taking a shower, going to work, coming home from work, paying the babysitter, and going out to the restaurant. The reader gets that time has elapsed.

A bit of advice: stop writing it in your head. Wait until you’re at your keyboard. Sometimes other things happen instead–so don’t get too far ahead of yourself.

Before you start a novel, do you create your characters on paper or do you just make it up as you go? (Tom “Jellybean” Stack)

I create the characters in my mind, usually with some vague idea of where it’s going to go, and then I start making it up.

Do you usually write down the entire plot before writing, or at least outline it, so when you get writer’s block you can bypass it? Or do you fly free, and hope you don’t get writer’s block? Which do you suggest to do? (Fish Fingers and Custard)

No, I don’t outline. But I have a few vague ideas, and yes, sometimes when I get stuck, I just jump ahead. Have some other tricks I discuss below in ANTIDOTES.

Do you think that writing out the plotline before you start writing would help? Or just making up as it goes along? (Emma A.)

I usually start with a short story, so I do know something about the story before I start writing a book. But mostly, make it up.

I am inspired, but how do I get the willingness to actually write? (E.R Graham)

Get out there and make a sound. Play it loud. Make a mess. Time to go to the punk rock side of the equation.

ANTIDOTES TO WRITERS BLOCK:

Basically, how do you get through writer’s block? Is there anything you do like write on other things, free write or something like that? (Kelsi Skye)

Yes, sometimes free writing, or writing from prompts, a photograph, some music, is just what the writing-doctor ordered.

1. Take a photograph and write yourself into the photograph. I am that woman, what do I see, who am I, what’s my problem?

2. Very helpful is to talk to the character and ask them what’s going on with them. What are you not seeing about this scene, or about them?

3. Make a 3D character study of the main character in particular. Find out about their past, things you didn’t know: favorite classes in high school, their religious/spiritual beliefs, what they think about money, how their family interacted, issues about money, politics, any kind of illnesses or physical anomalies, their relationships with various family members, what is their secret? What are they ashamed of , what do they dream about?

4. Write ahead–pick a scene from further on and try that.

5. write a scene from a different character’s point of view.

6. Change person (first to third or vice verson.) Change tense.

7. get a book of prompts–like The Writer’s Book of Days or The Writer’s Idea Book.

8. Copy out a paragraph of a writer you really like, and feel their style.

9. Read poetry. Get into language.

Should I eat a peanut when I get writers block? (Zara Olympia)

Hey, eat two.

What is the most frustrating thing about writers block? (Zara Olympia)

That it’s the thing you want to do most in the world, and you can’t do it, even though there’s time and desire.

What do you think causes the infamous “Writer’s Block?” How many types are there? And finally, (I know this has probably been asked before but,) what are your methods to getting past it, or stopping it from happening in the first place? (L.S. hanna)

Types of Writer’s Block:

1. Can’t write at all. Goofing around. Afraid of it. Often it’s a fear of our own creativity. And the longer you don’t write, the worse the Fear gets.

Antidote: just punk rock it. Make a sound. And write every day so there’s no buildup of Fear.

2. Writing writing writing but nothing’s coming together, it all sucks.

Antidote: You might have real story problems. Try writing from another character’s point of view. Try stepping back and saying, “What the heck am I trying to say here?” “What’s at stake?” “What does she want?”

Should you force yourself to write if you have writer’s block? (Maekir Vilemist)

Yes. You might not be able to write what you want, but at least make a sound.

When you have writer’s block do you think it’s better to just try and keep on writing, or to wait until your writer’s block goes away? (Storm Adrian)

It’s important to have stuff coming out of the tap. Even if its not the story you want to write, but just an exercise from a photograph or a prompt.

Is it worth it to force yourself to write during writer’s block? I mean, is that one paragraph you manage to write the one you always delete? And if so, should you still force yourself, just to learn perseverance/get over your case of writer’s block? (Arkady Adler)

Yes. Writer’s block is fear. Must work through it or it just gets bigger.

Are there any songs/artists you listen to to help inspire you out of writer’s block? (Emma A.)

I like listening to stuff that is irritating. The more irritating, the more it gets an emotion out of me. That’s the best for freewriting. If I’m writing my novel and I’m running out of ideas, I might play something that gives me the mood of the scene. and there’s in general a kind of dark, romantic music that stirs my moody soul–not to write to, but just create the mood. Leonard Cohen and Joni Mitchell usually put me into that space. Lots of Prokofiev.

What inspires you to get out of the infamous writer’s block? (Emma A.)

Pain. The pain of writing becomes less than the pain of not writing.

Do you eat special foods to get rid of writer’s block? (Hannah Pouler)

Try to avoid carbs, they make you sleepy. Also milk and turkey. Also big meals. Special foods would be–coffee… and some kind of protein. Often I chew on carrots because the crunch helps my feelings of agression and anxiety.

Do you get the opposite of writer’s block, what I call buildup? Or is it just me? Buildup: When you haven’t written in so long that the characters and plots are taking up so much room in your head you can’t concentrate on anything else. (Celine Dirkes)

Yes. The secret here is to write every day, write in scenes, and don’t think of your work unless you’re actually at the keyboard.

How do you crack writer’s block enough to leak a few good words? (Kennedy Lang)

Punk rock it.

When you’re in a writing slump, do you prefer to force yourself to write and possibly produce less than satisfactory results, or find ways to inspire/motivate yourself in order to write something you could actually be proud of? (Annie)

All of the above. First you write something, you make a sound. Then you work with it until you like it.

How do you motivate yourself to keep deadlines? Do you like to set yourself a fake earlier deadline to work harder or do you procrastinate until the end, or do you just write whenever the ideas come? (Annie)

I meet with other writers on a certain day a week. That helps–have to have something to bring to the group. The buddy system’s awesome, and has built in deadlines. I write whether or not the ideas come, because for me, they only come when I’m working. I never get usable ideas unless I’m at the keyboard working.

How do you get the will-power to start and finish a story and overcome the writer’s block? Do your characters ever push you to write, but you just can’t find the muse for them? (R.J. Hathaway)

I get the will because the pain is worse, the ridiculous pain of not doing the one thing I really want to do.

Do your family members ever help you with writing block? (Emma A.)

Only by not trying to lure me away from my work. That just adds to the problem. Also by being sympathetic to the moaning and groaning.

About how much time do you take off during writer’s block? (Zina <3)

Ugh. I try not to think about it!

Are there any special places, people or things to help end the writer’s block? (Zina <3)

If I’m having trouble writing at home, a change of location, to a coffee house where I can semi-distract myself when I’m working, is often really helpful. Sometimes a writer friend and I will write together–that can be helpful. We don’t talk, we just are there and can tell if the other person’s slacking. Not letting a day go by without writing is the most helpful.

Have you ever come with a random scene for a story that is absolutely perfect and you really want to use it, but it just doesn’t fit in? (Marie J)

Sad but yes.

Which is harder, publishing your book and going through all that, or finishing the book completely including editing and fixing plot holes and filling in gaps and fixing the beginning? (Amelia McElveen Zombie)

Both are hard. Writing is hard enough, but at least you are in control of it.

s my complete post, including the questions:

“…the truth about perfectionism is that, in the creative arts–writing, painting, choreography, music composing–our flaws, what we can’t do, become our signature. Bob Dylan is interesting because his voice is lousy, and yet he does interesting things with it, making it a more interesting, memorable voice, very expressive of himself and his cynicism. The expression is more important than the perfection.”

Here’s the entire post:

What are you feeling when your writing has been rejected by a publisher once again, and you just want to give up and throw your pen down? You don’t want to risk getting rejected again, and you don’t see the point of doing this anymore. Well, obviously you didn’t give up! So, what is that spark that tells you to keep writing, and to never give up? Is it your fans, friends, or just willpower? (Pooja Kini)

No, rejection is the world’s reality check.  If you’re going to be a writer in a public way, as opposed to writing for yourself and your friends, you have to be willing to sustain the world’s reaction to what you’re doing.  It sure is a motive force for improving your work, if you can stand the ouch factor.  You have to risk getting rejected again and again to do creative work in this world, if you want to move into the public arena, whether you’re an actor or a singer or a writer or a sculptor or a ballet dancer or a DJ or a politician or a baseball player.  It’s a big world, but its also a bit push and shovey–you have to be able to get in there and get shoved around a little.

It’s the hardest thing about being a starting-up writer.  You don’t know what you did wrong, only that they’re saying “thanks but no thanks.” The worst day is a day you go to the mailbox and see those rejections.  You keep trying and still, more rejections! From journals nobody’s even heard of.  From agents.  (I started with short stories, so let’s say journals).  It should spur your combativeness.  I would say, “the hell with them!  Someday they’ll be begging me for work!”

But also, it takes embracing the fact that you may have further to go in the quality of the actual work. So you take classes, you exchange work with other struggling writers, you listen to what they say, you learn who to listen to and who not to.  You want to listen to the people who don’t just say “It’s great!” (though nothing wrong with that) but the people who are smart enough to notice what’s wrong with it: “Well, it starts off slow.”  ”Well, your verbs aren’t very interesting.” ” Your sentences are all the same length.” “There’s too much yackety yack.” “I can’t really SEE the place this is supposedly set in.”  ”Vince is kind of a stereotype.”

Eventually, you go from getting form rejections to the personal rejections, to the “gee, almost, do you have anything else” to the, “yes, we’d like to publish your story.” But a lot of the writer’s life is holding that faith that you will get published if you just keep learning, working and growing as a writer.  I teach creative writing, and I can usually tell who will become a professional, and who will drop out or just be a hobbyist.  It’s not the most talented person. It’s the one who wants it the most. He or she will hang in through everything–for years and years if need be–until something happens for them.  My family’s nickname (one of them) for me when I was a kid was “bulldog.”

So it’s not exactly willpower, which suggests doing something, it’s more a factor of personality–just how dogged a person you are. When you get your jaws into something, you don’t let go, for love or money.  Not being able to do anything else particularly well helps.  Knowing that people I respect think I’m good is extremely encouraging. But at bottom, writing is the way I process the world. I don’t know what I really think until I write.  It’s a way of thinking I can’t do if I’m just sitting there, thinking. I never take it far enough.

Also, I love words.  Why would I ever stop?

But a lot of it is understanding that there’s something you have to give the world that only you can give it.  There might be better writers than you (there are always people who are better than you–even James Joyce had Shakespeare to contend with. Even Tolstoy had Pushkin.) but only YOU can write your story. If you stopped, it would be lost to the world.  You have to be the best writer of YOUR stories you can be.  That knocks out the jealousy part.

Do you think it would be any better with another job, like a cook or a businessperson? Or do you think the writer’s life is the best there is? (Emma A.)

Having lived it for a long time now, through the bad times and the good, I don’t know if I can say the writer’s life is the best–only that it suits me.  I don’t like to work with other people, I like to be in my fantasy world, I like to play with words, I like to create worlds.  But writing isn’t a job like being a lawyer or a cook.  It’s an art form.  You do your art form, whether or not you support yourself with it. An art form is like your child, not so much like a job. You don’t expect your child to support you. You support it.  So you write, but you also have a job or jobs, you write and you also might work as a cook or a businessperson.  The writer’s life has nothing to do with one’s money job.  It’s the life of the mind, all the reading and thinking and note-taking and observing and crafting of sentences, talking about literature and thinking about it, and exposing yourself to the other arts.  But the writing life, the removing yourself from the give and take of life with other people, to sit at a table and be alone with your thoughts, day after day, year after year, it’s not for everyone.

If you were offered a high-paying, beneficial job that would support you, your family, a mansion, and more, but it didn’t involve writing, would you take it and give up writing for good? (Emma A.)

I’m not a greedy person.  All I need is the peace of mind that living within my means can give me.  I’m not interested in a ‘big’ lifestyle.  I’m interested in time.  Having time to live, to think, to write.  Money is freedom and time–that’s it.  I would never give up writing for anything.  Not for love, not for money.  It’s my deepest self.

Does your writing create problems within the rest of your life? Maybe stop you from doing something else you love? (Emma A.)

Sure, anything you do for yourself, for your deepest self, requires you to say no to other people.  I’m not a hermit, i’m a very gregarious person. It’s hard for me to say no, I can’t have lunch, no, I can’t go on vacation, no, I can’t commit to an out-of-town offer.  No, I can’t teach another class.  No, I can’t write a review. No, I can’t review your book.  I say yes to the things that either help my work, or that will genuinely feed me as a person.

How has becoming an author changed your life? (Zina)

An author… the difference between a writer and an author… If you write, you’re a writer, but you have to get published to be an author. Being an author, publishing my work, has been an incredible experience, an incredible privilege.  People listen to me now, people who never ever ever listened to a word I said before.  It’s nice to be recognized, it’s nice to have readers, it’s nice to be invited to things. But it’s not necessary. What’s necessary is to love to write. Being a writer, thinking like a writer, looking at the world like a writer.

When did you know you wanted to be a writer? (Rachel H.)

I was 21 and living in England for a year on a student exchange.

Have all of the things you’ve done so far been consciously geared towards being a writer? (Sanaya P.)

No, they’re things in which I have some skill.  I like working with words, I’m curious, I’m persistent, I like art, I write well.

How do you find your opportunities? (Sanaya P.)

I read Poets and Writers’ magazine and learned about the field.

When you started out as a writer, were you ever worried about supporting yourself financially? Did you ever think that the passion wasn’t worth it if you couldn’t sustain yourself? (Sanaya P.)

It’s like having children.  You don’t have children so they’ll support you, you don’t put them on the street at three or four and say, okay kid, you’re on.  You support them, nourish them, teach them, love them. And you work a regular job to pay the bills.  I never had the slightest, merest, most fleeting illusion that my fiction would pay my bills.  What happened to me was completely out of left field.

How long did it take you from idea to last edited line did it take you to write your first novel? (Rachel H.)

Five years.

Writing can obviously be very time-consuming, yet one cannot live on writing alone. How many and what sort of compromises have you had to make to ballance your family, friends, household, other ambitions, leisure time, etc., and your writing? (Meredith Hilton)

Writing is time.  Funny, people never ask baseball players how they balance family, friends, home, leisure time and baseball.  You make it your top priority, along with close family, and the rest can go hang.

Are you jealous of any authors? (be honest please) (Cassy Blue)

People who are struggling with books and it’s not going well will always be envious of people who have finished their books, especially if the books are doing well adn praised and lauded.  You sometimes can be jealous of people whose books you don’t think are that good but are being praised and lauded.  But when people are genuinely better than you, are doing something really good–you don’t envy them, you admire them, and are inspired.

Do you write in your pajamas? (Zara Olympia)
Yeah, mostly.

How many hours do you write? (Zara Olympia)
No more than four at a stretch. it’s pretty intense work. After four I’m mostly played. But I might come back for a second round at night.  For me, night writing is different than morning writing, it’s easier to blot out the world.

Do you like to listen to music while you write? (Zara Olympia)
Generally not, unless I want it for something specific, some specific mood.

Do you dream about your stories? Do your characters come from dreams? (Zara Olympia)
Very, very rarely.

I am wondering what books you would suggest young writers to read? (Zara Olympia)

Read everything, but make sure to read books that are hard enough for you.  If you don’t have to look up any words, you’re reading books that are too easy.

Do you ever get so behind in housework, because you are writing, that you are afraid to have company over? (Cassy Blue)
Yes and no.  Yes, things get to be a terrible mess, but no, I”m never afraid to have my friends over. I just tidy up.

In college were you an english major? Or did you just stumble into writing? Did you go to college? Where did you go to college? (Cassy Blue)

I went to Reed College in Portland, Oregon, where I was a history major.  I thought I wanted to be an historian–but what is history but stories?  A big whacking epic, with huge, dramatic characters and amazing conflict.  Writing history, you learn to draw people into your world, you learn how to make it real. It was great training for fiction. I think I was always a secret novelist, but didn’t know that until I was 21.

Did you get rejected from different publishers? If so how many?If so how’d you get over it and continue on? (Cassy Blue)

When I sold my first book, a young adult novel called Kicks, I had a party and I put my rejections on the walls of my living room.  Including the hundreds of short story rejections I’d gotten over the years, and those from a book that never sold, as well as the book that did, they reached from the floorboards to up over my head on all four walls. I look at rejections as a badge of honor. Until you have your first hundred, you’re not even a real writer.

Is it ever hard to tear yourself away from a book and live in the real world? How do you make that jump? (Ali Renee)

Very hard. I’m always late and often distracted.  My daughter has learned to identify that certain tone of my voice that tells her I’m listening but not listening. She’ll say, “Mom, can I jump off a cliff?”

What is your day like? Do you get up early or late and so on. Do you play a sport for fun or have a hobby? Does your hobby help you come up with story ideas? (Cassy Blue)

Get up seven-ish. Take a good long time to get started, coffee, breakfast, read a while. Then I clear out e-mails and start writing.  Often I’ll read poetry out loud for a while so I can get that music in my ears.  I start the day by rewriting what I wrote the day before, and then continue until I have a stopping place–and if i’m lucky, an idea of what I’m going to write next.  I like to walk, I take dance classes. But I never get ideas unless I’m actually sitting at my computer working.  Even if I do, they’re no good.

What books do you think would inspire young writers? (Zara Olympia)

Everybody’s different.

What books are an example of good writing? (Zara Olympia)

Look at the offerings of a ‘Great Books’ course.  Check out a paragraph of Melville.

What is your favorite dessert? (Zara Olympia)

A coffee ice cream hot fudge sundae in a meringue cup with butterscotch sprinkles.

Do you write about characters the same age as you? (Hannah ED)

Sure. But also young people and old people. I like young people because they’re most apt to make important mistakes in their lives and then have to figure out what they think and what’s true and fight their way through.

When you get an idea for a book, how do you start out writing it? (Kennedy Lang)

I don’t write from ideas.  A book might take four or five years out of my life.  I would never just start out writing a novel.  My books start from short stories.  If I get an idea, I’ll write a short story and see what it’s all about. And very occasionally, I’ll have a short story with more energy and substance, that it hasn’t been exhausted by the story, there’s more to tell. That’s a good sign of a novel wanting to be written.

How terrifying was it for you, honestly? To write that first novel and send it in to the editor? (Kareena Oner)

Not as terrifying as being rejected over and over again and thinking I’ll never publish anything as long as I lived.  The second novel, in some ways, was scarier than the first.

Do you ever travel for references or inspiration when writing? (Charlotte Donaghue)

Not for writing inspiration per se, but just to refresh me as a person, change the oxygen in the fishtank.  To see something new, to clean my eyes, to wake my senses. All input, all life experience, is good for writing.  But travel is also disruptive if you’re working on a long project, it’s harder to keep that vision steady over long periods of time when you keep breaking it up to go traveling. I don’t write–at least not my novels–when I’m traveling, so it’s all time off.

When you walk into a bookstore, do you look for your book on the shelves and then grin hugely at the sight of it? (Aea Varfis-van Warmelo)

Absolutely. Worse is when it’s not there.  Which is what usually happens if you’re looking for it.  Like a kick in the stomach.  You learn not to look.

If you don’t find it do you tell the owner about the “great new book that came out” and that they need to get? (Aea Varfis-van Warmelo)

No–you slink out of the store feeling like slime.

After you’ve found it do you stand there and tell every single person that crosses your path “That’s my book!” and force them to buy it? (Aea Varfis-van Warmelo)

No–though sometimes you turn it face outwards.  Or you might bring it to the counter and sign the copies for the store.

Do your friends get bored when you talk to them about your writing? (Aea Varfis-van Warmelo)

No, I mostly talk to other writers about my writing, and spare my other friends.

Do you hate your friends that get bored when you talk to them about your writing? (Aea Varfis-van Warmelo)

This is why I only talk to other writers about my writing.  If civilians ask, I just give a very brief summary. It’s like someone asks you “how’re you doing?” they don’t want a blow by blow of all the problems in your life and what you ate yesterday.

Were you encouraged? (Sam, King of Fiction)

No. Nobody cares whether you write or not.

Do you take breaks while writing or do you write for a block of time and rest when you are done? (Julliah Randolph)

I take a lot of breaks when it’s not going well.  I work like the demon when it’s moving.

If you do take breaks, what do you do? (Julliah Randolph)

Look in the fridge. Read a bit of someone else’s book.  Check email.  Make some more coffee. If it’s going really badly, I might even take a nap.

What is the best thing to do when you get a new story idea? (Zara Olympia)

Write a short short.

If you have reached the ending of the story you’re writing, but you don’t know how to end it, what do you do?

I keep trying different things until I get the one that feels right.

Do you ever feel bad if you kill off a character? Do you give them a funeral? (Zara Olympia)

Of course I feel bad, if I liked them.  I only give them a funeral if it’s important to the story.

Do you like Star Trek, if so who do you like better Kirk or Picard? Sorry, had to slip in the nerd question. (Cassy Blue)

Picard. WAY Picard.

Do you think writing YA fiction is like being in high school again, but you can control it? (Cassy Blue)

Hmm.  Not sure.  With YA fiction, you can take things to their logical conclusion.  In high school you tried not to.

How much research goes into your stories? (Cassy Blue)

I research after I write to make sure I got it right and pick up details.

Which genre are you best with? Which is the easiest to blend in and create a story with? (For me it’s fantasy.) (The Real Tibor Haskett)

Literary fiction.

When you write a character, do you put a little bit of yourself into them? (Cassy Blue)

More than a little, but only certain aspects of myself.

Do you prefer editing a chapter after it’s been finished or waiting for the whole story to be done first? (Jaxx Capta)

No, I edit every day, I start working in the morning by rewriting what I wrote the day before. So, I may have edited the same piece ten or twenty times before I get to the end, and then I start over–maybe 3 complete drafts.

How many books do you read per week? Do you know your librarians well? (Cassy Blue)

One, usually, but often I have more than one going at a time.  And yes, I know the librarians very well.  I was even an LA City Library Commissioner for a time.  My whole family are library nuts.

How do you get agents for your books you actually want to publish? (Maria L. Henderson)

This is a long process. The best piece ever written on the subject is in Poet’s and Writer’s book The Practical Writer.

Do you think that your writings represent you as a person? If I am not a very efficient speller then should I just use easier words? I have trouble finishing books- any advice? (Amy Rose Azeltine)

My writing is the inner me.  If you’re a bad speller, challenge yourself.  Trouble finishing books? Meaning writing them or reading them?  If it’s the latter, get some librarian help in finding books you may like better.  If it’s the former, maybe try short stories instead.

What do you think of e-books? (Jullia Randolph)

I think they’re the future, but I don’t use them yet because I want to buy all my books from my local independent bookstore.  When I can buy e-books from my fantastic local bookstore, then I might consider it.

What do you do when your characters don’t do what you want them to? I don’t mean writers block, but like if your character is supposed to run away, but you know s/he would never do something like that, but it’s essential to the story. It would change the character and be an OOC move for them, but it has to be done and your character is already established with a personality and if you change that, it changes the whole book. (LilyFire)

OOC–don’t we all do things that are out of character for ourselves from time to time?  If it’s essential to your story that you have a character that has to run away, you have to create a character who will do that, under pressure.  Under certain circumstances.  I would never kill anyone, for example. But put me in a war, with training and a gun in my hands, I guess I would.  Put me in a scary situation, armed, and I might do just that.  It’s about the pressure you put them under.

What do you do when your editor wants you to completely turn the story around? (Joshua LF Mitchell)

My editor is personally someone I trust a great deal and respect and admire. If he felt I needed to completely turn the story around, I’d think long and hard about it.

Here’s the whole post:

When you develop a character, do you prefer to have it all planned out or have the basics down and discover more about the character along the way? For example, do you make the character react to situations based on what you have decided on the character, or do you have the character react however and that now becomes what the character is like? (Annie)

The latter.  I never have much planned out when I start writing, I learn about the people as I go along. I usually start with a character or a situation that has some energy to it–that works like a spring or an engine.  You wind it up and let it go. In the case of Paint it Black, I started with a character and a situation, a girl whose boyfriend has committed suicide, and whose mother blames her for the death.  In the case of White Oleander, I started with the character of Ingrid Magnussen, a very particular person I knew would cause a lot of problems for herself and the people around her.  Then I discover more about them as the story unfolds.

But sometimes you have to adjust the characters–because sometimes they have to things you need them to do for the sake of the story, so that they can hold their place, dramatically.  For instance,  in Paint it Black, Josie Tyrell began as a much quieter, more vulnerable character, but it just felt wrong, more wrong as time went on–and she wasn’t able to stand up to Michael’s mother.  She just collapsed. I needed her to be stronger so she could hold own better.

Often I write for a while and find I’ve exhausted what I know about the person, then I go back and ask myself a number of questions about them, their lives, their families, their dreams, their quirks.  Physical details, like illnesses in childhood, scars, colorblindness, allergies… Psychological details, like phobias and favorite classes in high school, hobbies and books and politics, their sexuality, … and sociological details like the kinds of families they come from, their work, and what kind of workers they are, if theyr’e clean or messy, things like that.

I’ll even sometimes have a conversation with the character and ask them questions about themselves.  ”Why do you hate Jenny?”  ”What was your worst birthday?”  I’m nutty enough that I really believe they talk to me.  For instance, in White Oleander, I couldn’t figure out what Astrid’s problem was. I could see through her eyes, but I couldn’t see her.  I talked to her and asked her what her problem was… we sat on a park bench together, and she put her head in my lap and said, “Janet, I am so lonely.”

My characters are more real to me than a lot of the people I know.

How do you know how much information to give the reader to make him/her think but not enough to make him/her bored? I enjoy books where the author gives little clues or foreshadowing, forcing me to figure things out, yet when I try this in my writing, most of my readers tell me I need to add more detail. Where is the line between a poor reader and a great writer? (Erin McLaughlin)

This is a matter of taste, and i don’t mean that lightly–I mean as a writer you have to develop a sense of taste.  You want to give people enough information that they can understand what’s happening in the scene, but only that much. You want them to lean forward, so to speak, to catch the next clue. It’s like the person who sits next to you on the plane and starts telling you his life story. It’s interesting for the first five minutes, and then you want to know less… and less… and less, until you put on your headphones and pretend you’re asleep.

On the other hand, I hate the purposeful withholding of details, usually for the sake of a “big” reveal. It’s a terrible idea–because in holding back that one detail, you often stopper up your own imagination.

In general, if your readers ask for more detail, that’s a good clue. Sometimes we go overboard in trying to be subtle… every writer’s different this way.

Sentence and word variation is generally considered desirable if not downright esential for a good story/poem. On the other hand, many good stories contain motifs or other recurring images or words that pop up throughout the story. How do you include meaningful themes and motifs in your stories without compromising it’s pace through repetition? (Meredith Hilton)

Good, interesting sentences and use of motifs don’t necessarily slow anything down.  What I, as a reader, love best is the double pleasure–of wanting to race forward to know what HAPPENS and also wanting to linger and reread that sentence again because it was so glorious.  That creates a tension that’s the most delicious reading of all.  Repetition–again, it’s a matter of taste, and I mean the writer has to develop a sense of taste, when too much is too much.

What genre do you think is best to write when you are in a silly mood? (As in, feeling like painting your face green, wearing a yellow suit and going crazy.) (Violet 11)

I’d probably go for a fairy tale.

Do you think it makes a writing more interesting to combine styles and genres within characters/books? (Emma A.)

I don’t mind genre-bending, but all good writing is interesting, I don’t think genre-bending makes anything more or less interesting, just different.

What different genres have you played with in the past? Are there any genres that you would like to explore in future stories? (Jordan the Boa)

I’ve written screenplay, I stink.  Generally, I write long fiction, but also short short stories  like the ones in my blog, and poetry.  I don’t write drama but I always think of my stories in terms of drama, in terms of scene.  I’ve done a few sci fi stories, fantasy… I’m pretty happy with that assortment.

In your opinion, is it possible to hook people in with a dark writing style, or do you think this scares too many people off? (Maekir Vilemist)

I always write in a dark style, except in short fiction.  I think the trick is, to have a little humor in there too, so people have a moment to breathe out–so there’s some dimension, or what painters call ‘chiaroscuro’, which means light and dark. But scaring people off… what people?  Not everyone likes chocolate either. The important thing is to make a chocolate bar that people who like chocolate will adore.

What style of writing is best; third person, second person, or first person? (Zara Olympia)

It depends–third person lets you look around more. First person brings you in close, feels very immediate. Third is more sophisticated. First is more urgent. Second is sort of a novelty item.  I wrote White Oleander in first because the character had a  fine vocabulary from her poet mother. I wrote Paint it Black in third because, although Josie Tyrell was a bright and observant thinker, she was also a high school dropout, and her vocabulary wouldn’t have been able to express the interesting thoughts she had.

Where do you get most of your ideas? Like do you visit certain places and get inspired? Or was it other writers? (Ariel G. Martinez)

Out of the blue.  It was like people asked Chekhov what he was going to write next. He picked up an ashtray and said…”Hmm, maybe I’ll write about this.”  YOur stories are inside you. Start anywhere. On my blog, I use an exercise called The Word as a basis for my short shorts. Most of my writing has come out of one of these exercises.  Sometimes I”ll write from a photograph or a piece of music… but the ideas are inside–the exercises are just a way to get to them.

Throughout all of your adventures, while wearig a cape and the such, how do you find what you want to write in the time you have to do it? (including inspirations, incentives, etc.) (Roberta Shapiro)

The thing that’s funny is that a writer’s life is actually pretty quiet.  I sit down and work every day, it’s just what I do.

How do you like to describe the setting? A giant description of it is kind of boring, so would you kind of sprinkle some details in when they seem fit and slowly develop it like that? (Annie)

Yes, exactly. You sprinkle it in. Think of the landscape as a spell you’re casting, a spell that starts to dissolve as soon as you you cast it. So you have to keep creating it, keeping it vivid and in front of the reader. you have to find various ways to describe the same things, or other details about the same landscape, to keep that spell going. Great question.

Have you ever worked with poetry? And if so, do you prefer more descriptive and showy poetry or basic clear language in poetry? (Annie)

Yes, I always work with poetry.  As a reader–my favorite poets are Dylan Thomas, TS Eliot, Anne Sexton, but I love Anne Carson (Beauty of the Husband) , Carl Sandberg (The People Yes), Allen Ginsberg (Howl), Joseph Brodsky (To Urania), Diane Wakoski (The King of Spain), Howard Nemerov, James Merrill, Blaise Cendrars…

How do you create your characters? Do you people watch? Are they inspired by the looks/personalities of the people around you? (Tori Scott)

Usually my characters are like people in a dream–they’re all pieces of myself.  I’m working something out by setting them loose in interaction with each other.  But I use the looks and personalities of people I know for the forms they take, gestures and way of speaking, often I find pictures of people who remind me of–that’s what Michael looks like, and that’s Ingrid.

If you had/have children would you/do you alter your writing style to something they would read? (Tori Scott)

I do have a daughter.  And no, I would not alter my writing style. This is who I am.  I need to say what I need to say.

Do you have any tips for writing a good action scene? Also, what are some things that should be avoided when writing an action scene? (Dashiell Graci)

Not too much interiority in an action scene.  People think when their hands are less full.  Also, an action scene is still a scene–something has to happen, where the character can’t ever go back to the way things were before.

What are your thoughts on writing scenes that interest you most at the time, instead of in chronological order? (I mean skipping over less important scenes and then coming back to them.) (Krista Ogilvie)

I do that all the time.  I think its brilliant. Often you find you don’t need the other things at all.  You don’t have to have the character wake up in the morning, the reader can figure that for himself.

Do you write daily and, if so, how do you keep it up? (Alex Loomis)

I do, even if it’s just 15 minutes, to keep it alive. I do it because I have a hunger to express myself.  I do it because I love the puzzle of it.  Because I’m compulsive.

What do you generally think of stream-of-conciousness stories? What tips do you have for those who write them? (Meredith Hilton)

I love them.  the tip is–the more interesting the mind, the better, the more memories, the more variety of thought.

Which genre do you think is most likely the easiest to write? (Regie Lavon)

Depends on the writer. I find the short short story easiest, also bad poetry.

First of all, I absolutely adore both White Oleander and Paint it Black! *Ahem* Anyway, now that I’ve got that out of my system. One thing I’ve noticed when reading both books is that there doesn’t seem to be an antagonist, of course there’s someone who is the root of the problem but there isn’t an outright enemy. Is this intentional or does it just sort of happen that way? (Charlotte Donaghue)

The thing to remember is that nobody’s a villain to themselves. We all have reasons from our own point of view. Be fair to your villains and you’ll have a really interesting story, because sometimes your protagonist will see their point of view.  Just before they attack.

What inspires you to write your stories? (Aly Lovegood Harris)

The greatness of other writers.

What specifically made you want to become a writer? When did you first start taking an interest? And what would/do you do outside of writing? (Michel Momeyer)

I’ve been a lifelong reader, but I didn’t decide to be a writer until I was 21.  But I lived more in my books than I lived in my life, and my sense of what was “real” was never very firm.  Outside of writing, I read, I love a great intellectual conversation, I love to travel, I love printmaking and graphic arts, collage, artists books.  I’m always interested in people.  For work, I’ve done a lot of publishing related jobs, and jobs in the graphic arts.  I’ve been a manpower temp, I’ve done a lot of journalism.

Do you have any tips to help us writers? (Zina)

Sure. I didn’t come to writing knowing what I was doing. I had to learn almost everything. I try to help other writers so it won’t take them as long as it took me.

What made you want to write the kind of books you do? (Zina)

Reading. Some of the greatest pleasures of my life have been lying there on the couch reading something so vivid and emotional and real, my real life just disappears.

When did you discover your love of writing? (Zina)

I learned to read when I was four.  I guess you could say that’s when I started.

How did you emotionally handle the idea of another author adapting your work for film? Several people have expressed interest in adapting my work for the screen, but I have grave concerns for how it will be interpreted. (Arianna Sexton-Hughes)

Once your work is written, nobody can change that.  So it’s not like they can really screw anything up.  I look at a movie as being another person’s work of art–based on something I’ve written, but it doesn’t have to be the same. It just has to hold together on its own terms.

What are some of your most uncanny inspirations? (Holly Blackwood)

It’s all sort of uncanny. That you can, say with The Word exercises, take a word like CANE, think about it, and then end up with an entire little world.

Where are your favorite places to write? (Holly Blackwood)

I write at home normally. If I’m stuck I’ll take my computer to a coffee house where there’s no INTERNET!!

In general, what advice would you give to teenage writers (if you could travel back in time, what would you tell yourself)? (Holly Blackwood)

/I would say, write a LOT.  And don’t imitate movies or TV.  I would say, read great books. If you know all the words in a book you’re reading, if you don’t have to look up anything, you’re reading books that are too easy for you.  You should come across at least one unfamiliar word every few pages.

How do you know when your manuscript is done? Not simply finished, but edited and revised? (Erin McLaughlin)

That’s a great question.  When you change things and change them back, you’re done.  When you change things and they’re no better, just different, you’re done.  When you’ve let a couple of people you really trust and respect read the work and listen to their critique and do the edits, then you’re done.

In your opinion is it more important to be a very good dialogue writer or a description writer? They are both key elements to a story but which should be stronger? (Ali Renee)

Have to do both.  Which is more important, your left leg or your right?

Do you ever think back after a book is published and think about what you might have changed? (Holly Blackwood)

Mostly sentences, rather than scenes.  When I read my books in public, I always edit them.

Taco shells: hard or soft?
^this is a ligit question, as I’m asking which INSPIRES you to write more? See how it all fits in? xD (thefrankie)

Soft.  Flour.

What do you think are the most important qualities a writer should develop and why? (The Oak Tree)

Obsessionality.

Do you do this completely organized version of writing a book with a whole plot diagram, or is it more spontaneous? (The Oak Tree)

Spontaneous. Though when I’m rewriting, I sometimes diagram to get more a grip on the proportions of what I’ve done.

Do you think it’s easier to write short stories or novels? (Holly Blackwood)

Different for different people. I’m a novelist who sometimes writes short stories. I know people who are short story writers who sometimes write novels.  Gene Kelly was a pretty good singer for a dancer.

Have you ever been discouraged about writing and wanted to quit? If so, what do you do to get past that? (Kayla M.)

No.  I get discouraged but quitting was never in the cards.

Do you ever have a specific type of music you have to listen to when writing or thinking of an idea? It seems rather hilarious, but I find myself listening to Selena Gomez. I find it helps me think of the most interesting ideas! I’d love to know what you prefer! Is it Classical, Rock, Pop, just wondering! (Pooja Kini)

I listen to things that pertain to what I’m writing. Right now I’m listening to Russians reading poetry in Russian, just for the sound of it. Sometimes Russian men’s choruses.  In Paint It Black, I listened to some very sad songs, because sometimes I was in a cheery mood and had to write a very sad scene!