Give Yourself Permission to Write Poorly

--by Vonnie Davis

I've been reading THE 90-DAY NOVEL by Alan Watt. The title appealed to me because I wrote Storm's Interlude, my debut novel, in ninety-days. I had no plan, no outline and no idea where the story would lead. All I had was a bizarre opening scene--a naked man cresting a hill, wearing nothing but a cowboy hat, hand-tooled boots and a go-to-hell sneer. It was my third attempt at writing a book, and believe me when I say the first two will never see the light of day. They are too bad, too sick, too "head-hopping" awful to rework--and I've tried on several occasions.

I'd outlined the first two books, edited and tweaked until there was no spirit of me left in either one. In short, they stunk...stank...and were downright stinkin' putrid.

So with Storm, I gave myself permission to write whatever flowed into my brain. As Alan Watt suggests, I held my story loosely. I allowed it to take me, instead of me taking it.

The author mentions that we live in a left-brain society. We've been trained to second-guess ourselves, to be more interested in the result that the process. We're not encouraged to be curious. Yet, how often in our writing process do we ask ourselves, "what if?" What if this happened? And then this? No, wait! What if both happened? Then what if...

So, I ask you. What if we wrote random crap as a way to get to know our characters and their world?

Watt says, "When we drop our pre-conceptions about what good writing is and we give ourselves permission to write poorly, everything changes. Permission to write poorly does not produce poor writing, but its opposite. We become a channel for the story that wants to be told through us. Rather than impressing our reader with our important writing, we can impress with out willingness to be truthful to the page."

I've been working on a novella the past two-weeks. I'm half-way through chapter two, having rewritten chapter one so many times, it's lost part of its charm. Me thinks I'm slipping into old patterns. Starting tomorrow, I'm following the advice given in the book. I'm moving ahead, writing crap and ultimately allowing my characters to have their way. There's a scene that's been revealed to me. I can see my hero standing in the doorway, his lower jaw shifting and tensing as he battles with old hurts. I can sense his emotions and see his rigid body. By golly, if I have to write crap to get to that scene, so be it.

How about you? Do you give yourself permission to write a dirty first draft? Or do you, like me, fight the urge, that inner-editor to fiddle and tweak and edit before moving on to the next scene?

Does Your Story Have An Awesome Beginning? by Vonnie Davis

Editors tell us they want dropped into the action from the "get-go." At a writers' retreat, an editor told me she expects dialogue on the first page. Another said she gives the writer three pages to make her care before she hits the delete button. Expectations like this make us tighten our writing--or curl up in the fetal position under our desks.

Our opening hooks must be powerful and sharp. Yet they must also showcase our creativity. Often this is hard when our storyline requires we set the scene. How much detail should we use? How can we pull our reader into the moment of our story--and keep them there? To this end, we examine the strength of every word, the need for every comma, the way we present our main character. We write and rewrite until we get it just so...only to go back and change it another six times.

IF CRAFTING OPENING HOOKS WERE ONLY EASY.

 

Our opening hooks often define our characters or showcase the literary world we've created for our readers' enjoyment.

 

Take the beginning paragraph of my Storm's Interlude, I needed to set the scene:

Someone swaggered out of the moonlit night toward Rachel. Exhausted from a long day of driving, she braked and blinked. Either she was hallucinating or her sugar levels had plummeted. Maybe that accounted for the male mirage, albeit a very magnificent male mirage, trekking toward her. She peered once more into the hot July night at the image illuminated by her headlights. Sure enough, there he was, cresting the hill on foot—a naked man wearing nothing but a black cowboy hat, a pair of boots and a go-to-hell sneer.

 

But what if our story takes place in another era?

 

Gunfire jarred Annalee Gallagher. She straightened in her seat, her heart pounding. Another bullet zinged past the stagecoach, and the older couple sitting across from her gasped in unison. Heaven help her, she’d escaped one nightmare only to find herself in the middle of another.

      

 

 

 

Or in a different country like the second book of my romantic suspense trilogy?

 

It wasn’t the hardened man who eased his motorcycle to the curb that snagged Gwen Morningstar’s attention. Nor was it the wide spread of his shoulders or the way his black jeans hugged his muscled thighs like a pair of lover’s hands. For sure, it wasn’t the long scar on his right cheek or the small silver cross that dangled from his ear. No, it was his pristine-white angel wings that dragged on the pavement.

Odd that Parisians hurried past without so much as a second glance. As if seeing a mountain of a man riding a Harley with angel wings flowing down his back was as common as citizens carrying unwrapped crusty loaves of bread in their hands. No one gawked as their feet tattooed a staccato beat on the busy pavements of the City of Light. Few things fazed Parisians, it seemed.

 

Can opening the story with internal dialogue work? I used it in Back Where You Belong: 

What the hell?

Tyler Desmond whirled away from the shot he was about to make at the pool table to grasp for whatever caused the sudden, stinging pain at the back of his neck. When his fingers closed around a dart, he yanked the offending object out, searching through the crowd in the Lonesome Steer Honky Tonk for the bastard who dared throw one at him.

 

In a short story, I needed to establish some things about my heroine right away.

 

      Her lungs stopped working. This couldn’t be happening. Hope Morningstar read the words on her cell’s screen once more. Black spots danced across her vision field, and she finally breathed again. “He broke up with me!” Her gaze jumped from the screen to her sister’s questioning face. “Barclay broke up with me…in a text!”

Gracie snatched the cell from Hope. “Let me see.”

Hope rested her elbows on the table and dropped her face into her hands. This can’t be happening—not again.

 

I can't tell you what version you're reading of each. I struggled with every one. What about you? How hard is it for you to create your opening hook?

ANTS AND SELF-DOUBT by Vonnie Davis

I like flowers with  a strong bouquet, or smell. Lilacs, lily of the valley, hyacinths and peonies, to name a few. Peonies are a common flower in South-Central Pennsylvania where I grew up. What I remember most, next to their delicious smell, were the ants. The buds seemed to attract large ants who slowly crawled over them as if it were their job to open every bud on the bush.

What was the ants' purpose? They were only present during the time the blossoms opened. 99% of the time, the flower held no attraction for the insects. So why did they come?

The Heartland Peony Society says this is a natural and temporary activity. It is believed that peonies produce small amounts of nectar and other ant attractants to encourage ants to help in opening the dense double flower buds found in many peonies. Once the buds have opened, the ants disappear.

If only our self-doubts were the same way. They come to us like those pesky ants on the peonies and crawl over our dreams and ambitions. What if I can't finish this book? What if I can't get a contract? What if I can't sell any books? What if the book I just published is the only one I'll ever be able to write? Oh, yes, the creepy-crawly sensations of self-doubt.

I remember shortly after signing my first book contract, Ms. Self-Doubt knocked at my front door with a three-piece set of luggage. She sashayed into my home as if she were my honored guest. "Oh, I'm here, my poor dah-ling." She breezed air-kisses off my cheeks. "I know you're thrilled with your little contract, but I've come to help you accept Storm's Interlude was the only book you'll ever be able to write."

I kicked her out to the curb--her AND her three-piece set of luggage. I can joke about it now, but at the time I really struggled with self-doubt. And, if truth were told, I still do. I suppose it's odd for me to say that with three more projects under contract. Still, my debut book has garnered some lovely reviews. What if the next ones don't? What if a reviewer says a subsequent book didn't live up to the promise of the first? Could happen, right?

I think all artistic people struggle with inner fears and nagging self-doubts. They are the ants of our creative flowers. Only by facing them can we overcome. Keep working. Keep writing. Keep moving your artistic career forward. Work through those self-doubts. Send those ants on their way.

I'm Learning-- Vonnie Davis

Jazzie Miles Davis

Since I stepped into the writing arena late in life, my situation is much different than most of yours. I’m not trying to squeeze writing time in before I go to work at an outside job, or while the baby naps, or after the kids are finally in bed for the night. I’m retired; I can write whenever I want. My children are grown as are two of my six grandchildren. My obligations to others involve my husband and my cat.

Now here’s another difference: my husband is an author, too. Gee, what’s that like, you might ask. Actually, it’s fabulous. There’s great understanding of the time one must devote to writing and promotion. When one of us wakes up in the middle of the night, thanks to our characters or storyline, and needs to get up for a couple of hours to write, the other commiserates.

Calvin’s not writing anything right now, he’s more focused on seeing that I can write. He unloads the dishwasher and runs the vacuum. Sometimes he does the grocery shopping. And, as if he’s not perfect enough, every afternoon he makes me a cappuccino with frothy milk the way I like it. Yes, this man is a gem.

We found each other late in life. He was 70 and I was 55. We’re a match dot com success story. Our love for literature and writing brought us together—that and Cal’s sweet smile.

Do we bounce ideas off each other? To a degree. Do we read and critique each other’s work. Yes, somewhat. To be honest, we’re both so protective of the way we write, of our voice, that only half of the suggestions are taken.

We write differently, after all. Calvin writes sentences full of thunder and lightning. I write sentences full of emotion.

Calvin’s book, The Phantom Lady of Paris, was released on July 1^st. My Storm’s Interlude was released on July 15^th. Can you imagine double the excitement, double the promotion, double the craziness of book release time? We’re a little overwhelmed at the Davis household—and that’s putting it mildly.

 I’ve taught Calvin the lessons I’ve learned on blogging etiquette, and he’s a fast learner. Ladies, if you ever need a male prospective on your blog, he’s your man.

He’s taught me to stop overdoing. You see, I have a problem with saying, “No.” Then, suddenly I’m over-taxed with contest judging, mentoring, doing beta reads, blogging, tweeting and the whole smear. And I’ve no time left to write. My soul suffers. He says I have WWS—Wonder Woman Syndrome.

 I shake my head and smile. No, thinks I, the wonder women are the writers with outside jobs and children still at home. Those are the ladies I look up to and admire. Me, I’m the woman who simply takes on too much.

So, I’m learning. Learning to manage time wisely…and yes, learning to say, “No.” Why just last night when Calvin asked if I was going to fix any dinner, the word rolled off my tongue so trippingly, as Shakespeare would say, that all of you would have smiled with pride. Yup, I’m learning. What about you? Do you take on too much?