Tuesday, May 9, 2017

Why We Need Other Writers in Our Lives

By Kelley Lindberg

You know what they say. They try to tell us that writing is a lonely calling. That we should be huddled in attics, with our eyesight failing and our shoulders hunched, madly scratching away at our craft while the world rotates somewhere out there, beyond the window, without us.

The problem is, that’s not necessarily the best way to go about this obsession we have.

First off, if we’re not out there living in the world, how are we ever going to bring it to life in our writing? If I decide to write a thriller about a bunch of corporate accountants killing each other over year-end financial reports, I’m probably going to have to leave my desk at some point and go talk to some actual accountants. If I want to write about a cop who has an epiphany about street-gang violence and how to channel that into a fashion empire, I’m probably going to have to, I don’t know, maybe chat with a cop and perhaps a fashion designer and a gang member at some point? I mean, Google is all-knowing and all, but still. If we don’t want reality to slip through the cracks in our writing, we might want to keep reality on our radar in the real world, too. That generally means interacting with other people.

Second, isolationism is hardly ever healthy for humans. And we’re not even discussing politics here. If the only company you keep is your own, you’re bound to develop a few odd ideas and habits. We humans are a social species. We band together. We seek out like-minded organisms who can help entertain us, keep us warm, contribute to our welfare, and keep us from wandering around in our birthday suits with mouse nests in our hair. We fill in each other’s weaknesses, complement each other’s strengths.

That’s why writers need writer friends. Or at least writing colleagues and contacts.

I meet a lot of people in my travels who have written entire novels without having ever shown them to another person. I understand how that happens. It’s fear, mostly. Occasionally it might be arrogance (“I’m brilliant, and if I show this to anyone else, they’ll just be jealous”), but it’s almost always terror. The terror of embarrassment and shame (“What if they laugh at me and I’m too humiliated to show my face in public anymore?”), or the fear of learning that you might need to practice your craft a little more (“But I don’t want to work on this anymore, I just want to cash that million-dollar check!”).

Here’s what I always find interesting: people who are too embarrassed to show their early work to friends who can help them revise and refine it often leap at the chance to show that same work to agents and editors who have neither the time nor interest in helping them revise it into publishable shape. And by doing that, the writer blows their one chance with that agent or editor.

There are several problems with writing in a vacuum. One is that, whatever weaknesses we have, if no one is there to point them out, we will keep repeating them over and over until they are so ingrained they are nearly impossible to eradicate. Another problem is that we are hopelessly incapable of objectively measuring our own talent. So we are blind to both our faults and our strengths, and it is ridiculously easy to confuse the two.

This is why I’m a strong believer in writing helpers. Whether they are professional editors (who can be expensive, but useful), critique groups (which can be online or in person, and are MUCH cheaper—as in, free), or just a single writing friend hoping that if they read yours, you’ll read theirs, these folks can help you spot the weaknesses in your writing, weed out your bad habits, and strengthen your story to the point where an agent or editor might actually give it a second look. And wouldn’t you rather practice on a cheap friend than a once-in-a-lifetime agent?

Overcoming fear is a challenge, but let me tell you what I've learned. That fear of embarrassing yourself? While we all share it, it’s something you can get over. No one has ever said, “Wow, you used a dangling participle in that sentence, so our friendship is now over.” And that fear of learning that you have some more hard work ahead of you? Well, if you’re afraid of honing your skills to become a better writer, you just might be pursuing the wrong career. I’m just sayin’.

So if you’re writing in isolation, I strongly recommend you steel your nerves and find yourself a writing buddy of some sort—preferably someone who doesn’t love you (moms and significant others are notoriously bad choices), and someone who is also a writer. You want honest feedback, not affirmation. Sure, affirmation feels better, but it doesn’t get you published. Distance doesn’t matter—critique partners can be invaluable whether they are meeting you for coffee in your hometown or emailing you from the wilds of Borneo.

Let's shake off those cobwebs and venture out of our writing attics every once in a while. There’s a world of like-minded writers out there, and we all need each other to become the writers we want to be.

Sunday, April 30, 2017

Remembering to Hope

By Kelley Lindberg

It’s been a while since I’ve written. Being a member of the “sandwich generation” isn’t necessarily all bad, but it certainly isn’t all good, and it does squeeze time into configurations Einstein would have marveled at. But I’m back. So let’s do this.
 
To restart this blog, let’s think about hope. Last weekend, I was at the Las Vegas Writers Conference, where I got to see Donald Maass give a keynote address about hope. That’s right, hope. In a time when the world feels like it’s falling apart, this remarkable man reminded us that even when things are dark, pinpricks of light shine through, and they grow brighter the more we focus on them.
 
In honor of Mr. Maass’s theme, and to mark the first 100 days of a peculiar time in America’s history, and to celebrate the last day of National Poetry Month, I hereby offer a poem I wrote on Inauguration Day, back in January. Thanks for rejoining me in this writing community.
 
The Disruption We Didn’t Want
January 20, 2017
By Kelley J. P. Lindberg

Years of leaves, scatter-spun yellow
orange gold red purple brown,
no longer drift. They lie,
matted,
layering intentions and spiderwebbed ribs
of rotting sunshine
over last year’s stymied green shoots.
And the year before’s.
And the year before’s.
New life pushes up through soil made fertile
with spent potential,
then folds in upon itself, curling under
the weight of futility. Layers and layers of
"This is how it is done."
Inevitable pattern, expected cycle,
the known devil.
Winds of change breathe
against the leaves, tipping edges to the air,
almost like anger
or hope,
but evaporation is the salve
that persuades the leaves to lie back,
heavy again with inertia,
lighter with nowhere to go.
Rustles fade, colors of decay—yellow
orange gold red purple brown—
muddied together, dark and pointless,
await the new year’s failed layers,
falling like promises.

Comes a fire.
In an hour, a day,
a blink,
The leaves are gone.
Branches are gone.
Naked trunks tilt or fall, landing
on char and dust.
Half imagined, fully feared, absolutely regretted.
Nostalgia is immediate.
And distorted.
Layers that stifled are eulogized.
Colors that bled into dirt, unsung,
paint memories of rent clothing, and keening
starts for winds that had decades to blow
but never did enough.
A single flash of destruction,
and the damage stretches, irreparable, for a century.
But in the old soil and unbearable heat, new seeds crack
open. Fiddle-head ferns coil out
from knotted existence and a half-century of dead layers
are not there to keep them from tasting the air.
Ashes drift, gray black white brown, pretending at
becoming a layer.
But sunlight warms the space
where once lived decay.
And ash dissolves faster than dead leaves,
disappearing quickly, like a bad taste,
fertilizing the soil in spite of itself.
We did not want this destruction.
The forest is forever changed.
And yet.
And yet.
Green shoots make moon shots,
And we grow.

 

Wednesday, September 2, 2015

Teenage Boys Who Read and Other Mythological Creatures

By Kelley Lindberg

Reading material on my teen son's
nightstand right now: H.P. Lovecraft
stories, a Nick Hornby novel, and
snowboarding and gaming magazines.

Just when I think I’ve got him figured out, my teenage son does something unexpected.

He buys a book.

Doesn’t he know teenage boys don’t read books? Doesn’t he realize he’s defying all the publishing experts who have written him off as a demographic?

Does he ENJOY being a rebellious anomaly?

Apparently.

Honestly, my 16-year-old boy doesn’t read nearly as many books as he used to. He used to devour books every night and would get in trouble for reading them in class. Then he discovered video games, built his own computer, and found like-minded connections on the internet, and books began to take a back seat to his technology interests. Like every other American teen, he has a lot of competing activities vying for his time now (school, work, social life, technology, TV, movies, and music).

But just when I start to worry that he’s forgetting about books, he surprises me. Last night, he went to our local Barnes & Noble (we don’t have an indie bookstore in our town) with his girlfriend for a study-date. When he came home, he couldn’t wait to show me what he’d bought there: a monstrously large volume of H.P. Lovecraft’s Great Tales of Horror. It was on sale for $7.98, and he said his ninth grade English teacher had introduced them to H.P. Lovecraft stories, and he’s wanted to read more ever since. (Thank you, Ms. Bryson!)

But that wasn’t the most surprising thing he told me. No, the next statement out of his mouth was, “They also had Dante’s Divine Comedy in a really fancy leather binding, but it was $30, so I didn’t get it. But my girlfriend bought the cheaper version for $8, so she’s going to let me borrow it. I read a little of it at the store and it seemed really interesting.”

Seriously? Dante’s Divine Comedy? What American teenager willingly goes out and spends his or her own minimum-wage-part-time-job money buying Dante’s Divine Comedy?

I despair for this generation.

Oh, wait. No I don’t.



Wednesday, August 19, 2015

Finding Familiar Stories in Sicilian Ruins

By Kelley Lindberg


A ocean scene mosaic at the Villa Romana del Casale
near Piazza Armerina in Sicily
Standing in the remains of a palace built nearly two thousand years ago, I stared at mosaics on the floor depicting stories I knew. And those stories aren’t just two thousand years old. In fact, those stories were already a thousand years old when the Roman nobleman who lived here was yelling at his flooring craftsmen to hurry up and finish before the in-laws arrived for the holidays.

Those millennia-old stories are stories we still tell.

Sailors load an elephant
onto their ship
I was in Sicily this May, just outside the town of Piazza Armerina, walking through an incredibly well-preserved Roman estate called Villa Romana del Casale, thought to have belonged to a nobleman or perhaps even an emperor. The floor of every room in the palace is covered in mosaics reputed to be the most remarkable displays of Roman-era mosaics in the world. Created 1700 or more years ago, then preserved by an enormous mudslide 900 years ago, intricately crafted scenes of hunting expeditions and sea travels are vibrant in color and breathtakingly detailed. Forgotten for centuries, the buried palace was rediscovered in the 1800s and excavated over the next couple of centuries.

The floor of the "Girls in Bikinis" room
One incredibly long hall contains the mosaic called “the Great Hunting Scene." In it, a master and his assistants are rounding up an amazing number of exotic animals, including tigers, elephants, ostriches, giraffes, and jaguars, and loading them onto ships bound for the circuses of the Roman Empire. The detail in the mosaic is astounding. Another famous scene shows women competing in sporting events, wearing bikinis that would look right at home at the local swimming pool today.

Where there are children,
there are ABCs
A room used as the children’s playroom or school room shows children learning their ABCs (or rather, their Alpha, Beta, Gammas).

Odysseus tricks the Cyclops





But it’s the familiar stories that always make me catch my breath. One room depicts Hercules’ twelve labors. In another, Odysseus is offering wine to the giant Cyclops to make him fall asleep so that Odysseus and his men can blind him and sneak out of the cave disguised as the Cyclops’ sheep. In yet another, Pan and Eros are fighting in what some speculate is a timeless battle between erotic love and romantic love. An elaborate mosaic tells the story of Arion, a poet whom sailors threatened to rob and throw overboard, but who was saved by dolphins because of his beautiful singing and chitara-playing. Other rooms honor various Roman gods and goddesses whose exploits still entertain us and are retold every day in our modern books, video games, movies, and television shows.

To escape his impending murder, Arion
plays his chitara and escapes on a dolphin
No one knows for certain the name of the nobleman who commissioned these incredible mosaics. The real man is lost to time, but the stories he loved still live. And the medium he chose to tell those stories—tiny bits of colored tile on the floor—have long outlasted the written records that once declared him a man of immense power and wealth.

Never, ever underestimate the power of a good story.


Thursday, February 26, 2015

12 Reasons Why Writers Like Lists

By Kelley Lindberg


1. A list captures thoughts quickly before they escape into the ether. Thoughts are slippery little devils, after all.

2. When you start making a list, word-association becomes a common by-product, leading to creative tangents that sometimes prove to be exactly the thing you were looking for.

3. Writing a list makes you look busy, and when you look busy, no one interrupts you, even if you’re just listing TV shows you wish were still on the air, or vegetables that might taste better breaded and deep fried.

4. No need for transitions.

5. Or backstory…

6. …Although a list can explore elements of backstory without derailing the main story that’s running in your head.

7. Less editing—no one’s going to see your list but you.

8. Unless you post it on your blog.

9. You can try out—and discard—a dozen terrible plot ideas before breakfast, all without wasting a whole chapter (and untold hours) on each one.

10. Lists tell your mind it’s okay to brainstorm, fast and furiously, without having to be logical, practical, or linear. A wild, logic-free brain is where the most creative stuff lives, after all.

11. Lists will sit around quietly and patiently for years, until you’re ready to go back and explore those ideas again. They never sigh loudly and make you feel guilty for taking so long.

12. Creating a list feels exactly like writing—without the pressure of all that writing.



Wednesday, February 11, 2015

Postcards from New York City

By Kelley Lindberg


The cabbie, with one hand pressed firmly on the horn and the other making exasperated gestures, crammed his way between a city bus and a gray Rolls Royce while keeping up a running Senegalese-accented and highly colorful dialogue with a colleague on the phone. Dirty snow from last week’s storm fought with piles of black garbage bags for space on the sidewalk. Sirens wailed, seemingly at random. Pedestrians jay-walked with impunity every few feet, tossing occasional glares at drivers who inched too close and completely ignoring the chirping sidewalk signals. Voices, engine noise, and the roar and clang of building construction echoed off canyon walls of concrete, stone, steel, and glass that rose impossibly high. Arctic winds funneled through those canyons, whipping at scarves and high-buttoned coats. Steam rose, as it always does, from vents in the street, while neon flashed and paraded in wanton glory.

It was, unmistakably, New York City.

In Grand Central Station, tourists craned their necks to take in the zodiac signs painted across the famous, cathedral-high green ceiling dotted with tiny electric stars, while a TV shoot wrapped and a hundred black-clad crew members packed up their gear. Business people in expensive suits brushed past homeless men shuffling through garbage cans, and young people spilled up the stairs from the subway, their flirting and laughter echoing against marble steps as they headed into the subterranean shopping court to pick up some soup or falafel or perhaps a new handbag.

It was, iconicly, New York City.

Patrons packed the lobby, escaping from the cold sidewalks and frenetic flashing lights outside, tucking hands tightly into coat pockets to warm them. Then the doors opened, and the 1920s-era theater filled with aficionados, newbies, locals, and those few tourists brave enough to stray from the Wicked ticket lines. The house was as painted and as costumed as its actors—all ornate style and passion, red and gold, velvet and plaster, beautifully adorning walls and ceilings saturated with decades of poetry, music, death, love, anger, intrigue, despair, insight, joy, and broken hearts. But those walls were ready to hold more, to expand just enough to welcome the creativity pulsing, nearly unbound, in that night’s performance.

It was, dramatically, New York City.

And I was there. For a few days only. For a conference. The Society of Children’s Writers and Illustrators conference. Eleven hundred other creative souls and me, listening to keynote speakers discuss perseverance, opportunities, honing of craft, targeting of audiences, social media, voice, inspiration, pure dumb luck, big-dollar contracts, failure. And story. Always story. Thankfully story. Relentlessly story.

Outside, New York City ignored all the stories but its own.



Tuesday, February 3, 2015

Sundance Stories

By Kelley Lindberg


Still from Brooklyn, Courtesy of Sundance Institute
One of the perks of living near Salt Lake City is getting to experience the Sundance Film Festival as a local. As a local, I don’t have to battle parking on Park City’s tiny uphill-both-ways mining-town streets, pay exorbitant prices for a hotel room, or even have to upgrade my wardrobe to consist entirely of black and fur. Unbeknownst to many out-of-staters, Sundance movies (sorry, films) are shown in three cities during the festival: Park City, Salt Lake City, and Ogden. While the Park City and Salt Lake City locales often sell out insanely fast, the Ogden venue (in the lovingly restored Peery’s Egyptian Theater) sometimes still has tickets for sale the day of the show.

An even better perk? My mom works for Sundance during the festival every year, and she always gets tickets. And who’s her favorite daughter? That’s right. Oh, yeah.

So the past ten days have left me awash in story-telling. Sundance is a home for independent movies—meaning you get to see movies (sorry, films) that don’t have to compete with summer blockbusters and Oscar fever-dreams. They can stray from the best-seller formula and experiment with new ideas, smaller voices, tougher angles, and different themes.

Don’t get me wrong—I love storytelling in all its messy variety, so I love a good special-effects blow-out as much as the next person. But I also like to see stories where fewer things blow up and more is teased apart so that we can see the inner workings of a mind or a relationship or a time in history that became part of who we are today. Independent movies are good at that sort of thing. Of course, being independent, not all Sundance films are of equal quality. Because you’re choosing what to see based on a one- or two-sentence description, it can be a bit of a crapshoot. And sometimes I get the feeling that independent movie-makers think if “dark” is good, “gut-wrenching dismal” must be better. But this year, we were fortunate with our choices.

One of my favorites from this year was Brooklyn. The screenplay was written by Nick Hornby, whose novels I adore because of his incredible characters, voice, and insight into what makes people tick (or, more interestingly, not tick in the usual ways). Another favorite was The End of the Tour, a fictionalized account of a short road-trip that Rolling Stone reporter David Lipsky took with author David Foster Wallace, which turns into a brilliant Mobius-strip journey of who-is-interviewing-whom, perfectly cast with Jesse Eisenberg and Jason Segel. The last movie we saw, Me and Earl and the Dying Girl, was the big winner, taking both the U.S. Dramatic Audience Award and the Grand Jury Prize, for good reason—a fresh teen voice, great visuals, and spot-on emotional impact.

As so often happens when I read a really great book or see a really great movie (sorry, film), I come back to reality enriched for the experience, not just as a human, but as a writer. I return to my own characters with new eyes, my plots with new questions, my language with new senses. On the one hand, I’m humbled (“How does Nick Hornby do that!”), but on the other I’m emboldened, because Sundance supports and rewards the independent spirit that makes us all want to tell stories our own way, heedless of trends and expectations. This festival reminds us to honor the story that wants to be told, not the fashion of the day, and to tell it with all the passion we have to give.
The historic Peery's Egyptian Theater in Ogden, Utah,
courtesy of Peery's Egyptian Theater