How Not To Write

I've had a few people lately who have asked me why I don't use my real name on this site. I've certainly thought about it from time to time, especially as I've been blogging under an semi-anonymous identity for about eight years now (six years on another site and two years here). It isn't like it's all that hard to find, but why not just put it out there?

My name is Jamie Grove.

There. I said it.

I guess I've always had this little identity problem. I'm not alone in this. I've read about plenty of writers who have gone through the same sort of problems.

As a eulogy to my mask, here's a little story about how I came to be afraid of my own name...

I got hooked on writing because my fifth grade teacher let me skip class.

A friend of mine was working on a long story that spilled over into multiple chapters and detailed illustrations. The teacher was so excited that she let him work in the hall for an hour a day. To me, this looked like an easy way to ditch class so I started writing a story too... The same story my friend was writing, only it wasn't as good.

I remember how quiet it was in the hall...

My friend made steady progress on his book, while I started to wonder what I was doing out there. My thoughts began to wander and I found myself scribbling a few ideas of my own.

After a few weeks, my friend finished his book. The librarian bound up his book and made it available for checkout in the school library.

But when I was asked to show what I had, I turned in a pile of messy notes instead of the book. Something about seeing all those thoughts and feelings with my name on it terrified me. I froze up and could not force myself to produce the work I'd struggled to create.

This is something that's happened to me again and again, but now it's time to say good-bye to all that.

Why I Did It Today

Here are two posts that deserve some love. The authors and commenters really inspired me to toss off the mask:

How to Get More Business by Commenting on Blogs by James Chartrand

Use your name. Some people hide behind cute or witty nicknames or only use their business name to identify themselves. It’s a bad idea and detracts from your business credibility.

-- James

Feel Great Naked: Confidence Boosters for Getting Personal by Sonia Simone

It is a waste of time and energy to keep secrets about yourself. You care way more than other people care about your life and what you may or may not have done. It is best to open up, vent, move on, and advance to the next stage. Let others worry about hiding in the corner.

-- The Masked Millionaire

More About Me

You can find out about my professional life via my LinkedIn profile http://www.linkedin.com/in/jamiegrove. For a little more insight, read - You Pay for the Brain. Vanity Costs Extra.

I blog about technology and E-Commerce stuff on occasion over at Field Guide to Programmers. I post some funny and sometimes poignant hooptedoodle over at Awesome Mustache.

I used to run a site called AuthorStore.com. It was one of the first book price search engines on the web. Later it became a blog. Later still, it turned into a literary mess that I wrote in the third person. Now it is asleep.

Below is a picture of me before I got half loaded at the Irish Lion in Bloomington, IN. I highly recommend this pub.

I really have written two bad novels and lots of short stories. Those all bear my name... And yes, I do indeed have a journal crammed with 2MM words.

If you're still not sure about coming out, check out this older article by Sonia Simone, Come Out of the Closet:

No one gives a rat's ass about the huge investment of energy you spend trying to be like everyone else.

Most of us spend our time and energy carefully cultivating our masks. And those masks are almost universally a) laughably transparent, and/or b) boring.

It seems simple, and it is, but it's also hard. Being remarkable means being different. "Different" is not actually all that far from "weird."

One of the great cornerstones of marketing (note to self, must add this to the marketing tool kit for my newsletter) is differentiation. You'll also see it called the unique value proposition or unique selling proposition. You need to find out, and communicate, what makes you unlike all of your customers' other options. What makes you uniquely valuable. What makes you interesting. What makes you remarkable.

What makes you weird.

I hope this post of mine inspires other writers to come out of the world of anonymous blogging. Chuck the masks and get on with life!

Today, I'm going to share the six reasons I'm using to finish a story that's been hanging around this last month with no movement whatsoever. The reasons are fairly particular to this story, but after I wrote them down I thought they might be helpful to others.

About the Story

The first thing you should know is that I've been writing this story for about 13 or 14 years. You'd think I'd know exactly, but the oldest notes have no dates and so I have to go with a few calendar events that match up...

Wait, is this trip down memory lane really necessary?

1. The reader isn't going to have any idea I spent just under 1/3 of my life working on this story.

Ever think of writing in those terms? Don't. It's depressing.

Don't worry about how long it's taken you to get this far. Focus on getting to the end.

2. This story dies if it doesn't get finished.

A story that lies in a drawer is a dead story. No one hears the tale. No one falls in love with the characters or your description of some farm in the middle of nowhere. The story dies.

3. I have other stories to write.

The problem with quitting on a story is that it keeps coming back to haunt you. It's like the fish that got away, except it's sitting the aforementioned drawer and stinking up your studio. I need to get rid of this story and the only way to do that is to finish it.

4. I'm no longer afraid of this story.

When I first came across the nugget for this story, I was deathly afraid of it. I didn't think I was worthy to write it. I wasn't ready. That's all garbage writers tell themselves because they read someone's opinion of the "right time" to read Henry James.

There's hardly a right time to write the story you have in your hand. Don't be afraid of the story, especially if you have something powerful. Rest easy knowing that even the best writers screw up the most fantastic ideas- that's what writing is all about.

5. Someone will publish this story.

Forget about all the reasons no one will want the story. I won't even list them, not even if you beg. The fact is that someone will publish this story. Even if I have to send it out a hundred times. Someone will publish it.

6. I believe in this story.

The only reason I keep working on this story is that I believe in the underlying ideas and I love the characters. Over the years, this story has changed from a rural melodrama to a gothic romance to a murder mystery to a science fiction story. And yet, the core message has remained the same (along with a view juicy bits I love).

I believe in the story and so it must be written.

So, what are the reasons you're going to use to finish your story?

A writer can be something of a sponge, soaking up the ideas and personalities of others and regurgitate them on the page. However, while waiting for the right moment, those bits mingle with the thoughts of the author and sometimes they take on a life of their own. This can steer the writer in the wrong direction on a story, but it can also push you in the wrong direction on a macro scale.

Quite naturally the novice rejoices at even the smallest morsel of feedback. They hold it close and nurture it until they finally absorb it into their being. This is where bad things tend to happen.

Still, you are responsible for your own fate. A word of positive encouragement cannot steer you down the wrong path unless you let it.

At heart, I'm a pleaser and so I want to sing and dance for all the world. As a result, I tend to shift with the breeze, following this idea or that.

I've had the good fortune to have some wonderful friends. People of such grace and kindness as to read most everything I send their way - even when they are clearly the characters being portrayed. [How painful it must be at times to be the friend of a writer!]

I treasure their insight and comments, but I tend to take them to heart too quickly. I've gotten better over the years, but it's still a hard thing for me to deal with. Here are a couple of tips that seem to help me keep feedback separated from my own thoughts, which has the benefit of making said feedback useful too:

Put some distance between the work and the feedback.

Nothing is worse than getting feedback on a story you just "finished". First, you're all amped up about it, so you're likely to be overly emotional about the feedback (good or bad). Second, you're probably tired of working on the story so any changes that should or could be made will be discounted by your writer's brain.

Try to get feedback in person.

I find that discussing a work in person is generally more productive than getting an email. Most people (even writers) won't take the time to tear it apart properly. In addition, feedback received in person is easier to forget, which sounds a little strange but think of all the old emails or redlined drafts you've read over and over again.

Know what you were trying to write in the first place.

You get an idea for a story (maybe it's just a character or a scene) and you get to scribbling. You work at it for a long while and then, "Whee! It's done!"

Oh, but wait, what the hell is the story about? What did you want the reader to get from the story? Even if you work on a story for two-thousand years, it will be open to interpretation, but when you get feedback it's really helpful to know what you were trying to write in the first place. How else can you gauge success?

---

Just so you know, I forget this advice every time I finish a story. Maybe I should tack it up on the wall.

As I write, I find that the more I focus my attention on the quiet moments produced by a life of reflection the happier I am, the more I feel at peace. This is not to imply that I am passive. As ever, I am a passionate soul who desires trial by fire over all else. I do not seek comfort or ease, but I must also acknowledge that life is long and complicated.

Photo Credit: storm crypt (flickr)

If I turn my eye towards this sort of writing, I enter a new world of impressions cast from the past onto the present, of the future implied in the current moment. I write in a universal sense that we can all see, that we can all experience and understand what is felt by a sentence.

Combining the means and the terms with the stark images of places, people, and events that we have deliberately forgotten, is one method for creating a deep sense of emotion. One must layer sense impressions on top of the metaphysical intuition. One must not only see the ruined castle but all who lived within it and all those who dwell about its decay. One must see the loves of life that pranced within those walls and the deadly tears wept at the malicious contempt of others.

One must not always speak in such a silly voice. Sorry.

When I write like that, I feel almost as if I am lighter than the words and yet heavier than the whole. I sink down to the bottom of the pool, open my eyes in the silent darkness, and see the blue light above and the shadows of those who are swimming just out of focus. I sense there, as the oxygen grows thin, a possibility of never coming to the surface, of stopping time at this single moment and walking around it, through it, until I come back to the firm realization that I require air to live and push off reluctantly.

Perhaps he never properly recovered from the pain that his imagination revealed to him. To see clearly, the delight, the celestial vision, of pure, unedited Art, would drive a person mad, but only because they had no hope of reproducing such perfection. I believe that such visions, above all else, are what drives artists insane (that and cheap liquor). The artist who does not accept their human failings is doomed to pursue an endless course of fruitless labor, culminating in their eventual destruction at the hands of their own mind.

I am slowly coming out of just such a night walk, but unlike some others, I see my imperfections and I accept them. I do not look up to the stars and wonder why it is that I cannot match their beauty with my skill, for their beauty only has meaning in their unassailable position as stars in the dark fabric of my memory. I accept their place and I accept my own inability to render them accurately, but this does not diminish my love of their beauty. My tears are still wet and I am still enthralled with the possibility that I might try to grapple with them.

If I pull back because I am afraid of losing my grip on clarity, I stem my expression, cause it to wither. The result is a dying vine that bears no fruit save for a few hard, bitter berries not worth harvesting. The artist must drive forward regardless of certain failure.

There are times when I would rather go off and be alone, to be like Thoreau at Walden. Of course, Thoreau wasn't alone at Walden. He trucked down the road for regular meals and conversation. And when I remember this, the image of Thoreau is spoiled. It makes no sense to continue dreaming about something that wasn't done, but some artists cling to this possibility and pursue it at the peril of their own destruction.

So often, the literary mind strays toward larger country, places where the voice can be heard far and wide. We dream about being bestsellers or winning prizes, but today I want you to think about what your skill can accomplish in your own neighborhood.

Now, something you should know is that I love ruins. Yeah, I'm a romantic dreamer, which is part of the reason I never finish my work.

Below is a brief piece I wrote about an abandoned early-19th century home just down the street from my house. I've known this house all my life so when I heard that it was going to be torn down it broke my heart.

I sat at my kitchen table and decided to pour all my memories about the house into something like an essay. When it was finished, I sent it off to the local newspaper and they ran it in the next week's edition.

The Old Stone House

The Richards house stands less than half a mile from my home. My children call it the Ghost House, because of a story I once heard, but most people recognize it simply as "The Old Stone House."

According to local history, Ebenezer Richards built the house in 1811. Richards, a Welsh immigrant born in 1773, handed down the house his son Hiram. Both men are buried in the little cemetery up behind the SuperAmerica. Ebenezer's daughter, Zipporah, is also buried in there. She married John McCoy, and the two built several homes before finally settling far enough away from the river so as not to be harassed by the Wyandotte tribe.

My first memory of the Richards house is from the late 1970s. At the time, there was a playground next to the house called the Tot Lot. There is a brief image of a summer sunset stretching across the Scioto River. We played until it was dark. As the shadows deepened in the window frames, I remember wondering who might have lived in that old house.

Of course, no one had lived there for a long time, and so much has changed since the first stones were laid.

At the library, I found a picture of the Scioto River as it looked in the mid-19th century. Thick trees crowded the riverbank. A plank bridge strung on heavy rope crossed the water, but the river looked as if it couldn't have been much more than waist deep at the center. The cool waters sparkling in the sun reminded me of the Big Darby Creek. I felt I could see the lush shades of green trees and the dusty brown of the road that led to Hilliard.

I try to imagine the view from the Richards back porch, but that old river is gone. Now, the waters are far deeper and wider than Richards could have imagined. The river belongs to the scullers who coast silently over the surface most of the year and the boaters who motor along in search of pleasure when it is warm. The shore and the grassy heights belong to the omnipresent geese who seem to require evermore room to graze. There is no room for the Richards house it seems.

As I understand it, the Division of Water is fixed to demolish the Richards house in the spring. Today, it's a dilapidated thing. Much neglected, graffiti sprayed over the plywood covering windows and doors. The roof on one side caved in a few winters ago.

It seems a pity to me though that this house cannot be saved, if only that some child might look up on a summer evening and wonder who might have lived there... Perhaps they might discover that the past is not so distant as the western shore.

What Happened Next

I didn't think much about it, but then a few friends of mine in town talked about the letter. I heard that other people, people I did not know, were talking about it. A little while later, a group formed to save the house and marshaled enough resources and clout to stop the demolition.

Since I drive by the house every day, I watched the workmen come and begin the repairs. They put a new roof on the house and scrubbed the stone. They erected a fence around the property to keep kids from vandalizing it. Now it stands ready to become an historical center for our little part of the river region.

I really have no idea how much help my letter was in this whole process. I certainly could have pitched in with the others in the more practical work of raising money and such, but I like to think that I helped especially when I see the sculling crews drifting by on the smooth surface of the river at dawn.