November 1 Newsletter
A red-shoe prompt; October POLL: thoughts on finding and creating TIME to write... and #2 PEACE in writing--what does this mean?
Happy Day-After-Halloween!
In the past week it suddenly feels wintry here. (Apologies to those here with other definitions and images of “winter”—and there are a number of you!)
I find any seemingly-sudden turn of season to be invigorating for creativity. Though in my case, it’s also serving as a reminder of my current deadlines. That’s okay: I’m enjoying the walks in crisper air. The chill is good for a tired mind.
Prompt
Jane M. sent along a wonderful photo taken by a friend, who gave her permission to share as our prompt this month. (Thank you both!)
You’ll see it on the prompt thread.
I’m curious as to the QUESTIONS this image evokes for you. Can you share those even before you begin to explore and write? What questions come to you—and what do you discard of them, and what do you pursue? Post ALL, if you dare, even the silliest or illogical. Let’s see if they spark for another. Or for you, later. Let’s make the questions part of the process.
~~~
The poll for October was:
What do you need mostly in your writing life?
The answer was—overwhelmingly—TIME.
This archived post (below) goes back to the beginnings of The Unschool; it’s one of the earliest posts. But it has thoughts on “Time” in terms of writing at morning or night, through different seasons, and so on.
In addition to those ideas there is the securing of precious minutes here and there, the piece of discipline with making use of such time, the recognition of such moments, and developing an understanding of the types of time you need. Because sometimes “minutes” don’t cut it.
The type of time I need to re-write, for instance, is more concerned with the quality of “head-time.” I need a certain type and number of consecutive hours. And that can be much harder to find.
But balance… if you’re always waiting for consecutive hours, you might never write.
How to Make Time
Minutes can be found throughout the day. This type of multi-tasking is not for everyone, nor is it for sustained practice. Though I—rather stupidly, I’ll admit—have done both: sustained multi-tasking, with three children and FT employment outside of writing. I’ll admit that now, at 59, this has become problematic in different ways—but that would be another post; for now, it’s enough to say that this is NOT the optimal way to work.
There are times in life, or during the creating of a project, when it’s the only way.
One of the biggest time-vacuums is social media. It has a way of sneaking up on even the most vigilant. As artists, most of us—or many—need to use is as a significant promotion piece. Or at least, we convince ourselves so. But how much time is it taking from your writing?
I convinced myself that I need to be on Twitter in order to get out word of The Unschool as well as my memoir. I connected with ALS groups for the memoir and writers for the newsletter. About six months ago, I just couldn’t take the garbage there, and stopped. I focused on posting pieces about ALS and grief/loss on Medium. I had more direct contact with readers. And I don’t think that losing Twitter has cost me anything here for the newsletter; I’d rather put the same time into writing posts.
Have you timed your social media “use”? Or put a timer on it? Give yourself five minutes to post and ‘like’… and turn it off and get back to work.
Review all of your daily activities. If you need to read more, can you do audio books? Can you record plotting or “writing” while driving? (Or will you head into a red light? Again, multi-tasking can be over-rated!)
There’s a wonderful desk-like front to my exercise bike—I do a lot of reading as I cycle. I often close the book and use the time to think, too.
Are you struggling through a piece of plotting, or some thread? Can you put it to yourself as a question before you step into the shower or go for a walk? And let your mind, conscious or sub-, grapple with it?
How do you find “minutes” and “hours”?
And in second place…
Right after “time,” was a yen for “peace.”
What is “peace” for writing? A quiet space? No music, no chit-chat, no phones and alarms buzzing, no television or radio? No voices saying “Hey, Mom or Dad, can I … ?” or “Hey, you!”?
I speak of the sort of time I need for re-writes. There’s an element of “peace” here, too. Not peace in silence, necessarily—though that can go a long way.
But the type of peace that happens from a rested mind or—for me—a puttering mind.
There is nothing to replicate a day that is errand-free, a day of not having to be anywhere at any particular time. A day when I can work my way through it as I feel.
The ideal re-writing day is one in which I wake up and get up when I want, fill a thermos full of coffee, write until I’m hungry, use the eating-time as a break, write, shower when I get stuck on something (or a break), continue on until I feel like riding the bike or going for a walk. Maybe poke away at things like laundry, or cooking something… as I feel like it! Nothing that’s a “must do.”
THIS for me is “peace.”
If you’re responsible for young children or caring, or some form of other employment, you may have to plan for such times, or carve them out of early hours, or even late hours, if you must.
When my boys were young I could work in the midst of a shocking amount of “noise” but had to find this inner peace—the peace of being errand-free. At that time, I would plan to have certain tasks done, and the day before would have made enough food for a supply of leftovers. The thinking-ahead is worth it, for that sense of peace.
Do share your thoughts on this, and what you have done for both “time” and “peace.” And your definitions of both…
~~~
Re-Cap of October posts
As always, we kicked off the month with the October first potpourri, followed by the monthly prompt— this one of anadiplosis and “bittersweet.”
October holds Canadian Thanksgiving. For the third year now, I wrote a piece about gratitude—and was grateful for the opportunity. It surprises me—honestly—how pushing at myself to think about “gratitude” in relation to writing has become an addition to my working-practice. So often, I see only mountains of work ahead of me. But I am blessed and it’s good to stop and ponder that.
I re-published a piece about “Insider Questions About MFA Programs” as it’s the time of year—for the most part—for applying, if one is thinking about such. I was surprised by the numbers of responses/thoughts. Joshua Doležal, who writes The Recovering Academic responded, as did David Perlmutter who writes Made From What’s Not Real, Arthur Meek, writer of Citizens of Nowhere, Annette Laing, historian and writer of Non-Boring History, Latham Turner writes Get Real, Man, and Jolene Handy, who writes Time Travel Kitchen (and makes birthday cakes for The Unschool!)
And of course, I had to write about “Monsters”—Happy Halloween, and all! This will be a day late, but with monsters all around all year round, it’s always timely.
I took a class with Ian Weir—a wonderful novelist and dramatic writer—some years ago. And saw him as a visiting author years before that. (I also had a conversation with his mother, ages ago, a children’s author, who said she would call her son for story and plot advice… which I thought was just right!) I was a young writer the first time I heard him speak, and thought hard about his words and advice to
“write about what scares the shit out of you!”
Words I’ve remembered and thought about. Monsters take many sizes and shapes, and hide in many places within and without.
The final post for October was an insider-view of my re-writing process at this point, with a middle-grade historical novel. It’s a longer post than usual, and looks at what it is to dig into an editor’s feedback while listening to the story itself; what it needs, along with scrutiny of what is the emotional core of a story, and what is the nature of a “hook.” I hope you found—or find—it illuminating.
~~~
Workshops
We’ve had one picturebook come in during October. Take a look if you’re a paid subscriber, and post one thought; the process can be cumulative.
And if you have any work for which you’d like feedback—fiction, poetry, nonfiction, picturebook—please email it to me to post.
alison@alisonacheson.com
~~~
Archived Post
From Fall 2021 — this was a series of prompts for a “mini-course” in “holiday” writing. The prompts are useful at any time.
Holiday mini-course prompts... let the thinking begin!
PROMPTS Memory is like a shy cat at times; she hides in corners, slips through the hallway so that you almost think you didn’t see her after all; she shows up in least-expected places.
Happy November Writing!
Alison
And some thoughts by an Unschool reader-writer who wants to be Anonymous:
What do I need to write:
Like everyone I need time to write. I need uninterrupted time for novels, hours with no commitment. No commitment at all is best.
Now that I'm retired I have that time. I have the drafts to complete, the ideas to flesh out, the demand from my daughter to write my memoir, titled "Malfunction Junction." I have the decades of journals to draw from.
I am not writing much.
What I also need, and that I have not gotten in 17 years of living in this corporate, conservative city where I have almost no social life, is people inspiration. The laughs, the wonder, the marvel in discovering what's beneath the surface of proper lives.
The old woman who needed to be rescued when her bathtub, with her in it, fell through the bathroom floor to the kitchen below.
The story of the woman with a new boyfriend who tried to get a real estate agent to NOT sell a house to the old girlfriend with whom her new boyfriend had had one of his many children.
Speaking of that boyfriend, the story of a pregnancy he refused to recognize, so the woman bought a t-shirt that she wore as she walked down the main street in this small town: Bobby's Baby with an arrow pointing to her pregnant belly.
The ex-husband of a self-proclaimed very proper lady who was rumoured to have his housekeeper do her housework in the nude.
I need to see people in all their tapestried glory, to delight in and love their human foibles. What pain, ego, fear, greed drives us to do.
The city in which I must live does not understand my dry humour and I don't see any sense of humour at all in many of them, and so, along with my sad financial circumstances which means I can't join in, I have almost no social life. I've been involved in many activities and groups, met many perfectly fine people, but have not forged connections with any enough to see what lies beneath the surface.
Until I find that spark, that fizz, much of my writing will lie dormant.
I saw the photo and this little beginning popped in my head. I'm experimenting with dictating into my Word app on my Ipad. Trying to see if that will increase my writing since I am a terrible typist and write everything in cursive. This is the spark of a story that may burst into something or just fizzle. It matters not.
The Red Umbrella
Pamela liked to view the world, upside down, bent over, gazing through the pleats of her skirt, past the columns of her bare legs to the world beyond. It was less scary that way. She learned to do it when her parents’ pent-up anger would explode. Upside down, the red faces did not seem so fierce, and as the blood rushed to her head, the pulse in her ears would drown out the yelling. Especially her mother’s, as her shrill voice would dominate the argument until father would haul off and cuff her.
That’s what he used to call it when he came to her room later to tuck her in.
“Don’t worry Pam, “he’d say. “I just cuffed her. I didn’t hurt her. But she had to snap out of it. She was going stiff with hysteria.” By that he meant twisting her hands in a bizarre, spastic, circular motion as she stretched her arms, stiff back and low behind her body and pushed her fingers straight out to pose all rigid. It resembled someone taking a swan dive into a pool for the first time.
By looking between her legs, everything was just different and not as threatening. That’s why she still did it today when things got weird. She was more subtle about it, as an adult, she’d place her hands in exhaustion down on the table and drop her head between her arms to peer sideways under her elbows at the world. Still, when things got truly strange, she would drop something on the floor as an excuse to bend over and let her hair tumble down and tug at her scalp like she was getting a massage and for a moment, she would stare past her shapely black yoga pant clad legs at the insane antics of the world beyond.
Today it was to look through the rain, splattered glass of the coffee shop at the red umbrella that was traveling down the sidewalk straight at her. She squeezed her face to make the blood rush harder, because the person carrying the umbrella was someone, she had not seen for 15 years—her mother.