Posts for category ‘writing’

Right now my writing life is occupying two very different spaces.

In one space, How to Save a Life is enjoying a successful release. It recently got its fourth starred review, which breaks my previous record of three, for Once Was Lost. It was named, along with a number of other books, a Best Book of 2011 by Publishers Weekly. And there’s more, similar good news that I can’t yet share. I get tweets and notes each day from people who have enjoyed the book. I wrote about inspiration and failure at Nova Ren Suma’s blog and have really been blown away by the response to that. And finally I get to tell you that Tara Altebrando and I wrote a book together, and it’s gonna be published. This weekend, I’m heading to Chicago for NCTE & ALAN to be “author Sara Zarr” with colleagues and friends. That all feels good.

In the other space is this:

I’m revising what will be my next published book. And it’s sort of scaring the bejeebers out of me, this revision is. The process of writing this book has been different than the last. That does seem to be the way–each book has its own process, and its own problems. And each unique set of problems requires its own, unique solutions, which meas they’re new to me, too. And that means: I DON’T KNOW WHAT THE HELL I’M DOING.

Okay, I do have some ideas.

But, when people say, “You must be so excited about the success of your new book!” I answer, “Yes, I am!” And I am! Very. But in the good How to Save a Life moments, I feel like a visitor to an old country, a former homeland. I know how to get around and can give people the guided tour and admire the views. But like all writers, I spend most of my time in the new country and its unfamiliar, intimidating landscape, around strange people speaking an odd language. They’re gesturing, sometimes wildly, and I don’t know what they want.

And yet, barring any unexpected detours, around spring 2013 this will be the old familiar country and I’ll be living somewhere new again.

It’s strange, this rhythm of a writing life. I’m never completely present to the book that’s “new” for everyone else; it feels like it’s in the rearview mirror. And never quite comfortable in the new homeland, until I’m gone.

I like it, though. For someone who in non-writing life is a homebody and fond of routine and control and feeling capable and sure, I have to say that in my creative life, if I had to choose, I’d rather be the eternal stranger in a new land than the comfortable native. I hope I always feel that way.

Last night we went to this Open Screen night at the Tower, sponsored by the Salt Lake Film Society. It was like open mic, but with short films, up to ten minutes. It was a fun, free date night. It’s not like I expected Sundance quality or anything, but I found myself a teeny tiny bit let down by the films. And I got to thinking about the overlap between problems with these short films and the problems I often see in manuscripts in workshop settings. Yes, including my own, at early stages. To wit:

- Lack of a sense of story. What’s the story? What’s at stake, and why should anyone care about it? What is there for the characters to gain or lose in this scenario? When I sit down to watch a film, no matter what the length and no matter what the style, I’m thinking, Tell me a story. True. Made up. Silent. Talkie. Artsy. Straightforward. Whatever.

- Lack of a point of view. Through whose eyes am I experiencing this? What or who am I supposed to latch onto as I watch, to help with the aforementioned caring about what’s happening? Give me an entry point, take my hand, escort me into things. You don’t have to be condescending or spoon-feed, but at least hold out an open hand. There’s a Let me show you what I see element that I think should accompany the storytelling process.

- Lack of substance.  A lot of the films had great style. Really great style. You could see the filmmakers had invested a lot of time and energy in setting up creative shots, doing some cool editing, adding in some neato effects. But…what’s all the blood, sweat, and tears for if you don’t kinda have something to say? I know this “something to say” thing is highly subjective, and I’m not talking about a message or an agenda. But the deeper your level of thought in the process, the deeper the viewing/reading experience will be. Even something purely for entertainment should compel.

Okay, maybe I’m overthinking a for-fun venture. But I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t overthink, and it’s easier than doing my own work…

Happy writing until I see you here again next week!

Well, I had no idea how many theater geeks and sympathizers there were reading the ole’ blog. Thanks for your comments! The draft continues to…accumulate words, is the best way I can put it.

We’re almost exactly one month away from the release of How to Save a Life. I’m starting to answer interview questions about it for blogs and such that will go up later, and thinking about having the finished book in my hands (When, God, when?) and the people I can’t wait to send it to, and thinking about trade reviews (again, when? – since originally the publication date wasn’t until 2012, I think it’s all a little behind), and how that will feel.

Meanwhile, I want to share a few HTSAL-related cool things that may not be from the trades, but are from actual readers, who’ve always mattered more to me than critics anyway. A couple of links, and a few quotes from tweets I’ve gotten about the book:

A review from Wear the Old Coat – “Recommended for: People who are looking for immaculately written, contemporary YA fiction. People who are looking for their mirror image. People who love train journeys. People who like bad Mexican food and pancakes. People who would like to go on a stakeout with a tall, dark, stranger. Coffee not included.” Thank you, WtOC!

A teaser via Stalking the Bookshelves

And some recent tweetins:

“…beautiful. More tears, more spot on emotional depth. I become a bigger fan with every turn of the page.”

“Just finished HOW TO SAVE A LIFE by @sarazarr. She always manages to make me cry (happy tears) & fall in love with her writing MORE.”

“It’s such a thoughtful book that asks such BIG questions. I truly, madly adored it.”

“…was actually crying as I finished reading @sarazarr’s upcoming book How to Save a Life. Recommended.”

So, October 18th. Unless you come out to one of the Smart Chicks Kick It events in Seattle, Portland, or Vancouver, where you can get it early! And I know times are tight, so feel free to start requesting it at your local library. (Also, the Story of a Girl ebook is a bargain right now, in all formats!)

I’m so looking forward to that day, and to talking with you all about Jill, Mandy, Dylan, and Ravi in more detail…

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My latest Good Letters is a little different, perhaps a little strange, perhaps only making sense to those of you who share some faithy things with me. But, here it is.

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Thanks for being out there. Your comments and messages and emails and tweets make a big difference in my life, seriously. XO.

I’ve been writing the first draft of my next book. As I hurtle inexorably to the end, I’m waiting for that moment when the light bulbs come on and things start clicking into place and the key to cracking everything about this story shows itself and says HERE I AM!

Hasn’t happened.

I have faith that it will! So far, with each book, it always has. The only thing I don’t know is when.

While looking (and looking and looking) at the book last week, I thought about my days in community theater – especially community theater. After the auditioning and casting, the process often started with a read-through of the script around a table. Just voices in a room. Voices that may not have much expression yet. The point of it was to get the feel for the story as a whole and hear a few of the director’s ideas about how he or she wanted to execute it.

Then, the director would start blocking the play. That is, giving the actors a rough idea of where to stand in relation to each other and/or future set pieces, where to enter and exit, etc. At this point, the “set” was usually represented by masking tape on the stage floor, because the set builders were off in their own space figuring out how to build it. So, no furniture, no doorways, no real backstage.

For at least the first half of the rehearsal process, you had a bunch of tired actors (tired because we all had day jobs) standing around on one-dimensional tape that was meant to represent the detailed features of a room, a house, a countryside. Miming props. Saying their lines awkwardly because they still had to stare at their scripts to remember what was next.

It always felt impossible to imagine it ever being a theatrical experience. Around week four we’d start to wonder, Soooo should we invite our friends and families to this thing, or should we just save us all the embarrassment?

(I’m talking about straight plays, here. Don’t even get me started on musicals.)

Then, set pieces would start to emerge. You’d find one night that you could remember your lines without having to say, “Line?” to the beleaguered stage manager. Someone would come in and measure you for a costume. A lighting designer would carefully chart out how to help set the mood of each scene.

Still, it often wasn’t until the last week before opening when it truly started to feel like a play. Lines down. (Maybe even some good acting!) Costumes, makeup, lights, and, of course, an audience.

It’s very much the same with drafting a book. For me, anyway, for this book, anyway. The characters are stumbling around with their faces in the script (and sometimes I feel them looking up at me and scrunching up their noses to ask, “Seriously? I have to say that?”), there’s very little in the way of a set, and there’s some very awkward miming going on.

But time + showing up tend to work their magic. Eventually it will be lights, camera, action and audience time. Until then, I’m trusting the process.

After my last post, I was thinking about what the article said about conserving decision-making energiez as much as possible, and that one way to do that is to set certain routines in place. For example, if you decide that Wednesday and Saturday are gym days, you don’t get up on those days and have to decide whether or not to go to the gym. You just do it. HAHA! Okay but seriously I think this is a good line of thought.

I’ve been doing something like this with my writing schedule for the last several months, and have found it paying off. The process I use is partly stolen/modified from Alan Gratz, and partly from Mike Martin, and a lot from trial and error.

First of all, I know, every week, which days I’ll be writing. Not all seven! Generally, I take Tuesdays and Sundays off from writing (Tuesdays I do email, and usually blogging, and household errands and whatnot), and write the other five days.

Sometime on Sunday evening, after I’ve taken a good sabbathy day off, I sit down with my calendar. I happen to use a Moleskine 18-month planner, extra large, these days. On the left side of the page are the days of the week; the right side is rules, but otherwise blank.

On that right-hand side page I write three headings – Work, Home, Self. Under each of those headings I list what I want to do in the coming week. For work this could include stuff like about how many pages or words I’d like to get done on my WIP, phone calls I want to make or emails I need to send to my publisher or agent, other random obligations like blog interviews or inquiries I need to follow up on.

After I get that down, I start filling in the days. What I learned from Alan and Mike has to do with assigning blocks of time to various tasks and goals. I mean, obviously I understood what the little lines on a calendar are for, but I’m not talking about when I’m doing things. I’m talking about how much I’m doing them.

Now, this is not a rigid thing, and the length of blocks sometimes vary, but I decided that I like to start off by thinking in 90-minute blocks. 90 minutes is enough time to get a lot done, but not so much to be daunting. For any given day, I’ll figure out how many 90-minute blocks are going to work with my goals for the week and whatever else I’ve got going on. Some things don’t take 90 minutes, so I’ll break it down further.

Let’s say I decide that, at least as of Sunday night, it looks like I can do three 90-minute blocks on Wednesday. Also known as four and a half hours. That day might look like:

WIP (90)

Good Letters (60)

WIP (30 more)

Top secret project (45)

Read craft book (45)

Again, I don’t say what time I’m going to start each block. They are meant to be moving pieces, as long as they get done that day. And I don’t really use the blocks for the Home and Self categories. My goal is to get my work week scheduled out, and fit the other stuff around it. This allows me enough flexibility to move things around as opportunities for socializing come up, for example, or any other unexpected life happ’nins, or oversleeping or not feeling well or whatever.

So, when I go to bed Sunday night, I’ve already made most of the decisions that I used to make when I got up each morning. On a good day, that a.m. planning of a day worked all right. On a less good day (and if you struggle at all with depression or anxiety, you will understand this) that could be paralyzing. (There were a lot of less-good days.) But, I don’t like to have a minute-by-minute schedule, because if I have to deviate for whatever reason, that stresses me as much as a totally unplanned day.

The level of planning I use with the blocks feels like the perfect balance of structure without rigidity. I feel less overwhelmed, I get more work done, and I’m better able to enjoy my rest.

Oh – another piece of this is sharing the schedule with a trusted writing colleague. “Trusted” in this case should mean somebody who actually likes and cares about you enough, and knows you well enough, to be able to be supportive without either a) letting you off the hook all the time if you don’t do what you say you will, or, b) harassing you and making you feel like a loser if things don’t always go as you planned.

My colleague and I exchange backups on any day we’ve said we’ll write, so we can show we did it (also as a backup backup system). We don’t read each other’s files, unless asked, but it’s a powerful thing to know, “If Mike doesn’t get my backup, he’ll know I didn’t do my work.” Especially on a day when the writing is a grind, that might be my primary motivator.

Okay, that’s that. I’d love to hear your thoughts and methods!