The Journey of 1,000,000 Words: Where to Start
Starting something new scares the crap out of me.
I like doing things I already know how to do. Admitting I have no clue what I'm doing, or entering an activity where I don't know the lingo, don't speak the dialect, and don't know anybody, terrifies me. It takes me totally out of my comfort zone. But people say it's supposed to be all "good for your brain" and whatnot to "try new things" (pschobabble lingo for "feel really stupid and bruise your knees a bunch.")
I'm hoping you get it, and aren't just sitting there thinking, "Whoo-ee, this girl is wound tight as an angry granny's yarn ball!"
I'm hoping you feel the same way, sometimes.
I'm hoping you feel that way about writing.
I started writing when I was 12 years old. I mean, obviously before that I had written things like diary entries, school assignments, test answers, my name. What I really mean is, I was 12 when I started working on my first big creative work. (And you can read the first chapter of that awkward first attempt on this very blog!)
I'm 26 now, so I've had a little over a decade to work on my writing. Years of drafting, cutting, despairing, re-jiggering. Years of creative writing classes. An English degree. Most days, though, I feel like a little baby beginner. I feel like maybe I started too young, and now my writing will never mature properly.
I started young, and I kind of wish I hadn't. You might be starting a little later, and you wish you'd started sooner. At the end of the day, though, it doesn't matter how old you are when you start writing. It just matters that you start.
Easier said than done, of course. The world of writing, especially professional, official, rubber-stamped, Real Fiction Writing, can seem so incredibly daunting, especially if you're on the internet. Before you can even figure out Chapter One, you're drowning in articles and posts and ebooks about query letters, and syntax, and plot structure. You might find yourself wondering if market research supports and strong audience for your subject, before you've even had a chance to figure out how you feel about your subject.
Or maybe you know that you want to write something, you want to express yourself through words and create something new and beautiful via the written word, but you don't know what, exactly. Or how. Should you write a short story? What, exactly, defines a "short" story? Is there such a thing and a "medium" story? What about poetry? How can you most clearly express your authentic self, while still conforming to medium enough to avoid alienating readers? Do you even want readers?
I have good news, and I have bad news.
The bad news is that many of those questions are nebulous and unanswerable. You may spend the rest of your life asking the same questions.
On the other hand, some of those questions have easy answers, like, no, there's no official category for "medium stories."
The good news is that nobody really knows most of that. Literature is an art form which continually evolves and changes. The mediums available to you through which to express yourself are nearly endless, from microfiction like Two-Sentence Stories, to sweeping multi-volume sagas.
It's a big world, and there are arguably too many choices. So where do you start?
Well, I can make it really easy for you, if you want. You start here. You take out your pencil and your paper, or you break out your favorite word processor (I recommend GoogleDocs, for ease of use and convenient access). You start typing. First you type,
"Palabracadabra Writing Prompt #1"
And then you take 15, 20 minutes, and type your response to this writing prompt:
A man is stranded on the side of the road, experiencing car trouble. His cell phone has no reception, and he hasn't seen a car in the entire hour and a half he's been sitting there. He gets out to look at the engine one more time, and a car appears on the horizon. It slows down as it approaches him, and stops when it's next to him. The driver rolls down the passenger window and asks the man if he's having car trouble. Inside, the driver is the last person the man would have expected to see.
Tell the story, from the beginning, with as much detail as you can.
And there you go. You've officially started :)
If you do decide to do the prompt, please share your response in the comment section below!
I like doing things I already know how to do. Admitting I have no clue what I'm doing, or entering an activity where I don't know the lingo, don't speak the dialect, and don't know anybody, terrifies me. It takes me totally out of my comfort zone. But people say it's supposed to be all "good for your brain" and whatnot to "try new things" (pschobabble lingo for "feel really stupid and bruise your knees a bunch.")
I'm hoping you get it, and aren't just sitting there thinking, "Whoo-ee, this girl is wound tight as an angry granny's yarn ball!"
I'm hoping you feel the same way, sometimes.
I'm hoping you feel that way about writing.
I started writing when I was 12 years old. I mean, obviously before that I had written things like diary entries, school assignments, test answers, my name. What I really mean is, I was 12 when I started working on my first big creative work. (And you can read the first chapter of that awkward first attempt on this very blog!)
I'm 26 now, so I've had a little over a decade to work on my writing. Years of drafting, cutting, despairing, re-jiggering. Years of creative writing classes. An English degree. Most days, though, I feel like a little baby beginner. I feel like maybe I started too young, and now my writing will never mature properly.
 |
| Excuse me while I pour myself a glass of a fine red whine. |
Easier said than done, of course. The world of writing, especially professional, official, rubber-stamped, Real Fiction Writing, can seem so incredibly daunting, especially if you're on the internet. Before you can even figure out Chapter One, you're drowning in articles and posts and ebooks about query letters, and syntax, and plot structure. You might find yourself wondering if market research supports and strong audience for your subject, before you've even had a chance to figure out how you feel about your subject.
Or maybe you know that you want to write something, you want to express yourself through words and create something new and beautiful via the written word, but you don't know what, exactly. Or how. Should you write a short story? What, exactly, defines a "short" story? Is there such a thing and a "medium" story? What about poetry? How can you most clearly express your authentic self, while still conforming to medium enough to avoid alienating readers? Do you even want readers?
I have good news, and I have bad news.
The bad news is that many of those questions are nebulous and unanswerable. You may spend the rest of your life asking the same questions.
On the other hand, some of those questions have easy answers, like, no, there's no official category for "medium stories."
The good news is that nobody really knows most of that. Literature is an art form which continually evolves and changes. The mediums available to you through which to express yourself are nearly endless, from microfiction like Two-Sentence Stories, to sweeping multi-volume sagas.
It's a big world, and there are arguably too many choices. So where do you start?
Well, I can make it really easy for you, if you want. You start here. You take out your pencil and your paper, or you break out your favorite word processor (I recommend GoogleDocs, for ease of use and convenient access). You start typing. First you type,
"Palabracadabra Writing Prompt #1"
And then you take 15, 20 minutes, and type your response to this writing prompt:
A man is stranded on the side of the road, experiencing car trouble. His cell phone has no reception, and he hasn't seen a car in the entire hour and a half he's been sitting there. He gets out to look at the engine one more time, and a car appears on the horizon. It slows down as it approaches him, and stops when it's next to him. The driver rolls down the passenger window and asks the man if he's having car trouble. Inside, the driver is the last person the man would have expected to see.
Tell the story, from the beginning, with as much detail as you can.
And there you go. You've officially started :)
If you do decide to do the prompt, please share your response in the comment section below!
Alfred stared down at the engine, feeling foolish. This is what people did, right? You’re driving along without a care, and all of a sudden the car gives a cough, and you find yourself stranded on the side of the road, so you get out, open up the hood and look at the engine, right? He’d seen other people doing it, while he blithely drove on by… he’d seen it in movies too; Open hood, Stare at engine… what comes next though? Wiggle something? Too bad he’d skipped Auto Shop in high school… too bad there had never been anyone to teach him about this kind of thing…
ReplyDeleteHe checked his phone one more time, as if the cell signal might somehow catch up with him, but he was truly in the middle of NOWHERE. He looked, again, in both directions, but in the hour since his car had stopped, and he had sat there waiting not a single car had approached from either direction. What was he expecting? Some mysterious tow truck to happen by?
For the umpteenth time, he mentally kicked himself for being here. What a “fool's errand” he had undertaken, coming out to the Back of Beyondsville, hoping for answers. He had to give up on this stupid quest and accept that he would never find them.
The town had been bleak. The townsfolk a little rough around the edges, but friendly, in a closed, suspicious kind way. It was like going back in time, for Alfred - born and raised in a big city where everything you could want or need was just a short walk or phone call away. These people were crusty, tough, and no nonsense. The town small, indescript - nothing but a gas station, post office, bar, and small restaurant serving - of all things - Okinawan cuisine.
They hadn’t taken too kindly to his inquiries. Apparently a lot of people could fit the description he gave them of his father and brother, but they “couldn’t rightly say” if they had ever heard the name Spangler before. Looking suspiciously at his brand new Lamborghini, one toothless old geezer had laughingly pointed him in the direction of the town mechanic, suggesting he have this “hunk of junk” looked over before he left.
Gazing down at the unresponsive hunk of plastic and metal under the hood, he now wished he had taken the geezers advice. He remembered how Justin had always been fascinated with cars - different makes and models, how they worked, tinkering every chance he got. Justin would not be in this mess, he would know what to do. He wondered now... If their dad had taken him, instead of Justin, would he have learned how to be a man? Mom had done a good enough job raising him, but he always felt… less, around other men - an imposter. So he became a success; rich enough to hide his incompetencies by throwing money at them. Sitting here, alone, incapable of solving this problem, he felt overwhelmed by frustration. Realizing that when you are alone in the middle of nowhere, having a fully funded IRA and a very well diversified portfolio is of very little consequence.
Half an hour more of impatiently tapping his feet, waiting, he began to wonder how far back was that town. Five miles? Ten? Walking all that way was not going to be easy in his leather wingtip brogues - they’d be ruined by the time he got there! He looked up at the sky, as if there might be some answers to be found up there. His father had been a big believer in God, but what kind of a father takes one son and leaves the other behind? Abandoned, he had never wanted anything to do with the God of his father. Half joking, he said aloud, “You there God? I could use a little help if you are”. Nothing, of course. He laughed at himself, shaking his head, as he slung his jacket over his shoulder, locking the car before beginning his long walk back to town.
As he straightened, the crunch of tires on gravel surprised him and he spun around to face the tow truck that was suddenly right next to him. “Having car trouble?”, the driver asked, and Alfred found himself looking into the eyes of his long lost brother, Justin.
Stranded on the side of the road. Again. Experiencing car trouble. Again. Cell phone has no reception, ever, thanks to letting my wife talk me into the crappiest coverage in the upper midwest, in order to "save money".
ReplyDeleteIf I ever meet Dave Ramsey in person, I'm gonna punch him right on the nose. I try and reason about "penny wise and pound foolish" but does the woman listen? Nope, it's just "Dave Ramsey says..."
I may have to start walking. Not a single car for the hour and half I've been here... I'm glad its not winter, I'd probably die out here. Man the stars are gorgeous, it's almost worth it to stop and enjoy the summer evening. And to be fair to my wife, if I hadn't procrastinated changing the oil, I might not be stuck here with a dead engine. She's a good wife, I should probably be nicer to her. I don't know what's got into me and her lately, but it just seems like she's always mad at me.
I'm glad I decided to drive back a day early and go see Dave. He'd be glad of the company with Anne out of town and he seems to really "get" Carole. I sure hope he can give me some ideas on what to try... Man, it's only 12 miles, I can just walk it. Get there in time for breakfast. I'm outta here.
Maybe I'll check the the engine one more time, sniff the dipstick, see if the oil smells burned. Hey, a car on the horizon! Woot! Please Lord, let him slow down and help... YES. Oh man, I'm SAVED.
"Hey Mr., Thanks.. ... Dave! Oh man, it's good to see you! I was just coming out to visit you and my car broke down. Hey, How come you're so quiet? Why you go all white like that? It's me man! Whose that with you?
Inside, next to the driver is the last person I would have expected to see.