Ok, I have gotten so far behind that today I am just reading this office hour post. I came to the comment section to say the same thing, but as I was clicking to get here I mentioned it to my husband who told me to find Emmylou's version. She slows it down and wraps her lovely voice around every syllable. I love Chuck Berry and "You never can tell" is one of my favorites, but Emmylou just made me feel like I was in Louisiana. Hope its not too late to post here.
As a teen, I was accepted into the Creative Writing program at NYU, but I chose instead to study journalism at Syracuse because it was the only way I could figure out how to write and have money. I grew up on Social Security Disability and food stamps. Once I finished school I was able to work as a journalist, started a family, and stopped any creative writing for four years. I simply couldn't afford it. I remember hurling a package of frozen peas on the floor in anger, and then joining a local poetry group. For the next several decades an MFA was out of the question, but I made do with various local writing workshops and the occasional, affordable, conference. At one job interview I negotiated a four-day work week and sublet a studio on Fridays in which to write. 15 years after my first writers' conference, I got into an MFA program and graduated at age 55. Even that, I had to fight for - I was given scholarship money but had to quit my job and use some retirement savings for the privilege. It was scary to step away from my career to realize that dream at an age when most workers face age discrimination Now I'm back to having a full-time job and family obligations that make me chronically long for more time to write. George, one thing I love about your work is that you write *about* class, or at least there is a working class in your writing, something I feel is less and less common as fewer working class people are able to publish. There was a time when I thought I would scream if I were forced to read one more novel by/about someone who was a professional writer in Brooklyn. I think the working class perspective is more valuable in fiction than never, but vanishing. And how can it not? The barriers I faced are far worse for some many others.
I was working full time as an English teacher when I was working on my MFA and found that, oddly, sometimes I wrote more effectively when I was working full time than during the summers when I was off work. I try to get up early and write first thing in the morning--whether it’s an hour or 45 minutes or 30 minutes. And write on weekends, too. But that is a struggle at times. The writer Chris Offut shared a really helpful idea at a writing conference in Kentucky. He said that he focuses on writing at least one minute a day. That may be taking detailed observations of something he observes at the airport. I like this approach because it takes away some of the bad attitude/frustration I feel when I don’t get the writing time I want in a day. Usually once you sit down to write you can get more than one minute. But at least having that one minute goal keeps your writing going in your subconscious, and I don’t beat myself up as much when having a full time job, etc, interferes with my ideal writing schedule.
When working full time I wrote every morning at 5 am, then added lunch time writing, then writing crept into the evening too. Going for a walk is sometimes writing. I like to roll out of bed, grab coffee and go right to my notebook or computer before fully awake. The time in between sleep and wakefulness is golden. I've learned to write during interruptions, while people are walking around me making dinner and drinking. I also have a room of my own with a door that closes. When the kids were little I didn't read much because I got tired of starting the same book over and over again. But I read a lot of children's books to them—Charlotte's Web, Dr. De Soto—and revisited Mark Twain and Robert Louis Stevenson as they grew. I went back to school for an MFA when I turned 64. Those two years focused entirely on writing and close reading were wonderful. Now that I'm older I've figured out how to live happily on social security. No more corner office, long commute, emails at 10pm. Not much money either, but I've got the time I missed when younger. The biggest mistake I made when younger was worrying about time—how much I didn't have, how I was going to carve it up, to-do lists and schedules. None of this really helps. Fretting is bad for the creative life. I have a routine but am much more relaxed when it has to change now. Also I don't give a damn about housework. I can write in the car in a parking lot. One thing I never do is set a goal of word count or hours. That upsets my unconscious.
Well put. I agree. The word count and time goal just sets me up for disappointment. And I agree, although I am not a morning person, there is something special about that moment between sleeping and waking. It’s like the subconscious is more conscious, ha.
I usually think if an idea--sometimes at night sometimes first thing in the morning. I block out some time in the morning and then write throughout the day. I don't post until the following morning because I may have a glass of wine and I need to proofread sober! Someone said something like write tipsy and revise sober. Sound advice. I once had the honor of talking to Francis Ford Coppola. He told me he would fly to New Orleans and get a hotel and get really stoned and walk the streets thinking of ideas in his head and then go to his hotel and write them down. I'm not advocating smoking pot or drinking but I'm not, not advocating it either:)
I felt this post in my bones. The issue of "time" has been a primary struggle since I started writing my first novel--oh gosh--ten years ago. In those years I've had two kiddos and two job changes (not to mention a major job change for my wife) and it seems most of my writing comes at the expense of some other activity. Mainly sleep. I'm fortunate enough now to have a job that allows me to get some writing done on the clock but I still get easily frustrated when work gets busy and I can't accomplish the writing I want to do.
One tactic I've found helpful is to set a small, nonnegotiable daily writing goal. For me, I force myself to write 500 words per day of new fiction. I know "force" is probably a bad word when it comes to art but sometimes it's necessary and I've found that I've produced some of my best work during writing sessions where I had to "force" myself to get started. I also keep track of the number of "consecutive days" (or "CD") I've hit 500 words. I'm currently at 256 consecutive days (haven't missed a day since July 1, 2022). I know this wouldn't work for everyone and 500 might be a bit much to start off but if you're like me and you need the discipline that comes with a strict structure, this might be a tactic worth considering. I've found that when I have a streak to maintain, I'm more motivated to find those holes in my schedule where I can sneak writing in.
On a similar topic, I'd love to hear anyone's input on how to gain more exposure as a new author. I've recently published my first novel through a small indie press and I'm on schedule to self-publish a new novel in August but I'm finding it hard to get the word out to people when I don't have a large social media presence. Writing is great and all but when you pour your heart and soul (and hours and hours of your precious time) into producing a novel, you kinda hope more people are going to see it than just your mom and a handful of Facebook followers. I know there are no magic bullet answers for this but I'd love to hear any recommendations that the group might have.
I write more now with two kids than I ever did in those glorious years when I had all the time in the world. I can write from two hours before they wake up, for another hour during "quiet time" in the afternoons, and usually for another couple hours when their dad gets off of work and kindly takes over until dinner. My real limit, though I often cite life as my excuse, is still my own discipline and ability to stick with a project through the boring parts.
I think hard commitments on the schedule help concentrate my effort. So much of writing is thinking about the story, anyway, which I can do anytime.
I don't mind not being paid before I've written something publishable. That seems fitting to me. There's never been a better time in history to learn how to write (through online courses and feedback groups), to share your writing (instantly, publicly, through blogs or ebooks or the many online resources on how to get traditionally published), or to access the best books ever written (Gutenburg, Librivox, Libby, the library...). In my opinion, it's more of a democratic setup than ever.
It's the people in a truly packed, no-margin season of life that I sympathize with. That can be hard. But with a normal work/life situation, I find waking up early and cutting down on screentime (like I'm not doing right now) to be very helpful.
I’m curious how, with limited time (say 2-3 hours per week), one can best triage their writing efforts? There’s an inherent tension between making old stuff the best it can be (editing) and writing something new. I don’t know about others, but I’m always walking around with ten ideas in my head for new stories, drafting them in broad arcs, thinking of lines. But that work only partially translates to actual words on a page— there’s still a lot of intensive writing time required to turn those thoughts, however well worn, into a story. In fact, I get a little tired of whatever is banging around in my head after a while, and “throw out” a lot of stuff just because it’s gone off once the seal is broken. It’s so nice to get one of these things out on paper (or well, a doc on my phone anyway). But it’s also nice to work on something to the point where it feels complete, rather than ending up with tons of first drafts.
So I guess I’m curious how folks use their limited time, or what sort of mental mechanisms you use to manage this bottleneck.
After the creative writing class that reignited my love of writing, I thought becoming an English teacher would be a good idea. Utterly ignorant of the time-destroying and energy-sapping realities of teaching high school, I had fantasies of spending my working hours sharing and discussing literature ( one of my favorite activities) with students swept up in the wake of my enthusiasm and eager to experience the magic of writing and careful reading. Personal time, of course, would allow the pursuit and pleasure of my own writing. 20 years on, I have learned the hard truths of balancing the twin energies involved in making art and teaching five days a week. I make efforts to, as I imagine it, maintain my connection to, relationship with, creating art and writing. But with the many demands of life, the multiple disciplines and practices involved in the trajectory of each week, I find that the artistic energy manifests not in time put aside for focus on drawing and/or writing but in the wordplay, creativity, foolishness, imagination, and occasional interpretive dancing that surfaces in my conversations and interactions with my students, family, and coworkers. What I should do, I tell myself, is direct this artistic, somewhat frustrated, restless spirit into an artistic media not into the conversation I have with a coworker in the kitchenette. So, the ideas are there, the spirit is there, but talk is cheap.
This Gulf Cartel thing is messing with me big time. I've allowed myself to speculate about writing, again, and something drew me here. It was probably the fucking internet, which, apparently, learned how to write when I wasn't looking. Charming. I hadn't been in a classroom for 5-6 years, and I had been spending fifty or sixty hours a week as a factory troll, effectively turning my cerebral cortex into hummus. I guessed I needed something.
I stumble in here, and this place will scare you to death, what with the CLIENTS? The STUDENTS? The CUSTOMERS? Oh, right: they're called WRITERS or READERS. That kind of makes sense. So anyway, I'm drawn here, my skills are like tits on a bull, and I start reading. “Story Club? Sounds literary.” And I read. And read. And I keep on reading because I cannot stop. It’s all good. These people are ALL writers. But this is only ONE of these bitches! There are hundreds of other Substacks (Whatever that means.) Hundreds. I thought Trump meant the end of the world?
And then, the damned Sensei is three quarters of the way to legend, spawned in Carver and Wolfe DNA; somebody actually said "Twain." I mean, c'mon! And then his teaching is righteous, and his work is only delivering American Lit from an ignominious death on which I would have bet money. I am like, "Enough! I mean it! Enough!" How much truth and beauty can a person stand?
It is daunting. That is my point. I set to work. I read until my eyes bleed. Day two, I’m on the phone with a buddy from grad school. “This is awkward, Brah. Remember, use it or lose it? That was real.” One-Hundred words in four and a half hours? Slogging through the weedy remembrance of artistry-past, another dawn comes up. And then another. Making a "newsletter", whatever that is, out of spit and Bondo. I am at the desk for hours. And hours. “I used to like this?” I’m starting to miss my factory. It was such an opulent Hellscape. But then the thought comes to me: "Methamphetamine." A time-honored tradition: Phillip K. Dick? (Genre, yes, but very influential. CIA didn’t like him, so that’s upside) Jack Kerouac? (Sentence structure is not everything) And HUNTER S. THOMPSON!!! Game! Set! Match!
Okay. Ayn Rand was a speed freak. So, yes: there is a dark side. But somebody keeps buying her books.
The Dark Web, where I feel our little club belongs, was a good guess as to acquiring “inspiration”. And just like that, I am time itself. You want hours? I’ll give you days.
I’m up to One-Hundred and fifty words in four and a half hours. They are dull. They are weak. They are just plain wrong. “I’ve just started. Just got to keep at it to knock the rust off. Find the mojo. It has to be here somewhere.” I tell myself this and then I lose track of the day of the week. “I think I’m getting WORSE. This is such a drag.” I fondle the plastic bag beside the laptop. “How much rust can you have, anyway?”
The lady on the Communist Martyrs radio station tells me a couple American “healthcare tourists” get whacked (RIP – Thoughts and Prayers) in Mexico. “You had to go to Mexico?” I think. I don’t know how long goes by and I hear the Gulf Cartel, a Narco-Terrorist Fortune 500, gets their panties in a bunch, hands over five of their finest low-level pukes, and sends AN APOLOGY WITH THEM. This is not a standard organized crime procedure. That little plastic bag just quadrupled in value because they are taking a break, so we don’t send our military and ruin their business.
The Universe always gets its way. It does not care what I write, or when I write, for how long I write, or that I write. The girlfriend says she does, but she doesn’t. The dog and cat? They stop by the office from time to time and say nothing. And my children? Put them on that ever-lengthening list.
I know you’ve got lives and trauma and Samsara with which to contend. And despite that, I see your words on here. You are in Story Club, for chrissake. Sometimes I see you “like” something. You didn’t have to click that. But you did, and I thank you. That could be the spot of dopamine that gets me out of the wasteland. So, while I’m not at all sure that I can do this, I know we can do this. You give me a power greater than myself. Dumber people than us have figured it out. Crappy books come out every day. It’s a contagion. Words need us, because look at us! If you didn’t love it would you be here? Hell no! I’m pulling for you because if you win, I win. And I want George to look good; even better than he does now.
Not apropos of anything, but does anybody know of a domestic supply? Just message me? Thanks!
Good reading. Soul. Why not! Verra encouraging. We're all out there in here, er out here. Not a whiff of supply and I been here going on nine years. Get so I forget about it.
Dear Heart, I love the way you make sentences, and you only gave me,...what...seven? Not always an upscale to meet a fellow-traveler round-about tweakerdom, but on this occasion I'll count myself fortunate. And I'm thinking in forgetting about IT, my attention is where it is supposed to be. My pleasure and privilege! Be well!
This is insane, I love it. And yeah, doubt the pets care that you're writing, but maybe they're happy when you're happy (the dog at least). As, I believe, a mug or a t-shirt once told me "it's nice to be important, but it's more important to be nice" or, slightly twisted, "it's nice to be good at writing, but it's more good at writing to be nice".
Tangentially, I believe both PKD and Kerouac died fairly young from drug-related issues, and PKD was big-time losing his mind in later days, so maybe not completely game set match in a wider sense. Although, yes, good ideas came from both.
Thank you for those insights, Calum. Interesting writers, but not my faves either. Now, writers across the pharmaceutical cornucopia? A fun bunch! (Sweeping generalization.) Love your cover picture! Cheers!
“This is awkward, Brah. Remember, use it or lose it? That was real.” Ha!
Yeah, you're gonna have to stick with coffee, I think. But i want to say, I'm super glad you are here, and obviously you're a writer. One hundred and fifty words is exactly one hundred and fifty more words than no words. Keep going!
Coincidentally, I’ve been listening to/re-reading the custom house chapter in Hawthorne’ s The Scarlet Letter. Here he contrasts conversations from his (now temporarily) former literary life and the life of work as a general surveyor in the customhouse, where he talks with men in that profession and those with shiploads of taxable goods. Here you also see him gathering material for the mental and imaginative labor of writing. He mentions quite famous names of transcendentalists and situations in which formerly he spoke with them. Then delves into the personalities, and types of conversations he now engages with (managerial and colloquial). He seems slightly bereft, resigned, to his new situation. The first 10 minutes in a third section of the introductory ”The Custom House.”
For some reason, writing is the most fluid for me when I'm not sitting at a desk in an office of any kind. I might also add that when I'm working out things my favorite medium is a paper placemat or napkin. It's amazing how much you can fit on the different sides of a napkin. You'll have to ask my subconscious why. Although I'm just noticing coffee does seem to be the common denominator.
I think back on the man-hours I squeezed in writing at Solly's restaurant on Van Nuys, in the Canoga Park bowling alley coffee shop, 11-hour flights to Russia (although we never write as much as we think we will on a plane, do we?), Starbucks, Starbucks, Starbucks and, lately, on my five-hour train ride to Syracuse. The weird thing about writing for television was you were so busy producing shows you had to scrounge for time to write them. So, I think it's a good thing not to have all the time in the world to write. I believe the more constrictive time is the more constructive it is. I didn't mean that wordplay, sorry. (Although I didn't erase it either!)
Love this. Trains and planes! I so relate. I’m actually a walking writer— I seem to do some of my best “writing”in my mind when I’m walking. It’s definitely the first go-to when I’m stuck.
So you knew those haunts. Yup it was a sad day when Solly folded up. I actually went to Solly’s farewell party when he sold the restaurant. Held, of course, at the Solly’s in Woodland Hills.
Time. Phew. There's a kismet of some kind between last week's office hours on Revision and this week, on Time. Did George plan this?
7 years ago I started a series of short-shorts --- one page lyrical "stories" --- giving myself certain parameters. I did it while I was mired in a longer work --hoping to provide a sense of completion. around something, anything. HA!
Today i MAY have completed revision on 2 of them. SEVEN YEARS!!!!! for 2 "stories" 350 -400 words each. Even if I didn't have a demanding day-job, or the call of family and friends, or the exigencies of life in New York City, I'm not sure I could have finished my conversation with these 2 short short stories any sooner. It's not only time, or band-width. It's something else that feels metabolic. Who knows. Time spent on the work and the time it takes to realize a work may not be the same. Is this what George means by: “I think it’s important to recognize that good creative work doesn’t necessarily bear a linear relation to time spent.” ?
Bravo, Gail! Some of the best are often the shortest. I like that you felt you were in "conversation", that the feel may have been "metabolic" (it is for me, too), and your observation that the ratio between time spent & work produced is often lopsided, a truth to which I can attest.
I've written this in these threads before, so apologies for the repeat. When i wrote my first novel, i found the following very helpful: I imposed a deadline on myself. Each Tuesday night at midnight, I had to have completed at least one full page of new work, developed over the week. I was required to turn that work in to a friend who then acknowledged its receipt with the words "Great job. Keep going." No other comments. (She was not required to read the pages. Just acknowledge them.) If I did not turn in work, the deal was over. The only consequences: She would no longer acknowledge receipt and send me the message. That's all. But we had a deal, silly as it was--new pages every Tuesday before midnight--and i kept to my side of the bargain. In this way, an entire novel was written. Deadlines have always helped me. In fact, I find it almost impossible to write without a deadline of some kind. Hope this helps somebody out there. Find a friend to turn in pages too--without comments, just acknowledgment of receipt. Maybe it will work for you, too.
I’m glad you repeated this. I remember reading it more than a year ago. It impressed me then: more so, now. Just last night as you know I finally got my 44th version of the story that won’t let go of me completed and sent off to the contest, 20 minutes under deadline. Somehow I cleared the decks enough at the last minute to have two and a half hours to make it better than it had originally been, going deeper, I hope, in several ways. But I love your idea of having that commitment and accountability, week after week. Did you only ever write and send one page, or was it one page some weeks, and five, ten or twenty on others? And how many weeks did it take to get that first draft done? And how many subsequent drafts before you were finished? (If you don’t mind me asking.)
First off, yay for you for submitting on time to that contest!
So, one page was the minimum required. i had two young kids at the time, so I couldn't promise more than that. I often wrote ONLY on Friday mornings at the library--my only true free time during the week. But yes, sometimes I would turn in a lot more. The first (shitty) draft of that novel was completed in a year. The rewrite took me another year. Then I found an agent and spent several months on another partial rewrite and rejiggering of scenes. I think that's about right--hard to remember exactly. And no, I don't at all mind you asking! Those were such fun years! Unpublished (in the fiction world) and no one waiting on me to write a book. I wrote freely and with total joy. Had no idea what I was doing!
I'm also glad you repeated it, Mary. I didn't see it the first time around. I LOVE that idea of yours. I never heard it before. So, to be clear, over the course of the week you, what, worked on that page in all its messy, protracted glory then reduced it all down to that page you handed in on Tuesday night?
Hi Norm. Over the course of the week, I simply got some writing done. Like George, I do a lot of reading over what I write as I'm writing it, and I make a lot of tweaks, new decisions, etc. So sometimes, I'd have only one page to turn in--a page I'd worked on all week. But the point was to press on each week, handing in new material, new pages of what would eventually be my book. I did not turn in "old" pages. Whatever it was I got done during the week (of new work)--that's what i handed in on Tuesday nights by midnight. This forced me to keep going. And what I turned in could always later be dumped, be edited, be rewritten, whatever. I loved the process and am forever grateful to the friend who diligently replied each week "Great job, keep going." Sometimes, she'd send me a message on a late Tuesday evening, asking where were my pages?? And that, magically, kept me going. Let me know if you have more questions. Happy to clarify further.
C'est la vie" was written by Chuck Berry, not Emmylou Harris.
Ok, I have gotten so far behind that today I am just reading this office hour post. I came to the comment section to say the same thing, but as I was clicking to get here I mentioned it to my husband who told me to find Emmylou's version. She slows it down and wraps her lovely voice around every syllable. I love Chuck Berry and "You never can tell" is one of my favorites, but Emmylou just made me feel like I was in Louisiana. Hope its not too late to post here.
If it's any consolation, I only just got to this post and I'm three days behind you!
As a teen, I was accepted into the Creative Writing program at NYU, but I chose instead to study journalism at Syracuse because it was the only way I could figure out how to write and have money. I grew up on Social Security Disability and food stamps. Once I finished school I was able to work as a journalist, started a family, and stopped any creative writing for four years. I simply couldn't afford it. I remember hurling a package of frozen peas on the floor in anger, and then joining a local poetry group. For the next several decades an MFA was out of the question, but I made do with various local writing workshops and the occasional, affordable, conference. At one job interview I negotiated a four-day work week and sublet a studio on Fridays in which to write. 15 years after my first writers' conference, I got into an MFA program and graduated at age 55. Even that, I had to fight for - I was given scholarship money but had to quit my job and use some retirement savings for the privilege. It was scary to step away from my career to realize that dream at an age when most workers face age discrimination Now I'm back to having a full-time job and family obligations that make me chronically long for more time to write. George, one thing I love about your work is that you write *about* class, or at least there is a working class in your writing, something I feel is less and less common as fewer working class people are able to publish. There was a time when I thought I would scream if I were forced to read one more novel by/about someone who was a professional writer in Brooklyn. I think the working class perspective is more valuable in fiction than never, but vanishing. And how can it not? The barriers I faced are far worse for some many others.
Amen. Great post. Loved Nelson Algren for this reason. Keep fighting the good fight, Hope.
I was working full time as an English teacher when I was working on my MFA and found that, oddly, sometimes I wrote more effectively when I was working full time than during the summers when I was off work. I try to get up early and write first thing in the morning--whether it’s an hour or 45 minutes or 30 minutes. And write on weekends, too. But that is a struggle at times. The writer Chris Offut shared a really helpful idea at a writing conference in Kentucky. He said that he focuses on writing at least one minute a day. That may be taking detailed observations of something he observes at the airport. I like this approach because it takes away some of the bad attitude/frustration I feel when I don’t get the writing time I want in a day. Usually once you sit down to write you can get more than one minute. But at least having that one minute goal keeps your writing going in your subconscious, and I don’t beat myself up as much when having a full time job, etc, interferes with my ideal writing schedule.
This sounds great - thanks for posting it!
When working full time I wrote every morning at 5 am, then added lunch time writing, then writing crept into the evening too. Going for a walk is sometimes writing. I like to roll out of bed, grab coffee and go right to my notebook or computer before fully awake. The time in between sleep and wakefulness is golden. I've learned to write during interruptions, while people are walking around me making dinner and drinking. I also have a room of my own with a door that closes. When the kids were little I didn't read much because I got tired of starting the same book over and over again. But I read a lot of children's books to them—Charlotte's Web, Dr. De Soto—and revisited Mark Twain and Robert Louis Stevenson as they grew. I went back to school for an MFA when I turned 64. Those two years focused entirely on writing and close reading were wonderful. Now that I'm older I've figured out how to live happily on social security. No more corner office, long commute, emails at 10pm. Not much money either, but I've got the time I missed when younger. The biggest mistake I made when younger was worrying about time—how much I didn't have, how I was going to carve it up, to-do lists and schedules. None of this really helps. Fretting is bad for the creative life. I have a routine but am much more relaxed when it has to change now. Also I don't give a damn about housework. I can write in the car in a parking lot. One thing I never do is set a goal of word count or hours. That upsets my unconscious.
Well put. I agree. The word count and time goal just sets me up for disappointment. And I agree, although I am not a morning person, there is something special about that moment between sleeping and waking. It’s like the subconscious is more conscious, ha.
I usually think if an idea--sometimes at night sometimes first thing in the morning. I block out some time in the morning and then write throughout the day. I don't post until the following morning because I may have a glass of wine and I need to proofread sober! Someone said something like write tipsy and revise sober. Sound advice. I once had the honor of talking to Francis Ford Coppola. He told me he would fly to New Orleans and get a hotel and get really stoned and walk the streets thinking of ideas in his head and then go to his hotel and write them down. I'm not advocating smoking pot or drinking but I'm not, not advocating it either:)
I felt this post in my bones. The issue of "time" has been a primary struggle since I started writing my first novel--oh gosh--ten years ago. In those years I've had two kiddos and two job changes (not to mention a major job change for my wife) and it seems most of my writing comes at the expense of some other activity. Mainly sleep. I'm fortunate enough now to have a job that allows me to get some writing done on the clock but I still get easily frustrated when work gets busy and I can't accomplish the writing I want to do.
One tactic I've found helpful is to set a small, nonnegotiable daily writing goal. For me, I force myself to write 500 words per day of new fiction. I know "force" is probably a bad word when it comes to art but sometimes it's necessary and I've found that I've produced some of my best work during writing sessions where I had to "force" myself to get started. I also keep track of the number of "consecutive days" (or "CD") I've hit 500 words. I'm currently at 256 consecutive days (haven't missed a day since July 1, 2022). I know this wouldn't work for everyone and 500 might be a bit much to start off but if you're like me and you need the discipline that comes with a strict structure, this might be a tactic worth considering. I've found that when I have a streak to maintain, I'm more motivated to find those holes in my schedule where I can sneak writing in.
On a similar topic, I'd love to hear anyone's input on how to gain more exposure as a new author. I've recently published my first novel through a small indie press and I'm on schedule to self-publish a new novel in August but I'm finding it hard to get the word out to people when I don't have a large social media presence. Writing is great and all but when you pour your heart and soul (and hours and hours of your precious time) into producing a novel, you kinda hope more people are going to see it than just your mom and a handful of Facebook followers. I know there are no magic bullet answers for this but I'd love to hear any recommendations that the group might have.
I write more now with two kids than I ever did in those glorious years when I had all the time in the world. I can write from two hours before they wake up, for another hour during "quiet time" in the afternoons, and usually for another couple hours when their dad gets off of work and kindly takes over until dinner. My real limit, though I often cite life as my excuse, is still my own discipline and ability to stick with a project through the boring parts.
I think hard commitments on the schedule help concentrate my effort. So much of writing is thinking about the story, anyway, which I can do anytime.
I don't mind not being paid before I've written something publishable. That seems fitting to me. There's never been a better time in history to learn how to write (through online courses and feedback groups), to share your writing (instantly, publicly, through blogs or ebooks or the many online resources on how to get traditionally published), or to access the best books ever written (Gutenburg, Librivox, Libby, the library...). In my opinion, it's more of a democratic setup than ever.
It's the people in a truly packed, no-margin season of life that I sympathize with. That can be hard. But with a normal work/life situation, I find waking up early and cutting down on screentime (like I'm not doing right now) to be very helpful.
I’m curious how, with limited time (say 2-3 hours per week), one can best triage their writing efforts? There’s an inherent tension between making old stuff the best it can be (editing) and writing something new. I don’t know about others, but I’m always walking around with ten ideas in my head for new stories, drafting them in broad arcs, thinking of lines. But that work only partially translates to actual words on a page— there’s still a lot of intensive writing time required to turn those thoughts, however well worn, into a story. In fact, I get a little tired of whatever is banging around in my head after a while, and “throw out” a lot of stuff just because it’s gone off once the seal is broken. It’s so nice to get one of these things out on paper (or well, a doc on my phone anyway). But it’s also nice to work on something to the point where it feels complete, rather than ending up with tons of first drafts.
So I guess I’m curious how folks use their limited time, or what sort of mental mechanisms you use to manage this bottleneck.
After the creative writing class that reignited my love of writing, I thought becoming an English teacher would be a good idea. Utterly ignorant of the time-destroying and energy-sapping realities of teaching high school, I had fantasies of spending my working hours sharing and discussing literature ( one of my favorite activities) with students swept up in the wake of my enthusiasm and eager to experience the magic of writing and careful reading. Personal time, of course, would allow the pursuit and pleasure of my own writing. 20 years on, I have learned the hard truths of balancing the twin energies involved in making art and teaching five days a week. I make efforts to, as I imagine it, maintain my connection to, relationship with, creating art and writing. But with the many demands of life, the multiple disciplines and practices involved in the trajectory of each week, I find that the artistic energy manifests not in time put aside for focus on drawing and/or writing but in the wordplay, creativity, foolishness, imagination, and occasional interpretive dancing that surfaces in my conversations and interactions with my students, family, and coworkers. What I should do, I tell myself, is direct this artistic, somewhat frustrated, restless spirit into an artistic media not into the conversation I have with a coworker in the kitchenette. So, the ideas are there, the spirit is there, but talk is cheap.
Yeah he wrote all his best songs in the 50's and 60's but hey - commercial success, it's caught a few out....! And how many bands subsequently cut their teeth on his stuff - and maybe wouldn't be here if he hadn't found his voice first? You wouldn't have had this for example: https://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=Chuck+Berry+Wee+Wee+Hours+(Live)&view=detail&mid=E185BF2316A5FD544946E185BF2316A5FD544946&FORM=VIRE
This Gulf Cartel thing is messing with me big time. I've allowed myself to speculate about writing, again, and something drew me here. It was probably the fucking internet, which, apparently, learned how to write when I wasn't looking. Charming. I hadn't been in a classroom for 5-6 years, and I had been spending fifty or sixty hours a week as a factory troll, effectively turning my cerebral cortex into hummus. I guessed I needed something.
I stumble in here, and this place will scare you to death, what with the CLIENTS? The STUDENTS? The CUSTOMERS? Oh, right: they're called WRITERS or READERS. That kind of makes sense. So anyway, I'm drawn here, my skills are like tits on a bull, and I start reading. “Story Club? Sounds literary.” And I read. And read. And I keep on reading because I cannot stop. It’s all good. These people are ALL writers. But this is only ONE of these bitches! There are hundreds of other Substacks (Whatever that means.) Hundreds. I thought Trump meant the end of the world?
And then, the damned Sensei is three quarters of the way to legend, spawned in Carver and Wolfe DNA; somebody actually said "Twain." I mean, c'mon! And then his teaching is righteous, and his work is only delivering American Lit from an ignominious death on which I would have bet money. I am like, "Enough! I mean it! Enough!" How much truth and beauty can a person stand?
It is daunting. That is my point. I set to work. I read until my eyes bleed. Day two, I’m on the phone with a buddy from grad school. “This is awkward, Brah. Remember, use it or lose it? That was real.” One-Hundred words in four and a half hours? Slogging through the weedy remembrance of artistry-past, another dawn comes up. And then another. Making a "newsletter", whatever that is, out of spit and Bondo. I am at the desk for hours. And hours. “I used to like this?” I’m starting to miss my factory. It was such an opulent Hellscape. But then the thought comes to me: "Methamphetamine." A time-honored tradition: Phillip K. Dick? (Genre, yes, but very influential. CIA didn’t like him, so that’s upside) Jack Kerouac? (Sentence structure is not everything) And HUNTER S. THOMPSON!!! Game! Set! Match!
Okay. Ayn Rand was a speed freak. So, yes: there is a dark side. But somebody keeps buying her books.
The Dark Web, where I feel our little club belongs, was a good guess as to acquiring “inspiration”. And just like that, I am time itself. You want hours? I’ll give you days.
I’m up to One-Hundred and fifty words in four and a half hours. They are dull. They are weak. They are just plain wrong. “I’ve just started. Just got to keep at it to knock the rust off. Find the mojo. It has to be here somewhere.” I tell myself this and then I lose track of the day of the week. “I think I’m getting WORSE. This is such a drag.” I fondle the plastic bag beside the laptop. “How much rust can you have, anyway?”
The lady on the Communist Martyrs radio station tells me a couple American “healthcare tourists” get whacked (RIP – Thoughts and Prayers) in Mexico. “You had to go to Mexico?” I think. I don’t know how long goes by and I hear the Gulf Cartel, a Narco-Terrorist Fortune 500, gets their panties in a bunch, hands over five of their finest low-level pukes, and sends AN APOLOGY WITH THEM. This is not a standard organized crime procedure. That little plastic bag just quadrupled in value because they are taking a break, so we don’t send our military and ruin their business.
The Universe always gets its way. It does not care what I write, or when I write, for how long I write, or that I write. The girlfriend says she does, but she doesn’t. The dog and cat? They stop by the office from time to time and say nothing. And my children? Put them on that ever-lengthening list.
I know you’ve got lives and trauma and Samsara with which to contend. And despite that, I see your words on here. You are in Story Club, for chrissake. Sometimes I see you “like” something. You didn’t have to click that. But you did, and I thank you. That could be the spot of dopamine that gets me out of the wasteland. So, while I’m not at all sure that I can do this, I know we can do this. You give me a power greater than myself. Dumber people than us have figured it out. Crappy books come out every day. It’s a contagion. Words need us, because look at us! If you didn’t love it would you be here? Hell no! I’m pulling for you because if you win, I win. And I want George to look good; even better than he does now.
Not apropos of anything, but does anybody know of a domestic supply? Just message me? Thanks!
Good reading. Soul. Why not! Verra encouraging. We're all out there in here, er out here. Not a whiff of supply and I been here going on nine years. Get so I forget about it.
Dear Heart, I love the way you make sentences, and you only gave me,...what...seven? Not always an upscale to meet a fellow-traveler round-about tweakerdom, but on this occasion I'll count myself fortunate. And I'm thinking in forgetting about IT, my attention is where it is supposed to be. My pleasure and privilege! Be well!
This is insane, I love it. And yeah, doubt the pets care that you're writing, but maybe they're happy when you're happy (the dog at least). As, I believe, a mug or a t-shirt once told me "it's nice to be important, but it's more important to be nice" or, slightly twisted, "it's nice to be good at writing, but it's more good at writing to be nice".
Tangentially, I believe both PKD and Kerouac died fairly young from drug-related issues, and PKD was big-time losing his mind in later days, so maybe not completely game set match in a wider sense. Although, yes, good ideas came from both.
Thank you for those insights, Calum. Interesting writers, but not my faves either. Now, writers across the pharmaceutical cornucopia? A fun bunch! (Sweeping generalization.) Love your cover picture! Cheers!
“This is awkward, Brah. Remember, use it or lose it? That was real.” Ha!
Yeah, you're gonna have to stick with coffee, I think. But i want to say, I'm super glad you are here, and obviously you're a writer. One hundred and fifty words is exactly one hundred and fifty more words than no words. Keep going!
Thank you, Mary. And thank you for being here. You were the first one who communicated with me, back in '22, and I do not forget. Be well!
Coincidentally, I’ve been listening to/re-reading the custom house chapter in Hawthorne’ s The Scarlet Letter. Here he contrasts conversations from his (now temporarily) former literary life and the life of work as a general surveyor in the customhouse, where he talks with men in that profession and those with shiploads of taxable goods. Here you also see him gathering material for the mental and imaginative labor of writing. He mentions quite famous names of transcendentalists and situations in which formerly he spoke with them. Then delves into the personalities, and types of conversations he now engages with (managerial and colloquial). He seems slightly bereft, resigned, to his new situation. The first 10 minutes in a third section of the introductory ”The Custom House.”
For some reason, writing is the most fluid for me when I'm not sitting at a desk in an office of any kind. I might also add that when I'm working out things my favorite medium is a paper placemat or napkin. It's amazing how much you can fit on the different sides of a napkin. You'll have to ask my subconscious why. Although I'm just noticing coffee does seem to be the common denominator.
I think back on the man-hours I squeezed in writing at Solly's restaurant on Van Nuys, in the Canoga Park bowling alley coffee shop, 11-hour flights to Russia (although we never write as much as we think we will on a plane, do we?), Starbucks, Starbucks, Starbucks and, lately, on my five-hour train ride to Syracuse. The weird thing about writing for television was you were so busy producing shows you had to scrounge for time to write them. So, I think it's a good thing not to have all the time in the world to write. I believe the more constrictive time is the more constructive it is. I didn't mean that wordplay, sorry. (Although I didn't erase it either!)
Loved that wordplay!
Love this. Trains and planes! I so relate. I’m actually a walking writer— I seem to do some of my best “writing”in my mind when I’m walking. It’s definitely the first go-to when I’m stuck.
Solly's, sadly, is no more. Jerry's is gone, too. Art's Deli lives on ("where every sandwich is a work of Art!").
So you knew those haunts. Yup it was a sad day when Solly folded up. I actually went to Solly’s farewell party when he sold the restaurant. Held, of course, at the Solly’s in Woodland Hills.
Time. Phew. There's a kismet of some kind between last week's office hours on Revision and this week, on Time. Did George plan this?
7 years ago I started a series of short-shorts --- one page lyrical "stories" --- giving myself certain parameters. I did it while I was mired in a longer work --hoping to provide a sense of completion. around something, anything. HA!
Today i MAY have completed revision on 2 of them. SEVEN YEARS!!!!! for 2 "stories" 350 -400 words each. Even if I didn't have a demanding day-job, or the call of family and friends, or the exigencies of life in New York City, I'm not sure I could have finished my conversation with these 2 short short stories any sooner. It's not only time, or band-width. It's something else that feels metabolic. Who knows. Time spent on the work and the time it takes to realize a work may not be the same. Is this what George means by: “I think it’s important to recognize that good creative work doesn’t necessarily bear a linear relation to time spent.” ?
Bravo, Gail! Some of the best are often the shortest. I like that you felt you were in "conversation", that the feel may have been "metabolic" (it is for me, too), and your observation that the ratio between time spent & work produced is often lopsided, a truth to which I can attest.
Congratulations, Gail!
Thank you, George.
Story Club --- the whole enterprise -- has become in my writing life like a gentle hand at my back.
I've written this in these threads before, so apologies for the repeat. When i wrote my first novel, i found the following very helpful: I imposed a deadline on myself. Each Tuesday night at midnight, I had to have completed at least one full page of new work, developed over the week. I was required to turn that work in to a friend who then acknowledged its receipt with the words "Great job. Keep going." No other comments. (She was not required to read the pages. Just acknowledge them.) If I did not turn in work, the deal was over. The only consequences: She would no longer acknowledge receipt and send me the message. That's all. But we had a deal, silly as it was--new pages every Tuesday before midnight--and i kept to my side of the bargain. In this way, an entire novel was written. Deadlines have always helped me. In fact, I find it almost impossible to write without a deadline of some kind. Hope this helps somebody out there. Find a friend to turn in pages too--without comments, just acknowledgment of receipt. Maybe it will work for you, too.
I’m glad you repeated this. I remember reading it more than a year ago. It impressed me then: more so, now. Just last night as you know I finally got my 44th version of the story that won’t let go of me completed and sent off to the contest, 20 minutes under deadline. Somehow I cleared the decks enough at the last minute to have two and a half hours to make it better than it had originally been, going deeper, I hope, in several ways. But I love your idea of having that commitment and accountability, week after week. Did you only ever write and send one page, or was it one page some weeks, and five, ten or twenty on others? And how many weeks did it take to get that first draft done? And how many subsequent drafts before you were finished? (If you don’t mind me asking.)
Congratulations! That's a lot of revising.
Not so bad over a nine-year stretch!
First off, yay for you for submitting on time to that contest!
So, one page was the minimum required. i had two young kids at the time, so I couldn't promise more than that. I often wrote ONLY on Friday mornings at the library--my only true free time during the week. But yes, sometimes I would turn in a lot more. The first (shitty) draft of that novel was completed in a year. The rewrite took me another year. Then I found an agent and spent several months on another partial rewrite and rejiggering of scenes. I think that's about right--hard to remember exactly. And no, I don't at all mind you asking! Those were such fun years! Unpublished (in the fiction world) and no one waiting on me to write a book. I wrote freely and with total joy. Had no idea what I was doing!
I'm also glad you repeated it, Mary. I didn't see it the first time around. I LOVE that idea of yours. I never heard it before. So, to be clear, over the course of the week you, what, worked on that page in all its messy, protracted glory then reduced it all down to that page you handed in on Tuesday night?
Hi Norm. Over the course of the week, I simply got some writing done. Like George, I do a lot of reading over what I write as I'm writing it, and I make a lot of tweaks, new decisions, etc. So sometimes, I'd have only one page to turn in--a page I'd worked on all week. But the point was to press on each week, handing in new material, new pages of what would eventually be my book. I did not turn in "old" pages. Whatever it was I got done during the week (of new work)--that's what i handed in on Tuesday nights by midnight. This forced me to keep going. And what I turned in could always later be dumped, be edited, be rewritten, whatever. I loved the process and am forever grateful to the friend who diligently replied each week "Great job, keep going." Sometimes, she'd send me a message on a late Tuesday evening, asking where were my pages?? And that, magically, kept me going. Let me know if you have more questions. Happy to clarify further.
I used to procrastinate and put things off. Now that I've retired. I have no more excuses.
“I wrote freely and with total joy.” Oh Mary, that is so inspiring! Thank you!!