Buzz, Balls & Hype

THE DOCTOR IS IN

BEGINNINGS PART THREE: A BRIEF INTERVIEW WITH CAROLINE LEAVITT

For many of us, the hardest part of writing is facing the initial blank screen. I asked novelist Caroline Leavitt to discuss her emotional and psychological process in beginning a novel.

Starting a new work for me is always a combination of a great leap of faith, terrible fear and stubborness. I always start with something that obsesses me--usually a what if around a character. The novel coming from Algonquin next year (no title yet!) started with my wondering about a crime in a 1950s suburban neighborhood, at a time when everyone is paranoid about the Cold War and women had little rights and everyone imagines they are living the American Dream. And that led to one of my main characters, Ava, a woman ahead of her time, who somehow, in the suburban paranoia, is targeted for the crime. I clung to that kernel the whole time I was writing the novel, but what I cling to even more is my first chapter.  I've always felt that the first chapter holds all the seeds for everything that germinates in the novel. Every clue, right down to the last--and hopefully surprising, but in an inevitable way--page, should be there.  So I work for months on my first chapter, and then I have to show it to a few other writers. When that chapter is right, it becomes my lifeline. When I'm in chapter 8 and convinced I should chuck it all and go to dental school instead, I look at that first chapter. It's as if that chapter says, "See? You can do this.  You can't give up. This is what haunted you. Keep going."

I'm always intimidated. I'm always sure that what I am writing is dull, stupid, boring, melodramatic or all of those adjectives. I have to keep myself from going on Amazon to compare myself to other writers (always dangerous.) I have to stop the fear in its tracks. I do this by hunkering down in my seat and putting blinders on, by writing the book that I need to write for myself (I'm not thinking of readers at this stage.). I outline and map what I imagine should happen and then I change it as I write. I'm waiting for edits on the 1950s novel, and I've started another new novel, and once again, I've got that first chapter-lifeboat. I'm trying to map out the story (though I know the map will change). I suffer writer's amnesia. I don't remember the process once it's over, but I'm trying to recall more and more because I think it's important to remember that yes, it's hard.  And yes, it is so, so worth it.

How do you get yourself from the intimidation phase to the hunkering-down phase? That is, do you simply remind yourself that you’ve been there before, and this is the antidote, or is there a more complex process?

That's a really great question.  I'm never intimidated at first--I almost always love the opening stages, which to me are like falling love. It's after the first hundred pages that I start to fall apart and panic. I have writers' amnesia. I forget that this happens every time so I have writer friends that I ask repeatedly, Was I like this last time? And then they email and they tell me that yes, I thought I didn't have a plot and never would.  That yes, I thought my characters were wooden and stupid. And yes, I was crying then, too. This reminder helps me to realize that this is a process, that this is the really tough time and all there is to it is to sit there every day and work through it.  I have to stop myself from dramatizing how difficult it is, and I have to stop myself from thinking that every other writer is having it easy and merrily writing along!

Caroline Leavitt is the author of nine published novels, most recently the New York Times bestseller Pictures of You. She is the recipient of a New York Foundation for the Arts  Award in Fiction, and a Goldenberg Fiction Prize. She was also a National Magazine Award Nominee in Personal Essay, a finalist in the Nickelodeon Screenwriting Awards and a quarter finalist in the Fade In/Writers' Net screenplay competition. A book critic for The Boston Globe and People, she has also published in New York Magazine, Psychology Today, More, Cookie, Redbook and Parenting. Her tenth novel will be published by Algonquin.

 Susan O'Doherty, Ph.D., is a clinical psychologist with a New York City-based practice. A fiction writer herself, she specializes in issues affecting writers and other creative artists. She is the author of Getting Unstuck without Coming Unglued: A Woman's Guide to Unblocking Creativity (Seal, 2007). Her Career Coach column appears every Monday on Inside Higher Ed's Mama, Ph.D. blog, and she is a regular guest panelist on Litopia After Dark. She can be reached at Dr.Sue at mindspring dot com.

 

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LANGUAGE FACILITY AND ITS LIMITATIONS

Like many people, I tend to assume that if I can do something fairly well without much effort, the skill must be an easy one to acquire, and people who botch it just aren’t trying very hard. (Finding your way back to a place you’ve been only once before; doing your own taxes; or changing your oil are, by contrast, really, really difficult tasks, and anyone who manages them is, by definition, a genius.)

I have felt this way about verbal expression for a long time. Sloppy sentence structure makes me crazy. I’m not much of a nitpicker regarding split infinitives, ending a sentence with a proposition, using “they” instead of “he or she,” or many other rules that seem to be handed down by the Grammar Police rather than to have evolved organically in the service of clarity and grace. But I resent having to work to extract the basic meaning of a sentence, and flinch at hodgepodge construction the way I would at a pile of random bricks masquerading as a house. And I become impatient with people who insist that the literal meaning of a sentence, paragraph, or page is different from what’s obviously there. If you would only try, I think.

Then, last week, I went to Belgium. As always when our family travels, we assumed our traditional roles: Bill as the expert on the history and culture of the region; Ben as the nearly infallible navigator and decoder of transportation systems and ticket vending machines; and me as the communicator.

I have, in the past, found it difficult to understand how anyone from the US has trouble managing in Europe.  Most people around the world speak at least some English now, and even if they don’t, Germanic languages are a lot like English, and most Americans speak at least a little of some Romance languages, so what is the problem? I speak enough French and Spanish to make reservations, order food, ask directions, buy tickets, and make superficial conversation. I don’t speak Italian, but I get by in Italy with “Spanglais,” a bizarre mélange of French, Spanish, and English spoken in an approximation of an Italian accent, that somehow does the trick. I don’t speak German, but in Augsberg, as recorded here, I went to a dinner party where most people didn’t speak English, and managed, through guessing at the meaning of words that sounded sort of like English words, and filling in the rest with charades, to have “conversations” about parenting, food, and the differences in national personality between Germany and the US.

So I thought Belgium would be no problem. And in Brussels, that was the case. Most people we encountered spoke a combination of English and French that was easy to understand and respond to, and when I had to get by on just French, that was doable, too.

Then we went on to Bruges, where I had to hold conversations with, and get important information from, people whose only language was Dutch.

Dutch is apparently a great language, but I can’t make sense out of it. I understand, intellectually, that it is not that different from German, but it doesn’t sound like German to me. It sounds like the other person is saying “Floodle bloodle oggernogger” over and over until my brain freezes. 

I had this experience in Amsterdam, but fortunately, most people spoke some English, and in those places where they didn’t, we had Dutch friends to translate. I always assumed, though, that if left to fend for myself, I would be able to do so.

Ha. We missed out on a delicious-looking and –smelling lunch because I couldn’t make sense out of the menu. And if not for Ben’s stellar navigational skills, we might still be wandering around looking for the train station.

We didn’t need to visit Waterloo; Waterloo had come to me. I returned home a chastened woman.

I have been reflecting since then on what an enormous privilege it is to be able to make oneself understood, and to understand. It seems miraculous that here in New York, not only can I read menus, follow directions and make light conversation—I can engage in deep, nuanced discussions with friends and clients; I can read novels and write this column. And I’m pledged to remember Bruges when I’m tempted to get petty about others’ grammar or reading comprehension skills. If they’re doing better than floodle bloodle oggernogger, we’re ahead of the game.

Next week: Caroline Leavitt on Beginnings

 

 Susan O'Doherty, Ph.D., is a clinical psychologist with a New York City-based practice. A fiction writer herself, she specializes in issues affecting writers and other creative artists. She is the author of Getting Unstuck without Coming Unglued: A Woman's Guide to Unblocking Creativity (Seal, 2007). Her Career Coach column appears every Monday on Inside Higher Ed's Mama, Ph.D. blog, and she is a regular guest panelist on Litopia After Dark. She can be reached at Dr.Sue at mindspring dot com.

 

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MORE ON BEGINNINGS: A BRIEF INTERVIEW WITH MASHA HAMILTON

This is the second in a series of short interviews with writers about the emotional and psychological processes involved in creative writing. I asked Masha to describe the process of beginning a new novel:

I don't plot a new piece. It is a lot scarier than that for me; questions start to bubble to the surface, and I begin to feel a character, as unformed as that sounds. Then I look for the "inciting incident," the moment that is going to challenge the character in difficult and unexpected ways and start off some action that will change lives. Usually that inciting incident stays roughly the same as I work on the novel, but really, everything else is open to change. I try to remind myself if I don't have something on the page, I have nothing to revise, because I know the beginning is simply creating something to revise!

So, by the time you actually get to the point of writing, are the character and incident so clear in your mind that you feel ready to set it all down in draft, almost as if you were recording something that was actually happening, rather than creating from scratch? Or are there steps between conceptualizing and writing?

The character and the inciting incident are clear enough to get me excited. I know what I want to explore, and how, in essence, to trigger that exploration. And that trigger occurs in scene, so yes, I can kind of see the scene by the time I actually start writing it. I'm writing it as though it will be the first chapter. It always ends up near the start, but it doesn't always end up as Chapter One.

It sounds comforting, to remind ourselves that what we write at the beginning will almost certainly be changed, so there’s no point in stressing over it. Does it work that way for you? Are you able to just start writing, knowing that you’ll probably come back and revise?

Yes, it is really comforting to me. In fact, it surprises me how much can change months and even years into the project--although "change" isn't exactly the right word. Clarify is more what I mean.

Masha Hamilton is the author of four novels, most recently 31 Hours, and the founder of two world literacy projects, the Afghan Women's Writing Workshop and the Camel Book Drive.

 Susan O'Doherty, Ph.D., is a clinical psychologist with a New York City-based practice. A fiction writer herself, she specializes in issues affecting writers and other creative artists. She is the author of Getting Unstuck without Coming Unglued: A Woman's Guide to Unblocking Creativity (Seal, 2007). Her Career Coach column appears every Monday on Inside Higher Ed's Mama, Ph.D. blog, and she is a regular guest panelist on Litopia After Dark. She can be reached at Dr.Sue at mindspring dot com.

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Beginnings: A Brief Interview with David Abrams

 This is the first in a series of short interviews with writers about the emotional and psychological processes involved in creative writing. I asked David to talk about what comes up for him when he is starting  new work:

If I stare at them long enough, blank screens (formerly known as "blank pages") terrify the shit out of me.  There is so much empty space waiting to be filled, all that acreage primed for words--words which are still trapped in my head, words which are hiding around the corner, cowering under bedsheets, refusing to come out into the light.  Blank screens fill me with self-doubt and second-guessing.  Blank screens are the arch-enemy of productive writing and should be avoided at all costs.  Therefore, it's best to populate them as quickly as possible, even if it means typing the word "The" and letting it sit there all alone in that white space while you summon what follows.  That "The" buys you some time while you wrestle the anxiety and try to tamp down the fear of beginning a new story, novel, poem or essay.

David, this is brilliant. I love the idea of just writing "the," of filling up a page with nonsense. I’m going to try it myself the next time I have trouble getting started.

The image made me think of going to a party filled with people one doesn’t necessarily like, just to not be alone. I once met a woman who had been widowed for about a year and still was unused to the isolation, both in her home and in her social life, since she and her husband had entertained mostly as a couple with other couples. She told me that when things got really bad she would go to the emergency room of her local hospital and sit there among the people waiting to be seen; it brought her back to humanity just to be around others.

This made me wonder how much of a role loneliness or perceived isolation plays in reluctance to begin a new work. Writing is such a solitary activity; the decision to plunge in entails accepting long stretches of complete aloneness, especially before we have our fully formed characters to interact with. Do you think filling up the page with nonsense might be in part a hedge against this aloneness?

That's a very sad image of the widow going to an emergency room just to connect with people--especially when you stop to think that ERs are packed with people at their worst moments--in pain and feeling very vunerable.  I can think of safer, quieter places to mingle with humanity.  But, on the other hand, if she sat in a coffee shop, nervously sipping her brew and moving muffin crumbs into shapes of continents with her fingertips, she probably wouldn't connect with anyone else.  They'd all be too busy chatting with others at their own table.

But I stray from your question (avoidance technique!).

In truth, I'm never alone when I write.  This will sound a little Jekyll-and-Hyde-ish, but I'm always at war with myself when I sit down at the desk.  One half of my Self--the louder, bullying half--is always trying to convince the meek, compliant (and lazy!) Self to do anything but the task at hand.  I sit there for long stretches doing a lot of Not Writing.  Until finally, through guilt or reason, Mr. Meek rises up and gives Mr. Bully a swift kick in the teeth.  So, I don't really surround myself with my characters as entities; I don't really converse with them or wait for them to "arrive."  I'm enough company for myself.  As they say, I'm my own worst enemy.

I should also note that physically, I can only write when I'm alone.  I set the alarm for 3:30 am every day and, half-asleep, go down the stairs to my basement office where I spend the next two to three hours in solitude.  The silence is only broken by the hiss of the furnace, my hungry cats' plaintive mews, and the classical music coming from my computer speakers.  It's very difficult for me to write in a public place.  I could never sit in a coffee shop, for instance, and work on my novel.  I'd be too distracted by all the chatter and movement--not to mention the muffin crumbs which need to be patted into continents.

David Abrams' stories have been published in Esquire, Narrative, The Literarian, Connecticut Review, The Missouri Review, The Greensboro Review and several other literary journals.  His novel about the Iraq War, Fobbit, is forthcoming from Grove/Atlantic.  He blogs about the literary life at The Quivering Pen (www.davidabramsbooks.blogspot.com).

Next week: Masha Hamilton on beginnings.

 Susan O'Doherty, Ph.D., is a clinical psychologist with a New York City-based practice. A fiction writer herself, she specializes in issues affecting writers and other creative artists. She is the author of Getting Unstuck without Coming Unglued: A Woman's Guide to Unblocking Creativity (Seal, 2007). Her Career Coach column appears every Monday on Inside Higher Ed's Mama, Ph.D. blog, and she is a regular guest panelist on Litopia After Dark. She can be reached at Dr.Sue at mindspring dot com.

 

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BEFRIENDING THAT VOICE THAT TELLS US TO QUIT 

Several of my clients are struggling with an issue that is familiar to me, and I think probably to many of you, too: the voice in their heads that tells them to quit; that their writing is garbage or their ideas stupid or, in one case, that writing itself is frivolous, an occupation for dilettantes who are afraid to engage with the real world. 

This isn’t Anne Lamott’s “shitty first draft,” the acknowledgment that our early efforts can be crude and even misguided. This is the more persistent voice that tells us that we are fools for persevering; that we’re untalented and self-deluded; that no one would want to read this hopeless nonsense and we should go to secretarial school and be done with it. 

Often, the voice kicks in just as we are closing in on what has, up to that point, seemed to be a fine idea; a truly promising draft; or an agent or publisher’s interest. 

It is important to identify the source of this voice, and to discern its true intent. Obviously, sometimes the voice is really malevolent. Maybe we had a hateful or  undermining parent, sibling, or teacher, whose words have stayed with us and continue to sting us. Sometimes the voice isn’t so much malicious as threatened: if we outstrip our parent or sibling or spouse, what horrible repercussions could ensue? 

And often, as counterintuitive as it seems, the voice is that of a caring person in our past, trying to protect us from what it sees as certain ridicule or retaliation. “I’d turn back now, if I were you,” it calls to us. “Witches, ghosts and goblins ahead!” 

When this happens, it can help to talk soothingly to the imagined or recollected owner of the voice. If, for example, we identify the voice as our grandmother’s, we can remember that she might have been ridiculed for being a "greasy grind," a smart girl, and want to spare us similar humiliation. We can imagine reassuring her that we appreciate her concern, but we’re all grown up now and can’t be hurt by playground taunts. We can decide to take the risk, to push on, even in the face of possible rejection or derision. We’re all right, really, we can tell her. 

Because, really, we are. 

 Susan O'Doherty, Ph.D., is a clinical psychologist with a New York City-based practice. A fiction writer herself, she specializes in issues affecting writers and other creative artists. She is the author of Getting Unstuck without Coming Unglued: A Woman's Guide to Unblocking Creativity (Seal, 2007). Her Career Coach column appears every Monday on Inside Higher Ed's Mama, Ph.D. blog, and she is a regular guest panelist on Litopia After Dark. She can be reached at Dr.Sue at mindspring dot com. 

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We had our final improv class of the semester this week, and our teacher, Rob, asked us to comment on our experience of the class. Most of the other students are professional actors, and they talked about how the work had helped them deal with curve balls at auditions and performances.

As documented here, my singing and acting have also benefited from this class. What I emphasized, though, was its transformative effect on the rest of my life.

I don't think of myself as particularly rigid or negativistic, and I know my teacher and classmates don't experience me that way, so it was, and is, difficult to articulate how differently I'm responding to everyday events; how I feel so much more flexible and positive thanks to this training in being present in the moment and accepting even seemingly unpromising situations as gifts.

I think part of the difference is that I am now blurring the distinction between "work" and "play" in some useful ways. In the past, "work" meant a task, an agenda, and single-minded focus. "Play" was what I did with my friends, letting my hair down, getting silly, meandering where our thoughts and feelings led us. I find that now, I'm looking on nearly every encounter as a potential adventure, co-created with other participants, which combines my agenda and theirs in often surprising and rewarding ways.

Of course, acting and singing--and writing--have always mixed "work" and "play." But I find that my serious work is becoming more playful, while even in my "pure play"--singing with friends, writing in my journal--I'm on the alert for gifts; for that moment when a spark ignites and, if I am sufficiently aware and grateful, something unexpected and beautiful may emerge.

 Susan O'Doherty, Ph.D., is a clinical psychologist with a New York City-based practice. A fiction writer herself, she specializes in issues affecting writers and other creative artists. She is the author of Getting Unstuck without Coming Unglued: A Woman's Guide to Unblocking Creativity (Seal, 2007). Her Career Coach column appears every Monday on Inside Higher Ed's Mama, Ph.D. blog, and she is a regular guest panelist on Litopia After Dark. She can be reached at Dr.Sue at mindspring dot com. 

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The Full Catastrophe

My musical theater class had our cabaret night Sunday evening. I had been nervous all month about messing up and ruining the show, and my anxiety peaked on Sunday morning. I had two songs in the show, "Summertime" and "All of Me." I was fairly confident about "Summertime," but we'd had a disastrous dress rehearsal of "All of Me," and I was convinced that something was going to go very wrong.

As it turned out, pretty much everything did, starting with my air-headed decision to do something about the ridiculous color in my hair. I bought a highly recommended (and expensive) "color extraction system" at a professional hairstylist supply store that was supposed to take out artificial color and leave your hair the way it was originally. I used it as instructed, and it did exactly nothing, until I went swimming and emerged once again with green streaks. I pulled it back and hoped nobody would notice.

"Summertime" was fine, and well received. "All of Me," though, was prop-dependent, and when I get nervous, props tend to take on a wild life of their own. I pulled my slinky shawl from around my shoulders, intending to drape it sensuously around my partner's neck, and instead hit him in the face with it. Our (fortunately plastic) champagne glasses leapt off the table and crashed to the floor, where I tripped on one. A lace handkerchief that I was supposed to pull out of my bra to emphasize "Your good-bye left me with eyes that cry" got lost around my navel and I had to dig for it.

And it was okay. I recalled my improv teacher's mantra, "Mistakes are gifts." We tried to use each mishap to deepen the scene and move it forward. I kept singing, we kept dancing, and the audience kept laughing and clapping. For the finale, my partner, whose day job is as a firefighter, spontaneously lifted me up and swung me around, neatly demolishing what was left of the set, and the audience went wild. Afterward, my teacher said, "They loved you--even more because of all the mishaps. They were with you 100%." and I felt that.

What I brought away from the experience was not the idea that anything goes, but that if I take risks I am going to make mistakes, and that that is part of the fun and excitement of live performance. What happened wasn't the result of carelessness or poor planning, but  of hard work, dedication, and nerve-induced klutziness, which I hope one day to control. But it is comforting to know that an audience is willing to engage with me on this journey, and to cheer me on.

I will be away next week. I hope you all have a good summer's end.

 Susan O'Doherty, Ph.D., is a clinical psychologist with a New York City-based practice. A fiction writer herself, she specializes in issues affecting writers and other creative artists. She is the author of Getting Unstuck without Coming Unglued: A Woman's Guide to Unblocking Creativity (Seal, 2007). Her Career Coach column appears every Monday on Inside Higher Ed's Mama, Ph.D. blog, and she is a regular guest panelist on Litopia After Dark. She can be reached at Dr.Sue at mindspring dot com. 

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I have been struggling with a dental situation which, over the past few weeks, became a crisis and then an emergency, necessitating quantities of antibiotics before a root canal was possible.

I mention this not because it is that unusual or of intrinsic interest, but because I've noted an effect on my creative output (besides just making me stupid and slowing me down, I mean).

On Monday, we had a dress rehearsal for our cabaret performance, which will take place this Sunday evening. As noted here, I have been nervous about my part, but also excited. This week, though, when our teacher gave me some fairly normal direction, I became despondent, apologizing to her for doing such a bad job. She was dumbfounded. She had just been giving me a suggestion.

Then, on Tuesday night, I had my improv class. I didn't even notice, until a classmate pointed out out, that I had created a completely negativistic scene, in which my partner couldn't do anything that pleased my character, and in fact could hardly make contact with me.

I came home and tried to work on a story. The plot seemed too Pollyanna-ish. People wouldn't be that sympathetic in real life. I tried to revise, decided it was garbage and I was untalented and should just give up, and went to sleep.

Today, post-root canal, the world looks different. I'm nervous about my performance, but not pessimistic. I can't believe the drunken, accusatory, isolative spouse I created for my partner to deal with on Tuesday night, and I'm so grateful I didn't do permanent damage to my sweet little story.

It has started me thinking about the impact of transient (or more enduring) mood states on writing. I wonder whether others have had these experiences, and how you have coped with them?

I will be talking more about this, and other topics, on today's Litopia After Dark. Please tune in if you can. And while you're there, check out MJ's recent guest panelist gig, if you haven't already. She's brilliant, as always.

 Susan O'Doherty, Ph.D., is a clinical psychologist with a New York City-based practice. A fiction writer herself, she specializes in issues affecting writers and other creative artists. She is the author of Getting Unstuck without Coming Unglued: A Woman's Guide to Unblocking Creativity (Seal, 2007). Her Career Coach column appears every Monday on Inside Higher Ed's Mama, Ph.D. blog, and she is a regular guest panelist on Litopia After Dark. She can be reached at Dr.Sue at mindspring dot com. 

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A Formula for Those of Us Who Dislike Formulas* 

In my improv class, we are currently studying narrative structure. Last week, our teacher, Rob, handed each of us a piece of paper with the beginning of a sentence written on it. Our task was to go around the circle in order, each of us reading our opening aloud and completing it in a way that moved the story forward. The openings were as follows: 

1. Once upon a time there was a world where...
2. And every day...
3. And every day...
4. Then one day...
5. And because of that...
6. And because of THAT
7. But then...
8. And because of that...
9. And so...
10. And finally... 

After a couple of false starts, we managed to create some credible, if abbreviated, stories. It was fun and interesting to participate in the building of these bare-bones narratives. "You'd be surprised," Rob told us, "how many great stories fit into this template." 

You bet I’d be surprised, I thought. This formula was useful for creating the simplified story lines needed for improv; but great, original narratives can’t be squeezed into a 10-point outline, right? 

For homework that week, we each had to watch a movie and describe it using this template. My assigned movie was “The Shawshank Redemption.” Here’s what I came up with (spoiler alert, obviously): 

Once upon a time there was a world where brutality and corruption ruled. And every day, the more powerful brutalized the helpless. And every day, Red tried to get by without hoping for anything better. Then one day, Andy, who was innocent, intelligent, and the vice president of a bank, was incarcerated. And because of that he helped the guards and the warden with their finances, including corrupt schemes. And because of THAT he was able to use his influence to improve life for all of the prisoners, including Red. But then, evidence of Andy’s innocence surfaced. And because of that, the warden, frightened that he would expose the corruption if he was released, turned against him. And so, Andy escaped, used the embezzled money to flee to Mexico, and did expose the corruption, leading Red to realize that hope can be a positive thing. And finally, Red was released and joined him in Mexico. 

Okay, but come on, this was a simplified movie version of a Stephen King novel. It couldn’t possibly apply to actual literature. 

To prove how impossible it was, I tried it on a few favorites. And look: 

Once upon a time there was a world where orphans were considered less than human. And every day, Mrs. Reed spoiled her own children while treating Jane with contempt. And every day, John Reed played horrendous “tricks” on Jane. Then one day, Jane couldn’t take it anymore, and fought back. And because of that, she was sent to Lowood School, which wasn’t much more brutal than the Reeds’ home. And because of THAT she went to work for Edward, who fell in love with her. But then the brother of Edward’s insane wife exposed him as an attempted bigamist. And because of that, Jane ran away and tried to start a new life, but she realized they were destined for each other. And so the first wife perished in a fire she had started herself, freeing Jane and Edward to marry. And finally they had a baby and lived happily ever after. 

Or what about this: 

Once upon a time there was a world where respectable couples didn’t have sex until they were married, and couldn’t marry without money to live on. And every day, Kate and Merton longed for each other. And every day Kate tried to come up with a scheme that would earn them enough money to marry. Then one day Milly, a rich girl with a serious illness and a crush on Merton, came into their circle. And because of that, Kate figured that Milly was their ticket to marriage. And because of THAT, she convinced Merton to court Milly in the hope that Milly would marry him and then die. But then, Milly found out about the plot and became depressed and died, leaving Merton a lot of money. And because of that, Merton realized that he was in love with Milly after all. And so, overcome with remorse, he refused the bequest and told Kate she could have either him or the money, but not both. And finally they were both miserable and disillusioned. 

(Yes, those sentences are kind of run-on, but consider the source.) 

It gets more complicated when you bring in secondary protagonists—I tried it with Pride and Prejudice, and had to fork it off into parallel narratives, one for Elizabeth and another for Jane, because even though I think of Elizabeth as the “real” MC, the novel couldn’t work structurally (for me) without the Jane/Bingley subplot. And I don’t even want to start thinking about War and Peace. But, truly, this formula is useful not only in creating stories, but in deciding what I think are the most important plot points in existing ones. 

I’ve been running some old stories that don’t work through this Formulator™, and it’s making it easier for me to identify weaknesses: I haven’t made the world of the story clear enough; the “but then” comes too early or too late; the cause and effect sequence is muddled. And I plan to use it to outline new stories, too. Amazing. 

*Thanks to Rob Schiffmann at Chicago City Limits for this template, and for being a great teacher generally!

 Susan O'Doherty, Ph.D., is a clinical psychologist with a New York City-based practice. A fiction writer herself, she specializes in issues affecting writers and other creative artists. She is the author of Getting Unstuck without Coming Unglued: A Woman's Guide to Unblocking Creativity (Seal, 2007). Her Career Coach column appears every Monday on Inside Higher Ed's Mama, Ph.D. blog, and she is a regular guest panelist on Litopia After Dark. She can be reached at Dr.Sue at mindspring dot com. 

 

 

 

 

THE DOCTOR IS IN

Confidence Confidential

 My musical theater class, like my original singing class, has an end-of-term cabaret night, but the bar is considerably higher in this class. Martha, my previous teacher, took care to make the occasion as low-key and stress-free as possible. She referred to the evening as the “final class,” and insisted that it really was just a class; the difference was that we invited our friends and family and brought food.

This is different. It’s held on a different night from our regular class, in one of the school’s theaters, and wine and hors d’oeuvres are served. The entire school community is invited. I’m terrified.

This week was our last chance to bring in new songs; for the next two weeks we will each work to perfect 2 songs that we’ve sung in class before and that Lorraine, our teacher, feels are performance-ready. I had already gotten the nod for “All of Me,” but both she and I were a little uneasy about Jimmy Roberts and June Siegel’s “What Did I Do Right?” because I have a hard time getting through it without tearing up. I decided to work on “Summertime,” because I love the song, and also because it’s emotionally challenging—the melancholy melody runs counter to the optimistic lyrics, and it’s necessary to weave hope and despair together without going over the top in either direction. 

I worked on it using Uta Hagen’s six questions, talking it through like a monologue, and then singing it, to a baby doll. I sang it (sans baby doll) at a party last week, and it was well received. So I brought it in this week. 

When I was done, Lorraine said, “That’s fine. It will work. I have only one note—you move your head sometimes for emphasis, and it distracts from the emotion of the song.” 

I sat down, crushed. She had been spending a great deal of time with other singers, blocking their every step, having them repeat a line over and over until she was satisfied. I felt I must have screwed up in a way I didn’t understand, to be passed over like that. 

Afterward, I went out with Florrie and Beth, two close friends from Martha’s class who moved up with me. “So,” I demanded, “what isn’t she saying?” 

They had no idea what I meant. “How bad was it,” I said, “that she couldn’t think of anything to say? Really, I can take it.” 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Beth responded. “You sounded good. The song was terrific. She liked it; you’re in the lineup. What more do you want?” 

It hadn’t occurred to me that Lorraine had said it was fine because it was, well, fine. Not even for a second. 

This led to a long discussion about how the default assumption, for all three of us, is that our work is inadequate. I can see how talented Beth and Florrie are, and their hesitations surprise me—as does the fact that they feel the same way about me. We talked about childhood experiences that sapped our early confidence; about punitive parents and teachers; about our own inner judges. We were all in tears at certain points. 

We agreed to remind each other regularly of our gifts, our promise, and our courage. I feel blessed to have such friends. I know their support has already made a great difference in the way I view my work, and I plan to make sure they know how great I think they are, on a daily basis.

 Susan O'Doherty, Ph.D., is a clinical psychologist with a New York City-based practice. A fiction writer herself, she specializes in issues affecting writers and other creative artists. She is the author of Getting Unstuck without Coming Unglued: A Woman's Guide to Unblocking Creativity (Seal, 2007). Her Career Coach column appears every Monday on Inside Higher Ed's Mama, Ph.D. blog, and she is a regular guest panelist on Litopia After Dark. Send your questions to her at Dr.Sue at mindspring dot com.