Hard Work Ain't Easy

It's easy to conceptualize that creating something is a good idea, but when the rubber meets the road and the tires are flat, all we can see is disaster. By nature, we'll always take the easy way out—not necessarily because we're lazy, but because hard work is... well, hard. At the end of the day, however, the easy way out provides an astonishingly low level of satisfaction: nothing accomplished, nothing won, a day spent with nothing to show for it. That's a lot of nothing. Working towards something that matters, even though it sometimes feels worthless and excruciatingly painful (don't keep your leg in the bear trap you didn't see just to finish hunting, though), has benefits that long outlast putzing around, doing nothing but breathing and swallowing. You created. You worked. You know something now that you didn't know before. And you have something to show for it...

It feels a lot better to say, "Here, I made this," than to say, "Well, the garbage truck came at 9, the mail came at 11, the clock fell off the wall at 2:45, and now I'm hungry for dinner. What is it?"

Don't be afraid to do the work it takes to make something that matters.

The Dreaded 'What If's'

At some point in your life (hopefully sooner than later), some wise person likely sat you down and told you not to entertain the 'What if's.' They're a lousy bunch of mental guests, always coming before the party is ready, and overstaying their welcome. They track mud in at the door (even when it's not raining), eat all the biggest cookies (and leave crumbs all over your new sherpa blanket), and loudly overpower everyone else's stories with tales of their own exploits (you ME, you ME, yo-ME, y-ME, ME, ME). They're not worth inviting to any get-together, small or large, because even after they leave you're stuck cleaning up the wreckage until the next time they come around. In life, if you're smart, you'll keep out the 'What if's."

In story, if you're smart, you'll invite them in.

Story loves to appeal to the imagination; good story will reach out to the reader (or viewer, or listener) and trigger the faint nudges, both the uneasy and the delighted whispers. A story that triggers the imagination is a story that pulls you in and carries you along, sparking your curiosity, and making you think and plan—story—along with it. A story that leaves nothing up to the imagination is like reading board meeting minutes: too long, too many details, and too boring. It doesn't leave any room for free space in the mind, for it to wander at will. Inviting imagination into your story is like inviting the 'What if's.' But surprisingly, in story form, they're quite docile; like the friend who always brings good wine to your dinner party, the colleague who tells you when there's spinach in your teeth before you make a presentation to the VP, and the driver in the front of a long line of cars who stops at the crosswalk to let you cross when you're carrying 5 large Bloomingdales bags. You want 'What if's' in your story.

How do you invite them?

#) Don't over-explain. One of the joys of writing story is that many times, people can relate to situations that you're describing—that means they're acting it out in their heads. If you describe every detail, they'll get tired of trying to stick to your over-demanding script, and they won't enjoy immersing themselves in the story. Bring nuance into your story, but don't describe every single blink and attitude. Fill in the big lines, but leave the little spaces blank, for the imagination to play with.

#) Watch. One of the best ways to learn to write good nuance is to observe social interaction (this absolutely is not an excuse to be creepy). Watch people talk to each other. Watch them greet. Watch them say goodbye. Watch them fight, make up, make decisions, make shallow conversation, make other people cry, make other people laugh, make gossip more interesting, make it boring, and make friends. Watch all of it, see what they do and how they do it, and practice describing it, with sparse language, but still a clear point.

#) Practice. As always, the only way that you'll get better at something is if you do it all the time. Not once a week, not every third day, but every day. For more than just a minute or two. It's a commonly accepted theory that it takes 10,000 hours to become an expert at something.

You'd better get started.

Why You Should Share Secrets

Starting a story at the back end is a fad in novels right now. Some authors like it because they can keep all their cards hidden until the last chapter, where they flash them in a shower of color and go out in a blaze of glory. Writing a story from the back assumes a lot of your reader. It assumes that you are a good enough writer that your reader won't mind being kept in the dark. It assumes that you have a plan, and that you're not just stringing your reader along until you come up with something. It assumes you won't hold their ignorance over the heads of your readers. It assumes that you can create enough suspense in the first ten pages of your novel to draw them back, even though you're carefully keeping them from intentional connection.

Writing a story from the back makes a reader feel ignorant. It's a dangerous game. People who read on their own time aren't obligated to keep picking your book up—it's even less likely that they will if it feels belittling.

Plan carefully before you write a story that leaves your reader in the dark. If you do, be sure to give them little secrets to string them along and make them feel like part of the process.

They'll appreciate you more—and tell other people about you.

How to Be a Better Storyteller

A bad storyteller could tell a crowd the most exciting news piece of the year (the breaking of a 108 'curse,' for instance), and put his audience to sleep. A good storyteller could talk about a trip to buy a package of napkins, and hold his audience's rapt attention. It isn't the story that makes the story good, worth reading, interesting; it's the storyteller. When he starts to tell a story, he resumes the responsibility to guide, to entertain, to make the audience feel like they didn't waste their time.

In light of that responsibility, how do you become a better storyteller?

#) Practice. It's the number one advice for getting better at everything. You don't get better unless you try. Trying takes time. Practice telling your story—develop your craft. Try different words different places, use bold expressions, make dramatic story-telling moves that you're scared of. Tell your story in the mirror. Tell it to your mom (and then someone who loves you a little less, for more critical feedback), tell it in the dark, tell it to the flock of birds at the pond. The more you do it, the better you'll be.

#) Watch/read/listen to other people. It's hard to develop a craft well in complete solitude. The lucky thing about developing your art is that sharing is allowed. If someone else does something that you admire, that's completely brilliant, try it. Tweak it, change it, make it yours, but don't be afraid to grow by imitation. Other people come up with amazing strategies. Using them isn't wrong—it's like adding a tool to your tool-chest.

#) Say what matters. In this busy, flustered, over-worked and under-rested society, people only want to listen to things that matter to them. If they don't see any reason to listen to what you're saying, they won't listen. Think about what people want to hear, think about what matters to them. They want to hear virtue, kindness, human triumph through herculean struggle. They want to hear stories that make them cry, or roar with laughter, stories that end with a warm feeling all over, or the bright resolve to be a change in the world, to make a difference.

#) Pay attention to your audience. If they're not paying attention, or you're not getting any feedback, if 7 of the 12 people are sleeping, maybe it's time to reconsider how you're telling your story, and change things up.

Being a storyteller is a privilege; being a good storyteller is a gift. Appreciate the privilege and the gift, and do your best to be better. The world could use more of those people (us).

Make it Short

A long piece of writing is not automatically good, and a short piece isn't inevitably bad. It's about the preparation and the content. Instead of spending hours writing a lot, think careful about what you're writing. Practice writing less, better. See Seth Godin's blog for today.

How to Automatically Be a Better Writer

Writing is like singing. Or winking. Or driving. Hypothetically, everyone is born with the ability to do it—but only some people are good at it. However, like all those other things, there are tricks to get better. Here are five of them: #) Read. Nothing gets you in the mood to write more effectively than reading other writers who wrote great things. Read voraciously—read everything. Read ads, read books (classics, not classics, fiction, non-fiction), read the back of cereal boxes. All the text you see was written by someone; some of it is good, some of it is awful. Learn to see the difference, so you can do better when it's your turn.

#) Write constantly. Nobody ever got better at anything without practicing. Writing is like a muscle. If you're not exercising it, it'll be flabby and weak, and all the kids at the playground will laugh when you fall off the monkey bars on the second one (Morbid. Maybe not true. But what if it is...).

#) Let other people read your writing. It's scary. It's daunting. It's opening yourself up to criticism, and worse: what if they don't like it? But if they don't like it for a good reason, then you can make it better. And once the scary part is over, you'll be a better writer. And indebted forever.

#) Write more. So maybe this is a dead horse I'm beating. But maybe, just maybe, it's the most critical aspect of getting better. It takes babies weeks to learn how to walk. They're not experts on the first try. It likely takes longer than that to be an excellent writer—but you never know until you start.

#) Follow the rules. The old adage, "Rules are made to be broken," is not true for learning how to write. Excellence comes from mastery. Mastery comes from practice within the guidelines. Once you're an expert, you can bend and tweak and twist the rules, because you know how they work and what they're there for. Until then, learn them. Practice them. Obey them.

Do these things and you'll become a better writer, maybe without even realizing it.

What other people have said.

Why Your Writing is Special

Nothing tempts an editor like an invitation: "Would you mind looking this over, and giving your input?" It's like handing a kid a lollipop, or giving a reader a book. Conversely, nothing discourages an editor like disregarding his edits, or asserting that you knew better already. In a lot of jobs, we grant professional expertise. We don't tell the guy who's operating it how to move his crane (unless we want it to crash into our apartment complex), we don't lecture the chef of the four-star restaurant about his spice choice, and we don't stand up and tell the defendant how he could be doing better. In most instances, training and education brings the professional authority.

Writing and editing are different. Everyone (hopefully) learned to read and write at a young age. Almost everyone wants to write a book, the same amount of people want to edit something that will become famous, and everyone has opinions about what word goes best where. Being a professional writer or editor could seem like being a professional grocery bagger; not too different from the next guy in line.

What's a writer to do? In a market that's burgeoning and expanding like an irritated puffer fish, trying to succeed as a writer is like trying to wax an angry elephant. Not impossible—but very difficult, time consuming, and frankly, painful. Everyone is doing the same thing, and trying to make their work stand out; but so often, it doesn't. In a market that's full to the overflowing, it's hard to feel different.

But take heart. There is something different about you: You're the writer.

And you are the only you. You know what your life has been, and you can write about it in a way no one else can. You think in a way that can be refreshing to other people, because they haven't heard it before. This alone doesn't make you famous—there's also practice, natural aptitude, talent, writers block (lots and lots and lots and lots and lots of writers block), and hours and hours of frustration, trying, and hard work.

But don't lose hope. After all this is mastered, or perhaps just practiced, your writing still has something special. It has you.

A Case for Sunday Dinner

Every week, my grandma hosts Sunday lunch (dinner, not supper). All the aunts and uncles and cousins are there, and Grandma makes a pot roast or chicken, with all the fixings, plenty of them.The scent drifts down the hallway to the garage, and in the kitchen the smell mingles with hustle and bustle. Someone is always talking, there's food set out on the kitchen table ready for the dining room, and small grandchildren run about with toys in hand. The kitchen is the hub, the boys lay around in the living room, and Grandpa dozes on the couch waiting for lunch. A granddaughter bangs keys on the piano; none related, no melody. Just glee. When dinner is steaming on the long seasonal tablecloth in the dining room, grandma calls everyone in. Each sits in his or her own chair, the same for years. After Grandpa prays, dishes fly. Within twenty minutes everyone is done eating, the little ones are roaming, and the boys are asking for dessert. Grandma always has it, plenty for everyone.

It is the quintessential Sunday dinner; hubbub, food, community, generations, noise and confusion. It is tradition, Sunday Dinner—but no one is there for the food. If it was, everyone would make their own meal and stay home. It's for the experience. The togetherness, community, hubbub, and all the week's fresh talk.

Grandma changes the food week by week. If she didn't, after weeks of the same meal (even though no one really comes for the food), everyone would be sick of it. Sunday dinner isn't about the food—but it does matter.

Technically, writing isn't about the fixings—but the fixings do matter.

If Grandma had everyone over and said there was no meal prepared, the mood would turn sour fast (behind the polite "Oh-it-doesn't-matter"s. Even if something isn't actually necessary, we notice (and experience varying levels of displeasure) when it's missing.

You can write a story without creativity; it's the bare bones and basics of what happened, like a bullet point list. Or, you can write a story with all the excellence of careful craftsmanship. The details of the story won't change—but the reader's enjoyment will be far greater.

Everyone wants to read a well written story, even and balanced. The details without the colors are monotonous; the colors without the details are frivolous.

Write colors into your details, like a good Sunday Dinner. Your readers will thank you.

What colors do you write with?

Why Fall is Writing Weather

Fall is writer's season. Winter is full of short days of gray skies and cold wind, punctuated by the short thrill and glitter of a fresh coat of snow. Winter is reader's weather; all it begs is a cozy blanket, a hot beverage, and a thick spine. Spring is a universal sigh of relief, across profession and personality, as the heart and the soul remember that cold is not the only temperature. Summer is working and playing weather—for playing just as hard as working. But fall, fall. Fall belongs to the writer. The crisp nights, the sun-warmed noons, the leaves that rustle louder and louder as they change colors. The colors that defy even imagination and leave us stunned with their humble beauty. Fall is the writer's because everything about fall is worth writing about. The sunrise that creeps later and later into the morning, so those of us who sleep past 6am can actually see it some days; the smell of dust and must and fresh chill, and the steady stream of leaves wandering to the ground that prove Isaac Newton right once again.

There are many schools of thought about the best environment for writing. Some prefer the middle of the night. Others want the calm of a long summer day. The gray of poverty to stimulate the imagination, the sparkle of riches to write about 'what is,' the open room with a desk and a chair and sheets and sheets of cream paper and a smooth pen. But left out of every description is the most important part: fall. Fall makes the soul sing when the body must continue routine. There is good to find in every season—but it's easiest to find in fall.

*What's your ideal writing place? I'd love to hear from you.

Making it Matter—P6

6 Steps to creating something that matters: Find other people who care about the same things, and work with them: 

Nothing fuels synergy like a common passion. Working with someone who loves the same thing as you not only gives energy, but also fuels creativity. There are twice as many ideas, twice as much excitement, twice the brain power to catch errors and mistakes. Usually the creator has blind spots—working on something long and hard takes concentration and effort, and by the time you've completed a project, you've made it as perfect as you can. Someone else who comes along can spot a problem from a mile away, and if you're humble and willing to accept correction, they can help brainstorm a solution.

Sometimes it's hard to work with people who are just like you; they might remind you of yourself, and it's not always pleasant to be confronted with all of your qualities (both positive and negative) mirrored in another. But the extra vantage point and different maturity levels are indispensable. You may feel like you're alone in your passion—but you'd be surprised how many people care about the same things, if you just look for them.

There are several benefits to creating together. We can create more, faster. We don't burn out from isolation. We think of different ideas, bigger ideas, ideas that one person can't do alone but two can do together.

Create together. Though it may be scary, it's worth it.