Writing Blocks & Overcoming Them

I’ve been writing my memoir for many years now and, as I’ve heard others say after working on it for a long amount of time, “I’m getting pretty sick of it.” I read what I’ve written over and over, making corrections, adding new thoughts and stories and memories, rearranging things so they make more sense, and at night I dream about the past, sometimes remembering something new for another story. But now I’ve reached a stumbling point, writer’s block to be specific, and that little voice in my head is asking why am I knocking myself out to do this? What is the point anyway?

So, I thought it would give me some new incentive if I could determine why writing about my past is important. Here are a few things I found from some research on the web:

• Out of six billion people on earth each person’s life story is unique and important to someone. How many times have you thought to yourself, if only I had asked so and so about that? Sad to say, this is a normal occurrence at a funeral or later. Don’t let it be your funeral. A memoir is a chance to set the record straight as you remember it.

• Writing memoir is a challenging mental activity. Who out there writing one wouldn’t agree with this? There is a myriad of help and writing prompts to be found on the internet. Answering intimate questions about one’s past and writing them down may lead to some clarity and can give today’s life new meaning.

• Relive the most profound moments of your life, put the reader in your shoes, and gift yourself immortality. Many authors have ended up feeling their memoir was their most important writing and that it became their legacy regardless of how many other books they had written.

• Your life has been enriched by the achievements and heritage of your ancestors. A memoir gives you the opportunity to pass this on. In written form, your life is documented, allowing others, perhaps generations later, to know you. That’s pretty empowering.

All of these things are good reasons, but in the end my memoir is my baby, and if I don’t love the process of writing about my past, not much is going to get done, and what does get written is not going to be very good or interesting to anyone else. Memoir is like writing about anything. There has to be a passion for it. So how do I get back the passion for writing my memoir?

One thing I know for certain, writing does clarify things and sharing that writing gives me a sense of self-worth. I share my stories in my blog and through a life history group of which I’m a member and, most importantly, through my writing critique group. Passion comes from many things but encouragement is a biggie with me, and I get that with my pod buddies. There’s something magical about sharing your life with others and when members of my group ask questions or say yeah, I remember doing that, or they want to hear more of a particular story, something deep in my soul just dances. And then I am passionate to write more.

In a way I started writing my life story long before I knew anything about a critique group. I’ve always kept a journal, diary if you prefer. I loved writing and I loved rereading what I had written. It brought me closer to me somehow, reading the journey of my life. I always caught myself saying I had forgotten about that as I read through.

Memoir is my favorite genre to read. I can’t get enough of hearing about other people’s lives. The book lying on my nightstand today is by Harry Crews, A Childhood, and as I read, I’m right there with him in that little Georgia town growing up in the Depression. I’m nosy but shy about asking personal questions. In memoir my questions are answered before I think of them.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that many things stir my passion for writing my own memoir and when I get a “block”, I have to remember to do those things to get me going again. Just writing this post is making me anxious to pull up “mybook.doc”, read a little and write a little, while the passion is flaming. I hope some of these suggestions will help you through a block because your story is important to you, to others, and to me.

The Power of the Writer

If you’re a writer, do you think of yourself as powerful? Or do you think of your writing as a pastime, something to do when you have nothing else to do? Consider the following subjects as examples of the impact of writing.

First impressions

We have all heard the term applied to meeting people but how about the books you have read? James Michener comes to my mind right away. He gave me my first impressions of Alaska, Hawaii, Africa, and many more. News stories assault us almost every minute and give us first impressions on numerous topics, some true, some not. We get our first impressions on so many subjects through reading other people’s writing; it is staggering to think about.

Inspiration

I feel this term would not exist if it were not for the writer. Encouragement through inspiration leads us to further our knowledge of something that interests us. It makes us act, try something, read more, and it feeds our soul. Positive thoughts, advice, ideas…all of these come to us through inspirational writers. Inspiration means different things to different people, but if you are interested in being inspired, there is a book out there for you. And if there is not, you should write one.

Immortality

History, how would we know it without writers? Sure, someone may dig up a mastodon or a dinosaur, and we can visit a museum to see what they looked like, but if it were not for writing, why would we even be interested? We need writers to make us act. Our stories can give us immortality if we put them to words and pass those words on to readers. Some of us may think our life stories are dull and uninteresting, but there is someone out there waiting to read about us. Think how your story would interest a person living in another culture, and how it might impact them.

A Memory Bank

Alzheimer’s is prominent in the news and seems to be something in all our futures if we live long enough. Who knows what we will remember when we finally succumb to this tragedy of the mind. We can make it less of a tragedy by writing down things we remember now so those memories can be passed on to others. It does not matter your current age because we do not know what tomorrow may bring, or even if we will have a tomorrow. Journals are our memories for tomorrow. Pretty though they may be, don’t leave them blank.

Artistic Creation

How many have turned to a book to learn how to do a craft or play an instrument or paint a picture or use a camera or any number of other things. A piece of writing may have originally planted that seed in our imagination. Books always go along with how-tos. Unless we are just browsing, we search youtube videos after we have read about something that interests us. Self-help books are a multi-million dollar industry for the writer. Have you ever ordered something you had to put together. Although directions may be a last resort, I always have to go there eventually.

Engagement

I am not talking about the marrying kind, but the writing kind that captures your attention and makes you think in ways you would not have thought before. It gets you involved, stirs you to participate in some way. Do you remember the movie, The Sixth Sense? Yes, maybe it was a little far out, but engaging? You bet. It was written and directed by M. Night Shyamalan.  This is powerful and engaging writing, not soon forgotten. I know you can think of many other books you will never forget, even some that may have changed your life.

Persuasion

I hope this little essay I am writing will persuade you to take up or resume the practice of writing. Through rhetoric, I have offered reasons to write, appealed to your emotions, given examples, used metaphors, and many other writing techniques to sway your thought process to this end. If you have ever written a letter of complaint, you know what persuasive writing is. Op ed pieces fit in this category, too.

Writing is a powerful force in today’s world, and you hold that power in your fingers and in your mind. Share it. I may be one little dot in the universe (Carl Sagan’s Cosmos), but I have the power to decide if anyone remembers me when my little dot floats away. You have that power, too.

How To Write A Review

I am a member of an online writing site, which I dearly love, and from time to time I participate in helping judge site contests. All the judges are required to review each entry submitted, and I thought I would devote this post to my review method.

In order for a review to be effective, that is, constructively received, it must be balanced, not all good and not all bad. All of either one will negatively impact the writer. No one is perfect and no one is all bad; we all know that. So, how do I get that balance?

First, I read the story as a reader, looking for something that will hold my attention. This first read is usually a quick one, unless I stumble around, bumping into glaring mistakes.

After the quick read, I start looking for plot, characters, conflict, resolution and possibly a theme. Then, I make a point of answering these questions:

• How did it make me feel? What emotions were invoked?

• Can I relate to it? Have I had similar experiences?

• Is it believable? Even sci-fi and fantasy must be believable.

• Does the dialogue flow easily? Can I hear it? Does each character sound like he should?

• Is there a time period mentioned? How about a place? And setting?

• Did anything in particular stand out or especially draw my interest?

• Is there anything in the story I would change if I were writing it?

• What was memorable about the story, something I might think about later?

I also like to scatter a few relevant emoticons throughout my reviews for attention, for color, or to get a point across. They help lighten the atmosphere.

I always begin and end with a few words of sincere encouragement, and I stress that the review is my opinion and meant to be helpful.

I hope something in this post will help you review others and perhaps allow you to receive helpful reviews with the intent in which they are given.

Is Showing Better?

I thought I'd share some writing assignments I did awhile back on "showing, not telling." Some are true, some are not. You can decide.

1. My father was quiet.

Daddy hoarded words like leprechauns bury gold, sharing only with family. He developed a new disease called cacklephobia when my mom had her tupperware parties. I watched from the top of the stairs as each lady did her best to engage him in conversation only to be met with funeral parlor silence. Unable to accept his one syllable answers, they twittered like canaries finally drooping their wings and hopping off in a new direction.

2. She's always hostile.

My Aunt Sadie was an old maid, who reluctantly babysat me when no one else could. She reminded me of a very unfriendly bull my pop-pop had on his farm. Whenever I got within seeing distance of old Red, he charged the fence to get me out of his territory. My pleas to Aunt Sadie to play games or partake of dolly teatime were greeted with snorts, downward glances, and hunching shoulders just like old Red. I learned to steer clear of them both.

3. She was unhappy.

After a loose dog in her neighborhood attacked and killed her cat, Charlotte felt as lost and saddened as Jody in The Yearling when facing the reality of death. Her kitty, Sandy, was only a year old and trying to stay cool in the shade atop a tire on an old pickup truck. The German Shepherd from up the street escaped his yard, spotted her, and came barking. Even though little Sandy jumped down and tried to run, she never had a chance of avoiding his jaguar speed and vampire teeth. Charlotte chased the Shepherd off like a banshee and rushed to the vet with Sandy swaddled on a pillow. After a quick examination, the look in Dr Young's eyes gripped her like the fingers of the Boston Strangler, leaving her unable to swallow her grief.

4. The room was scary.

The phenomenon of floating enveloped me as the flourescent lights zoomed past like telephone poles. I shivered under the light blanket when the hospital aides whisked me into the dim, icy-cold room filled with blinking computer monitors. Awash with fearful anticipation, the thumping of my heart now seemed even faster than the 180 it had been registering on the monitor in my room. I was lifted from the gurney onto what felt like an ironing board, minutes away from the mysterious procedure called Catheter Ablation for SVT. Listening acutely to the broken English of my doctor, I understood he intended to block some of the overly abundant electrical signals making my heart race. He cautioned me to lie very still. Watching the masked men moving all around me, I felt like Alice, only I was on the table instead at the table. The ironing board became my intimate enemy during the next few hours, torturing my spinal column. I wondered if I would ever be able to walk again, but, just like the pain of childbirth, time and the joy of a normal heartbeat erased the memory of the suffered discomfort and fear.

5. My grandmother was a thief.

When grandmom babysat me, I looked forward to our afternoon visits with her two closest farm neighbors. Grandmom would grab my hand and we would take off on foot down the two-track dirt lane that led from her farmhouse to the slightly wider, dusty dirt road beyond. Hesitating only for a second, it was left to Mrs. Water's or right to Polly Wooleyhand's. She picked, I followed. Inside the neighbor's parlor, Grandmom expressed her special interest in seeing the neighbor lady's jewelry box. She would ooh and ahh over each piece like Queen Elizabeth had just taken it off. The next morning when I rode in the truck with Pop-pop to take the filled milkcans to the corner, he would make a stop at the neighbor's house we had visited the day before. Telling me to stay in the truck, I watched him go to the door and hand something to the lady of the house. I noticed his red face and sharp tone when he got back in and slammed the door ignoring my questions. Later, when I was older, Pop-pop told me Grandmom always "mistakenly" brought a favorite trinket home in her apron pocket.

6 He was self-conscious about his weight.

I never saw Joey wear anything but one size too big, loose-fitting clothes. At lunch he ate salads as we ate fries and burgers, and when I asked him about it, he turned red and told me to mind my own business. In PE, he always pulled the "I'm sick and gotta go to the nurse" routine. In the shower, his butt looked like it had been damaged by hail. I wanted to be friends but he kept putting "Fat Freddie" between us. It got old.

A Contest Full of Surprises

Some of you may have heard me mention that I am a member of an online writing group called “writing.com.” I joined it in December of 2008 during a time when I was Jim’s caregiver. It saved my life, or at least saved my sanity, by providing me with an hour or so each day of normalcy during a period in my life that was anything but normal.

In the beginning I read the writing of others and provided tentative feedback, unsure of my own ability to do more. It was late February of 2009 before I was brave enough to “publish” a poem, a poem about my kitty, Mopsy, and a visiting friend named Oliver. We called him Ollie and he belonged to my daughter who, at the time, had moved into an apartment that did not allow pets. The poem was terrible, but I have left it “published” to remember how it all started. Now, I have over 232 published items of which some are book items, meaning they have more than one entry, for instance, my blog and my memoirs, which have several.

A couple of years ago I was promoted to the role of moderator on the site because of my activity and involvement with others, I guess, not really sure why. It’s not a big deal, but it does allow me to do certain things such as edit newsletters, judge contests, try out new site tools before others as well as being helpful and positive when questioned about things on the site which sometimes I can answer and sometimes not.

Finally, slow though I am, last month I, along with two other moderators, volunteered to judge the monthly official writing.com contest. The other two moderators were old hands at judging. This contest is called “Short Shots” and the required story of up to 2,000 words was prompted by a photo. From my viewpoint, the picture was eerie-looking, mostly dark green and blue with patches of bright light shining in from above. I saw old buildings around a lake, rocky and barren backdrops, with industrial smokestacks in the distance. My first thought was of a book I had read awhile back called Among Others which was set in a coal mining area of Scotland. The small town’s laborers worked in factories that made charcoal briquettes. Not one other person who entered the contest saw the picture the same way I did.

First, let me say, the judges had to read all the entries and give a written review of at least 250 characters which is not really very long. This is what amazed me. Nearly every story was sci-fi or fantasy, and there were 49 entries. The closest I have gotten to reading science fiction and fantasy would be Steven King and J. K. Rowling so believe me, I was not prepared to “understand” most of the entries about supernatural caves, dragons, aliens, fantasy warfare, fairies, time warps, black holes, spaceships, middle earth, and on and on. So to say I got an education in an unknown genre would be an understatement.

In order to write the review I had to try to understand the story that was being written. Sometimes this took four or five readings and “googling” strange words.

After reading all the stories my judging job was to pick my favorite ten, with number one being my most favorite and so on. The contest ended on the thirtieth of July and my selections had to be submitted by August 15^th. I wasn’t supplied with the entries until the first of August because editing was allowed until the end of July. With my lack of knowledge in the genre I placed the extra burden on myself of finishing all my reviews by August 15th. How could I make an intelligent decision otherwise? Then the moderator of the contest would compile the selections attaching a point system to determine the top three, 1^st, 2^nd, and 3^rd places. The prizes are in writing.com gift points of $100, $50 and $25, and you must have a paid membership to be eligible. I had no idea so many people would enter.

The winners were announced on August 22^nd and I was shocked to see that my first three picks had won 1^st, 2^nd, and 3^rd places just as I had selected them. So I guess the moral of this story is that even though you may not think you know what you are doing, if you try to do your very best, you can get through it and maybe even learn something along the way. I anticipated emails from writers who laughed at my reviews, but all the responses I received couldn’t have been nicer, and several actually said I “got” exactly what they were trying to say. That was a big surprise.

My comfort level with sci-fi and fantasy has improved, but I’m not sure I would knowingly volunteer to judge another contest in those genres. I did learn a lot, not only about writing but about people, and now that it’s over, I’m glad I put myself out there and saw it through to the finish line.

A Writer's Workshop Plus

            A few Saturdays ago I attended a writer's workshop sponsored by my local writing group. They called it "Writers in the Woods". An author in the group, whom I'll call Sophie because her pure white hair makes her look so sophisticated, allowed us, 40 of us, to pile into her historical country home to learn a little more about writing. We got a bonus.

            Sophie, a widow, owns 110 acres a few miles southwest of where I live. Early in the morning I traveled the interstate to the exit for her country road and drove around twenty miles on a nice atmospheric two-lane highway bordered by thousands of blooming pink phlox. Then my directions indicated a turn onto a limestone road that wound and wound for a couple more miles. I saw cattle, tilled fields, and huge standing pines. At last I arrived at Sophie’s and was directed by another writer I recognized to park with others in a field behind a stacked stone border. Flowers, shrubs, and trees blossomed and quaint blue bottle stepping-stones dotted the grass of the wooden-fenced front yard. On the inviting open front porch, crowded with rockers and hanging impatiens, two other writing acquaintances checked me in. Inside the old-fashioned kitchen, donut holes and hot coffee and tea sat waiting. Folding chairs filled two large rooms which sported high ceilings, paddle fans, and airy screened windows. They were known as the North Room and the Dining Room on our programs, which listed poetry, publishing, blogs, photography, and freelance writing as topics of interest to be presented.

            Sophie welcomed us and told us a little of her home’s history. It was built around 1903 and had once sat on Noble Avenue in a nearby town. Her family purchased it to save it from demolition, and they had it moved to its present spot in the 1990s. Much work, effort, and many dollars went into its renovation in the ensuing years.

            The day was split into two sessions, morning and afternoon, with a catered-lunch served around 12 o’clock. We could eat outside at picnic tables or inside, wherever we liked. After devouring heaping platters of rolls, pork barbecue, coleslaw, beans, and chocolate chip cookies, everyone was invited back inside to listen to some original tunes by a couple of our own writers. Needing very little encouragement, the audience sang along to a parody of Crazy, that old song by Patsy Cline, reworded to be about writers, of course.

            When all the presentations were finished, our hostess offered to guide anyone interested on a tour of some of her land. We walked about an hour, part way on an old railroad berm. For those who don't know what that is, it's the built-up area for the tracks. The tracks were no longer in place, but the flat area made a perfect walking path. The day was clear and sunny, about seventy degrees.

            As we trailed after our leader, around fifteen of us breathed in the resinous scent of the towering pines, heard a few birdsongs, and carefully stepped over obstructions. Small rocks (lime rock) and fallen twigs littered the path just waiting for an ankle to twist. Sometimes I noticed tire tracks and then I walked in their ruts, thankful I’d worn sneakers.

            We dallied at the edges of several lime rock pits on the property, used for that purpose years ago. The ground around them declined steeply, dotted with some scraggly new-growth trees and even a few pieces of old rusty equipment. At the bottom lay twinkling ponds. Sophie had named one particular pond Lucy after that Beatles’ tune, Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. It glimmered and glittered in the afternoon sunlight. Overhanging rocky faces greeted us on the far sides of the man-made lakes, rising perhaps a hundred feet in height.

            We noticed a large object sticking up out of the water of one pond, far out near the middle. Sophie, winking, said someone had gifted her a mattress when the water level was low, then she went on to tell us how some of these pits went right down into the aquifer, that place where we get our drinking water. The water never leaves the ponds, but the level rises and falls with the rain. Our facial expressions began to change and the chatter became more serious. We started to see problems, water contamination, dangers to children, unsightly trash. Sophie told us of a child who had drowned a few years back. What at first seemed aesthetically appealing now had other meanings.

            Borrow pits as they are sometimes called seemed an appropriate moniker. The material from these pits is borrowed for use somewhere else. But the digging opens a clear chute into our drinking water system, all connected underground. The property around Sophie’s is cattle and farm country. Runoff trickles directly into these pits and our aquifer. Think fertilizer, weed, and pest spray.

            Yes, this day we learned a little more than we had bargained for. Somehow it makes a difference when you see the dangers in your own backyard even if it is someone else’s. As homeowners our efforts seem like a drop in the bucket and of not much consequence. For years Jim and I used Roundup for weed control thinking it safe, but now we know one of its ingredients is a probable carcinogen. As one person I probably can’t do very much, but I think someone said change starts with one. I can only do my best to stay informed and be that one, thanks to one far-reaching little walk in the woods.

Something To Think About

My writing group sponsors a library speaker (writing related) one Sunday each month. Last Sunday we had a local professor, Dr. Kevin McCarthy, a prolific writer, author of many, many books (62), all non-fiction, on a vast array of topics. He writes 500 words every day (every day) and turns out two books each year, some published by our university press and more through Createspace, for which he had only good things to say. We had a huge crowd who enjoyed his laid back presentation. Research was high on his list of how to be successful at non-fiction, and he gave several good sites for this, mainly Florida research since that is his specialty which he calls "Floridiana".

Another good point he made was to write your non-fiction book for a particular audience. He has written some on towns in Florida, which he said makes for a captive audience, practically everyone in the town will buy one. I've never considered anything like this before, but thinking about it, there are several things I wish there were books written about...so....

And even if writing a non-fiction is not a goal, it could be lots of practice for the goal. Goodreads has a nice listing of non-fiction sub genres.