writing

Up-and-coming author Jackson Pearce's video Imaginary Writing Process (embedded below) cracked me up as well as hitting home.

No matter how many stories you hear about the years of writing, rewriting, and rejection that lead up to publication, you always think it will be different for you—that you'll be the one writer whose manuscript everyone loves on first sight. (Admittedly, I've heard a few author success stories that do make it sound almost that easy.) As the months pass, you learn the terrible truth. You are not that writer. You've got that same long row to hoe as (almost) everyone else.

But chin up! Don't give up. And watch this video:

Pearce also has a number of other videos taking a humorous look at the writer's life. Check 'em out when you need a smile (and when don't we all need a smile)?

All writers hear, ad nauseum, about the importance of making a great first impression on their readers. You've got to have a great first chapter. A great first page. A great first paragraph. A great first sentence. Maybe even a great first word. You've got to grab hold of your readers from the get-go and, hopefully, never let go.

To drag out the questionable analogies, it's sort of like a lawnmower. You need a tremendous yank on the cord at the beginning to start the thing. But once it's running, it'll practically drive itself. Which isn't to say you can let it drive itself. There are rocks to look out for. Trees. Flowers. Squirrels. Small children. And it can always run out of gas. Um, yeah.

Speaking of questionable analogies and first lines, it's that time of year when San Jose State announces the winners of their annual Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest. Writers are invited to submit their ridiculously bad first sentences, and the very best/worst are recognized by the university. Read them and weep (with laughter). (Via Finding Wonderland.)

Just a few more months, and we can enjoy the annual Literary Review Bad Sex in Fiction Award!

ETA, 8/18/08:
Meanwhile, Peter Robins of The Telegraph argues it's actually second sentences that are the better gauge of a book. (Via Fuse #8)

This week, both Maureen Johnson and Justine Larbalestier advised their blog readers not to pursue a degree in creative writing. Their basic thrust is that one becomes a writer by soaking up many different subjects and, of course, actually writing—not by having a diploma that says "Master/Bachelor of Fine Arts in Creative Writing." And that having a degree in creative writing will probably not get you a job out of college.

Anyway, as someone who majored in creative writing in undergrad, I have to disagree. Well, not disagree so much as tack on a few "buts." I know, Johnson and Larbalestier are bestselling authors, and I have never sold a book (yet). But. But.

But #1: There's nothing wrong with a BA in creative writing as long as you accept that it will not get you anywhere further than the average liberal arts degree these days—which is to say, not very far without several years' experience, an advanced degree, and/or some poverty along the way. But it won't necessarily get you less far, either. I believe you can become an entry-level corporate drone as readily with a creative writing degree as with a history, psychology, or dance therapy degree. My only college friends who professionally entered their field of study directly out of undergrad majored in computers, science, or engineering. (I didn't know any business majors, but maybe that goes for them, too.)

But #2: Once you're out of college and have spent several years in poverty and/or as a corporate drone and decide you're ready for a career that pays your bills but doesn't suck out your soul, you can look into a graduate program. At least from a humanities perspective, if you're smart and driven, grad schools don't give a flying farfetnugen what you majored in as an undergrad. I went to library school, which glories in generalism. I know CS and English majors who went back for MBAs. I know a music major who went back to school to become a nurse practitioner. College is a starting point, not an ending point. (And consider all that educational debt an investment in your sanity and financial security.)

But #3: Of course, this still doesn't solve the problem of becoming a writer, and I suppose that's probably those authors' point. No degree is a shortcut to publication, assuming that's something you desire. But here's the but: a creative writing program can give you that kick in the backside you need to formulate a writing routine and seriously hone your craft, as well as give you useful professional connections, to get you going. I take the Longstockings as a prime example. They all met in the New School's MFA program, and within a few years, most of them published critically acclaimed novels for young people. Could they have done it without the MFA? I'm sure they could have. But I don't hear a lot of regret coming from their corner, either.

As for me, I should say that I didn't just major in creative writing. I started out in computer science, then switched to psychology. I added creative writing mainly because I'd taken so many workshops by senior year that I thought I might as well make it official. My BS in psych, not the creative writing major, got me my first job out of college. But once I left that job, realizing psych research wasn't for me, I was left exactly where I would have been, money/career-wise, with just the creative writing major. (Which, as it happens, is a lot farther than most people can get without any college degree at all. I have never had to work at Wal-Mart—knock on wood.)

My primary mentor in undergrad, the author Hilary Masters, wasn't keen on MFA programs. His take was that writers in prestigious MFA workshops all come out sounding sort of the same. His advice was to practice, practice, practice on my own. It took several years past college for me to get really serious about practicing, but I'm finally getting there. Sometimes it's tempting to look into an MFA program because I'd like the professional guidance. But guidance can come from other places as well.

I guess my overall "but" is this:

But #4: A degree in creative writing may not help you. But it won't hurt you, either. Remember, everything's grist for the mill.

When I was a kid, I never fully forgave James Howe for writing, in Morgan's Zoo, that one of the animals was to be shipped to the zoo in Kalamazoo. There was no zoo in Kalamazoo, as I knew darn well; the nearest zoo was in Battle Creek. My parents explained poetic license, but to me it was just wrong.

In contrast, I never got bent out of shape about John Bellairs making up a whole new Michigan town, which he called New Zebedee, in The House with a Clock in Its Walls.

Why the difference? I guess it was perceived intent. I knew John Bellairs hadn't made up a whole new town by accident, but there was nothing to suggest James Howe hadn't just made a mistake when it came to the (lack of) zoo in Kalamazoo.

The story's in the details, as I tell my little creative writing charges at the library. But where's the line between making up the details (John Bellairs) and getting the details wrong (James Howe)?

As readers, we don't blink at Ray Bradbury's invented Green Town, Illinois; M. E. Kerr's Seaville, New York; William Faulkner's Yoknapatawpha County; Sinclair Lewis's whole freaking state of Winnemac. We accept them as surely as the Land of Oz or Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. They're simply part of the fantastic landscape created in the pages.

But Audrey Niffenegger has her characters in The Time Traveler's Wife get off at the Western Avenue Brown Line el stop instead of the more logical Rockwell stop, and readers are all over it like wolves on a wounded deer.

This question of geography and accuracy is a thorn in my side when it comes to my own writing. I feel like if I set my books in real-life locations, I have to be meticulous about getting every, single solitary detail right, from names of streets to schools to restaurants and beyond. Or I could avoid the whole dilemma by carving out a bit of literary space-time and plunking in my imaginary city where no one else can tell me what's what.

Is there middle ground? I've been arguing with myself about that—whether I could set my stories in a real-life city but invent specifics within that city. Obviously fiction writers constantly do this with characters, putting them in real-life cities though they'll never be found by Directory Assistance. How many geographic specifics can a writer change and have the setting still feel authentic?

Okay to add/change (in my current line of thought):
- Streets
- Restaurants and stores

Not okay to change:
- Colleges and universities
- Landmarks or geological features

Not sure about:
- Schools

In 95% or more of the books I read, it probably doesn't matter. They're set in towns so bland I can't be bothered to check whether they're real. And even if they are, what are the chances I'll ever go there for myself to fact-check? So maybe I'm overthinking this—but I'm sure that no one reads a book set in a real-life city more closely than the residents of that city. (Poor Audrey Niffenegger!)

What do you think: where is the line between an author making stuff up and an author getting things wrong?

I went to Kathleen Duey's website this morning, desperately hoping for news of the next volume in her A Resurrection of Magic sequence. Alas: none. According to her interview with Cynthia Leitich Smith, Book Two is coming out sometime in 2008. Anyone know more?

Anyway, my real reason for posting: Kathleen Duey posts a lot of photographs to her blog of places and items she visualizes when she's working on her book. An elaborate dome in an Abu Dhabi hotel lobby becomes the ceiling of the king's library in Limori; these keys become part of the story as well. Duey apparently uses this technique a lot when "world building" in her fantasy novels.

I can usually get a pretty good picture of people and places when I'm writing realistic fiction, because I can draw on my own experiences. (e.g., I've seen quite a few public schools in my life.) But whenever I've tried to write speculative fiction, too many details are vague because I haven't been able to fully visualize the world. Maybe I can persuade my father to part with some of his 50 million National Geographic magazines and mine them for ideas!