Finding a Story's Heart (In The Word Cellar)

in the clearing, Frog Creek Lodge, Lakebay, WA; spring 2010 (Diana+, Kodak GC400)

Essays are the Dianas of the writing world.

When you write creative nonfiction (such as blog posts and essays), are you trying to record the facts of what happened or to capture the essence of the experience? Unless you work as an investigative reporter or a journalist, you probably seek to capture the essence of people, places, and events in your writing. You seek to tell a story.

Great nonfiction doesn't just tell us what happened. It creates art from real life.

There's the scene at hand, and then there's the story.

I used to try to take pictures that captured the whole scene and encapsulated every little true-to-life detail. But those photos bored me; they had no story. Playing with my analogue Diana F+ camera has started to change that. Plastic cameras like the Diana are known for creating photos with a vignette effect -- the way an image fades, blurs, and shades around the edges. Vignette is also the word for a short, descriptive story.

But you don't need a plastic film camera to take great story-shots. And you don't need to write short vignettes to create a story with heart. Digital or analogue. Blog post or long form essay. They're all about framing an object subjectively; about finding the light and shadows; about contours and composition. Art isn't just about capturing what happened. It's about making sense of what happened. Art is about making connections between one thing and another and then another. I'm drawn to stories (visual and written) that do more than simply record a scene. I want stories that offer a new perspective, stories that capture the emotion, essence, and meaning of a moment.

How do you write beyond the events and into the heart of the story?

In elementary school, I went through a phase of telling the truth -- the whole of it and nothing but it. I appointed myself guardian of just the facts, ma'am. If my mom and I ran errands, going first to the bank and then to the bakery, and she later told my dad that we'd gone to the bakery and the bank, I corrected her. She had the order wrong, which meant she wasn't telling the real story.

Ah yes, the real story. Earlier this month we looked at finding our true writing voice. I said that while there is such a thing as an authentic writing voice, it's also a living thing that evolves and can splinter into different (but equally authentic) voices. Turns out that the real story is another slippery entity.

A few months ago my friend Vivienne (who, incidentally, takes gorgeous photographs bursting with stories) and I talked about how to write beyond events and into what really happened. In other words, how to find a story's heart. This topic could consume us for weeks (and maybe it will), but here's a primer on what I know about getting to the heart of things.

1. Stories need meaning, not morals. (This is some of the wisest writing advice my pal Jen Lee has given me.) Give your readers enough meat of the story and its implications to help them understand why the story matters. Don't turn a story into a Sunday School lesson. Nobody likes a moralizing know-it-all. (Trust me, I know; I've been one.) Trust your readers, but don't make them do the creative equivalent of quantum physics to understand what the story means.
2. Stories need details. But not too many. And only the important ones. How do you tell how many and which details to include? It's different for every writer and for every piece of writing, but there are a few things to keep in mind. Details should create texture and interest within a story. They should focus the readers' attention on what matters. They should add to the artfulness of the scene you're writing. Frame your paragraphs as you would frame a photograph. Use spectacular and specific details to draw in readers and immerse them in the world you're recreating. Don't try to capture the whole world, even when you're writing true stories. Be selective.
3. Stories need a bridge between the personal and the universal. Even when you're telling an intimate story about a unique experience, readers should find something in it to relate to as fellow humans. But beware of moralizing here! Don't build a literal bridge that points out the obvious or talks down to the reader. Oddly enough, the more specific your details, the more universal your story can become. This is one of those things (like so much) about writing that I see and feel intuitively. I'm working on figuring out a more concrete way to explain it. Until then, mull it over and let me know if you can verbalize it any better. (Please share in the comments if you take a stab at it.)
4. Stories need a focus. The focus of a story drives the meaning, the details, and the bridge. I usually don't know a story's focus until I've written a large chunk of it. Only after sketching out and connecting ideas do I find a story's heart. I've rewritten essays five times before I found their real essence. A story can contain a lot of seemingly disparate elements, but you need to know how they tie together. If you don't know -- at least on some intuitive level -- your readers won't know.
5. Stories need to be True. That's "Truth" with a capital "T." This may be the most important point of all. Your story needs to feel True on the page, in your mind, in the eyes of your readers. I've written things that are technically true by dutifully capturing my thoughts or the true-to-life details of a scene. But the scene fell flat and veered outside the heart of the story. Annie Dillard says it best in her "Notes for Young Writers": "The work's unity is more important than anything else about it. Those digressions that were so much fun to write must go." This is another one of those things that you learn by doing. The more you write, the easier it will be to decipher what's True, and to sacrifice anything that doesn't serve the story. (Try to get your hands on Dillard's short essay. It may be the best writing advice I've ever read. You can find it in Issue 15 of the literary journal Creative Nonfiction.)

I want to capture the whole world in my writing, but I can only do it one frame and one heartbeat at a time. Now it's your turn: How do you write into the heart of a story?

**Post your writing questions in the comments or send them to jennifer{at}thewordcellar{dot}com.

In The Word Cellar runs on the second and fourth Wednesday of the month. Read other posts in the series here.

Writing Masquerade: Finding Your Voice (In The Word Cellar)

my shadow (with crazy pigtail buns in my hair)

(Scroll down to the end of this post for a finding-your-voice prompt called Writing Masquerade.)

I have to be honest with you: I've started to dread writing these "In The Word Cellar" columns. This is only the sixth post in the series, and already I feel overwhelmed and worn out. Today I finally figured out why. I'd lost my voice. So today, I'm going to write about voice. (Ever hear the adage that we teach what we need to learn?)

Sometimes, when I really-really care about something, I freeze up. I get twitchy and over-analytical. I worry myself into a state of paralysis. Or worse, I start acting like someone who isn't really me. That's what happened with these posts about writing, because I really-really care about them. I'd seized up with too much caring.

I wanted you to trust me as a writer and a guide on this writing journey. But I was worried that you wouldn't. My go-to move when I feel frightened or insecure is to use logic. So I allowed my analytical left-brain to take over. And that darling leftie told me that I should sound smart for you. And then you'd trust me, right? Ugh. Is there anything worse than someone trying to sound smart? Oh, wait, there is: Someone trying to sound smart while simultaneously pretending they're NOT trying to sound smart. Ugh-ugh.

I love language. I thrill at the thought of telling a good story, of connecting with people through words, of creating something beautiful. Writing is my art and my passion. I wanted to share it with you so much that I lost my voice while trying to do it.

So enough. I'm not going to try to sound smart anymore. I'm going to share what I've learned about writing from my mentors and through practice. I invite you to share, too. You are an important part of this equation. This community can learn from its members. So share what you've got: questions, answers, observations. All of those things help us learn and grow as writers.

This is what I know about voice: We write best when we write in a voice that's true to ourselves.

But how do you find your writing voice? How do you develop a style?

You write. And write. And write. You practice the art and craft of spinning stories, of stringing together words to create meaning. You can also read writers that you love -- not so you can copy them, but so you can see what styles and topics interest you, what makes your heart sing. Follow the energy of what enlivens you. Be inspired to write with that energy.

Over time, your voice will emerge. It will be like that saying about pornography: You'll know it when you see it. You'll probably also find that you have more than one possible writing style. I have one basic voice here on my blog, but I have a different voice when I'm writing lyric essays. We're multifaceted people; it makes sense that we'd have different writing moves. Style, like language itself, is a living, changing entity that can evolve and morph over time.

Writing Masquerade
Here's a prompt to help you try on and tap into a few voices. Pretend the blank page or computer screen is a masquerade ball and you get to dress up your writing any way you like. You can play around with your words and your style, see what fits and what excites you.

(It might seem counterintuitive to talk about masks and pretending when the goal is to find our true voice. But trying something new or out of character can give us access to parts of our voice that we didn't realize we had.)

1. Pick a topic or event to write about. It can be anything. (A few suggestions: your favorite part of the day; an encounter with a stranger; a childhood memory; your high school prom or graduation; the moment you realized that you were a grown-up.)
2. For this experiment, you can write as much or as little as you like, but a few paragraphs is probably a good starting point.
3. Now write about your topic in whatever style comes to mind at first. Don't think about this. Just write.
4. Next, try on a few different writing voices. Write about the same topic again, but put on a different mask:

• Be a Jester: Could you be funny in the piece? Play and have fun. Even sad topics can sometimes handle humor.
• Be a Poet: What if you tried writing about your topic lyrically, with beautiful sensory details, imagery, and metaphors? Take a flight of fancy and see what gorgeous ideas you can string together. 
• Be a Vixen: What's the dark, shadowy side that you're not telling us? Pull on this mask and let your inner bad-girl come out and play on the page. Let her be as sexy, as mysterious, or as mean as she wants to be. (Remember, no one else has to see it.)
• Be a Queen: Own it, sister. Write like you mean it, every blessed word of it. Be strong. Write with authority. Write what you'd write if you ruled the land and could say whatever you wanted without consequence.

I hope you'll share your thoughts on voice and style and maybe a few of your masquerade experiments in the comments. And if you post something on your blog, please link to it!

**Post your writing questions in the comments or send them to jennifer{at}thewordcellar{dot}com.

In The Word Cellar runs on the second and fourth Wednesday of the month. Check out other posts in the series here.

Don't Stress About Verb Tenses (In The Word Cellar)

image by Banalities

So far, most of these "In The Word Cellar" columns have looked at theories and ideas behind writing. I love that stuff, but it's time to get down and dirty, to dig into the rich soil of language. I'm talking about the nitty gritty tips that help you find the sweet spot where technique supports, expands, and deepens inspiration.

And nothing is nittier or grittier than verbs. Verbs create the action in your stories. Verbs are action. Good verbs tickle and caress your nouns. They make your writing sing and sizzle; they impact your story's mood and movement.

There's so much to talk about, but today we'll look at verb tenses.

Past or Present: What's better?
You already use verb tenses without thinking much about them. Past, present, and future -- all very simple. In fact, these are called the "simple tenses." Many stories (fiction and nonfiction) are told in the simple past tense. This is an easy, straightforward way to craft a story.

Alternately, you can write a story in simple present tense. This technique infuses your writing with energy and gives it a sense of immediacy. It helps to pull your readers into the scene so they feel like they're part of the action. On the other hand, present tense can be a bit tricky to maintain in a long piece of writing because it can begin to feel contrived. But it's a great option for some blog posts and essays. I think present tense works well for humorous stories, but it can also work well in stories with poignant emotion.

TIP: If a piece of writing feels flat or just doesn't seem to be "working," try rewriting a small portion of it in another tense. Then see if it flows better in the new tense.

(You'll usually stick with past or present tense for this. Writing a whole story in future tense creates a much different feel and isn't usually the best choice. But it could be a fun experiment, so give it a try and see what happens. You might like it for certain pieces.)

EXAMPLE (past tense): I woke up and looked over at Marie's beach towel. She wasn't there, but her romance novel and bikini top were. I scanned the beach for her. When my eyes reached the water line, I saw Marie running in the surf and laughing, like a bare-chested Baywatch beauty. I thought to myself, "It's going to be a long week."

There's nothing wrong with this little scene in past tense. But for fun, let's see how it feels in present tense.

EXAMPLE (present tense): I wake up and look over at Marie's beach towel. She isn't there, but her romance novel and bikini top are. I scan the beach for her. When my eyes reach the water line, I see Marie running in the surf and laughing, like a bare-chested Baywatch beauty. I think to myself, "It's going to be a long week."

In this example, both tenses work. The present tense version feels more immediate, but the past tense version works just as well. In a case like this, you'd choose your tense based on the rest of the story and the effect you want to create.

Whatever tense you choose, be consistent. Using verb tenses consistently helps to create clarity. In other words, don't start a story in one tense and then randomly shift into another unless the action of the story warrants it. 

When would a shift in tenses be warranted? This is where the perfect tenses can come into play.

Past Perfect: Deeper into the past
First of all, what are these so-called perfect tenses? For a thorough overview, check out this handy explanation from Purdue's Online Writing Lab (OWL). If you just want the fast and dirty version, here are examples of the perfect tenses.

Past Perfect: I had skinny dipped.
Present Perfect: I have skinny dipped.
Future Perfect: I will have skinny dipped.

Since past perfect is the one that trips up a lot of writers, let's look at it. Here's how OWL explains it: "The past perfect tense designates action in the past just as simple past does, but the action of the past perfect is action completed in the past before another action." Before your eyes glaze over, read this tip.

TIP: What if you're writing a story in the simple past tense and want to refer to something that happened before the scene of the story? You need to go deeper into the past. This is when you use the past perfect tense. Think of the simple past tense as the "now" of the story. You use past perfect to indicate action that happened before the scene at hand.

Here's an example: I woke up and looked over at Marie's beach towel. She wasn't there, but her romance novel and bikini top were. Marie had said she wanted to try a topless beach, but I'd thought she'd meant next week in France, not here in New Jersey!

The first two sentences are in simple past tense. They set the simple past tense as the "now" of the story. The last sentence uses past perfect tense. Marie made the comment about trying a topless beach before this scene in the story. Using the past perfect tense ("Marie had said") makes this clear to the reader. 

If I had written that last sentence in simple past ("Marie said she wanted to try a topless beach...."), it would seem like Marie was saying it in this scene. But Marie is running around half-naked down by the water and not saying anything in this scene.

I know this might seem nitpicky. But remember: The nitty gritty details create the texture of your writing. Readers may be able to handle a few verb tense slip-ups, but too much inconsistency will give them verbal whiplash. Using consistent and appropriate verb tenses creates clarity and smoothness in your writing. When the sequence of events is clear, your readers won't have to think about verb tense at all; they'll just enjoy the ride.

TIP: Verbs -- and their tenses -- work best when they are clear, concise, and consistent.

Summary
1. Be clear, concise, and consistent with your verb tenses.
2. Past tense is easy to use and works for a lot of different stories.
3. Writing in present tense can add urgency, immediacy, and intimacy to your story.
4. Try rewriting a piece in a different tense to see if that improves its flow and feel.
5. Past perfect tense takes you deeper into the past. It indicates action that happened before the "now" of a story that is already being told in simple past tense. 

Question: Is all of this old hat to you? Or did you learn something new today? I want to tailor these columns to you, so tell me what you need!

**Have a writing question? Send it to jennifer{at}thewordcellar{dot}com.**

In The Word Cellar columns run on the second and fourth Wednesday of the month. Check out other articles in the series here.

Mindful Writing Exercise (In The Word Cellar)

 
The Chocolate Room, Brooklyn, April 2010

 Last summer, I declared that I was learning to write badly:

I am learning to write badly. Don't misunderstand me: I can write badly. Very badly, in fact. But I hate doing it. I hate to write when it's hard and cumbersome and ugly. I hate to write when the words aren't flowing easily and every sentence feels like a Herculean effort laden with clichés. I hate to write when I don't know what I want to say or can't get to the heart of what I mean. And since I'm all about pleasure, I avoid the writing when it's hard and bad. But this doesn't help me as a writer. So today, and tomorrow and tomorrow for however long it takes for it to become more natural, I'm practicing writing badly. I'm practicing sticking with it even when I can hardly stand it. I'm practicing the writing process, no matter what the product looks like. I'm learning to write badly so that I can write well more often.

In the eight months since then, I have indeed learned to write badly more often. This is a triumph! I still have days when the words don't flow and I just want to stop trying until inspiration (that elusive lover) returns. But now, the difference is that I have more staying power to sit still and keep writing rather than fleeing to more palatable tasks like doing laundry or watching videos of adorable kittens online. I wouldn't go so far as to say my discipline has improved, but I guess that's one way to view it. (I've written about my preference for the term "enthusiasm" rather than "discipline.")

Of course, the end goal isn't to write badly. It's to keep writing, to keep honing my craft and using my skills, so that the good stuff has time and room to come out on the page. By increasing my commitment and quantity, I've also improved my quality. By working through the rough patches, I've opened up new fields where I can play and have fun with words.

This struggle with writing reminds me of the way people often describe the challenges of meditation. When I practice sitting calmly and try to clear my mind, it wants to get up and run around, showing me all of the things I should think about or attend to. My internal dialogue is similar for both writing and meditation. It goes something like this.

Okay, I'm concentrating. (Oh look, laundry!) Come back to the page. (This is hard. Wah!) Breathe in and out. (I need cute kitten videos right now!) Write a few more words. (Don't wanna!) Breathe and be still. (I need to call the pet groomer tomorrow.) Write.

Writing and meditation both require a certain paradoxical level of mindfulness and detachment. In meditation, I try to notice the thoughts that float through my mind and then let them go without attachment or analysis. In writing, I notice my resistance, and then I write another sentence without judgment. Meditation and writing both require ongoing practice. Breath by breath. Word by word.

Here's a mindful writing exercise for you to try.

The next time you sit down to write, notice how you feel if it seems to be going badly. How long does it take you to feel frustrated? What do you feel compelled to do instead of write? How can you bring your attention back to the story at hand? What helps you to push through and to keep writing?

Try this exercise a few times over the coming weeks and see if it becomes easier to be committed even when you don't feel the magic of inspiration. Notice if there is a certain point at which the magic shows up for you in the writing practice. Does this tell you anything about how you process or pursue your creativity?

I'd love to hear how your writing practice is going. Are you feeling enthusiastic? Meditative? Like you're engaged in a wrestling match? Please consider sharing your thoughts in the comments or sending me an email.

**I'll be answering community questions in the coming weeks. Send your writing questions to jennifer{at}thewordcellar{dot}com with "In The Word Cellar" as the subject line.**

In The Word Cellar (normally) runs on the second and fourth Wednesday of the month. Check out other articles in the series here. (Apologies for this post being one day late. Clearly, I have some lessons to learn about discipline. But I remain enthusiastic.)

Who Needs Rules? Writers & Readers Do. (In The Word Cellar)

image by Horia Varlan

In general, I have a complicated relationship with rules. On the one hand, I tend to be a goody-two-shoes who obeys the rules because I'm afraid of getting in trouble. On the other hand, I long to rebel, to break out and do my own thing, rules be damned!

And so it is with my writing. I use this tension between rule following nerd and raucous rebel to my benefit. When we know the rules, we can decide when and why to break them. This enables us to use language, grammar, and punctuation more effectively.

But why must we writers bother with rules in the first place? Maybe you're thinking, "Isn't writing all about creative self-expression?" Yes. But as long as you're writing something for other people to read, you need to care about the rules.

Why? Because the rules of grammar, word usage, and punctuation are a form of etiquette between you and the reader. Writing is communication. An essay, blog post, story, or novel is an interactive entity. You may write it when you're alone, and a reader may read it on her own, but you both need to understand the rules of the game in order for the piece of writing to work.

First of all, using proper punctuation and grammar shows readers that you use language with authority. This helps them to put their trust in you and what you're writing. Have you ever read something pockmarked with mistakes? It's hard to give the author or the material much credibility when that happens. Second, following established rules is a way to give readers signposts and signals about the rhythm and meaning of your writing. If you suddenly made up new punctuation marks or used a comma when you should have used a question mark, you risk diminishing your authority while also confusing readers.

Consider capitalization, another device that helps to direct readers. We capitalize the beginnings of sentences to show that a new "unit" or thought has begun. Likewise, we capitalize proper nouns to indicate that we're referring to a particular person or place. Look at the following sentences.

I walked to sandy shores.

I walked to Sandy Shores.

In the first example, I'm telling the reader (in a rather poetic voice) that I walked to some shores that are sandy. In the second sentence, I indicate that I walked to a specific place called Sandy Shores. Depending on the context of the sentence, this could be an important point for the reader to know. (For example, maybe Sandy Shores is five miles away or is just around the corner. Maybe the narrator's red hot lover or estranged mother lives in Sandy Shores. Maybe Sandy Shores is the name of a Christian missionary house or a seedy bar. Either way, "Sandy Shores" tells us something different than "sandy shores.")

These are basic examples of why writing rules matter. Now, let's talk about rule breaking!

Last week I wrote a blog post using all lowercase letters. I ignored the rules of capitlization because I wanted to create a feeling of intimacy with the reader. I also wanted the words to show visually that I felt tired and small. Of course, the poet e.e. cummings is known for his use of lowercase letters, and I referenced him at the beginning of my post. I invoked cummings' name for several reasons. First, I was making a bit of a joke. But I also wanted people to know that I was aware of breaking the rules and to show that I was doing it on purpose. I felt confident that my readers could follow this tiny act of rebellion.

When I decided to use lowercase letters, I decided to let my desired style trump the established rules. I didn't do it wrong simply because I didn't know any better. Rather, I made a conscious choice to do something different. In this case, I'm comfortable with that risk. This doesn't mean that all rule breaking, even conscious rule breaking, will work well or to your advantage.

Rule breaking is one of those grey areas in writing that depend on the author, the intended audience, the format, the desired effect, style, tone, and the individual piece of writing. You should make the decision to go against a rule based on all of these factors. For example, writing for a blog may be different than writing for a major magazine. Different rules of style may apply, but you should always be in control of your writing. (In other words, informal writing isn't an excuse to be sloppy.)

So. Does that help to clear things up or just create more confusion? (See how I made a whole sentence out of the word "so"? I'm breaking rules all over the place!)

This post just grazes the surface of rules and rule breaking in writing. Let's get a discussion going in the comments. Are you a stickler for rules? Do you hate them? What are your rule breaking questions?

**I'll be answering community questions in the coming weeks. Send your writing questions to jennifer{at}thewordcellar{dot}com with "In The Word Cellar" as the subject line.**

In The Word Cellar runs on the second and fourth Wednesday of the month. Check out other articles in the series here.