HNY + The Benefits of Retreats

I assume you've been in holiday mode the past week or so, perhaps spending time with family and friends, traveling, or in some way bouncing between other end-of-year opportunities and limitation.

The completion of another year always leaves me with mixed feelings; on the one hand, excitement for the unfolding of a new chapter called 2024, and on the other, a deep desire to slow everything down so I can sort out how I really feel about 2023. 

But the holiday time--mine anyway--rarely gives me a chance to do that, so I slide out of the old year and into the new rather sideways, looking left and right, and wondering bemusedly at this annual feeling of unpreparedness. What my spirit longs for is the space and time to reflect, in effect, to retreat from the outer world and focus on my inner experiences.

A retreat is not a rejection of ordinary life, but it is a turning away from the day to day in order to turn toward a different kind of awareness, one in which attention is given to the retreat's intention.

Retreats offer a chance to step out of a normal routine and into a novel one. A retreat is temporary and focused, its purpose to develop, nourish, deepen and/or enrich one's chosen intention, which could focus on yoga, meditation or prayer, personal well being/health, or a creative pursuit like painting or writing.

Retreats provide opportunities for renewal, deeper insights, the honing of valuable skills, as well as rest and rejuvenation. Taken alone or in the company of others of like mind, inner work is given outer space and time. Being in nature, engaging in mindful movement, leaning in to a pre-planned structure of activities and meals, we get to drop the habits that help us cope day to day and allow some new aspect of ourselves to emerge. Wisdom, clarity, confidence, and contentment are common side effects.

Over the years I've taken retreats focused on meditation, painting, and writing. Each experience has deepened the roots of each focus and made my ordinary routines more interesting and dynamic. And many of the people I've met on retreat have remained lifelong friends.

Retreats tend to take place in secluded environments that are different from one's daily surrounding and usually include caring, respectful guidance related to one's chosen focus. While retreats themselves are temporary, from a few days to a week or more, the benefits are long term. Attention to our intentions leads to amplification and expansion. What we focus on grows, strengthens, and blooms.

What are your intentions for 2024? Is one related to writing? Is it specific or general? Do you intend to complete a first or second draft of a particular manuscript, or do you simply intend to carve out more time to write each day, week, or month?

A year is a container of time in which we can choose to make things. The time will pass regardless, but giving attention to our creative intentions does affect the quality of that passing. Life force--vitality-- moves through us morning to night. Do you want some of your vitality to be expressed as creative work? If so, how will you direct your attention this year to support this desire?

A big part of my creative energy and attention went into building a house in 2023. In 2024, I want to inhabit that house so it becomes a creative home. In addition to working with clients and guiding writers toward fulfilling their creative dreams, I intend to put more attention on my own creative writing too. Monthly Saturday Retreats, weekly Writing Together Sessions, and a multi-day live retreat will support this intention.

We're so blessed to be on this planet with time to create with each other, so let's choose make some good things in 2024. Together, alone, on retreat, or in our day to day routines, let's focus attention on our deepest intentions this year.

Writers are Happiest Having Written (+Prompts)

Have you been writing? Have you been putting words on paper or digital pages lately?

Writers are happiest when they’ve written. Notice I didn’t say "when they're writing." That’s because writers can feel a sense of anxiety, daunt, or trepidation as they sit down to write. 

Dorothy Parker is credited as saying, “I hate writing, but I love having written.” Though there's no proof she actually did say this, the quote resonates with many writers, who often feel uncomfortable while in the process of writing, at least until words start flowing. 

But every writer is satisfied after they’ve shown up for the work that is so meaningful for them. This sense of meaning is multilayered and personal for each writer, and the experience of it comes after, and occasionally during, time spent writing.

Writers seem to benefit most by sticking to some sort of regular routine. I’ve never found that easy, personally, but when I do get into a groove of a regular writing practice—at least a little bit of time every day, even as little as fifteen to thirty minutes—I feel better over all. Most writers do.

Writers who want to guarantee themselves a feeling of happiness, contentment, or satisfaction would do well to get to their writing as early in the day as possible. If only because the rest of the day seems to go much more smoothly. (Funny how that happens.)

So, if you’ve been feeling edgy, depressed, worried, or a little lost, ask yourself if you’ve been getting to your writing. And if you haven’t, take a little bit of time, even ten to fifteen minutes, to touch into that space in your heart and mind that attends to the writer-self you are.

When I’m out of practice, I use different prompts to get back to the page and jumpstart a flow. Here are five prompts I turn to:

1. Journal or do Morning Pages.

Journal writing and morning pages can put us back in touch with our personal writing voices. But I don’t linger long here, because turning my creative attention toward a particular project is the most fruitful use of my creative focus. Once I feel a creative spark, I turn to my story or essay.

2. Use the prompt “What if ..?” in one of the following three ways:

Write “What if…” at the top of your page and then let yourself free write for fifteen minutes. When/if you stall, repeat the two words again and carry on.

If you’re at a crossroads on your story and not sure which way to go, free write on “What (happens) if I take path A?” and “What (happens) if I take path B?” Stories are about actions and consequences and cause and effect. Explore where each decision might take you.

To brainstorm new story ideas, try “What if… (X) and (Y)?” and feel for what piques your interest. For example, "What if an orphan boy goes to wizard school and has to fight a dark lord?" (you know which story I'm talking about), or “What if a genetic mutation occurs and spiders take over the world?” (This is a simplified premise of an interesting sci-fi booked called, Children of Time.)

3. Play my game of Three Little Words

Pick three random words and try to work them into a short, timed exercise of writing. Start with ten or fifteen minutes and work up to thirty. This type of exercise sidesteps the inner critic and generates potential stories. I use this exercise all the time in groups and by myself. Here are three words to get you started: zen, lightning, forgetful. 

4. Make word lists

Start with a particular list, something like: Fruits and Vegetables; Colors; Words that start with R (or any other letter); Interesting Locations; or use the alphabet to create a list in which the first word starts with A, the second B, the third C, etc. Try this forwards and backwards. Next step option: Choose one, two, or three inspiring words or phrases from a list and free write for a page.

5. Borrow first lines

Randomly choose a novel from your shelf and borrow the first line of the book, or the first line of a chapter. Set a timer for fifteen to twenty minutes and let yourself free write your version of what comes after that first line (don’t get distracted reading the book!). Optionally, go with a well-known/cliché first line, such as Dickens' “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…” (the full sentence) or the classic “It was a dark and stormy night…” (origin of this sentence).

Whether or not you find inspiration from this list of prompts, try to have some fun reconnecting with your creative writing when you lose touch now and again. Let curiosity and wonder lead rather than pressure and programming.

Your writing is always just a pen stroke away, and no matter how it feels to pick up that pen and turn to the blank page, once it’s filled you’ll feel better. Writers are happiest when they’ve written.

Write with wonder.

Personas Lurking in the Shadows

In the spirit of Halloween, and the social custom of dressing up in costumes to go out trick-or-treating, I tried a new exercise in a writing group this week. It turned out to be fun, funny and also eye opening.

We writers are constantly creating characters. We envision them, dress them up, give them props and things to say and do. That’s the fun part, but day to day, month to month, it isn’t always easy. We writers are also subject to emotional highs and lows, and these moods can create obstacles to our creating.

We can be plagued by doubts, fears, frustrations. We might feel overwhelmed, judged, hopeless. We procrastinate, distract ourselves from the work at hand, and wonder whether there’s any point to working at all. At times we need to confront these forces that seek to drive us off the path into the darkness.Why not have some fun doing it?

In step one of the writing exercise this week, I asked each writer to jot down the various emotional states, situations, or qualities that seem to get in the way of doing their best work. (If you’re up for it, why not grab a pen and notebook and jot a list for yourself now?)

Since I never make writers do something that I wouldn’t be willing to do myself, I made my own list too. What came up for me: overwhelm, doubt, procrastination, hopelessness, busy-ness, too many responsibilities, and (this one surprised me, because it isn’t a regular thing) anger.

In step two of the exercise, I asked everyone to give these feelings or states a persona by naming them. I ended up with: Overwhelmed Ophelia, Doubting Dora, Procrastinating Polly, Hopeless Hannah, Busy Belinda, Responsible Rita, and Angry Allison.

In step three, we described what each of these personas was wearing. It’s surprising how quickly simple images come to mind. (If you haven’t yet reached for your pen, do it now and catch up to this point. It gets more fun.)

In step four, I asked: Do these personas have any props with them? Are they doing anything?

In step five, I asked everyone to review what they had created so far, and from that material—which was quite random and infused with first-thought-best-thought energy—to listen for a line this persona might be saying.

Turns out Overwhelmed Ophelia was wearing a white and pale pink flowing shift dress, swooning on a divan with a fan in her hand, and whimpering, “Woe is me.” Doubting Dora was wringing her apron. She had a worried look on her face, peering eyes, and a bad perm. For a reason I couldn’t fathom, she carried a spatula. And then she spoke: “If in doubt, eat.” Hmmmm. At this point I was definitely scratching my head.

Busy Belinda wore a bustle and carried a clipboard. Procrastinating Polly wore knee high boots and short shorts (huh?). She was draped over a chair, looking at her manicured nails, and feeling extremely bored. She stared at a cell phone and muttered, “What is everyone else doing?”

Hopeless Hannah wore overalls, sneakers, and carried a hanky. She whined, “I can’t do it.” Responsible Rita wore a trim suit with her hair in a bun but I only saw the back side of her because she was moving so fast. I couldn’t see what she was carrying.

Then there was Angry Allison. Tight leather. Spikes on her boots. Slash-eyed make up. She carried a Zippo, flicking it like she was ready to burn the place down. What she said I can’t print here.

There were other doubting and procrastinating characters in the group. All were different. All were surprising. All revealed a little bit about what might be going on under the surface of our emotions, including some powers-for-good that could be harnessed to serve our creativity.

The insights can come as spontaneously and intuitively as the personas themselves appeared. The gleanings can be reflexive, without having to overanalyze, unless you want to. Anytime, our creativity can be used to unleash more of itself, and we can have some fun in the process.

By the end of the writing exercise we had populated our virtual writing rom with so many new faces it felt like a party. Maybe a Halloween party?…

Halloween reminds us that we don’t always know who or what’s on the other side of the door, lurking in the bushes, hiding in literal or figurative shadows. But we can turn our creative attention toward the unknown, dig a little, and learn something new. Something that can reinvigorate our creativity. And it can even be fun.

Write for tricks and treats,

Treat Writing as a Friend

Are you friendly toward your writing? or do you give it, and yourself, a hard time?

It’s always better to see your writing as a friend rather than a foe, but it’s surprising how often writers can slip into a combative or victimized stance toward their work, as if the project is a looming tyrant we feel compelled to rebel against.

Nothing is further from the truth, but such positioning—even if it’s just occasional—probably points to a truth. Unconsciously, we tend to treat our writing as we treat ourselves. Our writing often represents our most vulnerable self—the one we want to tend, but also the one we may inadvertently sabotage.

We are always in relationship with our writing. Sometimes it feels like a parent-child dynamic, in which we’re constantly switching positions. Other times it feels like we’re best buds prone to giggling fits. It can also feel like a heady, lusty affair, though that’s usually fleeting. Too often it feels like a stalled-out marriage.

Joseph Campbell described marriage as being an “ordeal,” in the heroic sense, because it asks us to contend with the great force of “the other,” who, ultimately, is a mirror for the self. Writing is such a mirror, so it will feel like an ordeal as well.

One bit of relationship counseling advice says: Don’t go to bed angry. That applies to writing too. Know that you will get up in the morning and face it again with courage, with an open heart. Also: Keep your promises, say sorry when necessary, and love, honor, and cherish all the ways writing helps you grow.

Writing can be a loyal friend in times of emotional distress or elation. Journaling, poetry, or a channeled character can hold inner energy that otherwise overwhelms.

Occasionally, it can seem like a betraying friend when it doesn’t manage to open the doors we’re desperately knocking on in the hopes of opportunity and success. But with good friends, we forgive quickly. We make an effort to form new common ground.

As in all relationships, with writing we won’t get all we want all the time, but most of the time we do get what we need. Steady companionship, second chances, soul-satisfying creation, and the flow of love when we allow it.

Cherish your writing as you would a valuable friend, one you’ve known a long time who always forgives you for your foibles, one you know it’s not in your best interest to neglect for too long. Imagine your writing as the friend—or lover—you can’t wait to spend time with, the one with whom you especially want to set up a rendezvous. In fact, why not make a date right now?…

Make time for , enjoy it, and accepts its challenges as tender nudges to help you grow.

Write friendly,

P.S. Taking a holiday with a friend can be fun. Ever thought of taking your “friend” to a writing retreat? Around this time next year, September 2024, I’m planning a five day/six night retreat on Salt Spring Island, in BC (not far from Vancouver, Victoria, and Seattle). Email me directly—just hit reply—if this piques your interest and you want to be one of the first to find out the details.

Nobody sees a flower - really - it is so small it takes time - we haven't time - and to see takes time, like to have a friend takes time.

–Georgia O’Keeffe

The language of Friendship is not words, but meanings.

–Henry David Thoreau

Time that withers you will wither me. We will fall like ripe fruit and roll down the grass together. Dear friend, let me lie beside you watching the clouds until the earth covers us and we are gone.

–Jeanette Winterson

The world is so empty if one thinks only of mountains, rivers & cities; but to know someone who thinks & feels with us, & who, though distant, is close to us in spirit, this makes the earth for us an inhabited garden.

–Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Real friendship or love is not manufactured or achieved by an act of will or intention. Friendship is always an act of recognition.

–John O’Donohue

The glory of friendship is not in the outstretched hand, nor the kindly smile, nor the joy of companionship; it is in the spiritual inspiration that comes to one when he discovers that someone else believes in him and is willing to trust him.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Characters Who Don’t Change

Two newsletters ago I wrote about how characters change in stories (you can find that article here). Today I want to share a bit about the types of characters who don't change (or don't change much).

Superheroes rarely change, since their stories depend on a consistency of character that tends to represent a higher moral code in the service of maintaining a way of life that terrible villains are determined to destroy. These plot-heavy stories deliver a lot of action and minimal emotional depth. Such stories are satisfying because we follow an active journey that starts with order, quickly descends into chaos, and then returns to order once the antagonists are defeated.

James Bond isn’t exactly a superhero, but his character functions as one—he remains consistent in his character as he defeats larger than life villains. We’re entertained by this, but we don’t tend to seek out these stories for their emotional depth.

The main character of a long-running genre series may not seem to change much, but throughout a series small incremental changes may add up to an overall arc of change for the main character. Series writers usually plan for a very long, drawn out arc, with small shifts in character, or repeated attempts-to-change-but-fail cycles, occurring episode by episode until a breakthrough at the end.

We depend on series characters to stay quite consistent for multiple stories to work, but you'll notice that most of them are dealing with something in the past they are wrestling with emotionally, and over the entire series there is some change from book one to book twelve (or whatever), with a tiny slice of that character’s overall evolution reflected in each book.

Some writers don’t plan a final ending, because the point is to have an endless plot-heavy episodic series, as with James Bond, Sherlock Holmes, or Nancy Drew. In these cases, other authors can pick up where the last original one left off.

A character's degree of change, or growth can be small. A tough detective who’s really hard on his new partner might soften and finally offer some earned respect by the end of one or several episodes. In the course of finding a killer, he might have to reckon with a personal weakness and this new partner steps up to the plate. It might be small, but it's there, even if, as part of each episode, the character simply tries to change a little and fails every time.

Sometimes it’s enough for readers just to hold the question of change throughout the story. Will Sherlock overcome his addiction? Will he learn to be more sociable and kind? The answer can be no, or the change can be subtle, but change is "on the table" in story. If it's not, it's hard to stay interested, unless the story is so plot heavy that it’s the main focus, as with James Bond and superhero stories. But even with James Bond, we are left to wonder if he’ll settle for this leading lady or finally be bested by this particular villain. The possibility for change is always present. Superheroes often face a test of will or faith. They may have to overcome temptation to remain consistently heroic.

Certain comedic characters don’t have an arc because the humour lies in character consistency. We count on Groucho Marx to be Groucho Marx. If he recognized a blind spot and healed a deep wound, he just wouldn’t be funny anymore. Groundhog Day is a comedy, but not a pure one, because the main character does change, albeit reluctantly, which is a big part of what makes this movie funny.

In drama, tragic characters don’t change. In tragedies, the main characters get stuck in their growth arc. They may become aware of their destructive limitations but they choose to reject the new awareness and stick to old ways of doing things. This conscious refusal to change, to deny the invitation to move toward wholeness, leads to either a failure to achieve their story goal or, if successful in achieving the goal, the consequences for having done so are far more negative than if it hadn’t been sought or achieved at all.

Antagonists generally follow a tragic character arc. At odds with your main character’s values and goals, antagonists pursue goals for seemingly wrong reasons, though they themselves believe they are doing the right thing. They are driven by mistaken or twisted beliefs and may also be harbouring an old wound. They may have opportunities to heal their wound and change their beliefs, but they don’t take them and instead choose a destructive end. Antagonists and tragic characters often represent how not to be in the world.

There are also some stories that aren’t tragedies, or pure comedies, or superhero romps, in which a main character doesn’t change much or at all. And that’s part of the point of the story.

Forrest Gump is such a character. He experiences a lot of different things but remains essentially the same. We absorb the potency of his entrenched beliefs, which are mostly innocent and positive, and they rest on values most of us aspire to—respect and tolerance for others, acceptance for what is, unconditional love, etc. When a character already represents the moral stance the story intends to convey, there’s no need for them to change. The story works, however, in the sense that it’s emotionally satisfying and meaningful, because the characters around the main character change. If you decide to create a character like this, just remember that someone in the story must change, even if it’s not the main character.

In Forrest Gump, Lieutenant Dan and Jenny are saved from the tragic arcs they might otherwise act out. Gump’s consistency of character sends a stronger message to viewers through his impact on Dan and Jenny, whose character arcs fulfill the need for change in the story.

For a story to be satisfying and meaningful, for it to have some depth, someone must change, but it doesn’t always have to be the main character.

Write well,

P.S. As summer wraps up are you thinking of your fall writing goals? I'd love to help you take your next steps. Consider one of my upcoming retreats or classes. Or reach out for a Story Chat. These are new, limited availability, 1:1 sessions, lasting 45 minutes, during which we can talk about anything story or writing related. September openings are listed now, and each newsletter will contain a link to the next month's openings.

What I Do as a Story Coach

I love my work as a story coach, but what I do in that role isn't always easy to explain. Today I'm going to try. And I'm also going to let a couple of videos speak for me.

Others have referred to me in different ways: story whisperer, story guru, story healer, or cheerleader. I think of myself as a creative guide, and, yes, a cheerleader, sometimes a taskmaster, and as a kind of "partner in story." 

I deeply believe the desire to write comes from one of the truest places in one's heart and soul. Whether I'm working with groups or individuals I support turning this underlying desire to write into actual writing. After all, writers feel best while writing or after having written. So my deepest encouragement is focused on getting words on the page and chosen projects completed. Fulfilling such goals makes writers proud.

Working one-on-one, the story coaching process is entirely customizable. (Generally, it works well to meet every two weeks to keep a project in flow.) Because I can track the micro and macro elements of storytelling, I can really be with a writer in the midst of their creative process. Together we play with ideas, address problems, and come up with solutions. I can also edit material as we go, if that's needed (and it often is).

Last year, I was part of a Masterheart group with George Kao (I highly recommend George and his resources to any sensitive, heart-based solo-preneurs out there). One of the group tasks included creating a business framework, presenting it online, and fielding a few questions. I've included that 10-minute video below. It does a decent job of explaining some of what I do in the group programs I offer.

The other video (about 4.5 minutes long) contains the words of three writers who attended a retreat I led in France in 2019. Sometimes other people can describe elements of what I do better than I can.

As I continue to find ways to articulate what I do--which, of course, is always a work-in-progress as I refine and enhance my skills with each group and client I have the privilege to work with--I am open to receiving any feedback you might like to offer. (Just hit reply to this email.) I'll keep working on my website's story coaching description and testimonials page too.

With or without a thorough explanation of what I do, I can say whole-heartedly that I love what I do as a story coach. I love immersing myself in a story's potential and helping to guide it toward its valuable manifestation. 


Write to make yourself proud.

Your Character's Degree of Change: Evolution or Transformation?

Story is about change, be it big or small, and it’s usually the main character who embodies this change—she lives through it and dramatizes it by experiencing challenges and setbacks, successes and failures, blind spots and insights.

But how much will your character change? A little or a lot? Does she grow to such a degree that by the end of the story she has a completely different personality? Or has she expanded her perception in a minor way, yet remains essentially herself?

Change that occurs through learning and maturing unfolds as a progressive evolution—the character becomes a better version of herself. But sometimes the change is a transformation—the character appears to become a different version of herself.

Atticus Finch, in To Kill a Mockingbird, grows in understanding of his peers, society, and justice, but he doesn’t fundamentally change his beliefs or modes of operating in the world. Scrooge, in A Christmas Carol, changes completely.

In Groundhog Day, Phil Connors is a different person at the end of the story compared to the beginning. Like Scrooge, he grows so much over the course of the story that, by the end, he is a changed man.

If your character’s degree of change is small or medium, think of your character being on a journey of evolution. If it’s a large change, which involves a fundamental shift in perspective, consider the character undergoing a journey of transformation.

Character arcs involving transformation usually deal with the uncovering and dealing with an old, deep wound. This healing often includes some kind of personal redemption for the character.

Most transformation stories bring up the past, but not all do. Scrooge and Phil Connors go through similar transformations in personality, but in A Christmas Carol, we gain insight into Scrooge’s deep wounds when the ghost of Christmas past visits, whereas we don’t go into Phil’s past at all.

Evolution arcs tend to address what appears to be a “lack of maturity.” It’s as if something is missing in the character’s awareness and the story encourages the kind of growth and change that can fulfill this lack, usually by learning new things, stretching beyond personal limitations, and confronting past mistakes.

In Casablanca, Ilsa learns to integrate the free spirit she was in Paris with the self who is both responsible for and devoted to revolutionary causes with her husband, Lazlo. When we first meet Isla she has separated these two aspects of self, and the story provides the opportunity to bring them together.

Rick’s arc involves a greater degree of change that leads to his transformation. He was heartbroken by Ilsa’s disappearance in Paris and he has held onto his anger and a belief that she’d never really loved him. This wound makes him callow and self serving, but when it’s healed—when he understands Ilsa really did love him—his personality and behavior change significantly. He seems like a different person at the end.

Transforming characters do evolve as they change in big ways, while evolving characters change in smaller yet important ways without undergoing a full transformation.

Each story, and each character, is unique, and so the degree of change will be particular to your character and story situation. Once you determine the degree of change your character undergoes, evolution or transformation, you will be clearer about your overall deep story design.

A character undergoing a personal change is what’s most satisfying to readers. It doesn’t always matter whether the change is small or large, so long as there is a shift of some kind.

Why Selfishness is the Foundation for Creative Generosity

We’ve been taught that selfishness is a bad thing, but without it creativity couldn’t survive.

How many of us have had to fight for time, space, or necessary resources to make creative work possible? If you’ve had a lot of female social conditioning you’ve had to fight extra hard, but all of us are brainwashed to believe selfishness is a bad trait, one to be avoided rather than embraced.

That’s in part because of how it’s been defined as: a tendency to act excessively or solely in a manner that benefits oneself, even if others are disadvantaged, or as: lacking consideration for others; concerned chiefly with one’s own personal profit or pleasure. Other words for selfishness include: self-interested, self-seeking, egotistical, illiberal, parsimonious, stingy.

Where did all this negativity come from? “Self” simply refers to one’s own person. The “ish” suffix pairs with some nouns to form adjectives that indicate “relating to” or “approximately.” To relate to, or even be concerned with, the self is quite healthy, in my opinion. And if a society wishes its members to become personally responsible, then everyone will have to reckon with this negative spin on selfishness.

Which is not to be confused with “self care,” a term that makes what would otherwise be called selfish somehow okay. Self care appears to be neutral as it’s assumed to mean “looking after yourself in ways that do not involve others.” It seems to mean “caring for the self” rather than “caring only for the self.”

But I’m suspicious of this term. What if self care is a pseudo solution to a deeper human drive? What if a bubble bath, pedicure, massage, or girls/guys weekend away isn’t going to satiate a deep hunger to know who you are and make something in your lifetime?

We humans are born with strong positive urges toward freedom and creativity that we learn to negotiate away in small or large increments in order find a place in the social hierarchy.

We go along to get along, and there’s some sense, as well as integrity, to this. We can’t only think of ourselves, and we must do our best not to gather benefits to ourselves that lead to suffering for others. And especially now, we have to find ways to get along on an increasingly small and connected planet.

In society, to label another as selfish is a judgement designed to control, deter, or in some way modify behaviour. As social creatures, we do our best to avoid being labeled with negative traits, but if we followed every dictate society seems to want to throw at us we’d have no sense of individual self left, and without an individual self it’s extremely difficult to create.

Artists, by nature, chafe at rules and structures that limit freedom and creativity. An artist’s exercising of freedom to pull away and semi-isolate to develop and express creatively appears selfish but is deeply rooted in a desire to try to make something that could have a positive impact on the people they care about and the world at large. This desire is rooted in generosity. To walk a creative path is to encounter all manner of self sacrifice and paradox.

I’ve personally been judged for being selfish because I’ve appeared to put my own needs above those of others’ to pursue my creativity or to evolve personally. It’s painful to be judged that way, but it’s more painful to go against the grain of my own nature.

The drive to create is not something to be haggled away without side effects, some of which come later in life. A pull to know yourself well enough to understand what you want to create from that place is, to me, part of the true business of being human.

And if you need a few hours, days, or months to yourself to attend to these inner stirrings, how much real damage does that do to others compared to what not doing it might do to you? These questions can’t be answered flippantly, can’t be addressed without deep thought.

I apply two lenses when trying to find these answers in my own life. One comes from a basic tenant of the Hippocratic Oath: first do no harm. Primum non nocere. The other is a quote from the Dalai Lama: "Kindness is my religion." If you can be self-ish without doing harm, without sacrificing kindness, trust yourself to do this.

Others around you may not see things the same way at first. They may claim to be hurt or call you unkind, because unearthing our true duties to one another is deep work. But you probably don’t need to make dinner every night, or tend to partners’ or children’s every whim, or fulfill every job’s next outcome goal. You can’t drop everything, but you can let go of some things.

Accepting that you'll be judged as selfish is one of the first hurdles new writers must overcome. Writing requires a degree of solitude, usually some quiet, and a certain amount of uninterrupted time. Initially, some of the time is spent overcoming the internalized voices that say you should be doing something else, ideally something for others. These early inner battles throw many a good, fledgling writer off course.

Besides, once alone in your room staring at a blank page you’ll have other challenges to deal with, so why not stop letting the hang ups, and confusions, about selfishness be one of them? You’re allowed to spend time with yourself, follow your own interests, and pursue long-held dreams. It’s not selfish, it’s self-actualizing.

Not everyone has the inner urge, or outer opportunities, to address creative or self-actualizing purposes, but if you do, then ask yourself: Is it doing me more harm than good to not fulfill these drives? Could it enlarge my life to reframe my definition of selfishness and use it in the service of fulfilling my creative dreams? Can I identify a core of generosity at the heart of those dreams? Keep asking the questions. Keep playing with the answers.

Write self-ish-ly.

We Can’t All Be Famous

I know you didn’t start writing to become famous, but my guess is you’re hoping for some kind of recognition for your finished creative work. Writing, by nature, implies communication. Written words are meant to be read. The stories we create are a type of broadcast, and the circuit isn’t complete until the broadcast is received.

Though most of us want to create, develop, and refine our work in private, or small supportive communities, eventually we will want to share what we’ve created with others. Don’t most novelists secretly hope their book will be a bestseller? Don’t most writers long for the kinds of affirmations that come from social, industry, and financial success?

At some point a writer’s gaze lifts from the page and stares at the horizon of such possibilities. And it makes sense to be hopeful, but we can’t all be famous.

By fame I mean something like: mostly positive, visible recognition paired with financial reward. Though the actual definition of fame goes like this: “the state of being known or talked about by many people, especially on account of notable achievements.” That’s a nice term; artists devote their lives to striving for “notable achievements.” 

A desire for fame can arise in part because of what usually accompanies it: power, status, and wealth. Because while striving to make interesting impactful work, artists face a lot of self doubt during the creative process, limited resources to fund that process, and they are sometimes seen in a questionable light as contributing members of society while honing the crafts that haven’t yet led to any achievements.

With the advent of social media, fame seems possible for almost everyone. But possible isn’t the same as probable. We can’t all be famous because the nature of fame requires that one person hold the attention of many. The numbers just don’t work.

But here are some numbers that do.

It looks like you really only need a thousand true fans to make a fair living (the article promoting that numerical theory is here). And have you heard of Dunbar’s Number? It’s 150, and that’s supposedly the number of quality social connections our brains can handle. (Read about that number here.)

These numbers suggest that our attention can only be spread so far and that we may need less attention for our work than we first thought. And that’s the key word: attention. We only have so much we can offer others. And they only have so much they can offer us.

We are living in an attention economy now. Attention is limited, valuable, and scarce. This includes your attention. 

The deeper needs we have as humans that we think fame might fulfill have to do with attention, approval, and admiration. We do need some spaces, people, and communities that can provide opportunities to fulfill these true human needs. But we don’t need attention, approval, and admiration from millions in order to thrive. We can carve some smaller circles.

Books take a lot longer to write than to read, so those numbers are in your favor too. Maybe you can write a book in a year, or three, or maybe it takes you ten. And let’s say you read a book a week, or two per month, or even one. You might read between 36 and 156 books in the three years it takes you to write yours. While writing, you're reading the words of others and supporting them with your attention.

So rather than day dreaming about becoming famous for your creativity, have a look at who you give your attention to. Who are you a fan of? Whose fame are you contributing to? Are you one of someone else’s thousand true fans? Who do you want to be your fan?

Create for those people whose attention really matters to you. Make something worthy of their attention.

Write for true fans.

Being Human in the Face of AI

There’s been a lot of buzz about artificial intelligence lately, specifically ChatGPT. I’ve been dipping into some articles and conversations with a sense of wonder and curiosity rather than alarm, concern, or resistance, though I admit I feel those things too.

The fresh accessibility of this technology will no doubt impact all our lives in ways we can only begin to imagine but can’t yet fully fathom. What’s clear: This is one genie that won’t go back in its bottle.

Writers already tend to be insecure, full of doubt about their talents and abilities, always striving to be more productive, and yet too often wind up in the “not good enough” camp of their own minds. My sense is this technology only aggravates these states.

I’m only in the early days of my investigations and taking a slow, typically human, pace. I see tools like ChatGPT as potential assistants for certain things. I often get Google fatigue as I look up information, trying to pick the right words and phrases for my search and then having to wade through a thicket of sponsored ads and questionably-motivated-algorithmically-chosen options. I no longer believe the results are unbiased (or biased only according to my specific search). At the moment, ChatGPT can source the internet for me according to much more specific criteria, and I can direct and correct it as I narrow in closer to what I’m looking for. I’m curious about these possibilities.

But rather than going down the rabbit hole of exploring everything it “could” do —right now it’s like a game of punching in questions and searches to see what it says, and I’m having some time-limited fun with that, but…— I’m taking some time to reflect on what I personally might need it to do to make my human life easier.

I might let it do some research for me when I need it. Or I could ask it for recipes featuring chicken, quinoa, and red peppers that are under 700 calories (totally random search). It can help me brainstorm article titles for blogs, and then I could pick one that inspires me, but beyond stuff like that, I intend to maintain my boundaries.

One thing I promise you: I’ll never use it to write anything.

We’re already inundated with content and information, and now we have new, powerful tools to generate more content faster. Personally, I’m oversaturated, and I won’t contribute to the onslaught. (But neither will I give up honing my own qualities of thought, being, and doing and sharing what I create when appropriate.)

I still feel hopeful, in some ways, about this time, because I recognize that being human is only going to become more valuable over time.

So, with the rise of AI, it’s time to explore, refine, and cultivate what it means to be human. Yes, AI will be “learning” from us all the time, but no matter what AI will be able to do for us (or for itself..) it will never be human.

As we learn to navigate bigger and thicker forests of human and AI generated material, we’ll be looking for that human touch. Human to human contact will become more valuable.

Human experiences will matter more, especially if we can talk about them, teach by them.

AI might enhance human ingenuity and creativity, but it will never be a true source of it. AI will aggregate human knowledge at record speeds, and it may reinterpret that knowledge to create new things, but soon enough it will risk becoming too self-referential and get tangled in its own knots.

After all, this genie (or will it turn out to be a monster?) was “born” from human creativity. Our collective ingenuity over time got us to this place. But I’m not dismissing the possibility (probability?) that the monster might turn around and strangle its creator one day. It’s perfectly human to have such fears.

As AI spreads through the common marketplace, most everyone will be asking: Where are we going with this? And that’s perfectly human too. But it’s even more human to ask: Where did we come from? How did we get here? And why are we here at all? These spiritual or existential questions lead us to the deepest sources of human imagination and creation. It's our curiosity and wonder about ourselves and the world that ultimately keep creativity alive and flourishing.

AI may be able to outpace us in output, but original, human inputs are the source of all these new possibilities. As we continue to explore what it means to be human, and apply human intelligence alongside artificial intelligence, let’s also commit to creating as humans, not robots. In this way we’ll stay in touch with the ultimate wellspring of creativity.

Write as a human.

The Waterfall of Ideas

Readers are fascinated by the apparently mysterious process of coming up with story ideas. “Where do you get your ideas?” is one of the most common questions readers ask of writers. In fact, Harlan Ellison was asked it so many times he decided to come up with a specific answer: Schenectady.

Schenectady is a small town north of Albany in upstate New York. Ellison would tell his audience there was an idea service company that would send him a weekly six-pack of ideas for twenty-five bucks. Most people knew it was a joke, but every so often someone asked for the address (the pre-internet days).

Maybe you’d like an idea package to arrive on your doorstep twice per month? Such a wish comes from believing ideas are scarce, but they’re actually abundant and can be found everywhere, if you train yourself to attune to them.

Many writers train themselves by carrying around a small notebook in which to jot down fragments of ideas—images, thoughts, snippets of overheard dialogue— as they come. If you’ve never tried this, it’s wonderful training for attracting ideas.

Ideas can be elusive when you really, really need a good one. Inner stress and pressure seem to repel whatever it is that attracts ideas. As if the harder we go looking for story ideas, the more they elude us. Story ideas seem to gather like storms that occur only when a variety of conditions collide. The best ones catch us unawares, and we usually call this inspiration.

The poet, Ruth Stone talked about being out in the fields and then feeling a poem come rushing over the landscape, seeming to chase her, and she had to run fast to find paper and catch the poem before it passed through her completely and was lost. Elizabeth Gilbert refers to this story, and others, in some of her talks and in her book, Big Magic. She shares her own story about having an idea for a book that she wasn’t able work with right away, and later she found out her friend Ann Patchett had written a novel with a premise that was uncannily similar. It was as if the idea passed through her and moved on to someone else. Artists of all stripes talk about being visited by ideas at inconvenient times. Some ask the ideas to move on or come back later. It’s as if there are idea-clouds swirling around the planet like wind currents.

Many years ago I started to think of ideas as a waterfall, one that was always nearby. And always pouring. All I needed to do was step a little to the left and let it cascade over me.

This idea-for-ideas did two things for my imagination: it reassured me that ideas were there for the taking when I felt ready to stand under that flow, and it made me more conscious and responsible for my own intentions around honouring ideas. I was no longer at the mercy of some imagined, tyrannical idea-source that withheld when I was in need and inundated when I wasn’t ready. With a modicum of preparation, I could choose to approach the waterfall with a sense of gratitude and awe. This idea waterfall is just an image, an idea, but it helps me remember that ideas are abundant rather than scarce.
Working with ideas that do come to us is also unpredictable, and not always easy. Occasionally, we’re graced with ideas that come fully formed, but more often we have to work and rework them to make a story. I remember reading that Orson Scott Card would often combine two or three ideas to get one that really worked as a story. Sometimes he’d carry around one or two ideas for a long time, patiently waiting for the missing idea to catalyze the others.

As writers we do have to practice being receptive to the mysterious inner and outer energies that send ideas around the planet, like water or wind currents. Or maybe we take a few steps to the left and imagine standing under a waterfall of ideas. Whatever the image or metaphor, give yourself the freedom to perceive ideas as abundant and ever-flowing. Brainstorm playfully, curiously, and keep that small notebook handy. Cultivate a sense of wonder and gratitude for the sources of ideas that find you and fill you until a story is ready to take shape.

Write with flow.

Your Gift of Writing is For You First

Lately, I’ve been feeling a bit down about my writing. Maybe it's just the January blues, or maybe it’s the weight of all those unfulfilled writing dreams I’ve been carrying around for so long. 

I know I’m not alone in sinking into this kind of creative depression from time to time. The challenge is getting out of it. One thing that’s helped me is being reminded that my love of writing is a gift for me first.

Didn’t I start writing because it made me happy? Writing gave me a sense of freedom. I loved the new and powerful insights that arose from deep focus and concentration. It was satisfying and exciting to see a pile of words adding up to a story, article, novel, or potential movie. The act of creation felt as exhilarating as it could be exhausting.

I can forget sometimes that the desire to write is a gift. It's one that opens me up to having a deep relationship with my soulful imagination. Not everyone establishes such a satisfying, internal bond. I have to remember: Writing is a gift to and for me first.

And yet… creativity spinning out creations eventually generates an impulse to share what’s been created. A piece of writing, once written, isn’t truly complete until it’s read. Writing is a form of communication. It relies on giving and receiving. Writing is the broadcast; reading is its reception.

At first, of course, we write only for ourselves, to discover what we think and feel, wondering if we have something particular to say. This is when the gift feels most potent. Most of us invest in millions of exploratory words before we pull something together that we believe is worth sharing, but reaching this threshold, this impulse to share, is almost inevitable for every writer. We reach a point when we wonder: will my gift be welcomed in the world?

When we begin testing ourselves by submitting work to the marketplace, we must not lose touch with our connection to the gift that came to us first. We have so little control over how—or if—our writing will be received. Luck and timing play a larger role than we’re willing to admit. All we can do is research the markets that might be open to our work, send it off professionally, and follow up professionally too. Then we get back to the love of writing, which is the special gift we've been given.

Many writers who are now household names toiled in obscurity during their lifetimes. Edgar Allen Poe, Emily Dickinson, Franz Kakfa, to name a few. What would the literary landscape look like if these writers had turned away from their gifts?

It’s hard sometimes to not want things back from the writing—fame, fortune, raving reviews, multiple book deals, movie options, etc. But that comes from the world’s influence, not the gift’s. 

My gift urges me to listen to my heart, to swim in the seas of my imagination, and to trust it as a source of inner power and fulfillment while the world carries on in its unfathomable ways. What does your gift of writing urge you to do?

I wholeheartedly wish for all of our writing dreams to come true. While we work and wait patiently for that, I honor the love of writing we each carry in our own hearts.


Write from your gift,

P.S. If you struggle with creative depression sometimes, this is a great book to have on hand: The Van Gogh Blues, by Eric Maisel.

Here's the two minute video by piano teacher Sarah Cashmore that partly inspired this newsletter. In it, she answers one of her audience's questions about dealing with perfectionism.

Walking Each Other Home

November 29, 2022

Dear Writers,

Spiritual teacher, Ram Dass used to say "We're all just walking each other home." This line seems appropriate for the writing life too. As fellow writers, we're walking each other toward trust in our own voices, toward the finish lines of first drafts, and toward the completion of publishable manuscripts. And we're walking each other through all the ups and downs that are part of those paths.

Some of these ups and downs are spiritual in nature.

Most spiritual teachings remind us that we're not alone, because the human condition holds fast to a belief in an illusion that we are separate, isolated, ego-driven individuals. This belief can lead to feelings of loneliness, self pity, overwhelm, and a sense of unworthiness, as well as to feelings of arrogance, grandiosity, and superiority. All strengthen the illusion of separation.

Separation shouldn't be confused with solitude, though. Writers, all artists, depend on solitude to create. Picasso said, "Without great solitude no serious work is possible." Chosen creative solitude is one of the vitamins of the writing life, and without an adequate amount we won't thrive. 

Some might argue that the act of writing a novel or memoir is an individualistic and ego-driven undertaking. And maybe one’s personal motives do need some examination, but I’d counter-argue that writing is ultimately about communication and connection. The impulse to create a story, to go to all the trouble to craft something that another person can enjoy reading is, deep down, born out of love and a desire to transcend that human illusion of separation.

Creativity has always been a spiritual path for me because it's always forcing me to reckon with my own ego. As much as my individual ego might wish my writing could make me rich, famous, or more lovable, acceptable, admirable, or (fill in the blank), it won't. It can't. Such wishes are rarely granted by outer sources anyway. They depend on inner work. As do most aspects of writing.

A lot of that inner work gets done in solitude, as we grapple with the highs and lows of walking a creative path. But if solitude starts breeding feelings of separation and loneliness, it's time to reach out to a community of like-minded creative souls for the nourishment of companionship. Whether you dip into it regularly or only occasionally, make sure to stay connected to a few people who can help walk you home.

Write with connection.

Build it and Scenes Will Come

You know I’m stickler for structure.

Every story starts somewhere and ends somewhere else. It’s the nature of story to have a beginning and ending, with something in the middle. I consider this very basic story structure, and if you build on this humble foundation a story will come.

We’re familiar with the line “build it and they will come,” which is paraphrased from W.P. Kinsella’s book Shoeless Joe, and the movie inspired by it, Field of Dreams. It’s a sweet film about an Iowa farmer who rewrites the story of his relationship with his dead father by digging up part of his cornfield and building a baseball diamond. He takes an illogical leap of faith after hearing the disembodied words, “If you build it, he will come.”

And if you want to build stories, you’ll have to get used to working with story’s essential building block: the scene.

The three basic stages of story—beginning, middle, end—outline a progression, which implies change. Something is different at the end compared to the beginning. Whatever goes on in the middle represents the unfolding of that progression. And your story’s scenes progressively dramatize the change.

Stories hinge around a character trying to achieve some kind of outer goal that’s difficult to achieve because the character also needs to do some inner work in order to succeed.

So, as you start to build your story, try working on the following six scenes—two for the beginning, two for the middle, and two for the end.

In the beginning, show us a scene in which the character is unable to accomplish the outer goal but has a good reason to try. Next, show us a scene that implies an inner problem that may be the root of why the character’s unable to achieve the goal.

In the middle, come up with a couple of scenes that show the character’s outer inabilities and inner limitations changing and evolving —let us witness, through dramatic scenes, this person trying to do the outer thing and struggling to fix the inner thing.

At the end, two more scenes are required: one showing us the character’s new (and earned) ability to achieve the goal (whether it’s still wanted or not) and another revealing evidence of the character’s inner limitation having evolved into a healed or expanded sense of self.

If you build this first half a dozen scenes for your story’s beginning, middle, and end, the rest of the scenes will come.

Write your dreams.

Do You Need a Date Night?

Every relationship benefits from a little bit of romance now and then. This includes your relationship with your writing. What is romance but a bit of innovative quality time and attention?

For some people romance might look like wining and dining, or bubble baths, or sunset strolls, but whatever the outer appearance, the core experience involves spending time with someone (or something) you love.

What would a date night with your writing look like?

I once facilitated an evening of writing in art gallery called Eat, Drink, Write. Wine and appies sat on u-shape arranged tables surrounded by framed paintings while we scribbled away in our notebooks. 

In Paris one year, I wrote in my journal atop the Eiffel Tower at night, where every hour on the hour the tower lights up with twinkling lights that can be seen across the city. 

Nearly two decades ago, at the Santa Barbara Writers Conference, I attended a late night breakout writing event, where I happened to meet one of my long running writing group buddies. 

Looking back, these could be considered date nights with my writing, yet they weren't planned that way. But what if they had been? Or what if I planned some new dates now?

It's true that many writers get their best writing done early in the day, usually in the mornings, when they're fresh, and perhaps fuelled by coffee.

Others are night owls who rev up later and take inspiration from darkness and stillness. We all have our habits and proclivities, but we're still capable of stepping out of our routines.

Because dates are not routines. They are special events we spruce up for and anticipate, nervously or excitedly. When's the last time you dressed up for writing? When's the last time you aimed to impress it rather than the other way around? To keep any relationship healthy we have to inject a bit of surprise and spontaneity to keep from falling into a rut.

I certainly won't deny that writing generally, as a practice, thrives on routine (I've written about that before and I'm sure I will again), but an occasional jolt of romance can work wonders for reigniting a spark of joy, surprise, originality, and inspiration--that je ne sais quoi that made you fall in love in the first place. So try taking your writing out on a date. You just might get lucky.

Write for the romance of it.

90-Mile-an-Hour First Drafts

A screenwriter friend once told me she always aims to write "90-mile-an-hour first drafts." I’ve learned to appreciate this approach, and I’ve been thinking about what prevents many writers from writing fast first drafts. 

Three things come to mind: 

1) Not setting up a regular routine to get the work done.

2)  Not having other friendly writers to check in with while engaged in a writing routine.

3)  Believing that “not knowing what comes next” is a reason not to write.

Scheduling time and showing up to do the work of drafting is the only way manuscripts get written. Most writers appreciate some witnessing of this sometimes hard, lonely work. Checking in with fellow writers—to celebrate progress or commiserate over the lack thereof—buoys a writer’s motivation to keep going. 

That touches on numbers one and two. But for the rest of this note, I’d like to unpack what might be going on under the surface of number three.

We are so used to not acting until we know the next step to take. But creativity doesn’t work like that. Especially when it comes to writing first drafts. Yes, you can take some time to develop your story, and you can sketch out a loose or even detailed outline, but until you get to the page, the story doesn’t have a chance of flowing into a first draft. 

Pausing the process because of not knowing what comes next usually hides a fear of losing control or making a mess. But that’s what a first draft is meant to be! That’s how we find our stories.

We can’t know what a story’s true potential is until we finish a first draft. It’s sometimes called a discovery draft, because first we have to tell ourselves the story and discover what we—and the story—want to say.

We find our answers for what to do next on the page.

Why do we find it so hard to trust this part of the process?

I think it’s because many writers subconsciously nurture, and fantasize about, a deep fear and a great hope. We are so plagued by self-doubt and self-judgement that to begin a draft (and finish it) means having to confront “whether it’s good or not.” The deep fear is that whatever we create will be horrible or, perhaps worse, mediocre.

The great hope simmering under the surface is that whatever we create will be amazing, rank as a bestseller or blockbuster, and inspire and impress our friends and family, and, really, the world. The power of this fantasy keeps the prospect of writing (and finishing) off on a distant horizon of promising potential.

While there does exist the possibility of such a hope or fear coming true, the probability is that neither will. But you’ll never know unless you finish a draft or two or ten. So you might as well free yourself up to write that horrible first draft, then the mediocre one, while you aim for the amazing. But do it on the page, not in the background of your mind.

And when you finally give yourself permission to write something horrible, why not do it quickly? Same with mediocre. And if your hope comes true and you do write something amazing, wouldn’t you like to experience that sooner than later?

Ninety-mile-an-hour first drafts get your story on the page quickly, messily, and roughly. It’s what you do with it after that counts. The revision process can polish a diamond in the rough, but until the whole stone is unearthed, you can’t know what potentially brilliant shape your story could be.

You must tell yourself the story first, the whole story, not just the parts that feel safe, controlled, and known. The blank page will hold you and guide you if you trust it—and trust yourself—to write into the unknown territory.

Ninety miles per hour can feel exhilaratingly fast, but it’s doable. You can do it. I encourage you to give up your Sunday drive drafts and hop on the autobahn. You can meander in revision if you feel like it, once you have discovered the whole story you’re trying to tell yourself.

Write over the speed limit,

P.S. If you’d like to get a first draft done by the end of the year, I’ll be hosting another 12-week Drafting Circle this fall, starting Sept 19th. (Apply here.) This three-month program is steadily paced and manageable. Many writers have completed first drafts in this timeframe.

P.P.S. Those wanting to go even faster might want to try Nanowrimo in November, during which you write an entire novel in a month, or, if you're up for breaking some sound barriers, you could try the upcoming 3-day novel writing contest.

Is it Time for a Break?

I’m fond of saying writers always have homework, but I also get tired of feeling that there’s always more to do, always something incomplete needing attention. It’s both a blessing and curse of being creative; one always has “multiple projects in various states of development.”

That line is paraphrased from Dov Simmons, a film producer I met when I was 19 and just getting my feet wet in the film industry. To us new, young creators, without much of anything in production yet, Dov’s line could make us sound more legitimate when inevitably asked, “So what are you working on?” “Oh, me? Well, I have multiple projects in various states of development.”

But what happens when you do have various projects in multiple states of development? As many writers do. All the time. How do you schedule your time off?

Carefully, I suggest.

The nature of the writing process does require taking periodic breaks at certain stages, after finishing a draft, for example, or once a revision has been handed to beta readers. But while stepping away from a particular project for a time can help that project in particular, walking away from writing for any significant length of time usually throws a spanner in the works of creativity in general.

In my experience, not writing at all for longer than three days has unintended, often subtle, consequences. Irritability increases, a kind of malaise, or even depression, can set in. Writers not writing aren’t always a friendly bunch.

But we still need breaks…

Remember that saying, “a change is as good as a rest”? With writing, this may be the way to take those breaks. And the first thing to change is your expectations.

Let’s say you’ve been drafting a novel with a daily goal of writing 500 words for five days per week but feel you need a break. What could you change? Fewer days, fewer words?

For writing breaks, I suggest shifting your quantity expectations while holding onto a quality connection.It seems that qualitative distance is most detrimental to creativity. Quantitative expectations can shift, but a quality-based connection should be maintained.

So while taking a break, maybe you carry around a “sense notebook” in which you jot down details noticed during the day related to one or two senses. A few lines of description keeps you connected to writing without undue pressure to produce (and could provide raw material for future projects). Or you could journal in the voice of your characters, or write the poetry they’d write. Then again, maybe a break means giving yourself time to write the poetry you want to write, and explore thoughts you want to think.

Whatever you choose, keeping a light and simple tether to your writing practice maintains your connection and “keeps the writing close” (another phrase I like to use) during breaks.

Breaks, good rests, playing, and relaxing with friends help balance our inner selves, which is the source of our outer work. Letting the imagination have free rein, daydreaming, even being bored at times, allows the subconscious to reboot. Creatives of all kinds, including scientists, recognize the benefits of a good nap!

For writers, full-stop breaks aren’t always beneficial. We write for many reasons, but there’s an ineffable one that connects to our experiences of awareness and existence; writing as an activity is connected to our sense of being. We can’t really take a break from that, but we can modify how we relate to it for a while. How might you modify your practice to give yourself a break when you need it?

This summer, I plan to journal more. I use a kind that fits easily into backpacks and beach bags. Restful states can open intuitive pathways, yielding unexpected insights and ideas. Often, creative problems are solved when we let go of trying and just relax and have fun. So I do like to have pen and paper nearby even while enjoying a much needed break.

Summer is a sweet time of year to fill one’s inner tanks with light, warmth, color, and company. Those multiple projects in various states of development will be waiting for you when you return feeling refreshed.

Structure is King, Character is Queen

In chess, the game is over when the king falls, but the queen is the strongest piece during the game. She has the most power and flexibility. If you lose your queen it’s almost guaranteed you’ll lose the game as well. In many ways, the queen rules the gameplay, but her allegiance is to the safety and preservation of the king.

Similarly, structure and character work together to create a dynamic game of story. Characters are your strongest elements–they have the power to enliven the story and the flexibility to create dynamic change–but they exist within the foundational element of structure. What characters do, how they do it, and why, relates directly to the shape of a story’s beginning, middle, and end.

When I refer to structure, I don’t mean plot exactly, though it’s naturally inferred. I see structure as a general framework on which you hang a specific plot. Plot and character follow the dictates of structure (ideally, three-act structure, though there are various offshoots an interpretations). When you write a story, you have to choose where to start, where to end, and what to include in the middle.

Structure is a bit like the chessboard and the rules of the game. The plot is the particular game, of which there are myriad patterns. A particular plot makes a story unique, but structure makes it understandable.

Structure sets the stage for plot. And what is plot without character?  A story is always about someone (character) doing something (plot). Many writers start with a character as a source of inspiration. They drop them into a challenging situation and watch what happens. A character in pursuit of something that’s not easy to achieve, with worthy obstacles and adversaries, plus an uncertain outcome, is endlessly entertaining to us readers. And it fits nicely within a shape of beginning, middle, and ending.

Structure as a ruling, guiding force is your friend. It’s worth defending. All eyes will be focused on your characters, their choices and their fates, but their journeys will mean something because of where the story begins, where it ends, and all that happens in the middle.

So set up your pieces and have fun with the game of story. Let your characters take the spotlight, honor structure’s guidelines, and allow the wild plots to unfold.

Do You Have a Routine?

Do you follow some kind of routine when you write? Most creative people I know (including  myself) dislike routines but can’t get much done without them. Though we do try!

Routines can feel rigid, boring, mechanical, or lacking vitality—or so those who resist routines tell ourselves when we’re not implementing them (!). But those with routines swear by them. They experience comfort, reduced stress, and greater productivity. (All good things, but maybe not the shiny, sexy, spontaneous experience we secretly wish creation could be?)

Flaubert advised, “Be steady and orderly in your life so you can be fierce and original in your work.”* His words indicate how important it is to have a predictable environment and slate of habits that allow one to roam more wildly and passionately within the creative work itself. This makes sense to me, yet I still resist closing the door on wild and passionate living.

I agree there has to be order somewhere. But what about inspiration? Many productive writers dismiss those who whine about waiting for inspiration. They choose instead to show up regularly, routinely, at set writing times. Somerset Maugham famously said, “I write only when inspiration strikes. Fortunately it strikes every morning at nine o’clock sharp.”

Most of us know from experience that routine actions yield results. A good diet, regular meal times, exercise, and waking and going to sleep at set times has proven to lead to good physical and mental health. Partying, skipping meals, and being a couch potato yield unhealthily results over the long term.

And maybe that’s one of the secrets for reckoning with routines: setting the terms. Because routines don’t have to last forever. They could be implemented for a week, a month, a season, a year. Within a time frame, a routine has a chance to yield results.

A routine is a set of choices with an underlying implication that a change will occur over time. Like a controlled experiment, we create a hypothesis, limit conditions, measure incremental changes over time, and analyze the results. It’s worthwhile to experiment with different routines until we find one that works.

I’ve experienced for myself, and witnessed with others I coach, how a set amount of time, in which a reasonable routine is established, can yield an entire draft of a book (in this case the 3 month Drafting Circle—that’s a season). Right now I’m guiding a group of writers through a 6-month revision routine, and, while resistance still comes up, progress is made over time.

Routine’s roots go back to French and Latin meanings for carving out a route, course, way, or path. And that could be why some writers struggle with routines. Each writer has to carve out an individual path. None of us can follow exactly what works for someone else. We can only observe the successes of others, trying out borrowed bits to see what works, until we cobble together our own way of doing things. But we do have to find a way.

If you’re having a great life and meeting your chosen creative goals without any kind of routine, I’d say: Don’t change a thing! But if that’s not the case (as it is with me), it might be time to reckon with the resistance to routines.

One way to break through that resistance could be to write up a “dream routine.” What would an ideal creative day look like for you? (Tip: focus on what it is rather than what it’s not.) If it’s not too fantastical, try living it for one, two, or three days in a row.

Part of my resistance is that I can’t include everything in a routine; I have to choose a few things, at most, to focus on at any given time. Eliminating options makes me feel anxious. But if I’m really honest with myself, I feel more anxious over the long term if I’m not reaching the creative goals I set for myself.

Writers need to prioritize one project at a time (maybe two, though “priority” really refers to “one”). Then we have to follow through. We have to work on it until it’s done. We can’t give up when the going gets tough, but we can experiment with different routine time frames. We can set the terms (a season, not forever).

Here are four steps to try:

1) identify and prioritize the project to complete

2) design an ideal routine to support completion

3) set the terms of the routine (a season, not forever)

4) stick to the routine until enough data yields analyzable results

When we start getting the results we want (which includes feeling more at ease during the creative process), we’ll be converts, because we will have figured out our own way of creating regularly.

Writing Scenes

You have a ton of tasks to tend to when it comes to crafting your stories, and writing scenes is one of them.

What is a scene? A useful writer’s definition goes something like this: a scene consists of action through conflict in more or less continuous time and space that leads to a minor or major change in character or plot.

“Action through conflict” includes situations of physical action and dialogue that move the story forward in a dynamic way.

“Continuous time and space” means that a scene generally takes place in one location and during a set amount of time that feels like the present moment of the story.

“Change” refers to the particular relevance of the scene, the thing that happens that warrants the scene’s necessary inclusion in the story. This change, small or large, propels the story forward.

The scene is the essential building block of storytelling. It’s your most powerful tool for conjuring images in the mind’s eye of the reader. Your story’s most important events, ideas, actions, and emotions will be conveyed primarily through scenes.

Scenes are different from what’s known as “summary.” A simple, general way to differentiate the two types of writing is to think of scenes as the “showing” part of your writing and summary as the “telling” part.

A scene will make us feel as if we’re right there with the characters, as if we’re watching the action and dialogue unfold in real time. Screenwriters rely on scenes almost exclusively, because their stories must be told visually. They depend on action, dialogue, image, and sound to convey meaning. (On rare occasions they include voice over to convey the inner thoughts of characters.)

Novelists and memoirists have a lot more leeway. They aim to strike a balance between scene and summary. (Though, by balance I don’t mean giving them equal weight, since most stories favour more scenes than summary.) Novels and memoirs include things like inner dialogue, self reflection, memories, backstory, exposition, lyrical description, and some summary of events that are less relevant to the story and can be covered through “telling” rather than “showing.”

In fact, the artfulness of novels and memoirs often depends on the ability of the writer to use summary techniques. Scenes with action and dialogue are the most engaging to read, but prose writers can interrupt or bracket these scenes to enter a character’s inner world or memories, or to summarize accounts of backstory or other story information.

Pure summary is used sparingly to fill in gaps, provide information, bridge action sequences, adjust pacing, and possibly add color, depth, and description to the prose. Literary fiction tends to include more summary than genre or commercial fiction.

The whole flow of story is a kind of action-reaction pattern set in motion from the initial catalyzing event that really gets the story going. Once the story is underway, a character responds to consequential events and makes decisions that lead to more consequences that lead to more decisions and responses. Think of your scenes as a series of dominoes; the events of one scene fall naturally to the next and trigger the next event, which triggers the next event, and so on.

Scene writing is an art rather than a science, but most writers can stand to boost their scene writing skills in order to realize the potential of a story’s scenes.