You might be a writer if...

I've been knee-deep in world-creation these last weeks. I'm writing a retelling of Frankenstein set in a dystopian future, which means the world is mine to make (and break). It got me to thinking about DesCartes. Cogito ergo sum...I think therefore I am. As an author, I not only think my characters into being. I think their world into being. Kind of leaves an all-powerful aftertaste.

You might be a writer if...you've developed a god complex.

And society thought only surgeons could do that. How little does the world know about the secret lives of writers. Saving limbs and lives is nothing in the daily routine of a writer. We create worlds. Destroy them. Shape alternate universes for our own. Rewrite history. And make it all so real, readers cry, laugh, rejoice and hate as passionately as they do in the real world.

It can leave a writer feeling a bit like god.

I have to admit, though, the godliness I experience is not only that of a god of great joy but one plagued by  doubt, concern, tears, frustration, and hopelessness. It is an ever so fatally human god. Still, to be a writer means to think like a god. To be willing not only to breathe life into characters and worlds but also to destroy them with wrath, vengeance, or worst of all, for the good of the story. We kill our darlings, in the words of Faulkner.

I giggle to myself guiltily now when my husband (he's a doc himself) talks surgeons and god-complexes. If only he knew, he was living with a writer who suffers than very same complex squared.

At least he hasn't found all of those darlings stuffed under the floorboards yet. Or the alternate worlds that are crammed into the closets. Nobody ever said just because we kill or destroy our darlings we have to throw them away. We writers may be dastardly but we are environmentally conscious. We recycle nixed storylines and characters all of the time. That's the great thing about playing god. We can kill them off one day and bring them back to life the next.

Ah, the joys of being a writer!

What I Love About Graduate School

I never thought I'd see myself writing those words. My first go around with graduate school, ending in a PhD, was not exactly something I loved. It was a painful process with a lot of angst. When it was all over, I was convinced someone would show up one morning on my doorstep demanding my diploma back. It took a year to figure out they were actually going to let me keep it. How relieved I was. But I wasn't relieved enough to ever think I'd set foot within the ivory tower again.

Age heals all wounds. Here I am, back in the graduate school saddle again. And this time around, I'm really loving a lot more of it. Honest. 

Don't get me wrong, there is definitely pain involved with all of this learning to write. I mean, I could seriously do without the sick feeling deadlines stir up in the pit of my stomach when there is that "other life" of mine (kids, house, husband, dog, school visits, conferences, etc, etc, etc) jockeying for time and attention or the brain ache I get from trying to come up with new ideas for critical papers.

There's a big difference, though, that makes this whole go at grad school different. Feedback. I got plenty of feedback the first time around, but grades were the be all and end all of the program. I had to keep them up to keep my scholarships. This time, no real grades. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance philosophy to teaching prevails. Add to that, feedback. Writing is such a lonely world. Doing an MFA in writing makes that world infinitely less lonely and less confusing.

I've sent off enough manuscripts to have compiled a select and diverse collection of treasured rejection letters ranging from "it's not right for our list" to "I was confused." There are the acceptance letters in there, too, which is fantabulously awesome, but it's the rejections that get under my skin. It's not only because my work was rejected. That stings, of course. But actually, it's because I don't understand exactly why. Unfortunately, the publishing world is an incredibly busy place and if editors write you anything personal, it's a boon. Deciphering it, however, is an art unto itself. Bottom line, however, it's not working.

In grad school, I get the why behind "it's not working". I really really appreciate that. I'll do anything-probably because of all of the past rejection letters and the burning desire to minimize those and maximize the acceptance ones-to make a piece better. If my advisor says, X isn't working, I'm thrilled. Sure, I have an emotional response to not having gotten it right, but all of those rejection letters have taught me to value the explanation that follows the critique. I spend the entire next packet figuring out how to make X work, or throwing it out and going for something new. I sometimes wonder if there wouldn't be more published authors if the game of writing and publishing allowed for more in-depth comments in rejection letters.

In the end, I guess it's about finding my own path, but I am thrilled I have a guide for this portion of the journey. I feel like I might actually make it.

You Might Be a Writer If...

What's your verb?

I love that Nike commercial. Verbs are the cornerstone of good writing. I'm always searching for a better one. Why use walk quickly, when you can say sprint. Or swagger. Or, a personal favorite, sache.

But what about the verbs we writers us to describe our profession?

You might be a writer if...the verbology you use to describe writing makes you at least sometimes sound like a cross between a butcher and, well, an axe murderer.

Too extreme, you say? Let me give a few examples.

When I first started writing stories for children, I had to carve out time from my regular job to write. Steal a few moments here and there. Then hours. Eventually hammering my day into a whole new schedule in which writing took up its own little niche.

Verbology still too kind?

What about revisions? Some authors love them. Some authors, not so much. I waiver between hating and loving them. It's where the real work begins. Where the diamond in the rough story becomes a glittering work of art. So much labor is involved - cutting, slicing, chopping, tearing out in whole, sculpting, and reshaping.

Still not convinced?

An author friend of mine and I were talking on the phone the other day. Yes, real live, person to person talking. I was giddy with the excitement of spontaneous conversation (I was also avoiding revisions). So was she. And we were tired of regrouting the kitchen floor. She was asking me about the first line of her book. She said she loved it. The whole book came out of it. But it was all wrong. It needed to be changed, better, ripped out and replaced entirely, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. I tried my best to help her to step over the edge and cut it out.

Her response: "I know I need to, but I just can't kill my darling."

What comes around goes around. We're all faced with making the ultimate "sacrifice" now and again:

For example, my critique group read my present WIP. One of them was not happy with one of a the male characters. Her suggestion? "Kill him off. It will make the story better."

Now I know what my friend feels like about chopping out that first line of hers. I don't quite have the taste for blood just yet. I want the character to redeem himself. But if I'm unsuccessful, well, I may just have to get out my scalpel.

Now this butcher-esque verbology amongst writers may just be a trend out here in the wild wild west, but I've got a sinking suspicion it transcends state lines, national lines even. I'd love to talk to a non-American writer, like a German one - since I speak German - and find out if they hammer, chisel, cut out, chop off, hack, and sometimes snuff out their favorite characters or lines with such abandon when they're writing.

Do you?