Successful writers often suggest writing daily, whether you feel like it or not. Daily writing practices differ but all seem to serve the same purpose: warming up the writing “muscle” before working it out. I think William Stafford’s practice is a particularly adaptable example. Check it out on PowellsBooks.Blog – Four Elements of a Daily Writing Page in William Stafford’s Practice – Powell’s Books.
I find it depressing that so many people who want to write can’t be bothered to read.
Want to be a writer? No, a real writer. You know, a person who writes, everyday. Well, this little piece will tell you the simple secret to becoming a real writer: How To Push Past The Bullshit And Write That Goddamn Novel: A Very Simple No-Fuckery Writing Plan To Get Shit Done « terribleminds: chuck wendig. Great advice!
Oh, and here’s a handy infographic if you’re one of those writers who doesn’t like to read.
A question on Quora asked: What are the most famous final passages from books or stories? Here are my votes for the top five. Feel free to add your favorite last lines in the comments.
“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” – The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald
“and yes I said yes I will Yes.” – Ulysses, James Joyce
“He loved Big Brother.” – Nineteen Eighty-Four, George Orwell
“‘It is a far, far, better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far, better rest that I go to, than I have ever known.’”– A Tale of Two Cities, Charles Dickens
“‘After all, tomorrow is another day.’” – Gone With the Wind, Margaret Mitchell
And five other good ones I missed:
“The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.” – Animal Farm, George Orwell
“Isn’t it pretty to think so?” – The Sun Also Rises, Ernest Hemingway
“I been there before.” – Huckleberry Finn, Mark Twain
“But, in spite of these deficiencies, the wishes, the hopes, the confidence, the predictions of the small band of true friends who witnessed the ceremony, were fully answered in the perfect happiness of the union.” – Emma, Jane Austen
“I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art. And this is the only immortality you and I may share, my Lolita.” – Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov (not a book I personally liked, but this is a great line)
I looked through my favorite books on LibraryThing and added a few more last lines that have significant meaning for me.
“Yet what is any ocean but a multitude of drops?” – Cloud Atlas, David Mitchell
“Within, its walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone.” – The Haunting of Hill House, Shirley Jackson
“I am legend.” – I Am Legend, Richard Matheson
“The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.” – The Dark Tower, Stephen King
“He says that he will never die.” – Blood Meridian, Cormac McCarthy
“And then I woke up.” – No Country for Old Men, Cormac McCarthy
“So this is what everybody’s always talking about! Diablo! If only I’d known. The beauty! The beauty!” – The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, Junot Diaz
“And it may be that love sometimes occurs without pain or misery.” – The Shipping News, Annie Proulx
“He turned out the light and went into Jem’s room. He would be there all night, and he would be there when Jem waked up in the morning.” – To Kill a Mockingbird
I remember when writing used to be something I did solely for fun, when I would write just to play around with words. I created collage poems out of words and pictures cut from magazines. I tried to make up my own acrostics and crosswords. I wrote stories as a form of play — playing with an idea, a structure, something that someone else had written.
I think one reason I don’t write as much as I used to or would like to is because somewhere along the way, I lost that sense of having fun with it. Is it because I’ve grown up? Is it because I think I shouldn’t do anything anymore unless it’s productive or results in a paycheck, because that’s we are taught to think that adults do. Adults don’t play; we work.
Or is it because I’ve been told over and over again that to be a writer, one must be tortured, obsessed, possessed? Writing is something you do because you have to, not because you want to. Above all, it is not fun.
Probably it’s a combination of all of the above. One thing I do know — I miss writing just for fun. I want that back in my life.
After reading this – Elizabeth Gilbert Versus Philip Roth: Is Writing Torture? in The New Yorker – I have to declare that I completely respect Elizabeth Gilbert’s point of view. She has not lost her sense of fun or play. She can’t believe she actually gets to write as a job.
Doesn’t that seem preferable to the old “tortured artist” routine?
Also worth reading: Elizabeth Gilbert’s thoughts on writing.
From the New York Times: Relax! You’ll Be More Productive. We work best in 90-minute intervals, just three per day, with rest breaks in between. By “work,” I mean creative or highly focused work. For example, alternating mental work with physical breaks might be a good strategy.
The author gives a potent example. He wrote his first books the “old-fashioned way,” by sitting at the computer for 10 hours at a time; each book took a year to write. Then, he tried writing a book by working just 4-1/2 hours per day, in 90-minute intervals; it only took him 6 months to write the book. The point is that working less and producing high-quality work trumps working more and producing crap.
Writers are often told that they should “write what they know,” but perhaps that leads to boring, safe writing. A better piece of advice might be to write what you don’t know you know. By delving into your unconscious knowledge of yourself and the world, your writing may not only be more interesting, but also more therapeutic. Via: Should You Write What You Know? | The Creativity Post.
Here’s an interesting first-person account in The Chronicle of Higher Education from a writer who makes his living writing papers for college and university students. Not just undergraduate essays but graduate school theses and semester-long projects; he’s even completed online courses for students and participated in class discussions.
I live well on the desperation, misery, and incompetence that your educational system has created. Granted, as a writer, I could earn more; certainly there are ways to earn less. But I never struggle to find work.
This essay really brings home how much of a game it all is. Stack up the extracurriculars and pump up the SATs in high school to get into a good college. Fake your way through the coursework to win the appropriate degree. Get a job in which that degree will have absolutely no bearing but for which it is required. Work until you die.
The writer almost makes a case for becoming a freelance cheater instead. Except it sounds like so much work.
Letters of Note published this great letter from Charles Bukowski to the founder of New York Quarterly, William Packard. I love everything about this letter, including the misspellings and the doodles. Bukowski offers these words on writing:
When everything works best it’s not because you chose writing but because writing chose you. It’s when you’re mad with it, it’s when it’s stuffed in your ears, your nostrils, under your fingernails. It’s when there’s no hope but that.
Last night, I was thinking about this letter and about Bukowski, freezing in a tarpaper shack but still writing with a pencil stub in the margins of newspapers he found on the floor. I wondered if I had ever had such passion for writing. I remember writing a lot when I was younger, writing even when there were other, more interesting things to do, but I was never even close to a situation as rough as that.
But as we get older and more settled, as we take on a family or a job or a home (or, most likely, all three), the passions and obsessions that used to drive us get left behind, it seems. They leak out of us like air out of an old balloon. Then we wake up one day all flat and limp, and wonder what happened.
It’s likely that never happened to Bukowski, though. The writing had infected him too deeply. I both envy him and I’m glad I’m not like him.
[via Don't try.]