storyfires

Dear Writer: 
    Although it must be a thousand years ago that I sat in a class in story writing at Stanford, I remember the experience very clearly. I was bright-eyes and bushy-brained and prepared to absorb the secret formula for writing good short stories, even great short stories. This illusion was canceled very quickly. The only way to write a good short story, we were told, is to write a good short story. Only after it is written can it be taken apart to see how it was done. It is a most difficult form, as we were told, and the proof lies in how very few great short stories there are in the world.       The basic rule given us was simple and heartbreaking. A story to be effective had to convey something from the writer to the reader, and the power of its offering was the measure of its excellence. Outside of that, there were no rules. A story could be about anything and could use any means and any technique at all – so long as it was effec...

I wrote a post on this a few years ago, when I was finishing up my last book. I think the main thing I have learned since then is this: if you think you're done, you're probably not. You probably need to send it off to another few good critique friends and get more feedback, then ponder the advice you get, and overhaul the damn thing. Again. I guarantee it needs it. And then do it again. And maybe again. As many times as it needs. It's not as good as you think it is. Sorry if you thought so. And when you get your novel all perfect and polished into oblivion, and an editor loves it, that's when the real editing begins. Because it won't be perfect then, either. But that's ok, because it's the rewriting that makes a book good. It will never be perfect, but it can be wonderful. Enchanting. Exciting. Brilliant. Magical. Writing is like that. Excruciating and wonderful. Exhausting and invigorating. And if you love it, like I do, it's totally worth...

I have decided I am a hobbit. I'd really rather stay home by the fire with my books and my laptop and garden (even though it happens to be dead because it's February) than go anywhere at all.  Even to the grocery store. Even for an adventure. Not that I have many adventures at the grocery store, but that isn't the point. The point is: I don't like to walk out the door. Unless Gandalf shows up and pushes me out. Er, not necessarily Gandalf. Maybe just a crazy wish to publish my crazy books. And the cat randomly biting me. Hiss! Grrr! Go to New York!  I took it as an omen. Or, something. So last Wednesday, yes, I did leave my poor children in the care of my poor husband and also a severely disturbed cat, and I walked out the door and got on a plane to a children's book-writing conference in New York. No, Gandalf didn't come. My daughter did, which was almost as good, except she doesn't carry a magical staff--only her phone with a subway a...

Finished the book today, after a minor panic attack because it wasn't done and two ultra-marathon writing days living on trail mix, clementines, and Dove's dark. Still needs polishing. And a better name. And, yeah, reducing. Fattest book yet. Oops. But 'tis done. A draft that I like. And now, oh, yeah, time to pack. And buy face-wash. And dental floss. Leaving for SCBWI NY in two days. I'll tell all y'all about that soon. See you later!