Category Archives: Writing

As it says, posts specifically about the art of writing.

Talent is Overrated

Posted on by Shanna Wynne

With a lovely thanks to a friend (Sue Babcock), may I humbly present to you…. the truth about success.

Excerpt from Corporate Curmudgeon, Dale Dauten, dated July 20, 2009

…Geoff Colvin, author of “Talent Is Overrated: What Really Separates World-Class Performers from Everybody Else.” As you’d guess from the “really” in the title, Colvin argues that IQ and innate ability are less important than you’d think, and that hard work is the real determinant …but not just any old work – only what he calls “deliberate practice.”

For instance, research at a German school for violinists divided 18-year-olds into three groups based on performance/potential. The researchers examined every variable that might explain the differences in the three groups, including estimating the number of hours they’d practiced throughout their young lifetimes. The highest group had put in 7,410 hours, the middlers had 5,301 and the stragglers had 3,420.

That led to a conclusion, the secret nobody really wants to hear, that thousands of hours of practice are what separates the best. However, as I mentioned, it isn’t just any old practice that counts – it’s methodically working on getting better. Colvin tells us that a study of ice-skaters finds that the mediocre ones spend most of their practice time working on jumps they can already do, while the great ones spend time working on ones they can’t, falling over and over. As Colvin puts it, “Landing on your butt on cold, hard ice is what progress is all about.”

So here we are. The plain, ugly, and unvarnished truth.

The only way to get better isn’t to just practice — you have to practice that stuff you don’t know how to do yet.

Here’s our dilemma as writers, folks.

We tend to write what we know. Not in that write-what-you-know-because-that’s-familiar sense. An example of which is: If you’re a plumber in your day job, write a story about a plumber in space if you write sci-fi.

No, what I’m talking about is sticking to your usual genre. Or sticking to writing single POV, either with a main character from your gender or with your background, etc. (For example: Stephen King’s Main Characters are usually writers. A lot of other writers believe this to be lazy writing. I might agree, except that it certainly makes the writing easier if you’re not spending agonizing hours researching something you just don’t know.)

In my own case, ironically, most of my Main Characters are male. (I can’t explain why. I just subconsciously create male characters to be the leads in my stories. I’ve written only a few female centered stories. Perhaps this explains why I’m not published more often….. Hmmmm…….. This requires deeper thinking.)

We should be stepping out of our safety zones. We should be writing stuff we never have the gall to write about before.

Write about Main Characters who’ve done things you’ve never experienced. Take it to places you’ve never been. Write more dialogue, less description. Be brave and bold in your writing.

These things are difficult to master. These things may even still require some research, talking to people who have the kind of experiences you’re writing about, so on and so forth.

But that’s what real practice is about. Doing the thing you can’t do, over and over, until you finally nail it.

Here’s where we need to define ourselves as writers.

I am already working on this. I’m tackling a novel, which I’ve never done before, but am making sure the experience is worthwhile and plain old fun. On top of that, I’m writing stories of a type I’ve never written before.

Remember, it’s not enough to just think outside the box…. sometimes you have to play outside, too.

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RANDOM PARANOID FEAR OF THE DAY # 195

That one day as you’re walking out of the bathroom, you’ll look down to find a ceramic kid’s clown has attached itself to your leg… and is climbing up!

spooky_wall_clown

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Okay, the next blog will be Part 2 of my Writer’s Online Tool Box series, featuring online market databases.

The Writer’s Tool Box – Online Pt. 1

Posted on by Shanna Wynne

Today, children, we’re going to learn about the tools to be found online that grant aid and sustenance to the struggling writer.  This will be a multi-series blogging experience. A first for me, and my readers.

funny-pictures-cat-is-asking-for-help-so-why-are-you-taking-photos

As a writer, I need access to my current work-in-progress (hereafter addressed as WIP). You never know where you’ll be when the mood to write strikes you, much like a lightning bolt could always pick your car that one fateful night on the road.

I generally carry a journal for these writing emergencies. It’s a magical one that I believe passed along a newer, much more productive Muse. Also, it’s bulky, heavy and wrapped in wood, bound with leather. (An expensive gift that I love very much. Thanks, Kristen!)

If the mood really strikes, then there’s no way my hands can possibly keep up with what’s racing around my head. I just can’t write that fast. But I do type that fast, so if I’m really getting whipped by my Muse, I turn to a computer – any computer – in reach.

Here is where we find a major dilemma.

While most of the United States is, for the most part, tech-savvy, I still meet people who have no idea what a flash drive is. (A flash drive is a small device you can carry around, plugs into the USB port on your computer and stores information.)

I had never considered using a flash drive to store my stories, those active and completed, until a friend of mine suggested it. My poor, abused flash drive goes with me everywhere. The day it’s not in my purse is a rare one.

In its journeys with me, we’ve learned that sometimes carrying the WIP on a flash drive is down right frustrating.

First, there’s the wait while the computer acknowledges the flash drive, pretends to need the software in order to use it, etc. Then there’s the Crap-the-stupid-thing-didn’t-save-properly-last-time-and-I’m-missing-half-the-story issue.

Beneath it all is the lurking fear that you’ll drop your bag/briefcase/purse/wherever-you-keep-your-gizmos, and somehow permanently mangle the drive so it never loads again.

Through it all, you know that one day, you will have to buy another flash drive. It will run out of space, sooner or later.

There is a solution to these obstacles, though. As writers, I think we’ve underestimated the value (and distraction) of the Internet.

My favorite web service of all time is Google. Google_1247646805058

Why, you ask?

Because Google doesn’t play. The wonderful people at Google spend all their waking time on the Internets trying to find ways of making our lives easier. (Recently they released a new browser, designed specifically by them, called Google Chrome. Check it out. It is awesome.)

Not too long ago, they released what is essentially an Open-Source Word Processor ….. Online.

They call it Google Documents.

Google Docs - All items_1247645628342

When I say that it is one of the most incredible, mind-blowing gifts I have been given as a writer, I am not joking around.

Through Google Documents, I have complete, secure access from any location to every single one of my documents. (Permitted I have uploaded them already.) I can pull up a story in a new window or tab, do some writing, quickly pull up a blank document if I feel like making notes as I write, and if necessary, pull up another tab to do some fast research. All within a single browser. All at a fairly decent speed.

The best part?

The possibility of Google Documents crashing is ridiculously minimal. (Though I would never inherently trust Google to fight to the death to save a little nobody newb’s writing. I do back-up what I put on Google, though I feel secure enough not to do it every day.)

They also offer you INFINITE space for every document you imagined you would write/work on.

Not only that, they also have templates for other projects (ranging from spreadsheets to resumes), you can “allow” outsiders to peer at your work, regardless of whether or not they have a Google account. They can edit, offer comments, make up a new part of the story, whatever.

The only thing that hinders you with Google Docs is your own imagination and paranoia. (That thing when you save 4 copies in different places and still worry about losing the whole shebang.)

I personally find Google’s organizational options to be more than satisfying. I can make as many folders as I want/need, rename at will and change label colors.

My only complaint is that Google Docs is falling behind as far as format goes. While writing, I tend to do so in block paragraphs, justified left, with an extra space between. In order to submit, that seemingly neat set of words must be double-spaced, tab indented, with zero extra lines between paragraphs. (Not to mention, headers and a cover page.) Here is where I’ve found my only problem. Google Docs at this time does not allow a lot of these changes. (It will probably change in the future.) So you will still need to copy/paste the WIP to a new doc and alter the format to suit your market’s needs.

Writer’s Tip #47: Once you have correctly formatted a story in standard manuscript format (see an example here), save it twice – once as your story, the other as a Correct Format Template. Then all you’ll need to do is copy/paste your future stories into the template and alter headers, title and byline, etc. as needed.

Also keep in mind that some markets chose to do things differently. Always read your markets guidelines before submitting!

So if you haven’t tried Google Documents yet, get yourself over there. It’s perfect for those times when you’re visiting family or friends and are, for whatever reason, unable to use your flash drive or whichever preferred method of keeping your stories close by.

I personally find the folders, labels, colors and infinite organization to be my favorite part. It’s far easier to move stories from folder to folder, or rename them in seconds, and so on and so forth. Imagine it as a gigantic filing cabinet, and you’ll never run out of file folders!

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Here we come to the end of The Writer’s Tool Box – Online. I hope I’ve offered some interesting tidbits and maybe some helpful advice.

Look forward to another installment next week. We’ll tackle the various websites online where writers can find markets to submit to. As well as any other ideas that jump into my head.

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As for other cool gadgets online, I just found an extension on Flock (my chosen web browser) that allows me to create and save screenshots of anything. (Where’d you think the screenshot of my Google Docs came from?)

It’s really cool and so easy to use, even I have no trouble. Check out Flock and their amazing extensions/add-ons.

Shanna - MySpace.com_1247704162192

I love playing with my gizmo.

If you haven’t already, stop by Myspace and add me as a friend. Just click the shot of my profile above.

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One more shot before we close the bar….

Talent in cheaper than table salt. What separates the talented individual from the successful one is a lot of hard work.
Stephen King

Late Night With….

Posted on by Shanna Wynne

Yeah, it’s pretty darned late at night. And yes, I have written blogs this late at night before. No biggie.

I’m still up, despite an early morning wake up call, because I was working on a flash fiction (which is 1000 words or less) for a friendly contest among writers. . . . that ended up turning into an over 4000 word short story.

Yes. It is awesome, I know.

Now, with a head full of accomplishment (and if I were to be honest, a bit of narcissism, but who said I was being honest?), I find myself lacking in the tired and overflowing with the “what can I write next?”

Normally, this wouldn’t be an issue. If this were any other night of the summer, this would have ZERO bearing on my inability to sleep. I could stay up until I did get tired and then sleep in some and be A-OK.

Except I need to get the car in the morning so I can haul the laundry to my Mom’s house to wash it (haven’t gotten a washer/dryer for the new digs yet) and Mom has a doctor’s appointment tomorrow, and I’m not letting Mom drive my stepdad’s Jeep around in 100 plus degree weather without an A/C to keep her brain from imploding.

So. Hence my dilemma.

Since I can’t really stay up to do anymore writing (I’ve already edited the finished story a bit and will look for a place to submit it tomorrow) I figured I’d run by here, say a few words and then head on to bed.

Here it is.

A FEW WORDS.

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See? Told you. Just a few words.

Aside from that, I wanted to pass on a link to you all that I find helps me fill the empty moments when no one else is online and you can’t bear the thought of taking another quiz/playing a dumb flash game/staring at Twitter and wondering why you aren’t wittier/etc. anymore.

Check out Ill Will Press. It’s a hilarious site where a guy makes little flash cartoons and comic strips about an angry squirrel named Foamy, his assorted crazy squirrel friends and a goth chick named Germaine.

Just believe me. It is funny.

In fact, I just got done watching a toon that summed up my view on horror movies completely. (But only if you’re listening to the squirrel, not the human.) It’s called “Horror Flick Chicks” and for a quick link, click HERE.

Yes. You should click and watch. If not, you are missing out on the funniness.

(That is a made-up word. I will one day have it copyrighted, for it is mine!)

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So….. yeah. That’s all I’ve got. It’s nearing 3 a.m. I’m finally getting a wee bit tired, which is magnificent. I need some rest. My fingers are worn out.

I’ll leave you with a taste of Ill Will Press. It’s funny.

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Oh, and I will be back tomorrow. Got a blog to write about writing. The craft of said art form, not more of this junk above.

Fun Desktops and Outrageous Kids

Posted on by Shanna Wynne
Isn't it pretty?

Isn't it pretty?

So my super-IT hubby has been playing around with our desktop. Found an interesting new program called “Fences” that you can use to clean up your desktop. See all those neat gray squares above? They are quite literally fences, adjustable and vanish with a double-click–kind of like a cowboy round-up for the icons cluttering your desktop. Beautiful, organized and customizable. I have no idea where to find it, but if you google “Fences computer program” you might find it yourself.

In the end, I bring this up because the desktop has been on the fritz – internets wise. When it is working, I am too tired to blog. When it’s not working, I am struck with a plethora of ideas to blog about. Crappy kind of deal. But my sister in law has finally brought us her old laptop–which she has been kind enough to give to us–and it manages to siphon a decent connection .. wait, did I say siphon? I mean.. it creates a magical, unknown internet connection that I can use to go online.

Yes. Magical.

Here I am once again. Ready to blog my little freckled heart out.

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I’ve been reading like mad with the internets not working. I’ve decimated a couple Bentley Little books, some Richard Laymon’s, a J. F. Gonzalez novel and a few miscellaneous others. I’m currently grinding deliciously slowly on Neil Gaiman’s “American Gods.” I’ve heard so much about this book, I was hesitant to pick it up. I didn’t want to read it and end up disappointed somehow. Thankfully, Gaiman is every bit the author he is made out to be (as though I didn’t already know that) and while I’m only a couple chapters in so far, it’s already been an amazing ride.

Soon there will be a couple of book review blogs. Look forward to those. Especially one of the Laymon books. I was shocked by part of the novel–but in a completely, “just WOW” kind of way.

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For the writing news, my novel is chugging along.

You know how they always say that when you’re writing a novel, you shouldn’t set it aside to work on whatever totally cool and much better idea occurs to you? Well, I knew that would happen. Even some of my longer short stories had other ideas intrude on their intimate time with the right half of my brain.

But I’ve already noted down about 3 different ideas for novellas or full length novels. If I’d known it would take starting a novel to get ideas for other works, then I would’ve started the novel seriously a long time ago.

Huh. Who’d a thought.

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Now, when it comes to writing stories, I always try to keep things realistic. You know, can’t have something completely, totally outrageous happen to your characters, otherwise you lose your readers because they know it’s completely unbelievable.

But something completely outrageous did happen to me just Sunday night. Something I didn’t think would happen to me–that my kids were too old to make this kind of mistake.

Yeah, never underestimate your 4 year old.

So, Sunday evening, the kids are running around, playing a combination hide and seek, knights vs. dragons game. I am in the living room, relaxing with a can of Coke and the television. Ah, the most evil of sirens.

The kids disappear into the kitchen for a second–I assume to head back outside for a last five minute play before the sun goes down.

Suddenly, my daughter comes running into the living room, mouth hanging open, semi-crying and doing her “OMG this is awful!” jig. A wiggly, wormy type of shaking/dancing that I’m torn between laughing at and worrying about.

She’s pointing at her tongue, and I barely understand the garbled mess of words fleeing her mouth. I make out just, “Tastes bad,” “cookies” and “burns.”

Now I’m scared and confused, so I race her into the kitchen again to rinse her mouth out. She’s gargling and spitting into the sink, all the while I’m asking her what she put in her mouth, did she swallow anything.

Michael, my dearly beloved soon to be in kindergarten 5 year old son, is pointing to some bits of white, creamy looking stuff that’s crumbled on the kitchen floor. He says, “Alex took a bit of that because it looks like the inside of a cookie.”

I realize, immediately, what it is.

It’s deodorant. Unfortunately, a used deodorant that has been sitting on the extra table in the kitchen, awaiting disposal or putting away.. Hey, we just moved a couple.. uh.. months ago and sometimes it’s hard enough taking the kids to school, keeping up with laundry, dishes, cooking, vaccumming.. let alone sorting out the piles of unpacked junk — or semi-unpacked junk lying around.

Well, for whatever sad or sorry reason the deodorant was on the table, she took a big bite out of it. Spit it out immediately–rinsed her mouth out very well and then brushed her teeth.

And complained later that it looked just like the inside of her Oreo cookies.

Yup. That’s the kind of outrageous circumstance I would generally avoid writing about in a story. But since it’s happened… well.. I have to wonder…

Anyone else’s kids mistake deodorant for the cream inside of a cookie?

Free Fiction of the Month – April

Posted on by Shanna Wynne

Coming and Going

One. Two. Three.

The third time the lock clicked relief spilled over her. Now the door was really locked.

She walked down the hall, almost reaching the next door, when she turned back and ran to hers. Her hand was splayed open in front of her, stretched towards the knob. The metal was cool, smooth against the roughness of her palm.

Need to make sure I lotion every nig…


The knob spun easily under her hand and the door opened.

Wait, that was locked. Wasn’t it?

She pulled the door closed, stuck her key in the lock and hesitated. Was the lock broken? But it was so shiny and new. Bright brushed steel against the black backdrop of her door. It looked shiny and new, but she couldn’t be sure about that. She hadn’t lived in the building long—just under six months. And she’d never looked closely at any of the other locks and knobs. She spent too much time obsessing over hers to even consider giving those more than cursory glance.

Well, nothing for it but to investigate another door’s lock and see if it was the same shiny, clean brushed metal or dingier, worn. Used.

She cringed.

But she had a plan now and there was no going back. She turned her key in the lock, turned it back, locked it again. Turned it back. Locked it once more. Three times. Unfortunately, she couldn’t test it to be sure it was secure. She felt the urge. Her right arm was aching with the need to grab the knob and spin it once, but it would break the pattern and that was unforgivable. She’d have to redo her entire morning if that happened.

She bit her lip and walked down the hall, heading towards the door—her usual direction. She fought the urge to run back and check, even though this was the time she usually did. It had to wait until she got a peek at the other door’s lock and knob. Her eyes were glued to the floor. She counted the tiles between her door and the closest neighbor’s. It soothed the ache that wanted to run and check the door. Quieted the moaning voice begging her to go back.

Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

Thirteen.


Not good. There was the door to her right. But thirteen? She couldn’t turn and look up now. She hopped a small step forward to the next tile. Fourteen. It left her a little off, but that was better than turning on thirteen.

She lifted her eyes, taking in the worn paint on the door. The cracks through which she could see the red of the original wood. The doorjamb was banged up a bit. Seemed this neighbor was careless entering their apartment. It partially explained the sometimes loud bangs and curses she’d hear.

Above her focus a gray object floated. She took a deep breath, steeled herself and looked up. She was expecting a grimy, fingerprint coated greasy slimy sticky knob that would be crying for a good cleaning but instead there was just the average door knob. It was the same as hers. Gray brushed steel, although this had a few scratches from the owner stabbing the lock with the key. Poor thing. The average person had no idea the kind of power in ritual, much less to be careful doing anything.

She wanted to touch the knob, brush the deepest scratch with the tip of her finger. Reassure it that its pain wasn’t forever. Maybe one day someone like her would come along for this apartment and would treat the lock right. Would leave and enter the right way—three times in, three times out.

But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Partly because her therapist had told her that these inanimate objects couldn’t feel and didn’t care how many times she did something—so obviously the lock wasn’t really weeping at its careless use—and that if she continued to believe that they were in some way appreciative of her careful maneuvers, she would be admitted.

Well, Mrs. Grange hadn’t exactly told her that, but she knew that’s how it would be. That’s what it always came down to, didn’t it? She could function in society, but believing that inanimate objects understood the ritual far better than another intellectual creature could was tantamount to heresy. She knew it would end in forced committal. She’d seen it happen to others. At least, she thought so. It was difficult for her sometimes to separate fact from fiction, but one of the times she’d seen someone committed on television had to be for a similar offense. It was a matter of statistics, probability. Not fact or fiction.

Either way, the lock looked as new as hers. So her lock couldn’t possibly be broken. Well, it was possible it was broken, but highly unlikely.

Through her thoughts barreled the urge, the need to run back to her apartment. Nowadays she could do that, but since she’d counted the tiles to this door…

Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Crap. Fourteen.

She wasn’t centered on the door, but the urge was strong enough to counter her normal hysterics. Her hand reached for the knob, a rush of adrenaline filled her—one, two, three, she countered in her head, one, two, three—her fingers connected and a spark of energy flashed between the metal and her skin. The shock ran down her arm and she almost jumped onto tile thirteen. But she wasn’t that careless, not like some people. She kept her balance.

The knob beneath her fingers began to turn and the door popped open.

All her work had been undone. She’d have to start the entire day over again.

A scream waited in her throat, hiding underneath the lump of fear that lurked there. Starting the day over would be agony. Doing everything again. The three eggs for breakfast, three perfect pours from the coffee pot. She still drank coffee, even if the caffeine was bad for her—or so said the therapist. Exactly three sprites of hairspray per lock, three twists per bobby pin (and oh how it hurt).

Her eyes scanned the room, difficult to do with the strange angle the fourteenth tile put her in, but she could see well enough to pick up the VCR’s blinking light. And time. It was 5:45 PM.

What?

She glanced down at the lock and realized immediately what the problem had been. It locked to the right, not the left. She was unlocking it the entire time.

The hallway was empty, thankfully, as she knelt down on tile fourteen and tried not to cry. All that stress was balled inside her and she didn’t have any other way to let it go. She took the keys, still in her hands, and pulled the sharp edges three times down her forearm. The blood welled, but didn’t drip.

She walked into her apartment, careful to avoid the thirteenth tile. She set her purse down on the table and walked into the kitchen. Pulled nine paper towels off the rack and put three to each scratch on her arm.

When her arm was cleaned up, she went into the living room, sat at the coffee table and pulled out her post it notes. She wrote three notes and posted them on the front door.

“Left for coming, right for going.”