Author: Shellie

Workshop Recap: Sara Zarr on Emotional Pacing

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At the beginning of the year, when I realized I was going on my 10-year anniversary (!!) of completing my MFA, I made a deal with myself: 2013 would be the year of continued education. There was no better way to kick off this year’s learn-fest than with an Advanced Writer’s Workshop at the beautiful South Austin Writing Barn with an author that I go positively fangirly over — Sara Zarr, author of the forthcoming THE LUCY VARIATIONS and STORY OF A GIRL, a National Book Award Finalist.

Writing Barn Exterior

The Writing Barn
photo by Sam Bond

The event began on Friday with a welcome party hosted by author, Writing Barn owner, and workshop teaching assistant Bethany Hegedus. Over wine and snacks on the Barn’s Party Porch I had the chance to meet lots of local and non-local kidlit and young adult writers. Texas was well represented with authors from Austin, DFW, Houston, and San Antonio, but writers traveled from all over — San Francisco, Boston, New York, and Toronto, to name just a few — to attend the workshop.

Saturday morning was the lecture portion of the weekend. Sara gave a brilliant presentation on emotional pacing, discussing both the macro (beginning, middles, and endings) and the micro (paragraphs, punctuation) elements of pacing. As a writer currently working through the middle of a draft, I most appreciated when she asked how many people enjoyed writing the middle of a novel. When not a single hand was raised, Sara said that middles should be just as excruciating for the characters as they are for writers. An authentic emotional journey is hard. It’s a tug of war between the person a character is at the beginning and the person they’ll be at the end. She described the micro elements as the tools we use to compose a symphony of words. Scenes, sentence length, paragraph structure, and punctuation are used to cue the pace and convey how the story should be experienced.

Writing Barn Workshop

Workshop
photo by Sam Bond

After the lecture and a break for lunch, it was time to get down to the business of workshop. The event description touts a workshop on par with MFA workshops and it was. The other participants brought terrific work to the table and insightful comments to the discussions. At the beginning of each author’s workshop, she/he was asked to talk a little about where they were in the work (first draft, submitting, etc.) and also how they were feeling that day. Just a basic question, but one that really helps ease the workshop experience. After two intense days of lecture and workshops, I left feeling exhausted and exhilarated.

This recap truly doesn’t do the weekend justice. It was an amazing experience that I am so lucky to have been a part of.  Writing can be lonely, so weekends like these when I can learn from and share ideas with other writers are so necessary. I plan to blog more about Sara’s craft lecture and other things I learned from the weekend, but came home so inspired by the lecture and workshop that I’ve pretty much buried my nose in revision ever since.

If you’re looking for a an experience where you can study craft and get feedback on your work in a beautiful setting, I highly recommend the Advanced Writing Workshops. Or, check out the Writing Barn’s other events here.

*Photos courtesy of Sam Bond and the Writing Barn.

#thankawriter: Pam Houston

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Cowboys Are My WeaknessIf there is a point where my life can be easily divided into “before” and “after”, it’s the moment I plucked Pam Houston’s Cowboys Are My Weakness off the shelf at the El Paso Barnes & Noble. Before Cowboys, I was a well-read twentysomething, on track to graduate with a degree in journalism and plug away at some small town newspaper. After Cowboys, I was a writer.

Okay, so technically I was a writer before then, too. I wrote for the campus newspaper, the journalism alumni magazine, and, of course, for my journalism classes, but my heart was never in that writing. I had a blog, er, online journal as they were called in 1998. That, I loved writing. But it was personal and the blog-to-book success story was still several years off.

Even though I was a voracious reader and had a handful of stories saved to my floppy discs, reading Pam’s book was the first time that I connected what I loved to write with what I wanted to read. From the first sentence of “How to Talk to a Hunter,” I was completely mesmerized. I’d never before read a piece of fiction with a tone so personal and honest. A few days after reading it, I tried to imitate the story in my own journal. What started out as a somewhat creative journal entry took a turn midway and drifted into fiction territory. That’s when I knew I wanted to learn more about creative writing.

Fast forward two and a half years. I was starting my MFA program. The woman who would later become my advisor had gone to school with Pam and encouraged me to attend the Taos Writing Workshop where Pam was teaching. I signed up for Pam’s advanced prose workshop and was deeply inspired by her glimmering moments approach to writing. At the conclusion of the workshop, Pam’s husband brought me a packet — an invitation to her private workshops on her ranch.

Going to a ranch workshop was a little like living a Pam Houston story: the wide expanse of Colorado sky, the hikes in the hills, the dinner table conversation with 14 other writers, the dogs lazily resting on the porch, the wine flowing. At the ranch, it was all about the writing and the experiences and having plenty of both to refuel for an entire year. Pam was one of the most encouraging writers I’ve worked with. I learned plenty about craft in those workshops, but what I mostly learned was to pay attention and to find and write about the things that mattered to me. Coming from an MFA program where it felt like autobiography was sin and the stories that got praised were the stories I wasn’t interested in writing, I can’t tell you how much of a relief those workshops were.

Dear Pam,

It’s been 15 years since I picked up Cowboys Are My Weakness, completely fell in love with it, and started off on my own wild writing journey. Your books have been my road maps along the way. When the road gets hard (when I spend too much time focusing on plot, on publication, or even just stringing two sentences together) I pull out one of your books and remember why I want to write. Your writing is brave, honest, witty and, above all, readable. Your stories remind me to go back to the beginning, find the glimmering moments, set them next to each other, and see what happens. Doing that, I find the heart in my story and the joy in writing again. All that glimmers is truly gold.

Thank you so much, not only for opening your ranch and encouraging a young writer, but for writing books that I love to read.

With love,

S

Want to know more? Visit Mighty Girl’s explanation of the #ThankAWriter project.

5 Ways to Feel Like a Productive Writer (Without Actually Writing)

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I don’t know about you, but as a writer with a day job, sometimes I feel like I’m failing if I’m not spending every free minute writing. I don’t know if this is a chronic condition of all writers (okay, probably not R.L Stine or any of the other novel-a-month authors) or a remnant from my MFA years in which it was hammered into me that writing time is a luxury that is not to be squandered. The condition is made worse by the number of articles out there compelling writers to get faster, write more words, or complete that novel in 30 days.

Inevitably, there comes a writing day when putting even one word on that blank page is a struggle, let alone 500 of them.  There’s lots of sage wisdom out there about not waiting for inspiration, that it’s discipline that makes one a successful writer, butt in chair, et cetera, et cetera. But combine a bad writing day (or two or three) with an anxiety about productivity and you have a recipe for disaster, IMO.

The butt in chair mantra is well and good for some writers, but for me, sometimes the butt has to come out of the chair. And that’s OK. There is no writing police. No one is going to point fingers at me and declare me less of a writer because every so often I need to use my writing time to browse Target with a mocha latte in hand.

However, since the nagging need to do something writing related never actually goes away, here are five things you can do to feel more like a productive writer on the days when the words just aren’t coming.

1. Read. Any writer will tell you that reading plays an ample role in the writing process. But if finishing that library book or settling in with a short story feels too much like leisure, try reading a book about writing. Might I recommend this one:

The Making of a Story by Alice LaPlante

The Making of a Story by Alice LaPlante

It’s huge. It’s a textbook! The size alone makes you feel like you are reading Important Things About Writing. But more importantly, it’s extremely readable and very, very good. It is an MFA in a book. Actually, it’s better than that because the discussion of the shape of stories has made me think of short fiction in an entirely new way. Spend some time reading about craft so you’ll be ready to apply it in your next writing session.

2. Critique. Analyzing others’ writing helps us analyze our own. Bug your writing buddies for pieces that they want feedback on. You have no writing buddies? Take apart a published short story or chapter from a novel. What’s working in it? What isn’t? If you were writing it, what would you have done differently? If you’ve been blocked because of an over zealous editor’s voice, this is an excellent opportunity to get it out of your system.

3. Journal. Okay, this is kind of writing, but it’s not. It’s not writing you’d want anyone else to see, anyway. When I’m in a particularly bad writing place, venting about it usually makes me feel better. This is the time to turn off the thoughts of the work-in-progress and just vent, rant, cry, whine, bitch about how much you hate writing. Putting those thoughts down on paper often helps expel them from the brain. And who knows, maybe in the freewriting, you’ll come up with a new idea or new character. Maybe you’ll figure out that tricky plot point.

4. Clean. There are some days that I can absolutely not get focused until I shovel the stacks of paper off my writing desk or clear the hall console table of the mail and junk pile up. I’ve heard a lot of writers talk about how they procrastinate by cleaning, but personally, I feel better in a somewhat organized environment. After hearing a writing teacher talk about this, I’ve even made it part of my process. The writing day doesn’t start until my office has been straightened up a little. Some days I have to spend time doing the bigger chores, but those are not wasted days. Like journal, I find it also clears my head — and my house — and doesn’t allow me any excuses about getting started tomorrow.

5. Exercise. I started running a few years ago and I’ve noticed a definite increase in productivity when I’m getting regular exercise. Not only is it yet another way to clear my head, I also feel more creative when I run. If I’m on a treadmill, by brain is on autopilot, leaving my mind free to talk to my characters, draft different plot lines, etc. If I’m on a neighborhood or trail run, I’m still a little on autopilot, but I’m also taking in the scenery and paying attention to the things around me. Both spur the creative process. But even if running isn’t your thing, the link between exercise and creativity is well documented. Get on a spin bike. Lift some weights. Exercise improves your mood, so even if you don’t get any writing done, at least you’ll be less prone to agonize over it.

Love what you do. Love how you do it.

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“Part of becoming a writer or artist is learning to love not only what you do, but how you do it.”

~~~~~
That’s my paraphrase of Rebecca Stead at Sunday’s Texas Book Festival Tribute to Madeline L’Engle. The discussion had turned to process and after Rebecca Stead mentioned she was a slow writer, Hope Larson asked if she’d heard that R.L. Stine writes a book a month.

I spend a lot of time agonizing over how much I don’t get done or trying to change my process to be faster or more productive and I know I’m not alone. My writing friends have recruited me in trying everything from fast drafting to setting a schedule to accountability buddies. We’re all out there looking to be better, faster, more productive.

Again, I didn’t catch the exact quote because I was being blinded by the light bulb going off above my head. Instead of spending so much energy trying to fight against my process, I should just learn to love it, slow that it sometimes is.

It’s a good revelation to have just before NaNoWriMo. It’s the one part of the writing process that I look forward to. I was thinking of skipping it this year. I have one mss that needs to be pushed out into the world and another that needs more revision attention than I’ve been able to give it. But dammit if I’m giving up an exhilarating month of fast drafting, logging word counts, and putting my head down and getting lost in my book.

I’ll have to spend the other 11 months learning to love my writing process, but November? I’ve got that one down.

What we talk about when we talk about rejection

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Anyone who has submitted fiction or poetry to lit journals for any length of time knows that a rejection letter is never just a rejection letter. There are varying degrees of meaning involved. Or, maybe we writers are just desperate to find hope in the deepest crevices.Back when submissions were mostly done by snail-mail there were three kinds of rejection you could count on:

1) The form letter. The most common and impossible to decipher. It could mean “Please don’t send us any more handwritten stream of consciousness ramblings” or it could mean that your submission was close but not a good fit. Hope meter: Low

2) The form letter with a brief note. Much better than your standard form letter, usually because it contained a few words from the editor or reader about how much they enjoyed it or an invitation to submit again. Hope meter: Higher.

3) The personal note, the holy grail of rejections. A sometimes hand written, sometimes typed (but referencing your name and your story) note from the editor, usually saying how darn close the submission came and asking you to send something again soon. The only thing better than this note is an acceptance, so for some of us, this is as good as it gets. Hope meter: Through the roof.

I’ve been lucky enough to get three of these last kind of rejections over the years and each time I was ecstatic. Someone liked what I read! Not enough to publish it, but still…

I don’t write short fiction or submit to magazines much anymore, but a few months ago I saw an opportunity to place a story. I logged in, uploaded the story, and waited about six weeks until an email showed up in my inbox. The story wasn’t a good fit, but they liked my writing, so send more.

Um.

Everyone says that tone gets lost in electronic communication and that is never more true than in the case of rejection letters. What did this mean? I was encouraged by the invitation to send more, but is this a form letter? It’s a new mag, maybe they want everyone to send more. How much hope should I ascribe to this?

I could spend hours wondering how much meaning to read in between the lines of the rejection letter, but something even more crazymaking occurred to me. What if this is as close as I ever come? People like my stuff, or they say they do, but they never publish it. It always needs just a little more work. It could always be just a little better. It’s always “good, but not good enough” and what if that never changes?

Excuse me while I go have a panic attack now.

Other writers have a lot to say about self-doubt. They seem to have a lot more to say once they’ve been published. Who hasn’t heard that Alice Munro finishes each book with the fear that she’ll never write another one? *side-eyes shelf of Alice Munro books*

I’d say the self-doubt experience is different when you’re an unpublished author. I’m sure getting published brings on it’s own special forms of self-doubt, but for me, right now, when all I want is to see something of mine in print, the scariest part of rejection is feeling like I’ll never achieve my goal.

I also think talking about these things – rejection, doubt – is less easy for us unpublished types. Oh, we talk about it, but we talk about strategies for breaking through or remind one another how all those Famous Writers got a gazillion rejections before they became Famous Writers. It’s rare that I hear someone express honest, raw emotions about how rejection really feels. Even on my ultra-supportive writer’s message board, concerns about rejection and self-doubt get hidden behind an anonymous alter-ego. Positivity is great and valuable, but sometimes I just want to know that I’m not the only one out there that gets that throat-closing feeling of fear.

Why is that? In this business, rejection is a certainty and with it comes anxiety and self-doubt. The least we could do for ourselves is talk about it.

So yeah, that happened. I’ll be fine. I’ll have other things to worry about soon enough – namely, finishing the query letter and last four chapters of my novel. When that’s done I’m moving on to the other revision that’s in progress. I have an accountability partner waiting for pages and a deadline in a few weeks, so dwelling on my fear isn’t an option.

Hope meter: Improving.

Women writers, sexism, and something that shouldn’t be revolutionary, but it is.

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I posted a couple of links over on my Facebook account earlier, but then realized that they probably deserved a blog post,  especially since the two of you that read this here blog regularly probably care more about writing issues than all my Facebook friends combined.

Thing #1: Dan Harmon on hiring women writers

For those unfamiliar with Dan Harmon, he’s the showrunner for Community. I’m convinced Community is one of the funniest, most intelligent sitcoms on television and Harmon is one wickedly smart dude, as evidenced by his epic 4-part AV interview. The above link comes from today’s installment and I’m just going to quote from it here, because it’s awesome.

The energy is different. It doesn’t keep anybody polite. We’re not doffing our caps or standing up when they enter the room. They do more dick jokes than anybody, because they’ve had to survive, they have to prove, coming in the door, that they’re not dainty. That’s not fair, but women writers, they acquire the muscle of going blue fast because they have to counter the stigma. I don’t have enough control groups to compare it to, but there’s just something nice about feeling like your writers’ room represents your ensemble a little more accurately, represents the way the world turns.

A-men. That thing that he says in the last sentence? About half the world being women and, you know, maybe that should be a little bit better represented? That idea touches on the thing that makes me so grouchy whenever another ‘Best Of’ fiction list makes it into whatever paper or website and there are 19 male authors and one female one. Or two. Sometimes there are two, just so the list collaborators can pat themselves on the back about how diverse their list is. Okay, now I’m just being ornery. Let’s move on.

Thing #2: The Magical Vulva of Opportunity

This one was recommended by a friend that saw Thing #1 and told me I needed to read Thing #2. I’m so glad she did because I have never actually experienced the sensation of laughing while also going into blind rage. I am bookmarking this to show to the next person (usually a man) who tells me that we don’t need that crazy feminism thing because sexism is so outdated. At the risk of going into more of a rage, I will cease that rant here.

Except to say:

Thing #3: All this talk has reminded me of the of the dude who once told me, “The thing with women writers is that they’re either really talented or really hot.” *

. . .

. . .

Okay then. Glad we have that sexism thing under control.

Come to think of it, I never did find out which I was/am.

And if you’ve made it this far, through my rants you deserve to end on better than what some jerkwad once told me. So here you go. Ladies and gentlemen, fellow lit nerds, your moment of squee:

Thing #4: Daisy’s Lullaby (The Great Gatsby Rap)

Thanks for bearing with me.

*Yes, he was serious.

On Sharing

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I went home this weekend. I saw my parents (which was nice) and shared a room with two yowling and traumatized cats (which wasn’t) and ate and visited and had a generally good time. Inevitably, the subject of my writing came up. My mom asked how it was going and was I through with my book yet? I tried to explain revising and querying and the critique group that went kaput, but in the end, Mom really just wanted to know when I was going to let her read what I’d written.

Nothing makes me more uncomfortable than someone I know, particularly someone I’m related to (by blood or marriage), asking if they can read what I wrote.

Is that weird?

I feel like that’s weird.

I’m pursuing publication. The dream is that one day my book will be read by many people I don’t know. Many complete strangers. And yet, I’m hesitant to hand a draft over to my family.

This is true in other areas of my life, too. Years and years and years ago I kept a blog. This was back before they were known as blogs and were mostly online confessionals. I spilled my hopes and dreams onto a public web site that about a hundred people checked into each day. My housemates didn’t know about it. My parents found it, but weren’t very interested in it. It felt very anonymous. Safe.

Years later, after that journal petered out and Livejournal became all the rage, I signed up for one of those and instantly connected with friends I saw weekly, monthly. I recorded my day. I moaned about my job. I talked about writing, or rather, wanting to write. But it wasn’t the same. My friends were reading it. I had an image of myself that I felt I had to maintain. There was always a part of me holding back.

Still is.

My fiction is different. It’s not confessional. There might be some things based on my life (isn’t there always?), but it’s not autobiographical.  But there is a part of my writing that almost feels to personal to share with some people. It’s odd who those people turn out to be. Critique partners? Let ’em rip into it.  My best friend? I will hand a draft over to her in a minute. My mother. . . ?  Can read the book if it ever gets published. Or when it’s close to being published.

There are a handful of people who have offered to read this manuscript and I just can’t take them up on it. Is it because I’m afraid they will see themselves in my writing? Is it because they will see to much of me? I don’t know.

Who reads your stories? Who doesn’t?

Hey Jealousy

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I’m sure I’m late to the party, but has everyone read this:

We are all savages inside

If you haven’t, please go now and read it. Go. Seriously. I’ll wait.

. . .

. . .

Done? Good. There is so much to say about this article. First of all, is there anyone who hasn’t felt like Awful Jealous Person a time or two? I have. Not so much over six-figure book deals, but there was a definite feeling of jealousy in the MFA program when any of my classmates got pubbed in a lit journal. One of my lowest moments came just after I completed my MFA when a blog acquaintance got a handsome book deal off her blog. I swear, at that point, I could have written Awful Jealous Person’s letter word-for-word. (Minus the prestigious universities stuff. State schools all the way, baby.) It was a dark place for me. I had a blog! I had an MFA! Why wasn’t I the chosen one?

We are all savages inside. Sigh…

I like what Sugar says about going deeper and looking at what truly bothers you about other people’s good news. My therapist was a big fan of this kind of exploration, especially when it came to anxiety or other icky feelings. What’s really going on? she liked to ask when I freaked my freak over having my first paid article due and experiencing insurmountable writer’s block.

For me, for a long time, I used to get the bitter taste of  jealousy at any mention of writing.  Whether a friend had just completed NaNoWriMo, or were editing a chapter they loved, or they carved out 15 minutes to draft a scene. Any of those would make me a little jealous.

You don’t have to look to deep to see what’s really going on there. I was jealous of my friends who were writing because I was not. I was jealous of classmates because they were subbing stories right and left while I sent out maybe 20 over the course of a year. In short, I wasn’t working hard enough and was jealous of people who were. This has often been the culprit behind my own jealous feelings. The bitter taste I get when I read about someone getting an offer of representation can be traced right back to the fact that I want to get my own query letter written and start subbing to agents. And it’s not just writing related. For a while it was a little hard for me to read weight loss success stories and even seeing my friends’ Facebook updates about going to the gym made me a little grumpy.

This all turns out to be very good news, actually. If my jealousy stems from watching someone do something I want to be doing, then I can go do it. Easier said than done, usually, but it works. When I’m carving out time to sit and write and working hard on my novel or query, I’m not grumpy when someone tweets about the awesome revision they just finished.

I’m kind of glad that Sugar pointed out Awful Jealous Person’s entitlement issues, but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with believing you deserve something as long as you’re putting the sweat behind getting it. And I’m not saying that just because this is the root of my jealous feelings, it’s the root of everyone’s jealous feelings. I’m just saying, at least go look for the roots.

The Courage to Start

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The miracle isn’t that I finished. The miracle is that I had the courage to start. — John Bingham

Starting, for me, has never been a problem. I can dig into my old computer files and find hundreds of started novels from way back when. My knitting basket currently holds a half-finished sweater and a few squares of the baby blanket I was making my friend’s now-two year old. I must have done weeks one through three of the couch to 5k program at least five times. I’ve always been good at starting things, but just after starting them, there’s always something brighter, shinier on the horizon. Something I’m more motivated to work on. Starting has never been the problem; finishing is.

So, knowing this, it’s a little odd that I found myself so drawn to the above quote when I saw it on a t-shirt at the 10K expo. I mean, there I was, finally about to finish something and what’s really grabbing me is a saying about having the courage to start. I bought the t-shirt. I brought it home. I showed it to my husband and he laughed.

It wasn’t quite the reaction I was going for.

After some careful thought, I realized he had a point. Evidence suggested that I had the courage to start down pat and that the miracle, for me anyway, was finishing. I thought, okay, maybe this doesn’t really apply to me. I kept the t-shirt anyway.

I still love the quote. It makes me think of all the people who won’t start something because they’re afraid. How many people want to write a novel, but are blocked by fear? How many people admire marathoners but won’t dare train for one themselves? Starting takes guts. It’s uncomfortable. It means you’re doing something different, making a change. It means you might fail spectacularly.

I’m used to failing spectacularly. In all my starts and stops with various hobbies, I’ve become very accustomed to the idea that I just might not finish what I start. It’s almost a joke. Having recognized this, I now go into projects with the nagging voice of failure in the back of my head. “Sure, start this novel. It’ll just end up in your incomplete manuscripts folder.” “Okay, enjoy the first few weeks c25k… AGAIN.” “Oh, good, another cast on. This will go well.”

For some people, namely people like me, it’s not just about having the courage to start. It’s about having the courage to start even  when you’ve started the project five times before and never finished it. For those of us, starting doesn’t mean you might fail, it means you already have failed and you’re coming back for more. There’s something to be said for being able to face down a blank page, knowing that there are four other “Chapter 1s” in a file folder on your desktop. Or climbing up on that treadmill and doing week one all over again because you’ve never managed to make it further than week three.

I remember the first time I tried to write a novel. I was twenty. I had a gazillion pieces of story in different files on my mac. I had grand hopes of expanding on them, but I never really got it together. I worked on the novel for a year. I had a beginning and kind of an end, but very little middle to speak of. I finally put that one a way and worked on other things, eventually abandoning each of them as well until finally I just decided that I must not be a novel writer. They were too difficult to finish.

Don’t think that this didn’t haunt me when I signed up for my first NaNoWriMo. Oh, it haunted me. I was convinced I was not going to finish. I’d spent the past ten years telling everyone I was not a novel writer. To make matters worse, I’d just gotten married and in cleaning out my old condo to sell it, I’d just discovered an entire box full of story starts, ideas for books, my short story collection that had been collected, but never polished. All the evidence of my failure to finish. It kind of sucked.

But I signed up. Something clicked and I finished. And a year later I finished another and then another. This not-a-novel-writer now has three manuscripts in her pocket, one of which is just about ready to go off to agents. All because I had the courage to start… again. It’s kind of a miracle.

In Praise of Praise

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You can learn a lot at a Doctor Who convention.

It’s funny that I’ve been to any number of writing workshops, writing conferences, readings, and Q&As by authors, but when I think about the real gems of advice, the real eye-opening stuff, it’s come through less obvious sources. In this case, it came from a Doctor Who convention.

Last weekend, I went to the epic Gallifrey One in Los Angeles. For those that are sci-fi or Who fans, check out the website and this recap and consider a visit in the future. It’s well worth your weekend.

This year, one of the biggest draws for me was Jane Espenson. Sure, it was great seeing Peter Davison, Janet Fielding, Sarah Sutton and other Who folk, but I’ve been a fan of Espenson’s work since long before the Ninth Doctor and Rose first rocked my world. We’re talking Dinosaurs here, people. And Buffy and Gilmore Girls. Espenson fangirl, right here, so when her name turned up on the list of invited guests, there was much squeeing and cheering in the Chicklit household.

I’m disappointed to say that I didn’t get into Espenson’s small group session (hers was the first to fill and though my friend and I grabbed the first two alternate spots, absolutely no one failed to show up for the session — surprise, surprise) but I did get to attend the interview and Q&A with Espenson and Doris Egan (novelist, producer, and writer on House, Tru Calling, Smallville). While most of the discussion revolved around the upcoming Torchwood: Miracle Day, there was a lot of talk about the writing process and what happens when Brits and Americans come together to write a tv show. It was fascinating.

And now for my little gem of goodness.

In describing what it’s like to work with Torchwood (and former Doctor Who) showrunner Russell T. Davies, Espenson mentioned that every email from Davies has the subject line “Hooray” and begins with “You are marvelous!”

Now, of course this was not news to us, the fans, who KNOW Jane Espenson and Doris Egan are marvelous because we’ve watched what they’ve done and we love it. However, giving notes with such praise is kind of unheard of in the both the tv writer’s room and the fiction writer’s room as well. I certainly can’t remember ever getting a critique that begins with “Hooray! You are marvelous!”

In fact, the whole idea of praise is somewhat eschewed in critiques. In beginning writing classes, we’re told to critique using the sandwich method: start with what you liked, go into what you didn’t like or what needs work, finish with encouragement. It’s not a bad plan, but it’s frequently abandoned halfway through the workshop in favor of just getting to the point.

By the time you get to an MFA setting, you will be scoffed at if you try the sandwich method. That sort of thing is for new writers, writers that need hand-holding and puppies and rainbows. Professional writers must grow thick skin and be able to take the brutal honesty as it’s doled out. And in a way, that’s true. The writing biz is so full of rejection and heartbreak, that it’s best to toughen up. And yet, if the writing biz is full of all the bad stuff, shouldn’t it be up to our peers and writing groups to give us the extra boost of enthusiasm?

What I gleamed from Egan and Espenson’s comments on Davies’ style and praise was that there’s a tendency to underestimate the value of praise. Espenson talked a little about her own style for giving notes and she admitted that she was afraid to overpraise because she worried it would make the writers complacent. However, she said that receiving Davies’ particular brand of praise made her feel less guilty about the script and more eager to do rewrites. “Instead of ‘oh, here’s the scene I screwed up,'” she said, “it’s ‘this is the masterpiece I just need to tune up.'”

What an awesome way to look at a manuscript. A masterpiece in need of a tune-up. I would be much more eager to work on revisions with that kind of feedback.

Admittedly, it’s been a long time since I’ve given that kind of feedback as well. I’ll point out what’s working, but I don’t think I praise my fellow writers nearly enough. And, when I’m involved in regular crit groups, I’m just as guilty of abandoning the sandwich method to get straight to the problems of the manuscript.

I’m going to try to do things differently. Of course, I’m not going to stop making suggestions about how to make manuscripts better, but I am going to try to give more credit to the strengths and give more encouragement to my fellow writers. Starting with you:

HOORAY!!  You are marvelous! Go forth and write.