A Writer's Biggest Secret

I’m noticing that the thoughts I have about what I’m going to write tend to be much different than what I actually write.

When I sit down at the computer and start tapping on the keyboard, ordinarily I have some roadmap in my head of where I want to go. But then I start veering off course and venturing into destinations that I had never planned on visiting. Almost always these little jaunts are more interesting and intriguing than the place I had planned on going. The result is that I end up tossing that roadmap by the wayside.

I started thinking about this after I wrote my last blog entry, Putting a Cork in the Whine. I have no idea where that came from. It was nothing like what I had plotted out in my mind. But that, I think, is what made it more fun to write – and hopefully more fun to read. At some point my imagination just took over and took me to a place that I never thought it would go.

This happens all the time when I’m writing a novel. I’ll start out thinking that I’m going in one direction and suddenly I’ll find myself going in the opposite one. Almost always the opposite one is the better one.

I’ll give you an example straight from the pages of my current project, a tragicomic coming-of-age road story about two teen boys set in the late seventies. While driving through Southern Wisconsin, one of the boys discloses to the other that he has started dating this girl that they both work with. He breaks the news as gently as possible because he thinks his friend has a crush on her. It’s an awkward conversation that I decided would be even more interesting if I made the friend he's confiding this information to gay. The friend is jealous but not at all for the reasons the other thought. This opens up a whole new layer to their friendship but before I came to that scene I had no thought of making one of the two main characters gay.

This is why I could never work from an outline. It would be out the window before I even got anywhere. It's much more fun to roll down the windows, crank up the radio and just drive without any preconceived notion of where you're going.

That brings me to where I was planning to go with that last blog entry. Writing a novel is a long, arduous process. You’ve got this great story to tell but you have to keep it all to yourself until you finish writing it. Even then, you still have to get it published before the world knows about your great story. And getting published also can be a long, arduous -- and oftentimes fruitless -- process. An unfinished or unpublished novel is a writer's biggest secret. Sometimes it's one that is never revealed.

This goes against all your instincts. Think of any great story that happens to you. You can’t wait to tell others, right?. Now think of a story so great that you’re willing to invest possibly years of your life into telling it. But you can’t share it with anyone else until it’s all told.

I’ve never been all that good at keeping secrets. So if you’d like an insider’s peek at my current project, contact me by e-mail and I’ll send you a sample of it. By no means is this the whole story but it hopefully will be just enough to give you a flavor of it and hungry for more.

Putting a cork in the whine

I used to think that the biggest challenge in writing a novel was fighting my inner-procrastinator.

It always seemed like there was something else I could be doing instead of writing.

Excuse me now while I rearrange my sock drawer.

Gosh I can’t believe that I was able to function with my black socks so clearly out of place in the top drawer right next to my brown socks. How stupid could I have been? Everyone knows that you don’t put black socks next to brown socks. Otherwise on those mornings when you’re rushed or barely awake, you’re going to accidentally pull out the wrong pair of socks and discover later in the day that you’re wearing black pants and black shoes with brown socks. No longer do I have to worry about making that mistake. Not with the khaki socks now situated so that they clearly separate the black and brown ones.

Now where was I?

You can see how it is easy to be distracted by other things when you should be writing. There are so many things that you could be doing –

Shoot, I’ve made a terrible error in judgment. I’ve got the socks in the top drawer and the briefs just below them. That just doesn’t make logical sense. I don’t know about you, but for me, the briefs always go on first. The socks always come second. Obviously that means that I’ve got the brief and sock drawers in the wrong order. The top drawer should be for briefs, the second drawer should be for socks. Duh! Pardon me, again. I’ll be back in a sec.

Focus. It’s so easy to lose that when you’re writing. But, as you can surely see, it’s not a problem for me. When I’m writing, nothing can distract me.

Except time. Jeez, look at those seconds ticking away. Why is it that there’s never enough time?

I’m doing it all by the book. Really I am. I’ve got my idea for a novel. I think it’s a good one. I’ve got my goals for writing it. I’m even sitting down staring at an open Word document labeled “MANUSCRIPT”.

So why isn’t it getting done faster? Since it’s so obviously not my fault, I am left to blame time. It just seems like there used to be so much more of it. But now I’ve got job duties overlapping with household duties overlapping with parental duties. Really it’s pretty amazing that I’m able to write anything at all. Sure I’d set a goal for myself that I’d have 25,000 words written by now. But given the amount of time that I have, I’d say I’ve done pretty well to have written 5,000.

I did used to think that procrastination was the biggest demon I had to slay as a writer. That evolved into a new foe: the clock. And that has evolved into my newest and scariest challenge: whining.

Oh, no, say it ain't so, I've become a whine-o.

A writer’s favorite pastime is whining. And I’m as guilty of it as any other writer out there. The reason I suppose is that it’s so easy to make excuses for not writing. There are always things that you could be doing instead of writing. And it’s easy to put the blame for not writing elsewhere.

Writing is by no means easy. But that doesn’t mean you have to whine about it. Nobody likes a whiner. And no good story is ever going to be written if you spend all your time whining instead of writing. So here’s my simple solution: I’m putting a cork in the whine.

At least until I type “THE END” on that manuscript and can start whining about agents and publishers and rejection letters.

Chicago's Literary Scene: 2nd to None

You might have to look a bit harder than you would in NY or LA to find the pulse that is Chicago's literary scene. But it's there and it's beating stronger than ever.

No, it's not NY where all the money-hungry publishing houses and literary agencies congregate. No, it's not LA where all those tanned Hollywood types flock. 

Chicago's literary scene is a little more pick-yourself-up-by-the-bootstraps, blue collar and pasty-skinned, a reflection of the city itself.

But it's a surprisingly vibrant one. You just have to no where to look. 

While everything in NY or LA is big, small is thriving in Chicago. There's an abundancy of zines, journals and comics coming out of Chicago. Just check out Quimby's Book Store or Chicago Comics and see for yourself.

There's also an incredibly warm and welcoming literary community in Chicago that throws its arms around the little guys. Visit Twilight Tales or The Book Cellar or The Chicago Underground Library.

Online, one of the hottest literary magazines, Bookslut, originates from the Windy City.

And a growing number of established and up-and-coming authors are calling Chicago and its environs home. Stuart Dybek. Audrey Niffenegger. Sara Paretsky. Raymond Benson. J.A. Konrath. Libby Fischer Hellman. Jay Bonasinga. David Ellis. Barbara D'Amato. Scott Turow. Kevin Guilfoile. Elizabeth Berg. Adam Langer. Achy Obejas. Joe Meno. To name just a few. 

As part of my work on the new website of the Chicago Writers Association, I've been conducting interviews with some of the movers and shakers in the Chicago literary scene. They'll be popping up now and then in the site's Commerce section.

One of the goals of these interviews is to put the spotlight on Chicago's surprisingly vibrant literary scene. That's what led me to choose my first two interview subjects: the delightful Sharon Woodhouse, founder of Chicago's Lake Claremont Press; and thriller writer and Chicago native J.A. Konrath, who dispenses his own unique brand of wit and wisdom about writing and marketing.

I hope you'll take the time to read these interviews and learn what I've learned: When it comes to writing and community, Chicago is second to none.   

Update on Wednesday, April 19, 2006 at 07:23AM by Randy Richardson

J.A. Konrath links to my interview with him on his insanely popular blog, "A Newbie's Guide to Publishing," today. And Sharon Woodhouse recently linked to my interview with her on her publisher's blog, "Lake Claremont Press's Chicago." You see, Chicago really does have quite a friendly literary community.

Living a Fantasy

Back in December, I wrote about my author fantasies, thinking that none of them would ever come true.

And, so far, none of my author fantasies involving Oprah, John Cusack, Scott Turow or Winona Ryder have come true.

But one of my author fantasies did, indeed, come true.

It happened yesterday. I’d caught the Southbound Purple Line Express, an “L” train that runs between Wilmette and Chicago, Illinois, at my usual spot, Foster Avenue, at my usual time, 3:14 PM., and sat in my usual seat, a single in the back that faces the aisle.

The train was empty except for a few other passengers, two of whom I usually see and abhor because of their excessive chatter, and one of whom I did not recognize, a woman, thirty-ish, I’d say, rather plain looking, who would not have caught my eye except for the fact that she was reading Lost in the Ivy, the book I wrote.

She, like me, sat facing the aisle, but in the opposite direction, so that I had a mostly unobstructed view of her. About ten feet separated us, as she was next to the door, in one of the double seats that you’re supposed to relinquish to handicapped or elderly persons.

She seemed oblivious to my staring and kept her eyes down, reading my book. One thing that I noticed was that she held the book in one hand, which I suppose is not all that unusual – except that she also used the fingers on that one hand to turn the pages. It was then that I realized that she did not have her other hand.

When the train stopped at the next station, Davis Street, a skinny, heavily-tattooed man with spiked, multi-colored hair, got on and took the seat next to the one-handed woman reading my book, blocking my view of her. Unlike her, he seemed to notice that my gaze was focused in that direction and I nervously turned my head and pretended to look out the window in back of me.

The reality was that I had probably less than five minutes before my stop. What was I to do? I’d written about this scenario before, and thought of various possibilities:

1. Do nothing.
2. Ask her what she’s reading and if she likes it.
3. Tell her, “You’re reading my book.”
4. Ask her to look at the author photo on the back.
5. Ask if she would like to have the author sign the book she’s reading.

If I waited for my stop to get up, there wouldn’t be enough time to have any kind of meaningful conversation. So at the next stop, Dempster Street, I stood and walked toward the doors and came to a stop right next to the one-handed woman reading my book.

I glanced down, with a slight smile on my face, hoping that she’d look up. But she kept her head down in my book.

I said, “Excuse me,” but it got no reaction from her.

“That’s my book you’re reading,” I said, my heart starting to race a bit as we approached the next station, Main Street. My words garnered a glare from the punk next to her but the one-handed woman didn’t budge.

Finally, as the train headed toward my stop, I tapped her on the shoulder. She looked up and I said, “That’s my book.”

She stared for a moment and then shook her head and rather tentatively raised her one hand and pointed to her right ear. It was then that I realized that she was deaf.

I smiled as the train came to a stop. Just before walking out, I tapped the back of the book, where there was a picture of me.

She looked at me and then turned the book to the back cover. As the doors closed behind me, I glanced over my shoulder and saw her through the window. I saw her make the connection and raise her head just as the train pulled away.

Update on Saturday, April 1, 2006 at 06:12AM by Randy Richardson

The story above is all fiction. None of it happened – except for the part about me taking the train home every day at the same time and sitting in the same seat. But you knew that, right? Or did you fall for my April Fool’s joke?

If you figured out that the story was fiction, at what point did you realize it? Did you continue reading until the end, knowing that the story was not true? If you believed the story all the way through what were your thoughts about it? Please share your comments below.

What was the point of this exercise? At one level it was just for fun. I'd conceived the idea for it shortly after writing the original blog entry about my author fantasies and then decided to hold off on posting it until April Fool's Day. At another level, however, this exercise was intended to demonstrate that when you write fiction, while you may not always see your fantasies come true, you can always bring them to life. And that makes for a pretty rich world.

Coming Out of the Shell

If you just know me from reading my blog, you'd probably never guess that I'm very much an introvert.

I've had people who've known me for years tell me that they don't recognize the person who writes this blog.

In grade school, I was the kid who wore the Cubs cap and rarely talked.

In high school, there was a bully who cruelly nicknamed me Mute. You can see why I didn't like high school much.

It wasn't until college that I began to start crawling out of my shell.

But chronic shyness is not something you overcome easily. It's something that I've battled my whole life and still fight today. It shapes who I am and some of the things I do.

Going to law school was anything but easy for me. In law school, you have to learn to speak up in front of your peers. You can't just hide in the back of the class. For me it meant three years of anxiety. Yet it was a hurdle I wanted to overcome and I did.

Writing is comfortable to me. Speaking is not. This is certainly not true of all writers but it's probably true of most. If you just write for yourself, that's not a problem. But if you write for public consumption, well, then you do indeed have a problem.

Since the release of Lost in the Ivy, I've done multiple radio interviews and made many public appearances. None of these have been easy for me. Yet I do them, not just because I want to sell a book but also because they force me to come further out of that shell.

Yes, there's always that sense of dread that comes with each of these experiences. But there's also that sense of accomplishment that follows them, and that is, for me, what makes them all worthwhile.  

Update on Monday, March 27, 2006 at 10:20AM by Randy Richardson

On Friday, April 7, you can see me stick my head out of that shell when I appear at WriterFest in Wheeling, Illinois, from noon to 4 p.m. I'll be one of a dozen participating authors representing various genres and answering questions about writing, getting published, marketing and other related issues. The event, organized by my friend Michelle Ailene True, a poet and fellow member of the Chicago Writers Association, will be held at Indian Trails Public Library District, 355 S. Schoenbeck Road. Refreshments will be served and there will be a free raffle for gift baskets. The event is free, but space is limited. To register, call (847) 459-4100. Hope to see you there!