You can pretend like you don't know what I'm talking about, but (assuming that you like to read) you've probably come across a lot of pretentious crap. You know the sort; you can feel, the writer straining to be great. You can feel him or her reaching for the most impressive word. The strain comes across in their writing, and, frankly, is transferred to you, the reader (we're assuming for a moment that you are not the writer of this crap). How beleaguering, like being crushed under the stultifying weight of a stifling leaden encumbrance. Was that pretentious enough? Okay, I tried; in this format it's harder to be pretentious (no one's saying I'm completely innocent of pretentiousness, mind you).
But we are NOT concerned with the reader's plight; the reader can just stop reading. The writer, on the other hand, needs to be aware if they're guilty of pretentiousness.
The first and most obvious thing is to ask for feedback. Make sure it's honest. A good friend may not actually be best; they might not tell you to your face that you're trying too hard in your writing or that your writing sounds pompous. It isn't very nice.
I know it's been said before, but bigger doesn't always mean better when it comes to words. Don't get yourself into thinking that because it's a "big" word, it's the right one. If you're writing a sentence that needs the word "pretty" then use "pretty", not "sumptuous". Sumptuous has different connotations, just like every word. You might not want to add on the connotations that some bigger words might bring with them. It's linguistic baggage if you like. You have to make sure that baggage is what you want. The idea is to be precise, not to impress anyone. The precise word may not be a large, complicated, polysyllabic, Latinate word, but a simple monosyllabic gem.
This may also seem obvious, but keep it in mind: do NOT use a word that you don't fully understand. There may be words that you've come across while reading and that come to your mind. If you don't have a complete understanding of the word, though, for the love of God, find out what it means or just use a word you know. There's nothing worse than reading a story where a word is used in a wrong way. Sometimes even looking up the word isn't enough; there are connotations to go along with dictionary denotations. Expand your vocabulary; reading a lot will give you a much better understanding of the nuances that certain words carry.
Be careful to keep to your own register. Register, in case someone doesn't know, is the level of word usage, ie from simple words to large, technical words. If your vocabulary is expansive and you have confidence that your audience will be able to enjoy your writing even with big words, then by all means use lots of words that are never used in everyday speech (like pernicious; ever heard that one spoken out loud?). But if you're best with everyday conversation containing lots of one-syllable words, then go for it. Good writing doesn't have to be in a high register. If you try to go above or below your natural register, you run into trouble. A person with a huge vocab will end up throwing in completely inappropriate and random big words and someone not comfortable with a high register will use words incorrectly.
If you stop and think, "Is this literary enough?", you may be thinking too much. You have to do what comes naturally, and don't try to impress anyone. Trust me (and you probably know it), when a writer is trying to impress you or is trying too hard, the reader can definitely tell!
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Thursday, June 21, 2007
A Sample of My Work
So, per my promises and previous descriptions of this blog, I will be giving little bits and pieces of my own creative writing, just to show what I do. I should note that my chosen genre is historical fiction. When I first began writing "seriously" (I was like 11, but I was sure I was writing books), I wrote about gymnastics because I was crazy about gymnastics. Then I started writing fantasy because I'd gotten into the fantasy/sci-fi genre (I happen to think that Harry Potter, the Sabriel books, and the Animorphs series are brilliant--so sue me!).
I've now moved on to doing historical fiction because, as I like to say, history is nothing but one very long string of great stories. All you have to do is look and you have an instant frame for a story. Case in point; one day I was reading about Boudicca's rebellion and I thought to myself, what HAPPENED to her daughters? So I decided to write the answer in the form of a novel. Then, some time later, I read about the Affair of the Diamond Necklace, and I thought to myself, "what the heck actually happened here?" I am currently in the process of writing an answer--in the form of course, of a novel (that's how I roll, yo). In any case (and abandoning all ghetto-ness--well, okay, not all of it, I'm pretty street, ha!), this is a little bit of THAT. Hopefully it doesn't need much explanation.
Jacques Claude Beugnot was the son of a magistrate, educated heavily in the law in Paris. He had graduated cum laude. He had graduated with shining prospects. He was a smart man, there was no question about it. He did not do stupid things, in general. He wiped his feet when he entered his house, he folded his napkin up and placed it beside his plate when he was done eating. He stored his dozen pairs of shoes in order by their color, and he hung his frockcoats according to the day of the week he was allowed to wear them--Wednesdays, he had found, were not conducive to reds. He had pled several important cases already, getting a sizeable amount of money returned to a widow, and getting a stipend for a ward of the crown. He was clearly more than normally intelligent.
Which was why he surprised himself by standing languidly at a window of his home, staring out at the street to catch a glimpse of his carriage traveling around the nearest corner. He ought to have known better, was the real problem, and he knew that well enough. But the current case wasn’t interesting him at the moment and the street held the promise of something—or rather someone—sensational. It was the young Valois girl, the ridiculous Valois girl, with hope deep in her eyes, who was coming.
He was startled to see the carriage rolling around the corner; he was almost afraid that he was still daydreaming. He pushed the curtain out of the way to be certain that the carriage was really his and that the Valois girl’s bonnet was bouncing along on the other side of the carriage window. Once he had assured himself that the coat of arms was his own and that he was not imagining the young lady within, Beugnot dashed out of his study with his shoes clacking on the wood floors. He hurried down the stairs and nearly knocked a vase from its stand as he leapt the last few stairs. Outside, he heard the carriage pulling up to a stop at the front door. Before the door could be opened by a butler, Monsieur Beugnot sprinted across the front hall, brushed aside the butler, and flung open the door himself, in time to see Madame de La Motte taking her first step up to the house. When she looked up, it was with a brilliant smile of joy.
“Monsieur,” she said, dipping into a polite curtsy. Despite the steps she stood on, she kept her balance. “Monsieur, your lackey is an absolute ass. He isn’t fit to lick my boot. I ask that you fire him.”
“Right away, madame,” said Beugnot offhandedly. He liked to look at Madame de La Motte, not listen to her. The lackey had worked for the family for fifteen years. “Hurry inside, it’s beginning to rain.”
“Your chivalry is slightly belated, I’m afraid,” said Madame de La Motte, continuing up the stairs past him. “My hair was already ruined by the rudeness of your lackey. Aren’t you going to fire him?”
Beignot looked out the door. The carriage was beginning to role towards the stables. “Perhaps after he’s put away the carriage, Madame.”
He closed the door as the butler took Madame de La Motte’s cloak. She gave a shiver in the coolness of the marble-floored foyer. Monsieur Beugnot poked out his elbow for her and she latched her arm onto his, drawing close for the warmth.
“Satin is not very warm,” she said.
“But the weather isn’t cold.”
“It’s cold enough,” said Madame de La Motte. “The Hotel de Reims is leaky and drafty. It’s abysmal, I say.”
“Is that your roundabout way of pilfering a grant of money from me?”
“Pilfer? Grant? I’m surprised at you. I only ask loans, which are given in friendship to a poor lady in the direst of need. I will pay them all back once I am able to. And, oh monsieur, the prospects are suddenly looking much brighter.”
“Have you done what I advised? Going to the king’s ministers?”
He helped her up the stairs. Her little performance with the Cardinal seemed to have been taxing. She looked a little weary, and the rain had ruined her coiffure and her makeup. When they reached the top of the stairs, she paused to catch her breath.
“No, monsieur, I took your carriage to the Palais-Cardinal.”
“The Palais-Cardinal, Jeanne? I thought that you were going to court to importune the authorities on your behalf, that you were going to do this thing properly as I advised.”
She looked at him gravely and patted his hand consolingly. “Well, Jacques, I considered your advice very carefully. But I’m not getting any younger and I can’t sit idly around waiting on lawyer’s quibbles.”
“Quibbles?”
They paused outside of Beugnot’s study, each staring at the other in mild indignation. Beugnot was a little miffed at having been deceived. It reminded him that he was a fool when it came to Madame de La Motte. He always seemed to forget about her; she had shown that she was untrustworthy when she replaced Monsieur Beugnot with another lover.
“Jeanne, I told you what you had to do. These things can’t be done willy-nilly. There is a proper avenue for petitions to the king, there are people to talk to and opinions to win over. There are—“
Madame de La Motte laughed.
“Monsieur, you know better than that. I’m tired of talking to people and going through proper avenues. I’m content to find my own way. As I said, I considered your advice very carefully; then I went to see the Cardinal.”
“And?”
“He was very friendly.”
This raised the alarm bells in Beugnot’s head, but they were small and soft. Surely, Madame de La Motte was not implying what he feared she was implying, and clearly she was not as devious as he feared. Gently, he guided her back towards the stairs. Alarm bells or not, Madame de La Motte was not staying for supper. If she did not want his advice, then he would not give it, and she wouldn’t have the benefit of his companionship. Besides which, he had no proper cook, and he certainly wasn’t capable of cooking a meal himself.
“Aren’t we going to sit?” she asked in surprise as she was guided back towards the stairs. “You aren’t going to even offer me a seat? It’s been a long day, Monsieur! I thought that you would be happy.”
“Madame, I am as happy for you as the situation warrants,” he said. “But really, I had ordered just a simple supper, I’m sure you wouldn’t be interested in staying for that. I insist, really, and I have so much work to do, Jeanne.”
She pouted. “Are you shunning me?”
“No,” he said as he guided her back down the stairs. She shoved back a lock of hair, and he softened a little towards her. “Jeanne, I am and will always be your good friend and admirer. The path you chose is the wrong one. When you need my help to extricate yourself from the mess that you are getting yourself into, I will be here for you. In the meantime, I am happy to have dinner anytime at a café with you.”
Her glittering smile rewarded him. She pressed her lips against each cheek and laid her fingers along his cheek affectionately.
“You’re a good man, Monsieur. You’re a little overconfident, though.”
“Of course I am, Madame,” he said, “I’m a lawyer.”
And so he regretfully shunted her out of the door, and became a little more disenchanted with her. It was a pity really; the enchantment was so much fun, it seemed a shame to lose it.
I've now moved on to doing historical fiction because, as I like to say, history is nothing but one very long string of great stories. All you have to do is look and you have an instant frame for a story. Case in point; one day I was reading about Boudicca's rebellion and I thought to myself, what HAPPENED to her daughters? So I decided to write the answer in the form of a novel. Then, some time later, I read about the Affair of the Diamond Necklace, and I thought to myself, "what the heck actually happened here?" I am currently in the process of writing an answer--in the form of course, of a novel (that's how I roll, yo). In any case (and abandoning all ghetto-ness--well, okay, not all of it, I'm pretty street, ha!), this is a little bit of THAT. Hopefully it doesn't need much explanation.
Jacques Claude Beugnot was the son of a magistrate, educated heavily in the law in Paris. He had graduated cum laude. He had graduated with shining prospects. He was a smart man, there was no question about it. He did not do stupid things, in general. He wiped his feet when he entered his house, he folded his napkin up and placed it beside his plate when he was done eating. He stored his dozen pairs of shoes in order by their color, and he hung his frockcoats according to the day of the week he was allowed to wear them--Wednesdays, he had found, were not conducive to reds. He had pled several important cases already, getting a sizeable amount of money returned to a widow, and getting a stipend for a ward of the crown. He was clearly more than normally intelligent.
Which was why he surprised himself by standing languidly at a window of his home, staring out at the street to catch a glimpse of his carriage traveling around the nearest corner. He ought to have known better, was the real problem, and he knew that well enough. But the current case wasn’t interesting him at the moment and the street held the promise of something—or rather someone—sensational. It was the young Valois girl, the ridiculous Valois girl, with hope deep in her eyes, who was coming.
He was startled to see the carriage rolling around the corner; he was almost afraid that he was still daydreaming. He pushed the curtain out of the way to be certain that the carriage was really his and that the Valois girl’s bonnet was bouncing along on the other side of the carriage window. Once he had assured himself that the coat of arms was his own and that he was not imagining the young lady within, Beugnot dashed out of his study with his shoes clacking on the wood floors. He hurried down the stairs and nearly knocked a vase from its stand as he leapt the last few stairs. Outside, he heard the carriage pulling up to a stop at the front door. Before the door could be opened by a butler, Monsieur Beugnot sprinted across the front hall, brushed aside the butler, and flung open the door himself, in time to see Madame de La Motte taking her first step up to the house. When she looked up, it was with a brilliant smile of joy.
“Monsieur,” she said, dipping into a polite curtsy. Despite the steps she stood on, she kept her balance. “Monsieur, your lackey is an absolute ass. He isn’t fit to lick my boot. I ask that you fire him.”
“Right away, madame,” said Beugnot offhandedly. He liked to look at Madame de La Motte, not listen to her. The lackey had worked for the family for fifteen years. “Hurry inside, it’s beginning to rain.”
“Your chivalry is slightly belated, I’m afraid,” said Madame de La Motte, continuing up the stairs past him. “My hair was already ruined by the rudeness of your lackey. Aren’t you going to fire him?”
Beignot looked out the door. The carriage was beginning to role towards the stables. “Perhaps after he’s put away the carriage, Madame.”
He closed the door as the butler took Madame de La Motte’s cloak. She gave a shiver in the coolness of the marble-floored foyer. Monsieur Beugnot poked out his elbow for her and she latched her arm onto his, drawing close for the warmth.
“Satin is not very warm,” she said.
“But the weather isn’t cold.”
“It’s cold enough,” said Madame de La Motte. “The Hotel de Reims is leaky and drafty. It’s abysmal, I say.”
“Is that your roundabout way of pilfering a grant of money from me?”
“Pilfer? Grant? I’m surprised at you. I only ask loans, which are given in friendship to a poor lady in the direst of need. I will pay them all back once I am able to. And, oh monsieur, the prospects are suddenly looking much brighter.”
“Have you done what I advised? Going to the king’s ministers?”
He helped her up the stairs. Her little performance with the Cardinal seemed to have been taxing. She looked a little weary, and the rain had ruined her coiffure and her makeup. When they reached the top of the stairs, she paused to catch her breath.
“No, monsieur, I took your carriage to the Palais-Cardinal.”
“The Palais-Cardinal, Jeanne? I thought that you were going to court to importune the authorities on your behalf, that you were going to do this thing properly as I advised.”
She looked at him gravely and patted his hand consolingly. “Well, Jacques, I considered your advice very carefully. But I’m not getting any younger and I can’t sit idly around waiting on lawyer’s quibbles.”
“Quibbles?”
They paused outside of Beugnot’s study, each staring at the other in mild indignation. Beugnot was a little miffed at having been deceived. It reminded him that he was a fool when it came to Madame de La Motte. He always seemed to forget about her; she had shown that she was untrustworthy when she replaced Monsieur Beugnot with another lover.
“Jeanne, I told you what you had to do. These things can’t be done willy-nilly. There is a proper avenue for petitions to the king, there are people to talk to and opinions to win over. There are—“
Madame de La Motte laughed.
“Monsieur, you know better than that. I’m tired of talking to people and going through proper avenues. I’m content to find my own way. As I said, I considered your advice very carefully; then I went to see the Cardinal.”
“And?”
“He was very friendly.”
This raised the alarm bells in Beugnot’s head, but they were small and soft. Surely, Madame de La Motte was not implying what he feared she was implying, and clearly she was not as devious as he feared. Gently, he guided her back towards the stairs. Alarm bells or not, Madame de La Motte was not staying for supper. If she did not want his advice, then he would not give it, and she wouldn’t have the benefit of his companionship. Besides which, he had no proper cook, and he certainly wasn’t capable of cooking a meal himself.
“Aren’t we going to sit?” she asked in surprise as she was guided back towards the stairs. “You aren’t going to even offer me a seat? It’s been a long day, Monsieur! I thought that you would be happy.”
“Madame, I am as happy for you as the situation warrants,” he said. “But really, I had ordered just a simple supper, I’m sure you wouldn’t be interested in staying for that. I insist, really, and I have so much work to do, Jeanne.”
She pouted. “Are you shunning me?”
“No,” he said as he guided her back down the stairs. She shoved back a lock of hair, and he softened a little towards her. “Jeanne, I am and will always be your good friend and admirer. The path you chose is the wrong one. When you need my help to extricate yourself from the mess that you are getting yourself into, I will be here for you. In the meantime, I am happy to have dinner anytime at a café with you.”
Her glittering smile rewarded him. She pressed her lips against each cheek and laid her fingers along his cheek affectionately.
“You’re a good man, Monsieur. You’re a little overconfident, though.”
“Of course I am, Madame,” he said, “I’m a lawyer.”
And so he regretfully shunted her out of the door, and became a little more disenchanted with her. It was a pity really; the enchantment was so much fun, it seemed a shame to lose it.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
The Philosophy of Composition
How exactly does one go about writing a poem? A story? Any work of literature? Inspiration, right? If an idea flashes brilliantly to your mind, then you write it. You sit, you write. It's like Michelangelo's David being found inside the stone. Right?
Not necessaily. You might be surprised; Edgar Allen Poe, for example, wrote a lengthy article title The Philosophy of Composition. Almost everyone who's gone through grade school has read The Raven at least once, and not a few people have seen The Simpson's version of it (who says The Simpsons is trash? Not me!).
Reading it, you think you are peering into the deep recesses of a strange mind, that this could have only come from divine inspiration, that Mr. Poe sat down one day and bled The Raven onto the page. That is what I pictued, at least. But if you stop for a moment and think . . . exactly how much internal rhyme and meter can a person produce on the fly? Clearly, this wasn't all just Mr. Poe sitting under a tree and pulling out his notebook to jot down this poem like some emo teenager (not that there's anything wrong with being an emo teenager . . . ).
And The Philosophy of Composition confirms that. Edgar Allen Poe not only did NOT have divine inspiration, every bit of The Raven was thought out and plotted almost like a manager would create a business plan in this day in age. He quite literally set out to write the best poem ever written. He thought to himself: what is the optimal length? what is the most heart-rending topic? how to keep an audience's attention while maintaining continuity? The answers were: about a hundred lines, the death of a beautiful woman, and a refrain that's meaning changes as it is repeated through the poem. A bit shocking to find that the brilliance was, well, not exactly spontaneous.
So what's the point and purpose of this post? I just wanted to show an example of things that I was talking about in the last post; ideas and good writing are great, but there has to be a plan, an overall thought-process guiding the details. Besides, this is a really interesting read, especially for creative writers. Go ahead, take a look.
I will discuss a little more about the theories in this essay in another post.
Not necessaily. You might be surprised; Edgar Allen Poe, for example, wrote a lengthy article title The Philosophy of Composition. Almost everyone who's gone through grade school has read The Raven at least once, and not a few people have seen The Simpson's version of it (who says The Simpsons is trash? Not me!).
Reading it, you think you are peering into the deep recesses of a strange mind, that this could have only come from divine inspiration, that Mr. Poe sat down one day and bled The Raven onto the page. That is what I pictued, at least. But if you stop for a moment and think . . . exactly how much internal rhyme and meter can a person produce on the fly? Clearly, this wasn't all just Mr. Poe sitting under a tree and pulling out his notebook to jot down this poem like some emo teenager (not that there's anything wrong with being an emo teenager . . . ).
And The Philosophy of Composition confirms that. Edgar Allen Poe not only did NOT have divine inspiration, every bit of The Raven was thought out and plotted almost like a manager would create a business plan in this day in age. He quite literally set out to write the best poem ever written. He thought to himself: what is the optimal length? what is the most heart-rending topic? how to keep an audience's attention while maintaining continuity? The answers were: about a hundred lines, the death of a beautiful woman, and a refrain that's meaning changes as it is repeated through the poem. A bit shocking to find that the brilliance was, well, not exactly spontaneous.
So what's the point and purpose of this post? I just wanted to show an example of things that I was talking about in the last post; ideas and good writing are great, but there has to be a plan, an overall thought-process guiding the details. Besides, this is a really interesting read, especially for creative writers. Go ahead, take a look.
I will discuss a little more about the theories in this essay in another post.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Making an Idea a Reality
Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Elizabeth Huhn (my preferred handles are thesparkinside and angeliz2k), a college student and creative writer. I currently don't have anything published, but let's not let that slow us down, shall we? I haven't let it stop me yet. I at least have an agent working on my first really serious novel, titled Britannia. I like to write historical fiction mostly, and some fantasy. I do not write short stuff, at least I don't very often. So that's a little about me.
Let me say a little about my intentions for this blog. I intend to write in it every week, preferably on the weekend. I will be discussing creative writing topics. Think of it as a sort of newsletter, with some helpful tips or writing prompts, links, book recommendations, and maybe a bit of my own creative writing for your perusal. I hope that you will enjoy! So let's get started, hmm?
Most writers will tell you that the hardest thing about writing is figuring what exactly you're going to write. I know that half-formed ideas are rampant in my own mind. But half-formed ideas simply won't do me--or anyone else for that matter--any good. The question is how to get that pesky idea developed into something a little grander. A short story, a novel, a poem, whatever it is, can grow out of this germ. It just needs a little attention.
My first recommendation would be to sit on it. Not literally, because that might kill it, but figuratively will do just as well. Just give it time. I've often found that while driving in the car or taking a shower I'll have a sudden intuition. A plot point will suddenly erupt in my mind, or the web of my plot will suddenly have one more thread to tie it together. It isn't always possible to predict when these ideas will come to you, so don't panic if it doesn't come right away. Give it time.
Secondly, if you have some downtime, consciously turn your mind toward what you're working on. If the story isn't churning right beneath the surface of your thoughts, then make an effort to put it there. I will oftentimes have the story right behind my conscious thoughts. But if I'm stopped at a red light or sitting on the can (ahem) then I may not be thinking about it. Bring it to mind, and it might start working itself out. Allow your thoughts to wander. Your imagination will fill in gaps that perhaps you wouldn't if just thinking about it with a pad of paper and a pencil in front of you.
That being said, my third recommendation is to actually sit down with a pencil and a piece of paper every once in a while. It's all good and well to keep this all on your mind, but at some point you have to set it down in some cogent form. You may have many wonderful ideas in your head, but it will be an enormous help to simply grab a notebook and try to put them together so you have some idea of how to put those wonderful ideas into actual literary practice. Case in point: I've been mulling over a particularly difficult section of the story I'm working on. I had an idea of where I wanted it to go, that I wanted my character to be pregnant, that I wanted to man to ignore her, and so on. These were just ideas of what would happen though and when I sat down to write it, I felt a bit lost in the ideas. So I decided it was time to make a list of all the plot points that needed to be hit. Then I carefully put them in order--this part first, then that other part, etc. Then I got down to the actual writing. It was a big help to get through the rough spot.
For anyone writing a novel, I would highly recommend several things. First, I would recommend a list of characters--traits like eye color and hair color and their disposition. It sounds silly, but I know I've been guilty of saying a character had blue eyes only to say in a later chapter that he had dark, brooding eyes. Another thing I recommend is a list of what you've written. Whatever you feel is more or less complete, write down in a list what it is. I did this with chapters for Britannia, which was a major help since there were quite a lot of chapters. If you tend to write a lot and throw out half of it, this can be a huge help to keep track of what you've actually decided to keep around. And if you ever need to go back and check what you've written, this will be invaluable. I also highly, HIGHLY recommend a trash file, that is a file holding all the discarded bits that you've written. Even if they're all short and very bad, don't just delete them forever. They could spark an idea later or you might decide that you want them after all. I usually have a separate file with the same name as the original except with "pieces" or "bits" at the end.
Another recommendation is to read a good book or watch a good movie. Get motivate. Being a college student, I've been guilty of reading six or seven nonfiction books at once and no fiction books at all for months at a time. This can be a real drain on the creative juices! It certainly is on me. My writing gets a little stiff and stodgy, as though I'm writing a textbook myself. If you tend to emulate other writers, try to keep up on at least one fiction book at a time. And a good movie never hurts; there are great stories being told in movies, and if that great movie gives you that little spark to want to write, then take that and go with it. If you just finished a great book or movie and suddenly feel the urge to write, then WRITE. Just do it, that feeling might fade. Sometimes you can glean some real great ideas just by keeping in touch.
It's also important to keep some kind of end in sight. Whether it's the form or overall message of a poem, the arc of the short story, or the plot of a novel, one little idea itself does not a poem, story, or novel make. You have to have a goal for what you're trying to accomplish. Is your idea going to fit into a frame that can create a poem, story, or book? Is that idea a frame, and if so, do you have the material to fill it in? If your idea isn't enough to create the whole work around, expand it, give it time, try to define what you want it to turn into. I'll give an example to illustrate. My idea for Britannia was to take a mystery from history (what happened to Boudicca's daughters?) and turn it into a book. My idea: the girls were twins and one became pregnant by a Roman (I'll try to keep this at a PG level). But that really isn't quite enough for a novel, is it? I had to expand on that. Where to begin? Where to end? Who were the other characters, what were their roles, and how did this all fit into a plot arc? It may seem like a lot, and technical, but it's important to keep the big picture somewhere in mind.
My final recommendation is to write down your brilliant ideas. I know that I said earlier that it's not always best to sit down with pencil and paper to try and come up with ideas, and that's true. But, if you're in the shower and an idea comes to you, or you're in the car and have a flash of inspiration, then you have to write it down pronto. There's nothing worse then thinking how amazing that idea was, and then forgetting it completely the next day. I also would recommend keeping a sheet of paper by your bedside. I've lost more than a few ideas because I thought of them while falling asleep and couldn't remember them when I woke up.
So I hope that this is a help. I'm not trying to come up with places to go or things to do to get ideas, because everyone is different in that way. I get ideas from reading history books; other people might get it from walking in a park or getting a sandwich at a deli. What I hope at least a few people will get out of this is how to cultivate that idea into something useful.
Let me say a little about my intentions for this blog. I intend to write in it every week, preferably on the weekend. I will be discussing creative writing topics. Think of it as a sort of newsletter, with some helpful tips or writing prompts, links, book recommendations, and maybe a bit of my own creative writing for your perusal. I hope that you will enjoy! So let's get started, hmm?
Most writers will tell you that the hardest thing about writing is figuring what exactly you're going to write. I know that half-formed ideas are rampant in my own mind. But half-formed ideas simply won't do me--or anyone else for that matter--any good. The question is how to get that pesky idea developed into something a little grander. A short story, a novel, a poem, whatever it is, can grow out of this germ. It just needs a little attention.
My first recommendation would be to sit on it. Not literally, because that might kill it, but figuratively will do just as well. Just give it time. I've often found that while driving in the car or taking a shower I'll have a sudden intuition. A plot point will suddenly erupt in my mind, or the web of my plot will suddenly have one more thread to tie it together. It isn't always possible to predict when these ideas will come to you, so don't panic if it doesn't come right away. Give it time.
Secondly, if you have some downtime, consciously turn your mind toward what you're working on. If the story isn't churning right beneath the surface of your thoughts, then make an effort to put it there. I will oftentimes have the story right behind my conscious thoughts. But if I'm stopped at a red light or sitting on the can (ahem) then I may not be thinking about it. Bring it to mind, and it might start working itself out. Allow your thoughts to wander. Your imagination will fill in gaps that perhaps you wouldn't if just thinking about it with a pad of paper and a pencil in front of you.
That being said, my third recommendation is to actually sit down with a pencil and a piece of paper every once in a while. It's all good and well to keep this all on your mind, but at some point you have to set it down in some cogent form. You may have many wonderful ideas in your head, but it will be an enormous help to simply grab a notebook and try to put them together so you have some idea of how to put those wonderful ideas into actual literary practice. Case in point: I've been mulling over a particularly difficult section of the story I'm working on. I had an idea of where I wanted it to go, that I wanted my character to be pregnant, that I wanted to man to ignore her, and so on. These were just ideas of what would happen though and when I sat down to write it, I felt a bit lost in the ideas. So I decided it was time to make a list of all the plot points that needed to be hit. Then I carefully put them in order--this part first, then that other part, etc. Then I got down to the actual writing. It was a big help to get through the rough spot.
For anyone writing a novel, I would highly recommend several things. First, I would recommend a list of characters--traits like eye color and hair color and their disposition. It sounds silly, but I know I've been guilty of saying a character had blue eyes only to say in a later chapter that he had dark, brooding eyes. Another thing I recommend is a list of what you've written. Whatever you feel is more or less complete, write down in a list what it is. I did this with chapters for Britannia, which was a major help since there were quite a lot of chapters. If you tend to write a lot and throw out half of it, this can be a huge help to keep track of what you've actually decided to keep around. And if you ever need to go back and check what you've written, this will be invaluable. I also highly, HIGHLY recommend a trash file, that is a file holding all the discarded bits that you've written. Even if they're all short and very bad, don't just delete them forever. They could spark an idea later or you might decide that you want them after all. I usually have a separate file with the same name as the original except with "pieces" or "bits" at the end.
Another recommendation is to read a good book or watch a good movie. Get motivate. Being a college student, I've been guilty of reading six or seven nonfiction books at once and no fiction books at all for months at a time. This can be a real drain on the creative juices! It certainly is on me. My writing gets a little stiff and stodgy, as though I'm writing a textbook myself. If you tend to emulate other writers, try to keep up on at least one fiction book at a time. And a good movie never hurts; there are great stories being told in movies, and if that great movie gives you that little spark to want to write, then take that and go with it. If you just finished a great book or movie and suddenly feel the urge to write, then WRITE. Just do it, that feeling might fade. Sometimes you can glean some real great ideas just by keeping in touch.
It's also important to keep some kind of end in sight. Whether it's the form or overall message of a poem, the arc of the short story, or the plot of a novel, one little idea itself does not a poem, story, or novel make. You have to have a goal for what you're trying to accomplish. Is your idea going to fit into a frame that can create a poem, story, or book? Is that idea a frame, and if so, do you have the material to fill it in? If your idea isn't enough to create the whole work around, expand it, give it time, try to define what you want it to turn into. I'll give an example to illustrate. My idea for Britannia was to take a mystery from history (what happened to Boudicca's daughters?) and turn it into a book. My idea: the girls were twins and one became pregnant by a Roman (I'll try to keep this at a PG level). But that really isn't quite enough for a novel, is it? I had to expand on that. Where to begin? Where to end? Who were the other characters, what were their roles, and how did this all fit into a plot arc? It may seem like a lot, and technical, but it's important to keep the big picture somewhere in mind.
My final recommendation is to write down your brilliant ideas. I know that I said earlier that it's not always best to sit down with pencil and paper to try and come up with ideas, and that's true. But, if you're in the shower and an idea comes to you, or you're in the car and have a flash of inspiration, then you have to write it down pronto. There's nothing worse then thinking how amazing that idea was, and then forgetting it completely the next day. I also would recommend keeping a sheet of paper by your bedside. I've lost more than a few ideas because I thought of them while falling asleep and couldn't remember them when I woke up.
So I hope that this is a help. I'm not trying to come up with places to go or things to do to get ideas, because everyone is different in that way. I get ideas from reading history books; other people might get it from walking in a park or getting a sandwich at a deli. What I hope at least a few people will get out of this is how to cultivate that idea into something useful.
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