Number One: Two years ago, when I wrote the first of
these essays it was about my “egg timer method” of writing. You never
saw that essay, but here’s the method: When you don’t want to write, set
an egg timer for one hour (or half hour) and sit down to write until
the timer rings. If you still hate writing, you’re free in an hour. But
usually, by the time that alarm rings, you’ll be so involved in your
work, enjoying it so much, you’ll keep going. Instead of an egg timer,
you can put a load of clothes in the washer or dryer and use them to
time your work. Alternating the thoughtful task of writing with the
mindless work of laundry or dish washing will give you the breaks you
need for new ideas and insights to occur. If you don’t know what comes
next in the story… clean your toilet. Change the bed sheets. For Christ
sakes, dust the computer. A better idea will come.

Number Two: Your audience is smarter than you
imagine. Don’t be afraid to experiment with story forms and time shifts.
My personal theory is that younger readers distain most books – not
because those readers are dumber than past readers, but because today’s
reader is smarter. Movies have made us very sophisticated about
storytelling. And your audience is much harder to shock than you can
ever imagine.

Number Three: Before you sit down to write a scene,
mull it over in your mind and know the purpose of that scene. What
earlier set-ups will this scene pay off? What will it set up for later
scenes? How will this scene further your plot? As you work, drive,
exercise, hold only this question in your mind. Take a few notes as you
have ideas. And only when you’ve decided on the bones of the scene –
then, sit and write it. Don’t go to that boring, dusty computer without
something in mind. And don’t make your reader slog through a scene in
which little or nothing happens.

Number Four: Surprise yourself. If you can bring the
story – or let it bring you – to a place that amazes you, then you can
surprise your reader. The moment you can see any well-planned surprise,
chances are, so will your sophisticated reader.

Number Five: When you get stuck, go back and read
your earlier scenes, looking for dropped characters or details that you
can resurrect as “buried guns.” At the end of writing Fight Club,
I had no idea what to do with the office building. But re-reading the
first scene, I found the throw-away comment about mixing nitro with
paraffin and how it was an iffy method for making plastic explosives.
That silly aside (… paraffin has never worked for me…) made the perfect
“buried gun” to resurrect at the end and save my storytelling ass.

Number Six: Use writing as your excuse to throw a
party each week – even if you call that party a “workshop.” Any time you
can spend time among other people who value and support writing, that
will balance those hours you spend alone, writing. Even if someday you
sell your work, no amount of money will compensate you for your time
spent alone. So, take your “paycheck” up front, make writing an excuse
to be around people. When you reach the end of your life – trust me, you
won’t look back and savor the moments you spent alone.

Number Seven: Let yourself be with Not Knowing. This
bit of advice comes through a hundred famous people, through Tom
Spanbauer to me and now, you. The longer you can allow a story to take
shape, the better that final shape will be. Don’t rush or force the
ending of a story or book. All you have to know is the next scene, or
the next few scenes. You don’t have to know every moment up to the end,
in fact, if you do it’ll be boring as hell to execute.

Number Eight: If you need more freedom around the
story, draft to draft, change the character names. Characters aren’t
real, and they aren’t you. By arbitrarily changing their names, you get
the distance you need to really torture a character. Or worse, delete a
character, if that’s what the story really needs.

Number Nine: There are three types of speech – I
don’t know if this is TRUE, but I heard it in a seminar and it made
sense. The three types are: Descriptive, Instructive, and Expressive.
Descriptive: “The sun rose high…” Instructive: “Walk, don’t run…”
Expressive: “Ouch!” Most fiction writers will only use one – at most,
two – of these forms. So use all three. Mix them up. It’s how people

Number Ten:  Write the book you want to read.

Number Eleven:  Get author book jacket photos taken now, while you’re young.  And get the negatives and copyright on those photos.

Number Twelve: Write about the issues that really
upset you. Those are the only things worth writing about. In his course,
called “Dangerous Writing,” Tom Spanbauer stresses that life is too
precious to spend it writing tame, conventional stories to which you
have no personal attachment. There are so many things that Tom talked
about but that I only half remember: the art of “manumission,” which I
can’t spell, but I understood to mean the care you use in moving a
reader through the moments of a story. And “sous conversation,” which I
took to mean the hidden, buried message within the obvious story.
Because I’m not comfortable describing topics I only half-understand,
Tom’s agreed to write a book about his workshop and the ideas he
teaches. The working title is “A Hole In The Heart,” and he plans to
have a draft ready by June 2006, with a publishing date set in early

Number Thirteen: Another Christmas window story.
Almost every morning, I eat breakfast in the same diner, and this
morning a man was painting the windows with Christmas designs. Snowmen.
Snowflakes. Bells. Santa Claus. He stood outside on the sidewalk,
painting in the freezing cold, his breath steaming, alternating brushes
and rollers with different colors of paint. Inside the diner, the
customers and servers watched as he layered red and white and blue paint
on the outside of the big windows. Behind him the rain changed to snow,
falling sideways in the wind.

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