You are not a writer because of how many fans you have, how many subscribe to your blog, how many copies of your book you sold, or how many people have read your book (the last two are never the same). You are a writer because you write.
Photo by Striatic
The fans will come long after you have written, months or years or even after you have died. For now, you need to write so you can become proficient. Once you have become proficient you need to write to find your muse. Once you have found your muse (and discovered a way to keep her) you need to write so you can write something worth reading.
But don't worry about that right now. Take out your pen. Sit before your keyboard. Keep your eyes open and keep your pen on the page and keep those fingers on the keyboard so that your muse can find you ready.
And for all our sake, stay awake! Keep your eyes open! If she finds you asleep, she'll leave you to the darkness, that place where many a writer has lost their minds, and you will weep and gnash your teeth as you pray for her return.
If she finds you ready, though, and if you can hold onto her long enough to write something under her influence, you will have your fans and your subscribers and maybe you will even sell a few books.
PRACTICE
Spend some time free writing, today.
Which means write about anything that comes across your mental awareness as quickly as you can.
If what you write is terrible, that's fine. If it's beautiful, that's fine. It will probably be both, but your job is not to write well. Your job is just to write and let beauty and terror visit you as they may.
Write for fifteen minutes. Post your practice in the comments when you're finished.
Good luck!
I have a question about this free writing business. Is the point to just write whatever is in your head at the moment? Because when I do that, I get a lot of metatalk about what I’m doing. I suspect if I do it long enough, I will clear out all of those thoughts and find something real, but most of the time what I write when I free write makes very little sense.
Here is a small portion of what I wrote just now that was not total crap. I wrote this when I started thinking about an ebook idea I got a couple days ago. Totally unedited:
————————-
I started asking questions before I thought about the answers I might get. Do I really want to know the truth, or should I keep myself in ignorance? After all, this all happened 30 years ago. It’s not like there is a whole lot more to know than what I know already, so why not just leave the secrets in the dark instead of poking around and making this whole wound fester? Still, there is something inside of me that needs to know, regardless of the outcome. I need to ask the questions and grieve the responses. If I don’t do this, I wil never be able to let go of what I don’t know. My mind will continue to create stories and histories of its own, rewriting what was real and replacing it with what I want it to be. Then the rest of me will regret never having been a part of that history. The fantasy is worse than reality because it can never be grasped. Reality may not meet my expectations, but at least it is real.
To answer your question re: freewriting, I get into that metatalk to but have learned to avoid it as much as I can because I don’t think it’s very helpful.
Free writing isn’t perfect, but it can be a good tool to get your fingers moving on the keyboard and your brain thinking in words and complete sentences. In other words, it’s a warm up, and at it’s best it is a tool to route out something you’re passionate about to write something longer and deeper.
I do think your free writing exercise accomplished something. You explored some thought in an orderly fashion and made (seemingly to me) a decision about something in your creative future. There’s something to be said for that.
Well I’m not doing the 15 minutes thing, so that’ll save all of us some time. But…I did want to say that I just read the book Quitters by Jon Acuff, which was not well written, but there was a part that struck me: he quoted some guy who said “the audience doesn’t create the message.” And I thought, “Damn straight the audience doesn’t create the message. When that happens you get Two and a Half Men and it’s content that won’t last. The audience responds to the message that you already have.” Shortly after I thought, “What the H am I trying to say?”
Also, when I’m about to blog, I often write a warm up sentence or two talking about the blogging muse that occasionally comes to me at night and whispers in my ear.
Furthermore, sometimes I get the song stuck in my head that goes “haters gotta hate, lovers gotta love, I don’t even want none of the above….” But then instead I say “writers gotta write.” It’s catchy.
Emily! So glad you commented! How are you?
Would you mind asking the blogging muse to come whisper in my ear as well. And perhaps you could also cover that haters / writers song and send me a copy so I can get the full experience. I LOVE IT.
Joe! I’m great! Back at home in OK before returning to Egypt for another 4 months, finishing an Arabic fellowship though I’ve realized I actually prefer the English language. But what can you do?
I’ve always kind of creeped on your blog from afar (as if you didn’t want people looking at it), and I have to say congratulations on….everything i.e. marriage, blog stuff, etc.
The blogging muse will be right over, but she does work for tips, FYI, and I’ll send you a cover of the song as soon as I finish writing it. That is, in fact, another blog idea.
Congrats on everything again…I’ll be sure to keep on poking around here since there seems to be some good stuff.
I have a question about this free writing business. Is the point to just write whatever is in your head at the moment? Because when I do that, I get a lot of metatalk about what I’m doing. I suspect if I do it long enough, I will clear out all of those thoughts and find something real, but most of the time what I write when I free write makes very little sense.
Here is a small portion of what I wrote just now that was not total crap. I wrote this when I started thinking about an ebook idea I got a couple days ago. Totally unedited:
————————-
I started asking questions before I thought about the answers I might get. Do I really want to know the truth, or should I keep myself in ignorance? After all, this all happened 30 years ago. It’s not like there is a whole lot more to know than what I know already, so why not just leave the secrets in the dark instead of poking around and making this whole wound fester? Still, there is something inside of me that needs to know, regardless of the outcome. I need to ask the questions and grieve the responses. If I don’t do this, I wil never be able to let go of what I don’t know. My mind will continue to create stories and histories of its own, rewriting what was real and replacing it with what I want it to be. Then the rest of me will regret never having been a part of that history. The fantasy is worse than reality because it can never be grasped. Reality may not meet my expectations, but at least it is real.
To answer your question re: freewriting, I get into that metatalk to but have learned to avoid it as much as I can because I don’t think it’s very helpful.
Free writing isn’t perfect, but it can be a good tool to get your fingers moving on the keyboard and your brain thinking in words and complete sentences. In other words, it’s a warm up, and at it’s best it is a tool to route out something you’re passionate about to write something longer and deeper.
I do think your free writing exercise accomplished something. You explored some thought in an orderly fashion and made (seemingly to me) a decision about something in your creative future. There’s something to be said for that.
Well I’m not doing the 15 minutes thing, so that’ll save all of us some time. But…I did want to say that I just read the book Quitters by Jon Acuff, which was not well written, but there was a part that struck me: he quoted some guy who said “the audience doesn’t create the message.” And I thought, “Damn straight the audience doesn’t create the message. When that happens you get Two and a Half Men and it’s content that won’t last. The audience responds to the message that you already have.” Shortly after I thought, “What the H am I trying to say?”
Also, when I’m about to blog, I often write a warm up sentence or two talking about the blogging muse that occasionally comes to me at night and whispers in my ear.
Furthermore, sometimes I get the song stuck in my head that goes “haters gotta hate, lovers gotta love, I don’t even want none of the above….” But then instead I say “writers gotta write.” It’s catchy.
Emily! So glad you commented! How are you?
Would you mind asking the blogging muse to come whisper in my ear as well. And perhaps you could also cover that haters / writers song and send me a copy so I can get the full experience. I LOVE IT.
Joe! I’m great! Back at home in OK before returning to Egypt for another 4 months, finishing an Arabic fellowship though I’ve realized I actually prefer the English language. But what can you do?
I’ve always kind of creeped on your blog from afar (as if you didn’t want people looking at it), and I have to say congratulations on….everything i.e. marriage, blog stuff, etc.
The blogging muse will be right over, but she does work for tips, FYI, and I’ll send you a cover of the song as soon as I finish writing it. That is, in fact, another blog idea.
Congrats on everything again…I’ll be sure to keep on poking around here since there seems to be some good stuff.
Well, Mr. JoeWrite, I gotta hand it to you. You have described perfectly our dilemma, and you brashly asserted a workable remedy, almost the same prescription of free writing that I encountered, several years ago when I first peered into this abyss, at the instigation of a fella named Peter Elbow. You may have heard of him. The free writing strategy has some legitimacy, and is definitely worth trying. It is comparable to Keynesian pump-priming in the quasi-science of economics, whereby you start the flow knowing that something will come of it.
The older, more downhome analogy would be that long-levered hand-pump back on the farm out in the chicken yard, maybe the farm back in Oklahoma or maybe it was Kansas where the Joads got blown out because of dustbowl travesty which was the global warming disaster of its day. All that happened before Steinbeck wrote about it in California years later.
Could happen again. We may all be staring into the abyss and not even know it, I mean Jon Corzine didn’t even know where the 1.3 bill went.
You say, “It is comparable to Keynesian pump-priming in the quasi-science of economics, whereby you start the flow knowing that something will come of it. ” Ha! So true. I’ve never thought of it that way. Wonderful.
And I love how you just ran with that metaphor.
Well, Mr. JoeWrite, I gotta hand it to you. You have described perfectly our dilemma, and you brashly asserted a workable remedy, almost the same prescription of free writing that I encountered, several years ago when I first peered into this abyss, at the instigation of a fella named Peter Elbow. You may have heard of him. The free writing strategy has some legitimacy, and is definitely worth trying. It is comparable to Keynesian pump-priming in the quasi-science of economics, whereby you start the flow knowing that something will come of it.
The older, more downhome analogy would be that long-levered hand-pump back on the farm out in the chicken yard, maybe the farm back in Oklahoma or maybe it was Kansas where the Joads got blown out because of dustbowl travesty which was the global warming disaster of its day. All that happened before Steinbeck wrote about it in California years later.
Could happen again. We may all be staring into the abyss and not even know it, I mean Jon Corzine didn’t even know where the 1.3 bill went.
You say, “It is comparable to Keynesian pump-priming in the quasi-science of economics, whereby you start the flow knowing that something will come of it. ” Ha! So true. I’ve never thought of it that way. Wonderful.
And I love how you just ran with that metaphor.
Hi Joe,
Great post. You are, of course, right: focus on the writing, not the legions of adoring fans.
That being said, I would argue that you should keep the *reader*in mind (if not the fan…) while you’re writing. It’s too easy to dodder off into that great expanse of your own mind if you don’t have someone to talk to…
~Graham
Maybe, but where does true creativity happen? It happens in that closed room when you’re locked up with your passions. I think we edit for our audience, but we usually write for ourselves.
Hi Joe,
Great post. You are, of course, right: focus on the writing, not the legions of adoring fans.
That being said, I would argue that you should keep the *reader*in mind (if not the fan…) while you’re writing. It’s too easy to dodder off into that great expanse of your own mind if you don’t have someone to talk to…
~Graham
Maybe, but where does true creativity happen? It happens in that closed room when you’re locked up with your passions. I think we edit for our audience, but we usually write for ourselves.
A new year is almost here. New failures, new victories.
It’s a part of you, a part of me.
Countless hours staring at a screen.
What have you learned?
What does it mean?
Quit dwelling in the past.
Take pleasure in the pain.
Push forward relentlessly.
Embrace every moment.
Nice, Jim. This is a cool little poem. That question, “What does it mean?” Haunts us all when we look to the past, I think.
A new year is almost here. New failures, new victories.
It’s a part of you, a part of me.
Countless hours staring at a screen.
What have you learned?
What does it mean?
Quit dwelling in the past.
Take pleasure in the pain.
Push forward relentlessly.
Embrace every moment.
Nice, Jim. This is a cool little poem. That question, “What does it mean?” Haunts us all when we look to the past, I think.
Well, I did it for 15 minutes. It was so BAAAADDDD that it’s not getting posted here. Did it provide release? Did it get me going onto something else? I really can’t say. I think frankly it just took 15 minutes off something else I was working on, but had run out of steam with. Maybe, it’s all working on an unconscious level. I hope so!
Thank you for the prompt anyways.
Ha! Well I guess the muse did not visit today. It happens. Thanks for commenting and telling me about it anyway, Audrey 🙂
Muse did visit.. later… when reading Heather Marsten’s comment. So, you’re doing a great thing having all of us write anyway Joe Bunting. It’s the community that counts.
Agreed!
Well, I did it for 15 minutes. It was so BAAAADDDD that it’s not getting posted here. Did it provide release? Did it get me going onto something else? I really can’t say. I think frankly it just took 15 minutes off something else I was working on, but had run out of steam with. Maybe, it’s all working on an unconscious level. I hope so!
Thank you for the prompt anyways.
Ha! Well I guess the muse did not visit today. It happens. Thanks for commenting and telling me about it anyway, Audrey 🙂
Muse did visit.. later… when reading Heather Marsten’s comment. So, you’re doing a great thing having all of us write anyway Joe Bunting. It’s the community that counts.
Agreed!
Terrific insight, Joe. I agree that we should write first and foremost because we love and need to…and would feel crushed if we didn’t.
I do feel that paying mind to our readers is essential as well, however, particularly after that first draft is written. And connecting with potential readers throughout the writing process can help ensure a broader reach while fending off the negative consequences of lack of (“real life”) human interaction. 😉
Yeah, I firmly agree with you, August. Most writers need to learn to be marketers, particularly if they would like to be paid for their work. Of course, William Blake was a terrible “marketer,” didn’t write with his audience in mind, and lived in poverty most of his life. However, he’s now considered one of the great poets of the last several hundred years. Blake was definitely still a writer, but I probably fall much more on your side of things.
Terrific insight, Joe. I agree that we should write first and foremost because we love and need to…and would feel crushed if we didn’t.
I do feel that paying mind to our readers is essential as well, however, particularly after that first draft is written. And connecting with potential readers throughout the writing process can help ensure a broader reach while fending off the negative consequences of lack of (“real life”) human interaction. 😉
Yeah, I firmly agree with you, August. Most writers need to learn to be marketers, particularly if they would like to be paid for their work. Of course, William Blake was a terrible “marketer,” didn’t write with his audience in mind, and lived in poverty most of his life. However, he’s now considered one of the great poets of the last several hundred years. Blake was definitely still a writer, but I probably fall much more on your side of things.
Thanks Joe for permission to write. I’m a grower and I’m outside every day. So here goes.
There In The Mosaic of The Forest Floor
As Creatives, We love symbols, images, sounds…
There in the mosaic of a forest floor
Outlines of faces,
Possibilities to create
Now with a sweep of the morning winds
You can feel the music of a song
Beginning through the whisper of the trees
I love symbols
But I get caught up in all these good things
In the shadows, shapes, forms, and structures
Possibilities, and promise
Caught like a dream catcher sleeps
And miss the real deep
The presence of God
Right before my feet.
Yea, I’ve been rewriting for an extra 15 minutes. LOL I’ve got to take this off line and polish it up a bit.
Thanks again Joe!
Nice, Bob! Great little poem. I like the last four lines. I’m not usually a fan of rhyme in modern poetry, but you use it nicely.
I would love to see more of your sights and sounds and smells as you look around the forest floor. I think the best poetry (and prose) works on both a real level and a symbolic level. Yours has the symbolism of nature, but none of the touch and taste of it. You might experiment with that.
You’re absolutely right Joe.
It’s the smells that imprint the deepest.
The smell of grandmother’s house and the perfume she wears lingers on and the smell of an apple pie baking for Thanksgiving.
I’m getting a run of sights, sounds and smells.
Good Stuff Joe!
Nice, Bob! Way to jump right in and write something beautiful. Love it.
Thanks Joe for permission to write. I’m a grower and I’m outside every day. So here goes.
There In The Mosaic of The Forest Floor
As Creatives, We love symbols, images, sounds…
There in the mosaic of a forest floor
Outlines of faces,
Possibilities to create
Now with a sweep of the morning winds
You can feel the music of a song
Beginning through the whisper of the trees
I love symbols
But I get caught up in all these good things
In the shadows, shapes, forms, and structures
Possibilities, and promise
Caught like a dream catcher sleeps
And miss the real deep
The presence of God
Right before my feet.
Yea, I’ve been rewriting for an extra 15 minutes. LOL I’ve got to take this off line and polish it up a bit.
Thanks again Joe!
Nice, Bob! Great little poem. I like the last four lines. I’m not usually a fan of rhyme in modern poetry, but you use it nicely.
I would love to see more of your sights and sounds and smells as you look around the forest floor. I think the best poetry (and prose) works on both a real level and a symbolic level. Yours has the symbolism of nature, but none of the touch and taste of it. You might experiment with that.
You’re absolutely right Joe.
It’s the smells that imprint the deepest.
The smell of grandmother’s house and the perfume she wears lingers on and the smell of an apple pie baking for Thanksgiving.
I’m getting a run of sights, sounds and smells.
Good Stuff Joe!
Nice, Bob! Way to jump right in and write something beautiful. Love it.
I thought I posted but I don’t see it now. Sorry if it shows up twice.
Never turn your back on a wild animal. That’s good information. I will repeat it to myself everyday so as not to forget. If I know it, I can do it.
After mouthing this phrase for a month, the day of my test arrived. We flew from Kinshasa to Goma and were then jostled around in the back of a jeep for several hours until we reached the base camp. Five-year-old barefoot Zairians ran to the jeep to carry our backpacks up the verdant hillside. The long machetes they bore were a third again their height.
After a supper of soup and bread, we sat in crude wooden chairs on the porch of our spartan cabin and watched the sun set over the volcanoes in the Virgunas Mountains.
The rain pelted our cabin, waking us early the next morning. Oh damn, traipsing around the dense forest getting wet. Not the ideal scenario for animal tracking. Before leaving Kin, we heard reports of friends trekking five hours before locating the gentle giants. But off we went, cameras carefully tucked under rain ponchos, heads covered in hats.
Within forty-five minutes the rain stopped and so did our guide. He raised his hand for silence. We heard the crunching of giant teeth on bamboo. The sound drew near. My senses switched to high alert. Never turn your back on a wild animal. Never turn. . . . And there he was. My heart pounded so fast it filled my throat and cut off my mantra. Blood rushed to my muscles and prepared for flight.
I saw the top of the head first. A huge black furry ball. And then the shoulders. Wide and powerful. The arms out in front on the ground propelled the silverback my way. Before I knew it, all of my friends were hiding behind me. I dug my heels in the ground and tried to back up, to give way to the patriarch lumbering in my direction. My friends threw their hands into my back and pushed me forward. Opposing forces kept me in the danger zone. The gorilla stopped before me and turned his face toward mine.
“Look down! Look down!” Everyone whispered. You didn’t need to tell me twice. I deferred to his power and stared at his massive feet. His warm breath wafted across the top of my head. Our guide, kneeling by my side, spoke to him. Softly. In Swahili. We waited. Immobile. Until the test ended. We passed. We were indeed humble. He then turned his head forward and lumbered on until the white stripe down his back disappeared into the thicket.
Nice, I know this is rough draft. What was really powerful is the encounter with the gorilla – you portrayed the tension wonderfully . 🙂
Wow this is super fun Nancy. Thanks!
One thing I love that you do, something everyone should do, is use lots of keywords like Zairians and Virgunas mountains but you don’t explain them. You just use them and move on. Some people worry about whether people will “get it,” but it’s better to trust their intelligence and their ability to look the word up in an encyclopedia.
And I love your voice, throughout. The “never turn your back….” This chorus of thought in the midst of this remarkable situation.
Wow and that ending. The encounter! SUCH a cool story, Nancy. Thank you for sharing it.
I thought I posted but I don’t see it now. Sorry if it shows up twice.
Never turn your back on a wild animal. That’s good information. I will repeat it to myself everyday so as not to forget. If I know it, I can do it.
After mouthing this phrase for a month, the day of my test arrived. We flew from Kinshasa to Goma and were then jostled around in the back of a jeep for several hours until we reached the base camp. Five-year-old barefoot Zairians ran to the jeep to carry our backpacks up the verdant hillside. The long machetes they bore were a third again their height.
After a supper of soup and bread, we sat in crude wooden chairs on the porch of our spartan cabin and watched the sun set over the volcanoes in the Virgunas Mountains.
The rain pelted our cabin, waking us early the next morning. Oh damn, traipsing around the dense forest getting wet. Not the ideal scenario for animal tracking. Before leaving Kin, we heard reports of friends trekking five hours before locating the gentle giants. But off we went, cameras carefully tucked under rain ponchos, heads covered in hats.
Within forty-five minutes the rain stopped and so did our guide. He raised his hand for silence. We heard the crunching of giant teeth on bamboo. The sound drew near. My senses switched to high alert. Never turn your back on a wild animal. Never turn. . . . And there he was. My heart pounded so fast it filled my throat and cut off my mantra. Blood rushed to my muscles and prepared for flight.
I saw the top of the head first. A huge black furry ball. And then the shoulders. Wide and powerful. The arms out in front on the ground propelled the silverback my way. Before I knew it, all of my friends were hiding behind me. I dug my heels in the ground and tried to back up, to give way to the patriarch lumbering in my direction. My friends threw their hands into my back and pushed me forward. Opposing forces kept me in the danger zone. The gorilla stopped before me and turned his face toward mine.
“Look down! Look down!” Everyone whispered. You didn’t need to tell me twice. I deferred to his power and stared at his massive feet. His warm breath wafted across the top of my head. Our guide, kneeling by my side, spoke to him. Softly. In Swahili. We waited. Immobile. Until the test ended. We passed. We were indeed humble. He then turned his head forward and lumbered on until the white stripe down his back disappeared into the thicket.
Nice, I know this is rough draft. What was really powerful is the encounter with the gorilla – you portrayed the tension wonderfully . 🙂
Wow this is super fun Nancy. Thanks!
One thing I love that you do, something everyone should do, is use lots of keywords like Zairians and Virgunas mountains but you don’t explain them. You just use them and move on. Some people worry about whether people will “get it,” but it’s better to trust their intelligence and their ability to look the word up in an encyclopedia.
And I love your voice, throughout. The “never turn your back….” This chorus of thought in the midst of this remarkable situation.
Wow and that ending. The encounter! SUCH a cool story, Nancy. Thank you for sharing it.
For my last writing class I am to skip ahead and write the last chapter of my memoir, Tell Me What He Did, this is the start of this chapter – I was blocked from writing for a bit, so the fifteen minute suggestion is great, thanks:
I clear my throat and square up my index cards on the podium. Forty-two women have gathered to hear my testimony. I pray that what I have to say blesses them and provides encouragement if they’ve faced the kinds of things I’ve suffered.
After a brief prayer, I begin, “Psalm 84, verse 10 says ‘For a day in Your courts is better than a thousand. I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than dwell in the tents of wickedness.’ I am here to tell you that this is true.”
A few women nod. Pastor Don’s wife, Cynthia, is in the audience as are a few people from Living Word, but there are many who have never heard my story. As I speak I watch their faces to see who is impacted and who I can maybe help later on.
“I gave up on God when I was eight. God didn’t answer my prayers to stop my father from sexually abusing me. Dad molested me from the age from the age of eight until I was fifteen. His abuse escalated from touching to rape. My mother knew about the abuse and kept notebooks but did nothing to stop him. In fact, she encouraged his behavior by putting me in compromising positions that gave him access to me.”
A gasp emanates from some of the women.
“My older sister learned about the abuse and the juvenile courts placed me in her custody. She blamed me for what my father did.”
One woman shakes her head.
“My sister and I have made amends and are now closer than ever. She was hurting too for my father also abused her and my brother. I am the lucky one for I have found healing for the hurt. My sister and brother still hold on to anger and hatred of my parents. They are still suffering, but I am free.”
Cynthia smiles at me. A few seemed puzzled.
“I spent years in self-destructive behaviors from drugs to rampant sex to the occult and even tried therapy, nothing worked. At one point I was a priestess of a coven of about one hundred and fifty witches. When I look back over my past I am amazed at what God has done to heal me. But it took years to find out where God was in the midst of the abuse I received at the hands of my family and the abuse I heaped upon myself through unwise choices.”
I pause and glance at the women. Some have tears in their eyes and a few nod. Several of these women watched me heal from the abuse. When I walked into this Bible Study eight years ago, I was still angry at God.
“When we took the Beth Moore Bible study called Believing God, she had us write a letter to Jesus. At that time I was saved and I told Jesus that I could see where he was in my life from the age of fifteen on, but that He was remarkably absent the first fourteen years of my life. I wanted to know where He was. It took two years before I got the answer. What I want to share with you is part of my healing journey and I hope that you find it helpful.” I take a deep breath and continue. “The first thing I had to do to begin healing is to forgive my abusers.”
A woman shakes her head. Her eyes look sad and I wonder if she has also been abused.
Thank you so much for this Heather. Not just the substance, but also the very simple prompt to skip ahead and write the last chapter. I went and did it immediately after reading your comment. It turned out to be really fruitful!
Ooo cool idea. That IS a good prompt.
nice, my other favorite prompt from the class was to write a scene using all five senses. I found that improved my scenes a lot. Have a Happy New Year.
Hi Heather. Thank you for sharing this. This must have been a hard memoir to write. I’m sure it will help a lot of people.
This story is powerful, but I’m not sure I like the way it’s framed. I don’t think testimony works in literature. Generally what writers do in situations like these is they begin a story and have some of the head nodding and gasps, and then they delve into the story, as if the scene were actually happening right there.
That might not be appropriate for your book, I’m not sure. But it’s worth a thought. Good luck with the rest of the chapter!
thanks for your suggestion, most of my story is told first person in the scenes, what is summarized here has been told in-depth in previous chapters. But I am not thrilled with testimony format. I am just trying to do the assignment. It is the point where I realize I really am healed from the damage of the past. Thanks, if you are a member of Critique Circle the story is up in chapter form under wondering0
Yeah, I understand. You might skip retelling the story, summarize it just by saying, “I began to tell my story,” or something of that sort. Then continue describe the reactions from the audience and your own internal emotions as you realize your healing.
For my last writing class I am to skip ahead and write the last chapter of my memoir, Tell Me What He Did, this is the start of this chapter – I was blocked from writing for a bit, so the fifteen minute suggestion is great, thanks:
I clear my throat and square up my index cards on the podium. Forty-two women have gathered to hear my testimony. I pray that what I have to say blesses them and provides encouragement if they’ve faced the kinds of things I’ve suffered.
After a brief prayer, I begin, “Psalm 84, verse 10 says ‘For a day in Your courts is better than a thousand. I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than dwell in the tents of wickedness.’ I am here to tell you that this is true.”
A few women nod. Pastor Don’s wife, Cynthia, is in the audience as are a few people from Living Word, but there are many who have never heard my story. As I speak I watch their faces to see who is impacted and who I can maybe help later on.
“I gave up on God when I was eight. God didn’t answer my prayers to stop my father from sexually abusing me. Dad molested me from the age from the age of eight until I was fifteen. His abuse escalated from touching to rape. My mother knew about the abuse and kept notebooks but did nothing to stop him. In fact, she encouraged his behavior by putting me in compromising positions that gave him access to me.”
A gasp emanates from some of the women.
“My older sister learned about the abuse and the juvenile courts placed me in her custody. She blamed me for what my father did.”
One woman shakes her head.
“My sister and I have made amends and are now closer than ever. She was hurting too for my father also abused her and my brother. I am the lucky one for I have found healing for the hurt. My sister and brother still hold on to anger and hatred of my parents. They are still suffering, but I am free.”
Cynthia smiles at me. A few seemed puzzled.
“I spent years in self-destructive behaviors from drugs to rampant sex to the occult and even tried therapy, nothing worked. At one point I was a priestess of a coven of about one hundred and fifty witches. When I look back over my past I am amazed at what God has done to heal me. But it took years to find out where God was in the midst of the abuse I received at the hands of my family and the abuse I heaped upon myself through unwise choices.”
I pause and glance at the women. Some have tears in their eyes and a few nod. Several of these women watched me heal from the abuse. When I walked into this Bible Study eight years ago, I was still angry at God.
“When we took the Beth Moore Bible study called Believing God, she had us write a letter to Jesus. At that time I was saved and I told Jesus that I could see where he was in my life from the age of fifteen on, but that He was remarkably absent the first fourteen years of my life. I wanted to know where He was. It took two years before I got the answer. What I want to share with you is part of my healing journey and I hope that you find it helpful.” I take a deep breath and continue. “The first thing I had to do to begin healing is to forgive my abusers.”
A woman shakes her head. Her eyes look sad and I wonder if she has also been abused.
Thank you so much for this Heather. Not just the substance, but also the very simple prompt to skip ahead and write the last chapter. I went and did it immediately after reading your comment. It turned out to be really fruitful!
Ooo cool idea. That IS a good prompt.
nice, my other favorite prompt from the class was to write a scene using all five senses. I found that improved my scenes a lot. Have a Happy New Year.
Hi Heather. Thank you for sharing this. This must have been a hard memoir to write. I’m sure it will help a lot of people.
This story is powerful, but I’m not sure I like the way it’s framed. I don’t think testimony works in literature. Generally what writers do in situations like these is they begin a story and have some of the head nodding and gasps, and then they delve into the story, as if the scene were actually happening right there.
That might not be appropriate for your book, I’m not sure. But it’s worth a thought. Good luck with the rest of the chapter!
thanks for your suggestion, most of my story is told first person in the scenes, what is summarized here has been told in-depth in previous chapters. But I am not thrilled with testimony format. I am just trying to do the assignment. It is the point where I realize I really am healed from the damage of the past. Thanks, if you are a member of Critique Circle the story is up in chapter form under wondering0
Yeah, I understand. You might skip retelling the story, summarize it just by saying, “I began to tell my story,” or something of that sort. Then continue describe the reactions from the audience and your own internal emotions as you realize your healing.
I’d like to add one more to your list: you are not a writer because you are in a writing group.
This was a dialogue I had with a stranger many years ago:
Stranger: “What do you do?”
Me: “I am a writer.”
Stranger: “Really? What have you written?”
Me: “Words on paper.”
Ha. Very true, Jill. A writing group might be a tool and a motivator, but it won’t make you a writer.
Love that. Very snarky (in a good way).
I’d like to add one more to your list: you are not a writer because you are in a writing group.
This was a dialogue I had with a stranger many years ago:
Stranger: “What do you do?”
Me: “I am a writer.”
Stranger: “Really? What have you written?”
Me: “Words on paper.”
Ha. Very true, Jill. A writing group might be a tool and a motivator, but it won’t make you a writer.
Love that. Very snarky (in a good way).
How shall he start the story?
Should it begin in the first person – ‘I was a young man and foolish, also foolishly in love …’ or the second – ‘You may have forgive me for keeping silent about the past, but the fact that I should be keeping this thing that’s happening right now a secret …’ No, the second doesn’t work, it keeps coming back to the first person, himself.
So the first person it will be, but not as a confession – ‘If I told you it happened one way, you would call me a rapist. Or I could cast your mother as an adultress, your father a willing cuckold. As for what happened after, would you rather she died unfortunately, tragically separated from a longed for child. Or would you prefer the version where I suffocate her with my palm to stop her from smothering you, the unwanted offspring of an unfortunate encounter. Would you rather believe I sought you out to nurture you, or that our first encounter and even our second were accidents of fate … the heavens deciding I should have a hand in your life regardless of how much I wanted to put it all behind me’.
He pauses, lifts up his pen. This is not a story from a single viewpoint. There are too many threads. Why work with only one voice. He is a journalist, a rapporteur of events. Perhaps, he will assume the third person omniscient, like God. He smiles. Yes, he will play God!
Wow. This was definitely a visit from the muse. It’s inspired, Audrey. Quite inventive. I love stories where the narrator talks and has arguments with himself, and this argument is very meta, about the act of writing fiction itself, while at the same time alluding to the whole story in a kind of chilling way. Yes, definitely inspired.
How shall he start the story?
Should it begin in the first person – ‘I was a young man and foolish, also foolishly in love …’ or the second – ‘You may have forgive me for keeping silent about the past, but the fact that I should be keeping this thing that’s happening right now a secret …’ No, the second doesn’t work, it keeps coming back to the first person, himself.
So the first person it will be, but not as a confession – ‘If I told you it happened one way, you would call me a rapist. Or I could cast your mother as an adultress, your father a willing cuckold. As for what happened after, would you rather she died unfortunately, tragically separated from a longed for child. Or would you prefer the version where I suffocate her with my palm to stop her from smothering you, the unwanted offspring of an unfortunate encounter. Would you rather believe I sought you out to nurture you, or that our first encounter and even our second were accidents of fate … the heavens deciding I should have a hand in your life regardless of how much I wanted to put it all behind me’.
He pauses, lifts up his pen. This is not a story from a single viewpoint. There are too many threads. Why work with only one voice. He is a journalist, a rapporteur of events. Perhaps, he will assume the third person omniscient, like God. He smiles. Yes, he will play God!
Wow. This was definitely a visit from the muse. It’s inspired, Audrey. Quite inventive. I love stories where the narrator talks and has arguments with himself, and this argument is very meta, about the act of writing fiction itself, while at the same time alluding to the whole story in a kind of chilling way. Yes, definitely inspired.
I just found this blog on the “Top 10” list. Very nice spot you have here! Thanks for the prompt. I guess I’ll jump right in!
http://writex3.blogspot.com/2011/12/15-minutes-into-chapter-4.html
I just found this blog on the “Top 10” list. Very nice spot you have here! Thanks for the prompt. I guess I’ll jump right in!
http://writex3.blogspot.com/2011/12/15-minutes-into-chapter-4.html
First-time commenter here. Great site, and thanks for the prompt. It led me to a scene in the early part of the unwritten 4th chapter in my WIP. A true rough draft follows, beware!:
Before he knew it, he found himself at his old haunt, the Lakeshore Café. Inside at the counter, his regular stool next to the window was empty, as though it had spent the last year waiting for him. He sat down and felt under the seat where his fingertips found the heart Myrt had carved into the wood. Yes, this was his spot, alright.
The smell of fresh coffee hit his nose, keeping him from embarking down a trail of futile memories. Only after she had poured his cup, did the waitress take stock of his face.
“Rex LaCroix! Welcome home, stranger.”
“Good to see you, too, Jackie. Still holding down the fort, I see,” Rex said.
“I don’t know that I’m so much as holding it down as that I just keep sticking around. After this long, Lord knows I might as well.” She flipped open a folding stool from beneath her side of the counter and settled herself across from him. “Break time,” she called back to the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee to match Rex’s. “So what brings you in?”
“Mum sent me with the boat to pick up a couple new gals who are coming in on the train. Summer help. You know how that goes.”
“Train’s late today.”
“I just learned as much myself. Storms down south, eh?”
“Tornados, I hear. Glad we don’t get many up her on the Lake.”
“You and me both.” Rex dropped a lump of sugar into his coffee and took a sip. Though he was afraid to ask, Jackie wasn’t going anywhere, and the conversation had hit the inevitable uncomfortable lull. Best he keep it moving before she decided to ask anything personal. “So, what’s the news around town?”
This is a pretty great free write, Steph. Glad you decided to share it with us. And don’t worry, rough draft’s are what we’re all about 🙂
First-time commenter here. Great site, and thanks for the prompt. It led me to a scene in the early part of the unwritten 4th chapter in my WIP. A true rough draft follows, beware!:
Before he knew it, he found himself at his old haunt, the Lakeshore Café. Inside at the counter, his regular stool next to the window was empty, as though it had spent the last year waiting for him. He sat down and felt under the seat where his fingertips found the heart Myrt had carved into the wood. Yes, this was his spot, alright.
The smell of fresh coffee hit his nose, keeping him from embarking down a trail of futile memories. Only after she had poured his cup, did the waitress take stock of his face.
“Rex LaCroix! Welcome home, stranger.”
“Good to see you, too, Jackie. Still holding down the fort, I see,” Rex said.
“I don’t know that I’m so much as holding it down as that I just keep sticking around. After this long, Lord knows I might as well.” She flipped open a folding stool from beneath her side of the counter and settled herself across from him. “Break time,” she called back to the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee to match Rex’s. “So what brings you in?”
“Mum sent me with the boat to pick up a couple new gals who are coming in on the train. Summer help. You know how that goes.”
“Train’s late today.”
“I just learned as much myself. Storms down south, eh?”
“Tornados, I hear. Glad we don’t get many up her on the Lake.”
“You and me both.” Rex dropped a lump of sugar into his coffee and took a sip. Though he was afraid to ask, Jackie wasn’t going anywhere, and the conversation had hit the inevitable uncomfortable lull. Best he keep it moving before she decided to ask anything personal. “So, what’s the news around town?”
This is a pretty great free write, Steph. Glad you decided to share it with us. And don’t worry, rough draft’s are what we’re all about 🙂
“Your job is just to write and let beauty and terror visit you as they may.”
So true, Joe! My writing often terrifies me, yet when I keep going, I find I am rewarded with snippets of beauty. I’ve been out of pocket this last week with family and travel, but ready to get back in the writing saddle. Happy New Year.
Ha! “My writing often terrifies me.” Yes, that’s a good way to put it. Me too, Tom. And by that I mean my writing often terrifies me, not your writing often terrifies me.
“Your job is just to write and let beauty and terror visit you as they may.”
So true, Joe! My writing often terrifies me, yet when I keep going, I find I am rewarded with snippets of beauty. I’ve been out of pocket this last week with family and travel, but ready to get back in the writing saddle. Happy New Year.
Ha! “My writing often terrifies me.” Yes, that’s a good way to put it. Me too, Tom. And by that I mean my writing often terrifies me, not your writing often terrifies me.
Finding a muse can be quite hard. Since I’m not entirely sure what a muse should be like, except the part where he/she inspires you.
“You are a writer because you write.” This is my favorite line.
I only started writing because my love for reading but I’m still not quite good at creating something unique or exciting. Most are mediocre(?), but I try my best to write everyday, even uninspired to make ideas flow.
That’s so important, Unisse. A lot of people say you have to write millions of words of crap before you can write a few words that are good. I love that you’re pursuing this with discipline.
Finding a muse can be quite hard. Since I’m not entirely sure what a muse should be like, except the part where he/she inspires you.
“You are a writer because you write.” This is my favorite line.
I only started writing because my love for reading but I’m still not quite good at creating something unique or exciting. Most are mediocre(?), but I try my best to write everyday, even uninspired to make ideas flow.
That’s so important, Unisse. A lot of people say you have to write millions of words of crap before you can write a few words that are good. I love that you’re pursuing this with discipline.
Great article!
How to be a better write? Easy. Keep on writing.
Thanks for the advice.
Now how about I post something I’ve written below:
Sir James was given the great honor to bring back the chalice of All-Healing to the king of Backyard. But as of now, Sir James faced an obstacle. James raised his shield just in time. The huge fists of the bridge troll came smashing down at him. James’ knees buckled under the force of the impact. James quickly leapt away from the troll. He inspected his shield and felt a sharp pain shoot up his arm as soon as he moved his shield arm. He knew a bone was broken. He saw a huge dent on his shield. He won’t live long if he took another blow like that. James eyed the bridge troll breathing heavily in front of him. Its club like arms reaching all the way to the ground as its gnarled face looked menacingly at him. The troll growled and lumbered towards James. James was thankful that the fifteen feet brute was slow; otherwise he wouldn’t stand a chance.
James waited as the troll drew closer. He raised his sword in front of him–sunlight glistening against its sharp edge. The troll was gaining speed. Spittle flew from its mouth as it raised both of its arms up high. James was ready though. He swiftly took a sidestep and at the same time he delivered a slash to the monster’s hamstring–a blow that should have brought down a normal opponent, bridge trolls weren’t normal opponents though. The huge beast turned around and looked at James as if nothing happened. It steadily approached James once again. James saw the spot where the bridge troll’s fist had landed–it was cracked. James imagined if he wasn’t able to evade that recent attack and immediately pushed the thought away. The troll was starting to run once again, green colored blood flowing out of its wounded leg.
Great article!
How to be a better write? Easy. Keep on writing.
Thanks for the advice.
Now how about I post something I’ve written below:
Sir James was given the great honor to bring back the chalice of All-Healing to the king of Backyard. But as of now, Sir James faced an obstacle. James raised his shield just in time. The huge fists of the bridge troll came smashing down at him. James’ knees buckled under the force of the impact. James quickly leapt away from the troll. He inspected his shield and felt a sharp pain shoot up his arm as soon as he moved his shield arm. He knew a bone was broken. He saw a huge dent on his shield. He won’t live long if he took another blow like that. James eyed the bridge troll breathing heavily in front of him. Its club like arms reaching all the way to the ground as its gnarled face looked menacingly at him. The troll growled and lumbered towards James. James was thankful that the fifteen feet brute was slow; otherwise he wouldn’t stand a chance.
James waited as the troll drew closer. He raised his sword in front of him–sunlight glistening against its sharp edge. The troll was gaining speed. Spittle flew from its mouth as it raised both of its arms up high. James was ready though. He swiftly took a sidestep and at the same time he delivered a slash to the monster’s hamstring–a blow that should have brought down a normal opponent, bridge trolls weren’t normal opponents though. The huge beast turned around and looked at James as if nothing happened. It steadily approached James once again. James saw the spot where the bridge troll’s fist had landed–it was cracked. James imagined if he wasn’t able to evade that recent attack and immediately pushed the thought away. The troll was starting to run once again, green colored blood flowing out of its wounded leg.
Great article!
How to be a better write? Easy. Keep on writing.
Thanks for the advice.
Now how about I post something I’ve written below:
Sir James was given the great honor to bring back the chalice of All-Healing to the king of Backyard. But as of now, Sir James faced an obstacle. James raised his shield just in time. The huge fists of the bridge troll came smashing down at him. James’ knees buckled under the force of the impact. James quickly leapt away from the troll. He inspected his shield and felt a sharp pain shoot up his arm as soon as he moved his shield arm. He knew a bone was broken. He saw a huge dent on his shield. He won’t live long if he took another blow like that. James eyed the bridge troll breathing heavily in front of him. Its club like arms reaching all the way to the ground as its gnarled face looked menacingly at him. The troll growled and lumbered towards James. James was thankful that the fifteen feet brute was slow; otherwise he wouldn’t stand a chance.
James waited as the troll drew closer. He raised his sword in front of him–sunlight glistening against its sharp edge. The troll was gaining speed. Spittle flew from its mouth as it raised both of its arms up high. James was ready though. He swiftly took a sidestep and at the same time he delivered a slash to the monster’s hamstring–a blow that should have brought down a normal opponent, bridge trolls weren’t normal opponents though. The huge beast turned around and looked at James as if nothing happened. It steadily approached James once again. James saw the spot where the bridge troll’s fist had landed–it was cracked. James imagined if he wasn’t able to evade that recent attack and immediately pushed the thought away. The troll was starting to run once again, green colored blood flowing out of its wounded leg.
Very fun, JB. Was the troll a tree? And was his arm really broken?
I had a great time imagining this little kid taking on his imaginary monster.
Great article!
How to be a better write? Easy. Keep on writing.
Thanks for the advice.
Now how about I post something I’ve written below:
Sir James was given the great honor to bring back the chalice of All-Healing to the king of Backyard. But as of now, Sir James faced an obstacle. James raised his shield just in time. The huge fists of the bridge troll came smashing down at him. James’ knees buckled under the force of the impact. James quickly leapt away from the troll. He inspected his shield and felt a sharp pain shoot up his arm as soon as he moved his shield arm. He knew a bone was broken. He saw a huge dent on his shield. He won’t live long if he took another blow like that. James eyed the bridge troll breathing heavily in front of him. Its club like arms reaching all the way to the ground as its gnarled face looked menacingly at him. The troll growled and lumbered towards James. James was thankful that the fifteen feet brute was slow; otherwise he wouldn’t stand a chance.
James waited as the troll drew closer. He raised his sword in front of him–sunlight glistening against its sharp edge. The troll was gaining speed. Spittle flew from its mouth as it raised both of its arms up high. James was ready though. He swiftly took a sidestep and at the same time he delivered a slash to the monster’s hamstring–a blow that should have brought down a normal opponent, bridge trolls weren’t normal opponents though. The huge beast turned around and looked at James as if nothing happened. It steadily approached James once again. James saw the spot where the bridge troll’s fist had landed–it was cracked. James imagined if he wasn’t able to evade that recent attack and immediately pushed the thought away. The troll was starting to run once again, green colored blood flowing out of its wounded leg.
Very fun, JB. Was the troll a tree? And was his arm really broken?
I had a great time imagining this little kid taking on his imaginary monster.
Beautifully put
«We are going to move to a new country» said mama holding the family of stuffed pandas on her lap for Kitty to see, «We can’t take everything with us, Kitty. You have to choose with your toys, just like we have to choose with all the other things. Which bear do you want to take with you?»
I looked at the bears, the baby bear was younger than me, surely more my bothers age than 4. He needed his mother. The mother bear and the baby bear were smaller than the daddy bear. “Can I take the Mummy and Baby bear?”
“You can only, take one bear. Which one do you want?”
Surely, my mother would find a good home for the mother and baby bear not just cast them into the rubbish, but I dare not ask in case I did not like the answer. In any case better the mother was there to look after the baby bear. Imagine if I took the baby bear alone without his mother. Could the mother bear stand it? Could the baby bear survive without his mother? And besides he was such a little bear did I want to take such a little bear when I could take a bigger bear.
If I took the mother bear and left the daddy bear with the baby bear could the daddy bear feed the baby bear? I thought not. The baby would die without the mother I was sure.
My mother looked at me expectantly. She had a lot to do for the move I know and this choice had a time limit on it I could feel. She thought the choice was easy and perhaps it was. The father bear was the biggest bear and he could survive alone while the mother and baby bear clearly needed to be together. So while I would prefer to have them I could not, I could take only one bear.
“I will take the father bear” I said looking up into my mothers slightly surprised face.
Beautifully put
«We are going to move to a new country» said mama holding the family of stuffed pandas on her lap for Kitty to see, «We can’t take everything with us, Kitty. You have to choose with your toys, just like we have to choose with all the other things. Which bear do you want to take with you?»
I looked at the bears, the baby bear was younger than me, surely more my bothers age than 4. He needed his mother. The mother bear and the baby bear were smaller than the daddy bear. “Can I take the Mummy and Baby bear?”
“You can only, take one bear. Which one do you want?”
Surely, my mother would find a good home for the mother and baby bear not just cast them into the rubbish, but I dare not ask in case I did not like the answer. In any case better the mother was there to look after the baby bear. Imagine if I took the baby bear alone without his mother. Could the mother bear stand it? Could the baby bear survive without his mother? And besides he was such a little bear did I want to take such a little bear when I could take a bigger bear.
If I took the mother bear and left the daddy bear with the baby bear could the daddy bear feed the baby bear? I thought not. The baby would die without the mother I was sure.
My mother looked at me expectantly. She had a lot to do for the move I know and this choice had a time limit on it I could feel. She thought the choice was easy and perhaps it was. The father bear was the biggest bear and he could survive alone while the mother and baby bear clearly needed to be together. So while I would prefer to have them I could not, I could take only one bear.
“I will take the father bear” I said looking up into my mothers slightly surprised face.