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