Hello and happy Friday, friends! Some quick announcements:
TOMORROW I’ll be hanging out in Wilson Park in Carrboro from 2-4pm. There’ll be free books, tons of seltzer, and lively conversation. RSVP here.
There’s an opening in one of my writing groups. I am looking for a committed writer who is hungry for community and feedback and is free every other Wednesday night (the group meets biweekly, in Chapel Hill, 6:30 to 8:30pm). Read more about the magic and joy of a writing group here and hit reply if you want to learn more.
I’ll be giving a craft talk on How to Build Complex Characters to Drive Plot/Story on May 7th. If you’re ready to kick your characters and plot up several notches, sign up!
If you want some craft talk RIGHT NOW, give a listen to Writing in the Dark, a podcast where Ralph Walker and I discuss goal setting, where great ideas come from, and messy first drafts.
I usually begin a new story or writing session with some absolutely delicious clarity and determination. I want to say THIS THING in THAT WAY. Before I get into it, everything is so delightfully clear.
But at some point the blueprint breaks. A character I thought was well-behaved goes ballistic. Or, when I’m writing memoir, I realize what I thought was the main event is actually minor. And the revelation about myself I thought was at the center of the piece is really the tip of the (&?!#ing) iceberg.
Every project contains this juncture. At the inevitable fork in the road, there are two choices: tighten your grip or let go.
You can keep trying to push yourself and your characters into the actions and details that got you started. Or you can sit down in the middle of the road and have a good cry about how scary and frustrating it is when your plan falters.
Then, when you’re ready, you can take a deep breath, get back on your feet, and follow your characters to wherever the hell they’re going.
Whatever you choose, the breaking point is not without its friction. Every time we set off in a new direction, we leave something behind. It can be freeing, like cleaning out your closet, but there’s also a little grief in it. You’re staying goodbye to a reality that once felt firm. And let’s not forget about all those pages you’re going to have to trash.
There isn’t a surefire method for avoiding this breakage, but there is a strategy I think makes is all a lot easier to bear: holding it loosely. I try to approach my writing with humility, curiosity, and the knowledge that, just like life, it sure as shit is not going to turn out how I planned.
Don’t get me wrong—it still frustrates the hell out of me. When I get addled by the fact that I can’t control a goddamn thing about this story, I think of my high school English teacher, Mrs. Banker.
Mrs. Banker taught me Shakespeare and also that it was okay to be an unapologetic weirdo*. Once, in class, she said that her favorite thing about being pregnant was not knowing what would come out of her—a musician? a paleontologist? an astronaut?
When she told us this, she looked down at her once pregnant belly, and for a minute we all imagined it, big and round, with an unknown being inside. So many possibilities, she said to herself, to us.
Mrs. Banker saw the gaping unknown as wondrous rather than terrifying. She also saw it as mostly out of her control. Whatever kind of person her child turned out to be, she told us, had little to do with whether she ate lima beans or played Beethoven.
As writers and humans with consciousnesses, we like to have control. And often we allow ourselves to believe in the illusion of it. But in my experience, trying to control a story is like trying to get a baby to stop crying by saying Hey baby stop crying.
Creativity is a mysterious process that goes best when we submit to it—when we stay open to the inspiration that calls us to the page and hold loosely whatever initial vision or desire brought us there. When we trust the story and let ourselves follow its lead, it usually takes us somewhere much better than whatever we imagined at the outset.
So what does holding it loosely really look like? When I start a project, I ask myself what I know for sure. In the case of the book I’m writing, I knew when I began that the protagonist was a scientist. At first I thought she worked at a university. As I got deeper into the story and her character, I realized that was wrong—she works in industry.
I also knew that soon after the book’s inciting incident, her employer puts her on leave. But I didn’t know exactly why. I’ve gone through three rough reasons, and I expect I’m not done yet. I’m trusting the text and my subconscious to reveal the answers to me in due course.
Once we lean into this looseness, it can feel deeply liberating. I don’t have to know everything! If I show up and pay attention, I will discover what I need to.
Despite the fact that I write you regularly, I don’t have a plan for what topics I’ll cover when—they simply come to me, based in part by whatever water I’m swimming in with my writing or that of the people I work with. When a topic arrives, I say thank you and I get down to business.
And what a little miracle this medium is: I type some words, press some buttons, and poof, I’m in your inbox, waving. And to my surprise and delight, many of you wave back. For that, I want to say thank you. I write hundreds of words every day, sometimes thousands, knowing full well how many are already in the world. The fact that you choose to ingest some of mine means the world to me.
It’s a privilege to communicate with you in this way, and one that I don’t take lightly. Which is why I am honoring a little shift that has shown up in me lately, asking me to make a few changes to this whole Substack thing.
Going forward, all my content will be free. I’ll still send my thoughts on writing, reading, and craft, sans paywalls. And if you want some right now, here’s my recent rant on Lessons in Chemistry or the rollercoaster that is revision.
I love writing to you and also this publication is one of the many ways I make my living. If you are able to contribute to my efforts, you can still become a paid subscriber, or put some money in the tip jar at Kofi. Your contributions help me, but they are also a vote for creative community, supporting meetups, events, readings, scholarships, and other opportunities for writers to gather, connect, and grow.
Another great way to support my work is sharing a post you like with a friend. But the most important way you can support my work has nothing to do with me.
The most important thing you can do to support my work is tell your story. Go to your desk (or your easel or your local story slam) and express yourself. And take in the stories and expressions of others—read, watch, and listen to the art and artists around you.
While you’re making art, know that I’m cheering for you. And if your best laid art plans go to hell, it’s OK to say a lot of swears and then, when you’re ready, head down that new path and see where it takes you.
Keep writing, friends.
J.
*Mrs. Banker once told me she wished she had a prehensile tail, so that she could hold a book with two hands and drink her coffee with her tail. She held her hands up, around an imaginary book, and peered at me through her glasses. I swear I could see the phantom tail. Also, I want one!