"All the world's a stage, and the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts."

- William Shakespeare

Sunday, June 19, 2011

Write write!! Right?

There's nothing like a writing workshop to get you inspired to pick up that pen and paper (or in my case, computer) again. Don't get me wrong - I've been feeling mighty inspired lately anyway; in fact I find myself almost desperate for the chance to just sit down at my computer and write in longer than four minute increments... But today I went to a writing workshop that made me more than inspired. I think I'm actually feeling pretty optimistic.

The workshop was called "How to Write a Bestseller" and I learned a lot of really valuable information, met a best selling author and signed up for a creative writing class that'll take place in the fall - but none of those things were what really stuck with me.

What I really loved about today was something that happened during a writing exercise. We were given some pretty vague instructions on what our final product needed to accomplish and then were told to just start writing. So I looked around the room, trying to figure out what to write about. I kept thinking, it has to be something gripping, something people will want to read. Murder, mayhem, love... But I kept defaulting to ideas I'm already working on. And I couldn't do that. I knew I needed to make up something new. And suddenly a first line popped into my head. It had nothing to do with vampires, crimelords or valiant heroines... it had to do with a pen. A guy clicking a pen, to be precise. As soon as the first line appeared on the page, it's like everything else just spilled out until I found myself staring at almost two pages of writing.

I love writing exercises for this very reason. You think you've got nothing and then suddenly... you've got an entire scene playing out before your eyes that never used to exist.

Later on, we were asked to read our short scenes aloud to the rest of our table-mates. So I listened to the first lady read her work and it was pretty dern good. I looked down at my sheet and thought, my work is so juvenile next to hers. But it was my turn to read, so I did. And as I read I realized how different my 'voice' was than the lady next to me. Not better or worse - just different. And I think different just might work for me.

I keep reading all these books and try to emulate the way other writers write, but I think it's time to just accept my own style and move on. So I'm not the greatest writer of description - who cares? For some reason I seem to do the whole 'inside the character's head' thing to an extreme degree and focus almost completely on only the present circumstances said character is facing... and maybe nothing's wrong with that.

Of course, publication would really cement these wacky theories of mine - the whole 'my style is my style so just deal with it, world' theory, that is. But what can you do?

Oh yeah. Write. That's what I could do. People aren't too keen on publishing blank pages... so maybe I should hop to it, now that I'm done my random update/rant post.

I'd say 'keep it real!', but I'm actually going to end my post with that scene I wrote today. I'm kinda nervous about sharing it with a bigger audience than just my table-mates, but if I want to be a published author, I should probably get used to a couple more people seeing my work.

So... here it is. (Oh, and keep in mind, it's just supposed to be a scene, not a story...)

   He'd been clicking his pen for seven minutes now. Was is pathetic that I knew that? That I was keeping track? Well, what else was I supposed to do? I couldn't concentrate on anything else but that infernal clicking.
   He knew this was a library, right? I mean, he didn't look like the type to frequent libraries, but everyone had to know that libraries are meant to be quiet - noise-free.
   I glanced up at him again from my spot two tables away. His head was buried in a book; blond, shaggy hair falling into his face. You'd think he was sleeping if it wasn't for the small movement his thumb was making every two and a half seconds. Click... click.. click.
   Okay, I was seriously going to have a mental breakdown if this continued any longer.
   I pushed against my table to slide my chair back, but the legs of it must have caught on something because before I knew it, I was losing my balance and toppling to the floor -- making a hell of a lot more noise than his stupid clicking pen.
   My cheeks were already burning as I glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. Of course everyone's eyes were on me. The librarian at the front desk seemed to look as though she couldn't figure out whether to shush me or come see if I needed help. I'd much prefer the shush. I didn't want to endure further humiliation by suffering through any "are you okay"s.
   "Graceful," a voice suddenly scoffed from behind me and I felt hands being slid under my armpits. I was being hoisted to my feet before I had a chance to even wrench my neck around to see my unwanted rescuer.
   "Thanks, but I didn't need--" I said, turning to face -- Pen Clicker?! He was picking up the fallen chair now so I could only see the sandy mop on top of his head, but it was definitely him - one quick glance at his now unoccupied table confirmed it. I hadn't thought my cheeks could get any hotter, but they suddenly went nuclear.
   He straightened back up as he set my chair in its place. His pale green eyes were taking in my expression as a smile spread across his face.
   I cleared my throat.
   "--I didn't need help up."
   "Right. Because you did such a good job getting out of your seat the first time," he said, smirking.
   I opened my mouth, but snapped it shut again - completely at a loss for how to respond.
   "I'm sorry," he said, still smiling, though lowering his gaze, making his bangs fall back in front of his face. "I guess I should be asking if you're okay."

...yeah. That's all I wrote.

And now I'm going to go. So...

Keep it real!

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