How, then, shall we be writers?

from Jacqueline

I’ve been struggling with an important writerly question of late, that is: How can I be a better writer? I know that seems an all-encompassing inquiry, however, it is one that shadows my life as a writer, sitting down next to me at the computer, leaning over me as I read a piece I’ve just written, and generally nudging me, sometimes not gently. And this is not the gremlin, the nasty little bugger who creeps up, looks at his hands (probably to see if those nails are sharp enough to scratch across the page and wreck it), and says, “You think you’re a what? Give me a break, lady!.” No, this is the Question: How, then, shall I be a writer?

I remember my first editor, just after the deal was done and MAISIE DOBBS was purchased, and we were given the “all clear” to actually talk to each other. We exchanged niceties, me gushing, saying how thrilled I was – and we know that was an understatement. My first book sold and an editor, you bet I was over the moon. Then, in the next breath, she said, “Right, now that’s done, we’ll see if you’ve got what it takes to be a professional writer.” And there I was, in Jacqueline’s Labyrinth, with the Fawn.

But here I am, wondering how I can be a better writer, a more dexterous manipulator of words, of images, ideas. How do I raise the bar on myself?

For some years now I’ve joined writers’ workshops that grasp my attention, that leap out from a catalog or a flyer, and I’ve certainly been fortunate in finding one that attracts some amazing writers – I’ve even been able to direct one or two into the arms of my agent. It was at one of those workshops where I was put on the spot. I don’t advertise myself as an already published writer, though some of my cohorts in class know, so I was surprised one day when a fellow student turned to me and asked (with all the class listening), “I can’t understand why you do this, you’re already a writer.” So I explained that, as I saw it, writing was like a muscle – you have to cross train, you have to keep yourself limber, you have to challenge your own performance, and sometimes that means two things at once – going back to basics, and raising the bar. Kind of like riding dressage. Every day I work on all the aspects of riding that a raw beginner works on, then I’m looking for that one move, sometimes even that one thought, that will propel us, me and my horse, though the plateau, into another sphere of experience, another level of accomplishment. And then I work to keep that, every second, because I may have her deeply engaged in the movement one second, and just the merest movement in my body can bring her out of it, so I go back, back to basics. Sometimes I feel that, with the reins in my hands, it’s like playing a concerto, with each finger teasing out the melody. A bit like writing.

There are days when my fingers glide across the keyboard, words I’ve never even spoken before tumbling out onto the page to create a scene, an image, a building block in the story that I know really works. But as my dressage trainer said the other day – yes, a particularly challenging day – “You can’t expect yesterday’s ride today. It’s another day, the horse is the same horse, but different today, and you’re different today.”

But it still begs the question: How do I have more of those good days? This whole discourse between me and myself, on how I can raise the bar, went to a new level just recently, following an event where I was a speaker. In conversation with other authors, several mentioned having MFA’s in Creative Writing. That’s it, thought I. That’s what I need, the academic immersion into my craft. So I set about looking into MFA programs. I spoke to my husband, who said, “You need to speak to some people, other authors, your editor, people who can best advise you.” This was another way of saying, “This is a big one, and I don’t want to be part of the decision.” So I called my editor, well, sort of, because she moved to a new publisher recently, and I don’t have a new one, and I really trust her counsel, so I turned to her. I told her about the MFA, and about this state of angst I was getting into about being a more accomplished writer. She confessed to being taken aback, because she’d never had that question from an author before, then she said she was doubtful about the MFA. “It might push you back,” she said. Then she went on to say, “Whenever we get a manuscript that’s all big words and pseudo-powerful images, but with one-dimensional characters and a plot that goes up into the ether, we all look at each other and roll our eyes, and we say,’ It’s another MFA!’”

So, perhaps not an MFA. But I’m still thinking about it.

In the meantime, I’m doing what I’ve always done. I’m collecting words and images, ideas and observations, keeping them all in my little notebook to bring out. Yesterday, for example, I was driving up to the Bay Area, a six hour journey, and listening to Bob Spitz’s book, The Beatles, on CD. It’s a great book, and I love the way he used words, strings together images and brings the whole book alive with story. Then he used the word, “crucible.” I repeated that word out loud. Crucible. I rolled it around my tongue, paused the CD so I could hear myself, and put “crucible” into a sentence. Of course, I know the word, but I had never used it before, not in my writing. I played with it for a while, and wondered how I might use that word, and what it might bring to a sentence, a scene a paragraph. Words are my building blocks, in the same way as one tiny movement with one finger to the reins will bring Sara’s trot alive with impulsion. Impulsion: that’s a word used liberally in the equestrian world, and it’s what I’m looking for in my writing.

I collect images, look out at fields, or a building, and ask, “How do I describe this, in effective, tight, lyrical prose?” In the acknowledgement to his book, “Peace Like A River,” Lief Enger thanked the editors from the early years of his newspaper career, for driving away the tendency to use adjectives. So, I’ve doubled my vigilance, looking out with my beady eyes for those pesky little adjectives. And adverbs – I’m practiced in the art of killing adverbs. One of my teachers once made us go through a piece we’d just written, to take out every word ending in “ly.” The writing became so tight it was as if I’d injected it with steel rods. These are basics, but it’s so easy to forget the basics when you’re on a deadline that allows no time to linger.

And of course, I read, read, read. And even when I’m not writing a novel, I’m writing something else. I listen to books on CD when I’m driving, to get a better sense of rhythm and pace, and I listen and read poetry to broaden my idea of what can be done with words. But right now, none of that seems enough. I’m looking for the next stepping stone, the next aid to the movement, something to create impulsion to drive me from this plateau, up to the next.

So, here’s my question, to each of you writers out there – and I know a lot more read this blog than comment, because I receive emails from you. And you non-writers, what do you think?: How do you raise the bar for yourself? What do you do to take your writing – or your anything – to a new level? Patty, Cornelia, Our Polly, Jim-James – what is the key? How about you people who are also engaged in the martial arts – that’s the sort of practice that leads to breakthroughs in all aspects of life. Pari, are you there? What do you think?

I’ve been on panels at all sorts of conferences, but I have never seen a panel on (for example), “Taking Your Writing To The Next Level.” I think it should be a real dishing session, rather than four talking heads.

Somehow, I think there’s a key in doing more of the same, and practicing doing it differently, just as, when I am riding dressage, I try different movements of my body to bring about the change I want. Sometimes I have to think out of the box, sometimes, I just have to envision the perfect movement. Mostly, like a concert pianist, I have to be in the moment, while paying attention to the next. And I watch the real experts, because that’s something to aspire to. A few days ago, in a dressage lesson, I was trying to effect a certain move with more precision, and both Sara, my horse, and I were sweating. I trotted to a halt alongside my trainer and said, “Sometimes it’s like knocking down a wall to find a door."

Thoughts, anyone? Something to ponder over the weekend, perhaps?

PS: I didn't have a chance to read yesterday's post until I turned up here to post my piece for the day - interesting, that we're dancing on the same sort of ground.