Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach

Once upon a time...

In the beginning…

Call me Ishmael...

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation...

Beginnings are inevitable, but good beginnings—are essential. And challenging. We’re told we must hook the reader in the first few words and that effective introductions will make or break our story, our message.

We need the attention grabber, and we’re told to use something like a startling fact, a quippy quotation, a top-of-mind question, or suspenseful narrative. The first line, we’re told, is everything: draw the reader in within seconds or you’ve lost them forever. They’ve clicked or swiped away. They’ve moved on.

It’s a lot of pressure to get the beginning right, so we fret and stew about whether we’ve begun our piece in the best possible way, and we can end up frozen, paralyzed by the thought that we don’t have what it takes to hook the reader. The story stalls before it even gets started because we can barely begin.

Start Writing to Get the Piece in Motion

The simplest answer to this problem is: Just write.

Seriously, just get your idea in motion and if it means you write the most sluggish, boring, wordy beginning, keep going. If it takes six paragraphs to finally get the wheels turning and the story in motion, who cares? Write. Write, write, write. Because you know what?

You can write—or rewrite—the beginning…at the end.

Yes, at the end of the whole process of getting your draft down, you can swing back around to the beginning and edit.

But you can’t go back to the beginning and edit if there’s no draft. So write. Write it all out. Write bad stuff, bad beginnings, miserable middles, clunky conclusions and go back later to fine tune it.

You can cut down that introduction and spruce up that opening line. You can find the one gem that showed up in the second paragraph, third line down, and try that one. Or you might stumble across a quote in a book you finish this weekend and feel it might fit perfectly. Pop it in. Try it. If it doesn’t work, delete it and try starting with story.

Start in the Middle — Write the Beginning Later

Another way you can trick yourself into beginning is to start in the middle. With or without a simple outline, you can actually start writing further into the piece. With fiction, this gets you deeper into the action; with nonfiction, this might have you starting with your first main point. You can write the whole complex middle before you write the beginning—or the end—and add those later.

Nothing Is Wasted

Sometimes I’ve edited articles where the opening paragraph ends up working best toward the end of the introduction or as the conclusion. In other words, if you’re self-editing or you work with an editor and realize the beginning needs to change, your words may find a new home elsewhere.

But even if it ends up on the proverbial cutting room floor, even then it’s not wasted. Why? Because it got you in motion so you could finish your draft. That beginning served a purpose—an important one. It got your idea in motion. Without it, a great piece might never have emerged.

Betsy Lerner says in The Forest for the Trees, “A good editor knows when the three pages at the beginning of a chapter are throat clearing. Start here, she’ll mark in the margin. This is where your story begins.”

That so-called throat clearing may be in the form of a lengthy description, spending a lot of time introducing a character, or writing your way into your subject, theme, or thesis—even giving away your conclusion from the first line. An editor, sometimes even a writing buddy, can spot these things that were hard for us to see ourselves. I think we can learn to edit ourselves, but it’s helpful to invite an objective eye to catch...

Since I was in my teens, I’ve browsed the library shelves that hold the books about writing. It’s an ongoing, casual approach to professional development, as I head out with one or more books to at least skim if not pore over. I figure even if some of the material is similar to other books […]

Last week, I encouraged listeners to try out Raymond Chandler’s writing approach to avoid resisting the work of writing and, perhaps, to write inspired:

Two very simple rules, a. you don't have to write. b. you can't do anything else. (154 Selected Letters of Raymond Chandler)

How did it go?

Chandler freed us to look out the window or stand on our heads or writhe on the floor. But during the time we set aside for writing we were not to do any other positive thing—not read, write letters, check Facebook, or heart a photo on Instagram.

We were to write or do nothing.

I contrasted this with the grit-it-out-and-churn-it-out approach that many people advise. You might have heard the quote that’s been attributed to several people: “I only write when inspiration strikes. Fortunately it strikes at nine every morning.”

I shared that Barbara Kingsolver said she had no time to lure the muse into her creative process and wait for it, like many writers she admired.

As she explained in High Tide in Tucson, when she was a young mom, her writing time began the minute her daughter climbed on the school bus. At that point, she said her muse flipped a baseball cap around on his head backwards and said, “Okay, author lady, you’ve got six hours till that bus rolls back up the drive. You can sit down and write, now, or you can think about looking for a day job” (96).

I don't know which approach is more realistic or will produce better writing, so I proposed we give them both a test run.

There’s the write-or-do-nothing approach of Raymond Chandler. If I got bored, an idea would eventually pop into my head and I’d be back to tapping away at the keyboard.

Then there’s Kingsolver’s approach, where we sit down and write, now, whatever we can as best we can, to get it out and meet deadline.

If you tried Raymond Chandler’s approach, I’d love to hear how it worked for you. Or if it worked at all. Did you sit for hours and do nothing? Or did the doing nothing part end up energizing your creativity?

This week, when you set aside your four hours, or two hours, or half an hour to write, you’ll still have to avoid the temptation to click over and check email or pop up to fold laundry. The basic advice is the same from both Raymond Chandler and Barbara Kingsolver. You have to sit there. But where Chandler says you don’t have to write, Kingsolver’s muse urges her, “Get to work. Pound out some words."

Chandler said write, or do nothing.

I think Kingsolver was saying write. Period.

Kingsolver’s approach is that you’ve got six hours, or four, or 20 minutes, or whatever, until your writing time is over. "You can sit down and write, now, or you can think about looking for a day job.”

This week, as part of our experiment, try the Kingsolver approach.

Sit down and write, now, whatever you can, as best you can. Get it out, get it down, and meet deadline. No stopping, no staring, no waiting, no writhing.

Just write.

Click on the podcast player above or use subscription options below to listen to the full episode.

Resources:

Episode #67: Either Write or Nothing

Selected Letters of Raymond Chandler, edited by Frank MacShane. New York: Columbus University Press, 1981

High Tide in Tucson, by Barbara Kingsolver

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Is your writing life all it can be?

I saw a quote going around Facebook among writing friends that shows a line drawing of a woman leaning over a typewriter. Above her, it says, "Nothing makes me want to clean, cook, fold laundry, daydream, or nap like having a writing deadline."

Sometimes that kind of non-writing activity frees my mind to come up with a great idea; but much of the time, I’m doing those things to avoid the work of writing; it's resistance.

Instead of cleaning, cooking, folding laundry, daydreaming, or napping, try following Raymond Chandler's writing approach. The short of it is this. When you sit down to write, follow two simple rules: "a. you don't have to write. b. you can't do anything else" (154, Selected Letters of Raymond Chandler).

In more detail, Chandler explains in a 1949 letter to Alex Barris:

I write when I can and I don't write when I can't...I'm always seeing little pieces by writers about how they don't ever wait for inspiration; they just sit down at their little desks every morning at eight, rain or shine.... However blank their minds or dull their wits, no nonsense about inspiration from them. I offer them my admiration and take care to avoid their books. Me, I wait for inspiration, although I don't necessarily call it by that name...The important thing is that there should be a space of time, say four hours a day at least, when a professional writer doesn't do anything else but write. He doesn't have to write, and if he doesn't feel like it, he shouldn't try. He can look out of the window or stand on his head or writhe on the floor. But he is not to do any other positive thing, not read, write letters, glance at magazines, or write checks. Either write or nothing.... I find it works. Two very simple rules, a. you don't have to write. b. you can't do anything else. The rest comes of itself. (153, 154, ibid)

This flies in the face of the well-known quote attributed to several people, including William Faulkner:

I only write when inspiration strikes. Fortunately it strikes at nine every morning.

Or what Barbara Kingsolver describes in High Tide in Tucson. She said she longs for more time of her own, and silence. She writes:

My jaw drops when I hear of the rituals some authors use to put themselves in the so-called mood to write: William Gass confesses to spending a couple of hours every morning photographing dilapidated corners of his city. Diane Ackerman begins each summer day “by choosing and arranging flowers for a Zenlike hour or so.” She listens to music obsessively, then speed-walks for an hour, every single day. (95-96, High Tide in Tucson)

Kingsolver contrasts that with her reality:

My muse wears a baseball cap, backward. The minute my daughter is on the school bus, he saunters up behind me with a bat slung over his shoulder and says oh so directly, “Okay, author lady, you’ve got six hours till that bus rolls back up the drive. You can sit down and write, now, or you can think about looking for a day job.” (p. 96, ibid)

Okay, so which is more realistic? Which will produce better writing?

Better to stare out the window and wait? Or sit down and write, now, whatever you can as best you can?

I say we conduct an experiment. We’ll try both.

First, in the week ahead, to avoid resisting the work of writing and to write inspired, I propose we try Raymond Chandler’s approach and report back.

When you set aside your four hours, or two hours, or half an hour to write, don’t sit for five minutes and then click over to check email or pop up to fold laundry. Sit there, like Chandler said. The idea is to sit and write, but you don't have to write, and if you don't feel like it, you shouldn't try.

Remember, you can look out of the window, stand on your head, or writhe on the floor. But resist any other positive thing. Don't read, write letters,

Today I’m leaning on Olympic marathoner Meb Keflezighi's goal-setting strategies to help us set good writing goals. They’re pretty close to SMART goals, but I like these examples from Meb’s running experience.

It starts with this:

A good goal has personal meaning.

Meb points out that no one gave him a goal or forced a goal onto him. No one said, “You have to win the 2014 Boston Marathon” or “You have to make the 2012 Olympic team.” He says, "Those were goals I set for myself. When I told myself, 'I want to win Boston,' it just felt right. I knew that chasing that goal would motivate me to do what was necessary to achieve it and that doing so would require me to do my best."

He says, "Your goals should have that same pull on you. They should be things you want to achieve for yourself, not to meet someone else’s expectations."

Same with your writing. If you find yourself with a goal, make sure it’s yours. Make sure it has personal meaning. Make sure it’s something you want to pursue for yourself, not because it’s the trend in publishing, or it’s the next logical thing after earning your MFA, or it’s what your friends, parents, spouse or coworkers expect of you.

Your goal has to be yours and it has to feel right. And it should have a pull on you to do what’s necessary to achieve it.

A good goal is specific.

Rather than say, “I want to run well at Boston,” Meb stated specific goals: win the 2014 Boston Marathon and make the 2012 Olympic team. The great thing about being specific is he knew how to devise a plan to get him there. As a runner, he had exact times to aim for. A more ordinary runner might set a time goal for a personal best or determine a number of times or number of miles to run per week.

Writers can follow this same approach. We could set a goal of landing our first byline in a local magazine or submitting a short story to a literary journal by January 2017. A writer might want to start a blog and publish an article once a week starting on a specific date. The plan leading up to that might be to identify two or three local magazines that might be a good fit, find their submission guidelines, and outline an article to propose in a query by a certain date.

Or to write a certain number of words in the short story and set a deadline to finish the draft in order to submit within a literary journal’s reading period. That new blogger might plan to write seven posts prior to launching in order to have a little cushion as he adjusts to the new schedule.

So to follow Meb’s approach, the first two steps are that the goal has to feel right to you, and works best when it's specific because you can figure out exact steps to lead you to the target you’re aiming for.

A good goal is challenging but realistic.

Meb says, "Your goals should require you to reach outside your comfort zone while remaining within the realm of possibility.” In other words, it should stretch you without breaking you or causing you to give up. He warns against aiming too low or too high.

In his running world, he says an example is if you've run a two-hour half marathon then make your next goal to run another two-hour half marathon, it might not be particularly inspiring as a goal. On the other extreme, to imagine you could lower your time by an hour would be unattainable in a reasonable time frame.

If a writer is just starting out and has written only three blog posts, it’s probably unrealistic to set a goal of pitching to The New Yorker or National Geographic in a reasonable time frame. But that three-post writer might set the goal of increasing the frequency of how often he posts over the next two months from once a week to twice, or he might set a goal of increasing social media presence to two platforms and trying to guest post at a website open to new voices.

In episode 64 I shared reasons to go ahead and open up about your project. After listening to some of the benefits, you might have wondered why we wouldn’t always talk about our projects with people. Why not take advantage of that great input and the energy and fun of collaboration and developmental input? Why […]

Some writers talk freely about their projects, while others won’t say a peep, offering no clue what they’re working on.

How about you? How much do you reveal? Why do you choose to talk about your writing projects or why do you choose to stay silent?

Obviously we’re going to want to talk a lot about our projects just before and right after they’re published, to let people know they’re available. Today, though, I thought it might be interesting to offer some reasons writers might want to talk about their projects during the early and developmental stages.

Reasons to Talk About Writing Projects

1. You're excited about it!

Usually I want to talk about my project with people because I’m so doggone excited about it!

I’m so happy to have this great book, article, or essay idea, I want to tell my good friends all about it, to celebrate the creative joy and have them join me in the delight of having something new in the works. They’ll even ask me if I’m working on something, so they’re supportive and interested, even curious to know more. Sharing an idea out of delight is reason number one.

2. Talking about it helps develop the project

Sometimes simply talking about a project—without the other person saying a single thing—helps me clarify content and develop the idea. This means I’m at least partly a verbal processor. Maybe you are, too?

I heard one time that people are either verbal and nonverbal in the way they process information and ideas. Rather than being simply one or the other, verbal or nonverbal, I usually imagine a continuum for these kinds of things, where some people might be on one end of the spectrum, some people on the other, and others in-between. I think I’m kind of in-between.

Part of me is comfortable thinking through ideas silently, but I do think part of me is a verbal processor and talking out my ideas for a project helps me adjust and readjust different sections on the fly, while I’m talking.

When I’ve talked through initial ideas for a project with my spouse, for example, he can actually sit there and say nothing, just listen and nod, and I’ll rephrase things or think of two more ideas to add.

I’ll thank him for his time and walk back to my computer without requiring a word of input from him. He’s welcome to offer ideas, but when I’m in that mode, processing my ideas out loud, verbally, I really don’t need a lot from others. I just talk it through, and talking it through helps me develop the project.

3. Talking about it gives input to beef up weak spots

As I said, sometimes I just need to talk through my ideas without needing any input from others, but sometimes I do need that constructive input and critique. I need some ideas, some insight.

Sometimes I’m hitting a rough patch where I can’t answer a question or solve a problem...maybe I don’t even know the right question to ask. When that happens, I’ve been known to find a trusted friend and share about my project. I might focus on a particularly troubled section in order to get a response from them.

I’ll read what I’ve got and this person might ask me a question I hadn’t thought of before. “What about X?”

And I’ll be like, “I don’t know. I didn’t think about X. That’s fabulous! Thank you!” Then off I go to research X, and the project gains momentum again. Sometimes input from others will help strengthen my writing by beefing up weak spots I can’t solve by myself.

4. You might receive a fabulous gift.

Several years ago I was talking through aspects of one of my books with a friend, and at some point she either told me on the phone or emailed me a subtitle idea for the book. It was perfect. The publisher used it.

That’s a gift.

My coauthor, colleague, and friend Charity Singleton Craig was the first person to share with me the three things Neil Gaiman says freelancers need to keep working:

They need to be good writers

They need to be easy to get along with

They need to deliver their work on time

Gaiman mentioned these in his keynote address at The University of the Arts 2012 commencement. Ideally, in my opinion you’ll have all three traits or at least be working on them. But Gaiman claims you don’t even need all three. He says:

Two out of three is fine. People will tolerate how unpleasant you are if your work is good and you deliver it on time. They'll forgive the lateness of the work if it's good, and if they like you. And you don't have to be as good as the others if you're on time and it's always a pleasure to hear from you.

I like his relaxed approach, but I think if you settle for two out of three, it's best to be a really good writer and then have one of the other two. I’m not sure simply being easy to get along with and delivering your work on time will keep you in business.

To maximize your freelance writing opportunities, I urge you to aim for all three as much as possible.

Be a good writer

Be easy to get along with

Deliver your work on time

Starting with that first trait, consider taking it to the next level: be a good writer who’s getting better all the time. Look for ways to invest in professional development. For example, you could take a course or workshop, listen to lectures and podcasts, work through books with writing exercises, or seek out a writing partner, coach, or mentor.

In fact, if you can get writing feedback from somebody with experience who can provide thoughtful notes on form, technique, organization, character development, plot, and themes, you’ll be able to identify where to improve and where your greatest strengths lie, and create a plan to grow stronger as a writer.

As for being easy to get along with...with editors and peers, be pleasant in every interaction, never burn bridges, and try not to fight every single change. Stay open when an editor requests a revision. This can be hard when you feel the editor is adapting so much of the piece you’re losing your voice and stylistic choices, but the editor knows his or her readers well. So review through the piece several times with the suggested changes and see if they make it tighter and clearer or if the changes seem to transform the article into a length or style that fits the publisher’s target reader.

Practice humility, maybe giving up some of your individuality at times. And if, after reviewing, you feel strongly that the changes need to be reconsidered, approach the editor with respect, gently making your argument for how you think your version strengthens the piece.

As for meeting deadlines, do everything you can to manage your time and ship the manuscript on or before the promised due date. That editor is counting on you to deliver your article in order to meet her own deadlines with her managing editor or publisher.

When an editor entrusts you to write an article, she’s responsible for some segment of the magazine or website. Make her look good. Surprise her with quality work in her inbox on or before the deadline. And then? Don’t be surprised if she asks you to write for her again.

Keep growing as a writer so you consistently produce good work.

Be positive, upbeat, and supportive to work with.

And meet deadlines.

You might get by with two out of three, but when you nail all three, you’ll be irresistible.

Click on the podcast player above or use subscription options below to listen to the full episode.

Resources:

Get to know Charity Singleton Craig

You’ve been thinking about a project, trying out beginnings, thinking through images. In your mind, this book, short story, essay, or poem is evolving into something brilliant—something shimmering like stained glass, light streaming through the colors, gleaming, perfect, like the rose window in Notre Dame. Ann Patchett talks about this phenomenon, how that stunning masterpiece […]

Years ago I read Dale Carnegie’s How to Win Friends and Influence People and found one of the most useful principles from the book was this:

Become genuinely interested in other people.

Carnegie would meet people at a gathering or party and get them talking about their hobbies and areas of expertise. By being genuinely interested in them—by being curious—he met interesting people, learned a lot, and gathered a wealth of material for his books and lectures.

He inserted a story in that chapter that every writer should probably hear.

Carnegie said:

I once took a course in short-story writing at New York University, and during that course the editor of a leading magazine talked to our class. He said he could pick up any one of the dozens of stories that drifted across his desk every day and after a few paragraphs he could feel whether or not the author liked people. "If the author doesn’t like people," he said, "people won’t like his or her stories."

This hard-boiled editor stopped twice in the course of his talk on fiction writing and apologized for preaching a sermon. "I am telling you," he said, "the same things your preacher would tell you, but remember, you have to be interested in people if you want to be a successful writer of stories." (68)

You have to be interested in people if you want to be a successful writer of stories.

Maybe you’d like to be interested in people but you’re shy. Maybe you’re an introvert. Maybe you hate to be in the spotlight. That describes a lot of writers.

If that’s you, you may find it hard to be curious about people and ask them questions. But it’s a skill you can practice by learning to ask questions and listening. Once you do, you’ll not only begin to gather material and inspiration—you’ll enjoy a side benefit of getting the focus off yourself.

Once you ask a couple of open-ended questions that get the other person talking, you won’t have to say much more about yourself, which is handy for the shy or introverted person. People will love to tell you about their woodworking hobby, or their recent vacation to Spain, or their daughter’s prize-winning pie at the state fair.

Being curious about people is also an excellent way to understand people who come from a completely different walk of life or have views that are opposite of yours. Respectfully ask curious questions, listening without the intent to argue or jump in with your own stories, and you may learn how someone ended up with a certain religious belief or political stance and gain deeper understanding about something you’d only barely been exposed to.

Novelists can write more complex characters when they understand more about where real people have come from or why they’ve developed an interest in an uncommon topic or activity.

As you meet people and show interest, you don’t want to use them, but you can sort of think of conversations as research. Someone could spark an idea for an essay when she mentions a restaurant that shut down where her mom and dad met in the 1960s. A person at the laundromat might tell a story about his great uncle who served in World War II, and that sparks the idea for a character in your next short story.

Carnegie talks about showing genuine interest in people as a practice for getting to know them through the stories they share when you ask about them. He claims you’ll develop real friendships, get people to like you, and tell better stories because you like people and take a genuine interest in them.

You’ll tell better stories.

You’ll tell better stories because you’ll have lots of them, collecting stories from every person you meet.

And you’ll tell better stories because you’ll likely develop excellent storytelling skills from people simply by listening to stories told.