Building A Story

by Shannon Anderson

Since I began writing my novel, I've learned a lot, but it seems there is always more to learn. I'm not sure anyone ever knows exactly how to tackle any particular task of writing. In fact, Ernest Hemingway once said, "We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master." I thought that when I complete my novel, I will have "cracked the code" of writing a novel, but I read an article the other day online that said in essence that each novel is its own puzzle. We have to tackle each one individually. The best way to do that I believe is to understand what story is, to be able to see what we are trying to write about clearly and then translate that vision onto the page. Far easier said than done.

Several students in the creative writing club at WHS are attempting that very thing, writing either short stories or taking a crack at writing a novel. I know from experience that when we write either one of those, the terrain of the story seems to stretch in front of us covered with foggy mist allowing us only a glimpse of what  comes later. We write toward that glimpse of something promising, and if we're lucky, we see the next point on the horizon and write toward it. Sometimes, however, we get lost in the mist. We need help to guide this organic way of bringing a story into being. We need structure, a trellis to drape our living story on, to support it, and give it shape. That is what I hope to do with what I present here, give you options for your trellis by defining what a story is.

According to Bill Johnson, "A story is a promise." Christopher Vogler, on the other hand, says a story is a journey. "A hero leaves her comfortable, ordinary surroundings to venture into a challenging, unfamiliar world. It may be an outward journey to an actual place...that becomes the arena for her conflict with antagonistic, challenging forces." It can also be a journey inward, into the mind, heart, or spirit.

Vogler says, "In any good story the hero grows and changes, making a journey from one way of being to the next: from despair to hope, weakness to strength, folly to wisdom, love to hate and back again. It's the emotional journeys that hook the audience and make a story worth watching. The stages of the Hero's Journey can be traced in all kinds of stories, not just those that feature 'heroic' physical action and adventure. the protagonist of every story is the hero of a journey, even if the path leads only into his own mind or into the realm of relationships."

Robert McKee, author of Story: Substance, Structure, Style and the Principles of Screenwriting, says this about what a story is: "All stories take the form of a quest." "For better or for worse, an event throws a character's life out of balance, arousing in him the conscious and/or unconscious desire for that which he feels will restore balance, launching him on a Quest for his Object of Desire against forces of antagonism (inner, personal, extra-personal). He may or may not achieve it. This story in a nutshell."

Robert McKee also explains that a story is designed to move forward in five stages.

1. Inciting incident, then
2. Progressive complications, building to a
3. Crisis, forcing a
4. Climax, where a final decision must be made to bring
5. Resolution

Chris Desmet, published author and my teacher in Madison, says to take your story idea and tell it in those five steps above. In other words, if you can talk it out and "fill in all those blanks, you've got a good story cooking and you've also created a "pitch" for your story." You can also use those five steps to write your one page novel synopsis.

I hope you'll take these ways of defining story to zero in on what will happen in your story, to clear the fog from your landscape so that you can see where you're going. Give your story some structure so that its loveliness is not hidden away but draped on a trellis that showcases the beautiful ideas you are writing about.

Laying the Foundation

by Shannon Anderson

As writers we are inspired by conversations we overhear, the play of light on a lake that reminds us of our childhood, the people in our lives. Anything can inspire us to write, but what do we do once inspiration strikes? Red Smith, American sports columnist and Pulitzer Prize winner, thought writing was hard work. He said, “Writing is easy, you just sit down at a typewriter, open up a vein, and bleed it out drop by drop.” I know exactly what he means. The initial phase of composing, of meeting my muse on paper is—if I handle it well—a touchy, right-brained activity rife with moments of inspiration, thoughts flitting hither and yon as my brain tries to capture them and make sense of them on the page. Even when the writing comes easily, however, writing what we really mean is hard work. Laying the foundation for the work of writing is important, and the following five steps are what I use to capture my muse. I hope they help you. Let me know if they do.

1. Put your rear end in the chair and write! Seems obvious doesn’t it, but how often have we put off until the last minute a project we must do? Make the commitment to write. You’ll never know how good you can be unless you do. Often we have wonderful ideas that would make great stories if we ever started them or finished them (finishing is my own personal demon). Whatever your own writing obstacle is, commit yourself to overcoming it. Schedule writing time into your day, and write, write, write!

2. Set up a particular place and time to write. It doesn’t have to be fancy, but it does have to be yours, a place into which no one else can intrude. Mine is a desk on the landing at my house with my computer and an artsy red lamp with bright flowers painted on the base. A window provides daylight which keeps the spot cheery, but I can’t see out of it. Not having a view allows me to see only what is in my head, not distractions out my window. I find if I go there at roughly the same time each day, my muse is sometimes there waiting for me. Oh happy times!

3. Turn off your inner editor—at least for the first draft. Especially you grammar geeks like me. It’s okay to misspell words, leave out commas, write sloppy, convoluted sentences in your first draft. Correctness is not important now. Letting yourself write freely is important. This is the time to find the spark that will ignite your project and burn brightest as you fan the flame with revision. If you are too hard on yourself, editing every word you put down, you’ll extinguish that spark rather than gently blowing it into a fire that will burn brightly in a polished draft later on.

4. Set goals to accomplish for your writing. Even if your first goal is to write for five minutes nonstop, setting that goal and accomplishing it will increase your confidence for your next writing session. Pretty soon you’ll have a regular schedule for your writing. I follow a pretty hard and fast rule for my writing time. I write 500 words each day on an average day. I don’t always reach that goal; sometimes I go beyond it writing closer to 1000 words at a sitting. The number of words depends on how well the writing is coming. Other times life gets in the way, and I don’t write even one word, but I don’t beat myself up about it. I get back on track because the longer I stay away from writing, the harder it is to pick it back up with the same intensity.

5. Revise at will after you complete your first draft.  If I’m working on a long project or if I’ve been away from my writing for a time, I will often begin my writing time with rereading what I’ve written to reacquaint myself with what I’ve already said. Rereading often leads to rewriting what I’ve written before. I try to follow where my thoughts lead in the first draft, but often my thoughts were not clearly composed. How could they be? They were part of an immense moment of bonding with my muse, a right brained activity usually not guided by logic or clarity. At that point I clarify by adding text to make my meaning clearer, deleting nonsense, taking notes about what I need to add. Sometimes, however, I change the draft entirely adding paragraphs of text and sometimes deleting others. It’s so important that we allow ourselves the option of revision. Don’t be afraid of revision, of seeing your words in a new light, of taking the time to rethink what you wrote and make it better. Revision is liberating. It allows writers to see anew our skills as writers, to set our thoughts free in the most nimble and spare language possible. We know when we get it right. The spark we recognized early on that kept us writing, grows into the flame that glows so brightly it lights the way to our next inspiration.

SHINE

by Shannon Anderson                 (Let me know how you will shine this year in your comments.)

I was reading Steven Pressfield's Writing Wednesdays post called "Panic Is Good" this past week and stumbled upon something Marianne Williamson said that made me think differently about my desire to become a writer. I used to be timid about wanting to call myself a writer, as though I weren't worthy of that moniker. I was "just a teacher" or even worse, I was going to "write a novel someday." I hadn't realized limiting myself that way was negative. Only thinking about my aspirations implied I wasn't capable of writing or that I might not be committed to becoming the writer I'd always dreamed I would be. I realized I needed to take action to lend my dreams validity. I realized I am worthy of my dream, and my dream is worthy of the work it will take to bring it to fruition. When I read her words, I was inspired to have more faith in myself. Her words are below:

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. we were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated form our won fear, our presence automatically liberates others."

I found her words at just the right moment. I stand at a crossroads in my own life. With only seven months left in my one-year teaching contract, I must now blaze my own trail. I want the life I've always dreamed of, but don't know if I can claim, that of being a published author. I struggle each day to find the time to write because something else always needs doing. What I have decided, however, is that my dream is worth my time. I have decided I will write everyday, no matter what, even after I finish my novel. I have a finite number of days to call my own in this life, and I owe myself the time to let my light shine, to make my dream manifest, to liberate myself from the fear of failing. I won't fail. I will shine. And I ask you to shine with me, to set aside your fear, your insecurity about your own dreams, whatever they are, and to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous with me. Let's make this year our year. Let's let our lights shine to illuminate the path before us. If you write, write with me, everyday. If you paint, paint. If you compose music, compose. Whatever your gift make it manifest in the world. Everyday.

SHINE!

Brains are Messy

Let me know if you notice any grammar errors.  I'm also wondering if it makes sense, if there are discrepancies, or if there are any confusing parts. Thanks. Brains Are Messy by Cat Brains are messy.  They get everywhere.  Even blood, the horrid and miserable liquid, pales in comparison to brains.  Brains smell.  They stink to high heaven before every hitting the floor.  They crust too.  If you don’t get the brains out before they dry you might as well throw the clothes to the dogs. You, dear reader, are probably concerned with my association with these brains.  I give you the most whole-hearted conviction that they are not human brains.  But of course that depends on your definition of humans.  But onward, dear reader, I must explain and you must listen.             The date was 1812.  I was a young student of health at Oxford.  My days were filled of labs and dingy classrooms.  I slept each night smelling of preserves, and woke each morning smelling worse.  I was paler than a ghost and skinnier as well.  I had no time but to do my work, and then more work.  Every ounce of my time was requested for this and that.  I would have wished for a reprise, had I the time, but I tarried each day; I loved the work, I enjoyed the smells, the sights, and nothing could keep me from my presumed future.  Nothing, it seems, but a horde of walking corpses.             I had finished a class (some sort of mathematical endeavor) and was strolling to my next class.  The walk was quiet and pleasant; birds were chirping, and the sky was a tumultuous gray, full of yellow streaks (a fine shade for London-time).  I had no cares in the world, save a timely arrival to the amphitheater where the class was being held.              As I reached the theater I should have noticed a peculiar change in the air.  The birds had stopped chirping, and a stale humor had come over the place.  But, of that, I did not notice, perhaps I would have ran away.  I may have spirited myself to some secret spot, knowing that danger was abound.  But, no, I hastened on.             I went to my seat.  Greeting my peers I sat in the chair, the room was a buzz with scholarly ejaculations.  As the hour to start our class approached the room quieted to a dull roar.  The classroom swelled with anticipation, waiting for our teacher to appear.  Nothing happened.  Chuckles filled the room.             "Bet he was hobnobbing with the dame from the library, if you catch my drift."  The brash man in the back made rude gestures to illustrate his point.             Fifteen minutes elapsed, still no teacher.  The class was getting restless; several students had left.  I sat quietly engrossed in the latest tome of medical maladies.  That was until I heard a soft thwap. I assumed it was a juvenile prank designed to pass the time.  That was until I heard the screams.  These were not your average screams; those of scholarly amusement, but rather those of blood curdling fear.  I looked up.  A monster in human form lumbered from our teacher’s office.  Blood rolled down from the monster’s jowls, and flesh dropped with wet schleps from the body.  His head, for it was a he, lolled to the left precariously.  His arms waved with no energy, succeeding only in remaining balanced.  The entire room erupted in the scraping of desks and throwing of books; shouts permeated the air.  I sat stunned, staring at the mass of seemingly human flesh, though it was not human at all; I had never seen such a creature (oh, how I wish that were still true).  A loud scream near my ear woke me from my reverie of examination.  A classmate was caught; his loud coat tails were entangled in the desk, an unusual occurrence to be sure, though, at the moment, I had no worries about it.  I rushed over and procured a scalpel (remember, dear reader, I was a surgeon) and with it cut his coat.  I placed my hand on the classmate’s back and shoved him away from the monster.  We ran.  Then, he tripped.  A sigh escaped my lips; seeing nothing close to my person I grabbed a book.  Seeing as our anatomy texts were quite heavy the blow I imparted to the monster’s head was forceful enough to completely tear the monster’s neck apart.  The body dropped with the head; the thing lay still. "My word," the classmate had finally regained his voice.             "Hmmm.  Severing the medulla seems to have halted the movement."             "Yes."  We both ponder this for a while.  "What is it?"             "I don’t know. Have you ever seen anything like this before?"             "Never."  Our dialog was cut short by a piteous groan.  We look at each other, the hint of recognition playing across our face.             "Professor?"  We made haste to the office.  "Professor Johnson?"  There was our professor prostrate on the floor, bleeding.  "Professor!"             "Stop!"  Professor Johnson held up a hand.  "Come no closer."  Cut bled profusely on his face.             "Professor?"             "Stop.  I think I’m infected."             "Professor?"             "That thing.  I think it changed me."             "Into what?"  My daft classmate ejaculated.             "A monster, shush.  Professor.  Tell us what happened."             "I was working on a plague, and I tripped, it fell on the cadavers.  They morphed into that thing."  I took in the empty beds surrounding us, there were at least 50 beds.             "Why?"             "I’m not sure."  Professor. His skin was beginning to pale.  I could see a green tinge showing; a lump of flesh fell off of his face.             "Professor.  It’s infectious?  No cure."             "Yes, you should leave.  And no, I doubt a cure will be found."             "Farewell then."  I grabbed my book.  Taking a deep breath I slammed it on his head.  The classmate screamed.  "The medulla is severed," I bent over the professor.             "You killed him!"             "It was necessary."  The classmate shook his head.  "Well it’s done.  Let’s go.  The monster is still roaming." "Where are you going?" We had gone different ways.             "You want a weapon don’t you?"  I lead him to the autopsy room.  Scalpels, saws, and all the medical instruments lined the room.  I selected a large knife, used for stomach and muscles, and a medium hammer, used for bone.  My classmate stood mute.              "Well, will you pick one or not."  I quipped.             "We don’t even know if we need them, it could not spread, there’s a chance."  I looked at him in amazement.             "There were 50 tables empty!  You saw the professor.  He was infected.  If I hadn’t stopped him we would have been infected.  It would have gotten us.  And how many would have killed the monster, none?  Yes, none.  So now there are hundreds of them.  We need to be ready.  Take a saw, take a knife, any knife you choose.  Be ready."  He paled but nonetheless picked a large knife.             "Right.  Ah, I’m ready."             "Are you sure?"             "Yes."             We went to leave when a thought crossed my mind.             "Will you kill me?"             "What!?"             "If I become infected, kill me." I hold my breath, my future seemingly hanging in the balance.  I refused to become a monster.             "If you kill me" I smile.             "With haste."  We shook hands, "Follow me," and ran out from the autopsy room.  To our horror we found hundreds of monsters stumbling along.             "Don’t people know how to run?" I could not believe so many had succumbed to the plague.

One Thing

I usually don't write poems. This was an assignment and I actually liked the outcome.

Enjoy :)

One Thing

by: Natalie Gisvold

I want you to know

one thing.

In the night

as i lay,

the fragile snow falls,

of the long winter nights

at my window

if I touch,

near the brightly lit fuse

the ongoing light

my mind is drawn to you

as if nothing exists

we're little fish,

that search

feeding off each others amity

And now,

if little by little you start to lose that spark

I shall start to lose that spark also

If abruptly,

your mind has lost me

do not seek me,

for I have already lost you

If you think deep and hard

through the air that passes through

and you decide

to reject me here, alone

of the place where my heart is stuck

remember,

that very day

I shall lift my head

and my conscious will leave

to treasure another ground

But if each day,

each minute,

you feel as if I am destined with you

with unforgettable devotion

if each day a thought

rises in your mind to

follow me,

my love, my one

in me the fuse is still lit

in me, nothing is extinguished

my love breathes off your love

and as long as were combined

together, our love shall not

be extinguished.

feedback? hope it's alright! 

The Story Chooses Us

by Shannon Anderon

I've been writing a novel now for about two years. Originally the story was only a concept, a nebulous idea I toyed with, long before it was an actual work in progress. For about seven years I thought I was working on my novel, but I was only writing down fleeting thoughts about plot and character. What I now understand is back then I had no idea how to complete a book length work of fiction, not until I made a study of writing, the process and the craft. I thought I knew how to tell a story, and I did, but I also needed to learn how to organize my ideas into a workable plan and how to break that plan into manageable segments to complete. Perhaps most importantly, I needed to learn self-discipline to write for a certain amount of time or a predetermined word count. I’ve found word count rather than time limit works for me. When I set my goal, usually 500 words, I inevitably write far more than that, but I start with 500. Once I get into the groove--when the muse shows up to grace my writing--the writing happens outside of time. Often at the end of my writing, I will look up to discover I've written double what I set out to accomplish and without my realizing it, three hours will have flown by. I feel energized and can't wait for the next writing session. In fact, when I finish writing, I feel satisfied and hungry for more at the same time. I keep track of these writing sessions: the word count, what I accomplish, where I left off in the narrative so I can easily find my way back into the world of my characters or catch back up with my muse, who is an elusive creature, but when she shows up, she blesses my work with ease and facility.

           

The feeling of going into my consciousness, of following my muse, and allowing a story to unfold fulfills an inexhaustible need in me, yet I didn't discover this need until I became serious about my book. Through writing I connect with something greater than myself. Call it creativity, call it a higher power, call it a muse; I'm not sure what the connection is, but I feel transported when I write: refreshed, renewed, and also tired and satisfied, as though I drank some secret potion of health and happiness. When I'm connected with the place where writing flows, where creativity rises like a tide, that welling forth happens without my conscious effort, almost as though I don't do the writing, but some other entity takes over in my stead and controls the keyboard. I see clearly what is happening in my story, but not at first. If I trust the writing to take me where I need to go, I see my characters as real, feeling human beings. I become a bystander, a witness to their lives, separate from my own. When I think back to what I worked on over the holidays, I see Faith in an ivory traveling ensemble with low-heeled, cream, kidskin boots, the hem of her dress muddy from the previous day's rain. I see Josiah, Faith's husband of only one day, with his graying sandy hair in stark contrast with the brown moleskin jacket and his sad eyes the color of whiskey in the sun. They are riding in a covered coach toward Charleston past the Ashley River on a spring morning. I smell the sulfurous tidal flats juxtaposed with the freshness of the pines and jessamine blooming in the woods. I feel Faith's sorrow as she sees her home retreat into the distance, and I see the longing in Josiah's eyes when he looks at Faith. I see these people and places, yet I really see only the keyboard in front of my eyes, as though I'm in two places at once. This is the wonder of writing, this connection with whatever primal energy we must engage to write and finish our projects.

And that is just what I am trying to do: finish my novel by April. As of today I have written 62,300 words. I only need to write between 90,000 and 100,000. I am two thirds of the way there, and I know I will finish, but I once doubted I would. At first the idea of writing a novel overwhelmed me. My story idea came from the old game Masterpiece. I chose the card from the game that was a reproduction of the painting, Paris Street; Rainy Day by Gustave Caillebotte, and the story was born. It has undergone so many changes it is now unrecognizable from that initial burst of inspiration, but I didn't choose to write about this couple, Faith and Josiah. They chose me, and they have a complicated story. When I first started writing it down, so much was happening in my mind I became lost in the wide expanse of their world. I hadn't given that world boundaries of time and place. Then when I researched the Reconstruction time period, I became lost in the research and almost gave up. There was so much to learn and think about. But Faith still calls to me to tell her story, so I continue. I have learned that writing a book, a first book anyway, is a two steps forward, three steps back process of learning. It is a marathon rather than a sprint and requires sustained effort. From writing my first novel I have also learned to have faith in myself. At times I become discouraged because writing is hard work, but I know I will finish. I have faith in myself and in the process of writing. And I know when I type the words "The End" on the last page of my manuscript, the final product will have achieved mythical status for me: my first novel. There will never be another first novel for me. I know the effort, the research, and all the tears I've cried trying to figure out how to write my first story will have been worth it.    

Why I Write

         
By Shannon Anderson
            I haven’t always known I wanted to write, but I have always known I wanted to express my creativity. When I was young, I sat for hours at a small table in the living room painting by numbers or drawing whatever I saw. Hours passed but I knew neither time nor place; I was immersed in the act of creating. I thought one day I would become an artist. I even attended my orientation class at University of Georgia as an art student. When I walked through the doors of the art school building and encountered the graduating seniors exhibition of beautiful sculptures and paintings capturing life in all its colors and attitudes, I felt in my gut I didn’t have the talent to succeed as an artist. I had had no previous art classes or training, and I assumed I lacked the talent necessary to succeed. Wistfully I turned to what I had always been good at; I became an English major.

Back in 1984, however, apart from essays of literary criticism to fulfill assignments, writing was not something I even thought of producing. I thought I might eventually write for a newspaper or edit a magazine, but becoming an author was the furthest thing from my mine, until Dr. Kilgo, my professor for my short story class, challenged us to write our own short story. We had only just read Hemingway’s Nick Adams stories, which are evocative of place and deceptively simple in their diction. I had no idea of the skill required to produce a finished story and blithely started mine shortly after class. When the due date arrived, I was mortified by my efforts, but turned in my story anyway. I received a poor grade as did most of my classmates. I learned that though I could criticize what writers wrote, until I understood the craft of writing, I would never truly understand literature. That assignment opened my eyes to the possibilities of writing, and I have been a student of writing ever since.

What I have learned in the 26 years since then is that writing is a craft. It requires skill and dedication to improvement. Now and then as beginners we write with a flash of brilliance, genius even, a gift from the muse that tempts and tantalizes so that we don’t quit. But writing is hard work, but it is more satisfying than any other work I’ve ever done. That is why I write. It satisfies my urge to learn each day what I think and who I am, to be in sync with the universe, to feel I’m “in the zone” when hours pass but feel like minutes, to play with language and express what I thought I couldn’t,  to capture in my words what I can’t capture with my art. With writing I can paint like Michelangelo, garden like, Gertrude Jekyll, sculpt like Rodin. With writing I can be the artist I always wanted to be. Words are my medium.