Category Archives: confessions

The Isolating Writer

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When I have a ton of work to do—like, for example, right now with freelance copyediting deadlines, teaching responsibilities for my writing class (which I think is going really well! I love my students), and novel revisions and a nice, solid book deadline I have noted in beautiful panic red in my calendar, among other things, because there are always other things—I do tend to regress and do this thing that helps me focus and get calm and breathe: I isolate.

Here I am writing in bed in my writing sweater, which I love wearing during isolation. Photo by Laura Amador, taken at the Djerassi Resident Artists Program.

It’s comforting to be in a cocoon of my own making, where my mind can find some quiet, and where my panic can slither away and leave me alone so I can get shit done. It’s comforting to avoid all social interactions and let my roots grow out because who cares what I look like. It’s comforting to sit on the floor of my dark apartment eating a tub of blueberries and thinking about the climax of my novel until the “aha!” moment comes. But this kind of behavior doesn’t help me keep friends. Truly, I don’t know if anyone understands when I do this. Sometimes it’s all I can do, you know?

The good thing about isolating in the face of deadlines is I feel like my mind gets sharper, which is a necessary thing for solving plot issues in a novel, and also for getting through freelance jobs. I’m just a usual introvert who needs some Alone Time, as we call it in my house, to recharge. And sometimes this Alone Time spreads out over weeks.

I hope no one takes it personally.

How do I explain this to people so they understand? Fellow introverts, let me know what helps you and how you keep your friends and families intact during and after times you need that comforting, and necessary, bout of isolation to keep your head on straight.

p.s. Change of subject. Do you want to win a signed paperback of Imaginary Girls? The paperback comes out next month and you’ll have chances to win a signed one here on this blog, but in the meantime here’s the first giveaway as a part of Laura Pauling’s Spies, Murder and Mystery Marathon (oh, how I wanted to add a serial comma!). I wrote about mysterious girls from books who catch my imagination… Comment and tell me the “mysterious girl” characters you love, and you could win a beautiful paperback of my book.

Enter the giveaway right here.

The new cover look is gorgeous. This picture doesn’t even show how glossy and delicious this paperback is in person. Wanna see?

(Pre-order links can be found on my website!)

Now back to isolating…

When You Wish You Were Another Writer

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Why can’t I write ________?

  • faster?
  • sexier?
  • shorter?
  • BIGGER?
  • better?

Why can’t I write books like the ones _______ writes?

  • Libba Bray?
  • Gayle Forman?
  • John Green?
  • Sara Zarr?
  • Holly Black?
  • Karen Russell?

Those are just a few of my fill-in-the-blanks, and I’m sure you can slip in your own words or author names to finish those sentences.

This is just a little writer public-service announcement that we are all only ourselves—and our best writing comes out when we recognize this and embrace it. My stories are my stories, and my way of writing them is simply… how I write. Yes, I spend a lot of time admonishing myself to seek out bigger plot points and shove out larger word counts, but I’d much rather look at a manuscript I’ve finished and know it’s wholly mine. That I didn’t hide who I was. That I didn’t try to be anyone other than this flawed, over-wordy, flighty, weird, cryptic writer whose body I happen to be in. Thankfully, 17 & Gone is this manuscript—and that’s not for lack of insulting myself and telling myself to do something else.

But also there’s this: We can be inspired by these other writers and methods of writing. We can admire their world-building and their important, beautiful, memorable, thrilling stories. They can help us stretch and grow to be stronger writers.

Thus ends my lecture to myself as I revise the novel I happened to write… which is mine as much as anything could be, for good and bad and worse and better, till death do us part.

Finding Your Writing Confidantes

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For the longest time after grad school, maybe in reaction to being workshopped so much I could hear twelve different responses to every line I put down on the page, I crawled into myself and stopped showing my writing to very many people. Friends would have to beg to read it, and even then, once I’d been persuaded to show them my mostly unpublished stories or certainly, definitely unpublished novels, I couldn’t be in a room and talk to my friends about what they read. It embarrassed me to have it floating there, off the page, where people could praise it or punch holes in it or whatever they chose to do. I didn’t want to face even compliments, and any talk of my writing made me painfully uncomfortable and fidgety, desperately seeking changes of subjects or any reason to run away. (Is that the phone ringing? Whoa, do you smell fire? Gotta go!)

The whole point of writing is to be published and have people read you, is it not? I did want to get published—I just felt so uncomfortable talking to people who read my stuff. (Yes, for years I called my writing “my stuff.” I still do sometimes.)

So much of it is about trust, you see. Not everyone is a good reader of fiction-in-progress. Some people can say an offhand thing that can crush you for months. Some people like everything and so you can never really know when something’s not working because everything works for them. Some people would never read your work in the real world—it’s just not to their taste, or interest—so why bother forcing them to be your audience today? Some people read your “stuff” and then months later show you their stuff and it’s so similar to your stuff in weird ways and you’re not sure what to say or how to say it or who influenced who. I could go on. It’s difficult to find a good reader for your work, someone who has the time to read when you need them to, and gives you the kind of feedback you need to move forward and not get you stalled in mud and self-loathing and despair. It’s a lot to ask of a person, too. I mean novels sure are long.

I’m thinking of this today because I have very few readers. Very, very few.

One of them is the person I share a bed with: E. Of all the novels I’ve written over the years, and the multiple drafts these novels have gone through, I think it’s safe to say he’s read my books dozens of times. Talk about patience. And generosity.

I’m revising 17 & Gone and coming up against a big question—like an enormous riddle my genius of an editor has set out for me, and I want to come back to her with a solution. I want her to like said solution. So inside me is this roar of questions and a battery of hammers telling me I’ll never get it right, and I keep coming up with this idea or that idea or this other one, but I realized, I can bounce these ideas off of E. We can talk it through. And I wanted to fall to my knees in gratitude for not being so alone in this.

A writing confidante will help you feel less alone.

The thing is, yes, I have an editor and yes I have an agent, but it’s not smart to show every little version of something to either. I want their fresh eyes on my strongest work. When I turn in this revision, I want them both to say I hit the mark… or I’m very close to the mark if I just move over a few feet to the left. I don’t want them to have seen five different choose-your-own adventures and a muddle of who-knows-what so they can’t even keep things straight anymore and they just want me to be done with it already so it can get off their desks. An editor or even an agent shouldn’t be treated like a critique partner… no matter how much you trust them.

I also think it’s important to find writing confidantes whose taste you trust. I showed the previous draft of 17 & Gone to two writers. I trust them—as people—and I also trust their taste. I like the books they like. And maybe more importantly I think they are amazing talents themselves. I believe in their vision. (Not to mention that they reached out to me to say they wanted to read my book; I’d never show someone if they didn’t ask me first.)

But even showing them was immensely difficult at first. In the past, feedback from others on a manuscript could cause me to give up on a book forever. Or just lead me off in a wrong direction until I’m left with a broken, crumpled mess of stilted words. In this way, it’s more me than you. Because timing is everything. I am now very careful to not show my writing too soon. I have to hold it close for as long as I need it to be cradled and only when I can read it back without cringing can I hit Send.

Thus ends today’s sensitive-creature confession.

Who are your writing confidantes? We all need at least one.

Confessions of the Overwhelmed

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I’ve been apologizing left and right for not being able to keep up with plans for this blog, and I think it’s time for a more public apology here.

While I did plan to start up the Turning Points series again once I came home—full of guest blogs from amazing writers, many I solicited and many who reached out to me… I have to admit that this has proved harder than expected. Doing a blog series, especially with giveaways, is a lot of work, a lot more than I realized, and I think this all came to a head when I was putting up the debut interview series a couple weeks ago after I came home from Djerassi. I’ve also been doing freelance projects to bring in income while I’m between book advances, and I’ve started teaching that writing class with Mediabistro (which is such a joy! and it’s a priority now, so, yes, it takes up a lot of my time), and let’s not forget the books I have to write and their deadlines. So what you haven’t been seeing is me chasing everything and trying to catch up. While I focus on teaching and writing—and while I refuse to ever miss a freelance deadline because I need to be reliable—one thing has fallen by the wayside, and I’m afraid that’s this here blog. (And emails. Oh, emails.) I’m sure this all doesn’t sound like much to others, but I’m having a hard time keeping up, and that’s the honest truth.

I have some beautiful Turning Points posts that were sent to me before I left for Djerassi, and I will be putting them up to share with you. I just needed a break to get my head on straight. I’m making some plans and hoping to start posting those next week. And if you’re one of those authors, I will be emailing you.

And thank you to everyone for your interest in the series! I can’t take any more posts, I’m afraid, but thank you!

Finally, there were some author interviews I’ve planned, and they may be late, but I still hope to be able to do them.

And after all that, this blog may have to return to what it was once before, when fewer people were reading: Just me and the thoughts in my head.

Thanks for listening!

When a Novelist Wishes She Could Write Short Stories

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File this under: Current Distractions.

"Yield to Whim" by Frank Foreman, 1983, on the road leading to the Djerassi Resident Artists Program

I know I’m working on a new novel proposal right now, quite possibly two, and I know I just revised a novel and will be revising said novel again soon enough—did you see that 17 & Gone has a season? It does! Spring 2013! Plus, I’ve been gobbling up a strange array of novels since I landed at the artist colony, but I can’t seem to quit my attachment to short stories.

I adore short stories.

In fact, I wrote a story just a couple of weeks ago, and it was a wild, familiar experience I’d forgotten, and all I can think is how I want to write more. What is it about a short story that calls to me so much? I really don’t think it’s all about the length… though how nice to write something under 300 pages, right? (I won’t tell you the current page count of 17 & Gone.) I think it’s more about the experience of reading short stories: intense, exquisite bursts of attention. And then it’s over. I like that feeling. I also like how, in a story, every moment is there for a reason, every single word is significant. For someone who loves a good sentence as much as I do, it’s the perfect form.

And yet, for someone who can’t seem to shut up, the way I do, a novel really is more suited to my writing… but I can cheat a little, can’t I? Not to mention that, often, a short story for me can be the jumping-off point for a new novel. Imaginary Girls was first conceived as a short story, after all.

I want to write some more stories this year, and I want to start sending out to journals again like I haven’t in years. Maybe I’ll somehow get myself to a summer workshop so I can work on this.

…After I finish those novel drafts, of course.

Do you love short stories, too? Tell me why!

A Brief Moment of Confidence

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Confidence! Doubt. Confidence! Doubt. Confidence! Doubt. Confidence! Doubt. Confidence! Doubt. Confidence! Doubt. Confidence! Doubt. Confidence! Doubt.

I keep wavering between these two emotions.

Source: flickr.com via Nova on Pinterest • Photo by Brooke DiDonato

Actually, I want to tell you about the day I turned in my big revision for 17 & GONE. I’d been working feverishly for weeks. No exaggeration. It had gotten beyond normal writing and revising sessions and I’d had to hole myself up and ignore many more practical things and avoid my friends and sometimes close myself up in the dark writing corner of the apartment in silence with the lights off and type and type and type and type. The blog series was something I’d committed to, and I had to stop to prep the posts and automate the tweets, but if it wasn’t for saying I would do that, I would have disappeared entirely. I wrote with every part of me. I dug so deep and tried so hard. And I finished this round of revision knowing—because I am practical and I’ve done this before—that there will be more to this. My work on this novel isn’t over. And yet, I finished such a monumental revision in terms of new pages written and I felt…

SO FREAKING GOOD YOU HAVE NO IDEA.

Source: flickr.com via Nova on Pinterest • Photo by Sarah Ann Loreth

I felt delicious. I felt stunning. I felt like a glowing, sparkling beautiful version of myself who’d written something worthy of being a book.

This awesome feeling lasted… I guess about three hours.

Those three hours were probably the best day I had so far this year. If I could have captured my confidence in a box like a butterfly imprisoned between two panes of glass, I would have. (Even though, cruelly, a butterfly in glass is dead, and my captured confidence would have been dead, too.) My revision was now out of my hands and I was proud of it. I loved the book. I knew the book is weird and not for everyone and not a big commercial book that would launch my career or anything. But it was mine. It was all mine. I’d written solely and completely what I’d wanted to write, and the pleasure in knowing this was exhilarating.

Confidence! I sure had it… for those three hours.

Source: flickr.com via Nova on Pinterest • Photo by Brooke Shaden

Then I came down, as all highs do. And I crashed. And the doubts set in. And I imagined all the things wrong with it and wrong with me—and what future reviewers and readers and bloggers and list-makers would say. And I thought of how weird they’ll all think I am. And I thought of the future. And I thought of sales. And I thought of chirping crickets. And I went to the dark place many of us authors know (I know they know because they email me; I know they know because I can’t be alone in this, can I?) and I thought bad things and all the sparkles dissipated and all that was left from my three wonderful hours of being proud of what I’d done was…

Well, me. And a ton of pages I’ll surely have to revise again.

And so. Thus concludes this week’s emotional rollercoaster of being a writer. Fun.

Still, those three confident hours were wonderful while they lasted. Even if they were an illusion, it felt nice and fluffy living in it for a small while.

Source: flickr.com via Nova on Pinterest • Photo by Sarah Ann Loreth

This Writing Thing Is SO HARD

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The title of this post? I said those exact words yesterday. I’m a few days from finishing this round of revision and turning it in. I’m a mess. I’m trying so hard. I have no perspective anymore. I’m forcing myself to work at a pace that’s unnatural to me—in my natural state, it would take me five years to write a good novel because I enjoy spending all day on a single paragraph and I like to procrastinate and make excuses and wait for the so-called muse to hit—and working at this speedy pace involves fighting myself and pushing myself and by the end of the day I am flat-out exhausted and aching and can only collapse in bed thinking of what I still have to revise tomorrow.

And yet.

Because last night, out loud, I whined that writing is so hard. And then I heard myself. I heard myself. Hard? This writing thing is SO HARD? Really? It’s “hard” to spend all day writing a story I made up in my head full of things that fascinate and inspire and tickle and terrify me? It’s “hard” to be able to write instead of having to be at my old day job? It’s “hard” to push myself to finish the draft of a book I love so I can show it to one of the most talented editors in my field, so she can then read it and help me make it better? Really, now… That’s “hard”?

That’s a phenomenal moment to be in, is what that is.

So, yeah, I felt like a dope.

And yes, writing can be “hard”—but in the most rewarding way possible, which means it’s really not so hard after all now, is it? Back to revising.

Dear Sugar Revealed and How I Guessed Who She Was

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"Sugar"—as we knew her until last night

As so many of you know by now (maybe in part because I’ve been feverishly tweeting about it), the writer of the brilliant, beautiful, wise, and often gut-wrenching anonymous column “Dear Sugar” on the Rumpus was revealed at her coming-out party in San Francisco last night. I wish I’d been there to cheer her on. I’ve been a fan of this incarnation of Sugar since her early columns—I still remember the day I first read “The Baby Bird,” such an astounding piece, and how I crumpled into sobs over it. Though calling myself “a fan” of Sugar’s sounds almost too casual. Parts of me have been utterly transformed by reading her—it goes beyond being her fan. I’ve cried more times than I can count, and yes I’ve worn the “Write Like a Motherf*cker” T-shirt (I wore it during my residency at MacDowell last year… hoping its magic would work; it sure did). And for most of that time, I did know who Sugar really was… I’d guessed the secret like many of us have. And it never changed my relationship to the columns or my love for her writing. In fact, I think that knowing who she was made me love her all the more.

So I’m excited that everyone can now know that Sugar is…

Cheryl Strayed! Author of the incredible novel Torch and the upcoming memoir Wild—which we should all go out right now and pre-order to support and celebrate her. It comes out March 20! PRE-ORDER WILD RIGHT HERE RIGHT NOW!

Cheryl Strayed

Photo of Cheryl Strayed by Joni Kabana

How did I guess who Sugar was so long ago? It was her voice. Cheryl Strayed has such a distinct, unflinching, unforgettable voice—and story—and her essays and fiction have stayed with me for years. So it was that after following the “Dear Sugar” column for some months I realized that something was tugging at me… something felt familiar… It reminded me of one of the most amazing things I’ve ever read in my life (was it through a Best American anthology or The Sun magazine, which my mom has a subscription to? I can’t recall). It was this essay, “The Love of My Life,” originally published in 2002. And it also reminded me of a short story I read in Nerve years ago, called “Good.”

I’ve never forgotten those two pieces—THAT’S how incredible of a writer Cheryl Strayed is. To write something so distinct and so memorable that someone who’s read it a long time ago would recognize you years later. (Not to mention her novel Torch, which I loved.) Imagine being a writer like that—a writer so yourself that strangers would know who you are based on your words. That’s what I aspire to become.

So, yes, I had my guess about the true identity of Sugar a long time ago. I then admit I paid very careful attention to the online personas of both Sugar and Cheryl Strayed (both of whom I followed online) to see if they were posting around the same times of day, and if they were ever offline at the same time. When they both went dark / on vacation for the same week, I knew I was right. And I was thrilled. THRILLED. It made me love Sugar and Cheryl all the more.

One of my friends, Christine Lee Zilka, was equally enamored with the Sugar columns (should I admit we were obsessed?) and I confided in her that I thought I’d guessed who it was. I told her my guess. Then she went off and did her own sleuthing and devouring of everything Cheryl Strayed had ever published and agreed. It had to be her. Then my friend and I made a vow that we would not tell anyone else our guess. Not anyone. Even if they begged us. (And I have been begged! Multiple times! I never broke.) I know a lot of us have guessed—probably because they read the same essay and short story I had—and we’ve all kept it quiet for so long.

Today I’m simply excited that all “Dear Sugar” fans can support Cheryl Strayed as she so deserves. She has been so generous with us, so willing to expose her soul to all of us, and help those who needed help, and she never asked anything in return.

I’ve written letters to Sugar, but I never sent them in to her. I was too afraid of what she’d tell me. I knew it could hurt. I knew it would change my life. And I wasn’t ready. All I know is I’ll keep reading anything and everything the woman publishes, under every name.

Here’s a wonderful interview with Cheryl Strayed in The New Yorker online about being Sugar. What she says in answer to the last question is very true. I’m one of those “avid fans”—and I will continue to be. I can’t wait for her new book! And while I’m in California in April, I’m trying to go to one of her readings so I can meet her in person!

I know you need her book now. Let’s all pre-order Wild!

Wild

p.s. If you read about my summer writing fantasies, you’ll remember it was one of my fantasies to take a workshop with her. I can’t afford to this summer, but if you can, are you crazy?? If it’s not sold-out by now, sign up!

An Unwitting Time Machine

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Hi. So um. So… about an hour ago while trying to figure out why comments on old posts weren’t showing up (it was something I had unknowingly checked in the settings; I fixed it) I accidently updated an old post marked “private” from 2006… and it was not only no longer private, it was republished as if it were new. I deleted the automated tweet, but I couldn’t delete the post that was sent out via my feed. So if you subscribe to this blog via email or on a feed reader, you may have seen a post go through called “Glug-Glug (That’s the Sound of Me Drowning)” and perhaps you were confused. I would be.

Please know:

  1. I am not ghostwriting again. (The YA novel I mention in that old post was a work-for-hire project.)
  2. I am not that massively stressed out that I feel like I’m drowning.
  3. I am not publishing a new short story, even though I wish I were.
  4. And, oh, we no longer have that loft bed.

That was an old post from 2006. (Fine, I’ll link it here so you know what I’m talking about. It mentions Big Bird.)

But a weird thing occurred while I was rereading this post from my archives. I remembered how things used to be. For a moment, I’d time-traveled back to 2006, waking up psycho-early for my day job because I had to slip my writing time into a couple hours before my stressful copyediting job began, since afterward I came home to my brain bleeding and could only collapse in front of the TV. This was during the time I’d pushed my own writing aside, what I thought of as my “real” writing, and was doing work-for-hire novels for money, a time I was not very happy, when I thought I’d never make it here, where I am today.

I think things are hard sometimes? Ha! Talk about perspective.

(Also, I wouldn’t be anywhere near here without E. Obviously.)

And, so you know how the aftermath of that post turned out, I did drop everything to do the revisions to the story, and it was published. However it now occurs to me: It turns out that the work-for-hire novel and other ghostwriting projects were more important than the adult litfic short stories I was trying to publish. I mean, who gave me first real shot… the YA/kidlit community or the old guard of adult fiction? So, in a way, I was wrong way back in 2006. I was doing something really important and I had no idea.

Anyway, all is well. I apologize for any confusion.

(This post used to have a link to the old short story in question, but yes, I deleted it.)

Appreciating Where I Am

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I’ve been looking around lately at where I am, I think because I know I’m leaving soon. (I’ll be away for a month-long stay at an artists colony in the California mountains—and I leave in March!) I didn’t grow up here in New York City, but I’ve always been drawn to this city. Really I can’t imagine a better place for me anywhere else in this world. Maybe that will change when I see San Francisco for the first time very soon, but until then…

I think it must be in my blood to love this city, ever since both branches of my family came here through Ellis Island and settled here (Brooklyn, Washington Heights). The city lives in me beyond that, from when I was little, when my parents worked in Manhattan, and I’d come from the mountains down to visit at the factory, romanticizing every moment, even the guarded walks through the Port Authority to get to the top level of the parking garage where we always parked the van, even the thunder of the sewing machines on the factory floor and the soot-covered windowsill where at four, five years old I’d gaze down from far above at the flood of yellow cabs in the street and imagine one day getting to ride in one. (My father’s side of the family owned a small flag-making business near Union Square.) It was a longtime dream of mine to live “downtown”—and though E and I couldn’t make it come true when we moved here for six months when we were both 19 (the only apartment we could afford in Alphabet City was full-on frightening so we moved to a cheaper place on 100th Street), it did finally come true after grad school, when my cushy university-subsidized housing ended upon graduation and we abandoned Morningside Heights for Greenwich Village.

So now, here I am. And my walk-up apartment might be tiny and dark and more than we can afford even with the rent stabilization, but lately I’ve been thinking that I am where I’ve always wanted to be. I’ve been wandering the streets of my neighborhood—through all its layers of history, which I adore imagining and reading about—thinking of how happy I am to be here. How here I am: writing a book under contract; freelancing in book publishing and being a part of making other writers’ books come to life; writing in coffee shops, often with friends; walking absolutely everywhere so I rarely have to go above 14th Street.

And yes, this all may be temporary, because I can’t know for sure what will happen with my new book proposal (fingers crossed). And sure, when I think of our financial reality I get very, very scared… but here, in this moment, you could say I’m perfectly OK.

I’m just appreciating what I have right now while I’m here having it.

For now, for today, you will find me revising my novel here:

On Broadway in the Village, looking up at my writing space