Silk & Shadows

If you ask a kid if they can sing, they say yes. They can dance. They can draw. They can be a fire engine. It’s only when they get a little older that they begin to doubt themselves.

Stage fright and lack of self-confidence are learned behaviours. There’s a great book called A Soprano on Her Head that goes into this with reference to music performance, but what it says applies to pretty much any situation. We’re programmed to be scared. The message of why we can’t do things sneaks into our brains in a million horrible ways. Our job as functional adults is to slam the door on those lies and reclaim our creative expression.

Which of course sounds easier than it really is. Reprogramming instinctual responses takes time.

I recently took a course on public presentations—the type where you have to get up and speak with or without preparation or a topic of your choice. While I hated doing it, I’ve had enough practice to know that I won’t actually die if I get up on stage. Yes, I’m suddenly exposed and vulnerable, but the fight/flight response is entirely unwarranted. The problem is getting my brain to convince my body that I’m NOT about to be eaten by tigers.

That bit has taken years. The only thing that’s helped me get over stage fright is practice. Lots and lots of it. Eventually those butterflies become part of the preparatory process, but if I stop practicing the terror seeps back and those butterflies grow fangs.

You’d think writing would be easier because you’re not on stage. In some ways that’s true, but really the same gut “uh-oh!” reaction happens at critique groups, when you’re talking to your agent or editor, when you have to go do a reading, or when you click “read review” on a web site. There’s that sudden jab of nerves that says you’re prepped for attack. And if that’s not bad enough, there’s that darned blinking cursor every day telling you to be a genius in the next five minutes or your entire career is over, over, overoverover, baby. No pressure.

But the cure is the same: practice. Type that blinking cursor into submission. I’m not brilliant nine times out of ten, but I’m confident that I can cover paper like crazy, and if I write enough I can keep the good bits and throw out the dumb parts.

I think that’s what’s behind the old saw, “Write Every Day.” You get over the shock of what you’re allowing yourself to do. The sense of risk fades into the background. Like any performance, once you can relax into it, you get a whole lot better.

And maybe even have some fun. Now there’s a thought.

Self-confidence is not a static. It’s not a ‘have it’ or ‘don’t have it’ attribute. Unfortunately, for most people, intrepidity comes and goes. Teases and taunts. I have days when I’m supremely confident about my writing, and other days when I’m convinced I write dreck. Many times, those days follow one after the other.

The problem is, if you let a lack of confidence stop you from doing something important, the only person who feels the pinch is you. I met writers in my early days who created wonderful stories, but never sent them out to agents or editors—because they were worried about how they would be perceived. I met other writers who started stories, but never finished them—because they lost confidence in the manuscript.

Truth is, we all lose confidence in our manuscripts, and we all fear our writing is crap. Or most of us do, anyway. But we finish the stories and we send them out, despite our lack of confidence. And occasionally we get back shreds of praise and small pats on the back that confirm—if only temporarily—that we are decent writers.

I don’t have any tricks to increase self-confidence. I truly believe that the only way to gain conviction is to just be what it is that you want to be. Ignore the voice in your head that says ‘you suck’. Keep daring the gods and braving the odds, and some day you’ll wake up confident in your skills. Of course, the very next day you’ll wallow in the surety that you’re nothing but a pathetic dreamer. But hey.

On pathetic-dreamer days, you can always zipper up a pair of Jessa’s tall black boots, saunter into the coffee shop, and order a shot of espresso. Only truly confident people order espresso straight up.

Do you have a favorite fake-it scenario, real or imagined? From a movie? A book? Share.

Currently working on: Plotting various demises
Mood: Mustache twirling

I’m starting a new story which for me is always an anxious time. After all, it has been months and months since I started a new story. What if I’ve forgotten how to do it? I mean, I forget my passwords from one week to the next, and writing a story has a lot more characters than my passwords.

I think a lot of writers suffer from lack of self confidence because we practice at being really, really good at coming up with worst-case scenarios. Worst-case scenarios make excellent fiction, but they’re hell on self confidence.

So when I’m agonizing over my agonizing, I try to channel some of my kick-ass heroines. After all, if they can get through 400 pages of anything I throw at them, certainly I can do the same.

Jessa’s Urban Fantasy Romance Tips to Building Self-Confidence

1. Face your fears. But face them with the proper armament.

When a UFR heroine hears a suspicious noise in the basement, she goes down to check it out. But she isn’t TSTL (Too Stupid To Live) so she usually bring a magical sword and a cell phone dialed to 9-1-finger-hovering-over-the-one. And sometimes she brings the big bad hero too. Unless it was the big bad hero making the suspcious noise, and then our smart heroine brings a condom.

Point is, she doesn’t let the fear stop her. She lets the fear inform her preparations and proceeds accordingly.

For me as a writer starting another new story, that means rereading my favorite craft books and setting up my worksheets and spreadsheets. It’s a nerd version of girding my loins.

2. Perfect the one-liner.

UFR heroines know that a recalcitrant hero or a murderous villain can be put in their place with the right quip.

For my creative projects, I like to find a quotation or affirmation (or in the case of despair.com, a demotivation) to represent my dedication to the new effort. I try to find something short and sassy that I can hold in my head when the way gets long and winding.

A snappy one-liner — sharp and pointed – is like the internal version of being well-armed.

3. Wear big black boots.

This one I mean literally. Something about really awesome big black boots makes it easier to walk taller. Probably the high heels have something to do with that.

How about you? Do you have favorite confidence-inspiring footwear? Or another technique to share with us? Tell us more.

Storytelling for me is a largely escapist endeavor. Don’t get me wrong, I love my life!

But storytelling, much like reading a book, lets me go places. That ticket to London might cost $1200 on United, but traveling by way of Kim’s Mighty Brain doesn’t cost a thing. I don’t even have to deal with airport security. I can take all the shampoo I want!

At this moment, I’m at a cafe having coffee with a writing pal. We talked for a while, but now we’re just writing. So this is what my eyes see …

But my mind sees a dark, foggy street in Liverpool — because that’s where I am right now. I’m in the alley behind a Liverpool dock pub in the mid 1800s. There are some dangerous characters about, but I know my way around these streets and these people, and I’ve got friends who will make sure nothing bad happens to me.

ZERP! Time for a sip of my peppermint mocha. So you see, storytelling is my ticket to anywhere. I mentioned earlier “much like reading”. I love to read, and I do it all the time. But creating a telling a story allows me to make my choices, and to take my chances, and to see where my decisions take me. Storytelling is my time machine, my fantasy realm, and my alternate reality. A place where all that paranormal stuff really exists! Immortals! Vampires! Ghosts!

Storytelling is freedom, whether a particular story sells or not. As a writer, I love historical settings. Dark places, illuminated by gas or lamp light. I love the societal dynamics and extremes, and there’s something about the lack of telephones, televisions and vehicles that appeals to my inner creator — especially when there is danger involved. My characters can’t call 911. They have to deal with the problems themselves.

Where is your favorite mental “escape”?

What does storytelling mean to me? It’s the basis of all our communication. Everything–news, conversation, entertainment, used car sales, sports coverage–is all telling a story. Some is just more fictional than the rest. Some has more staying power.

One of the things I love about a good story is how entirely flexible it is. Take Lord of the Rings. Book. Movie. One man play (we get it at the Fringe Theatre Festival). Wall calendar. Fashion statement. No matter what medium it gets poured into (mug, action figure, screen saver …) it remains compelling.

This kind of interpretation raises some interesting questions. I’ve heard authors complain about movie treatments of their books–and we all know of cases where the movie doesn’t follow the story. When does the story become a different story altogether? How far can it colour outside the lines and still be true?

While I’m in no immediate danger of reaching the silver screen, I do find book videos of my series interesting. Basically, someone is taking my story and reinterpreting it in another medium. And it’s not me. It’s someone with their own take on the characters and story arc. A risky business, to say the least.

I’ve been fortunate to have Flying Pig Enterprises do mine, because they’ve come out beautifully. Here is a new one, for RAVENOUS:

When I think of storytelling, I imagine our ancestors of old sitting around a campfire, enthralling their audiences with thrilling tales of the day’s adventures. Infusing excitement via risk and conflict was a given in those tales, as they are in today’s novels. In fact, many of the “rules” of fireside stories work for novels:

1. Conflict is good.
Sitting around a campfire, the audience’s attention will quickly wander if there isn’t something happening in the story.

2. The bigger the stakes, the better.
If you want your audience on the edge of their seats, the risks to the hero must be great.

3. Heroes take action.
Those campfire stories were created to honor and exemplify the actions of brave warriors. Imagine the yawns if your hero simply sat back and waited for the conflict to resolve itself.

4. Pacing can make or break the story.
Low voice, loud voice, rapid voice. A good storyteller uses pacing to build up to the exciting points and increase the tension.

5. Every storyteller tells the story in a unique way.
The same story told by two different campfire orators can have a completely different feel.

6. Above all, entertain.
Campfire stories helped those who were not part of the action feel as if they, too, had battled the great danger and won. Nothing is more rewarding than pulling a listener (or reader) into the story and holding them rapt until the very end.

One of my best memories of summer includes sitting around a bonfire while people took turns telling ghost stories. Maybe that’s where my storytelling urge got it’s start. Did anyone do the campfire/ghost story thing?

Currently working on: Absorbing leftover Halloween candy
Mood: Sugar bombed

I’m feeling contemplative. (Uh oh, watch out.) Our topic here at Silk And Shadows this week is “what storytelling means to me.” It’s definitely easier to navel gaze after a whole week long evening of bloating on KitKats, Heath bars and Pixie Stix.

I’m in a good place to be contemplative right now. In addition to suffering a serious chocolate head-buzz, I just turned in Book 4 of the Marked Souls last week (okay, yes, I did start eating the Halloween candy last week) AND today I turned in copy edits on Book 3, VOWED IN SHADOWS (4/11). So this is a great time to ask myself:

WHAT THE HECK AM I DOING?!?!

I also routinely ask myself that question right around Chapters 7, 13 and 23… Hey, look at that. Something about prime number chapters screws me up. Huh.

Anyway, the obvious answer to the question is exactly what it says in the picture I posted here last week from the sticky note on top of my computer monitor: I AM TELLING THE STORY. (“You fool” is implied.)

But when I’m staggering around in the depths of the storyworld — desperate for a gallon of gasoline and a match, just so I can clear a path so I might have a clue where I am — that’s a terrible time to ask myself the corollary to the above question:

WHY AM I DOING THIS?!?!

I don’t like to ask because… I don’t know why I’m doing this. I suspect the answer is the same as the answer to:

Why did the chicken cross the road?

The first answer to “Why did the chicken cross the road?” is, of course:

To get to the other side.

As a reason for storytelling, I think this makes simple sense. I write the story to get to the other side of the story, which — if you start at The Beginning — would be, not surprisingly, The End.

I think the “writer as chicken” analogy also works because anyone who has tried to drive past a chicken on the side of a road knows that wanting to cross the road is apparently, to the chicken, as natural and inevitable as… well, laying an egg. Which is how it is for writers. (Not the egg-laying part so much as the natural and inevitable.)

Also, chickens wander; chickens peck; and chickens are the butts of many semi-funny jokes — very much like writers — including the following:

Q: Why did the chicken cross the road halfway?
A: To lay it on the line.

Getting a story “out there” and sharing it with others is a thrill-seeking rush. Much like standing in the middle of a street.

Q: What do you call a chicken crossing the road?
A: Poultry in motion.

I like to make art. I’ve painted, I’ve dabbled in photography, I bead. But there’s something about the beauty, versatility, power, and play of words that fascinates me.

Q: Do chickens have belly buttons? (This isn’ t a joke; more of a factoid.)
A: Belly buttons are the scar left by the umbilical cord. Chickens have the equivalent of an umbilical cord in their yolk sac, but the sac is reabsorbed and leaves no scar.

I think a lot of writers are like chickens in that there is no “scar” showing the moment they became a writer. They just absorbed that storytelling energy and pecked their way out.

And lastly, this little amusing story that really has nothing to do with writing except it combines chickens and books:

A chicken walks into a library and says to the librarian “book, book, book,” so the librarian gives the chicken three books and it walks out. About an hour later, the chicken walks in again and says “book, book, book,” so once again, the librarian gives the chicken three books and it walks out. About an hour later, it comes back in and says “book, book, book,” so the librarian gives the chicken three books and it walks out. This time however, the librarian is a little curious so she follows the chicken. She continues to follow it for about half an hour when it comes to a marsh and puts the books on the ground. A frog leaps out of the marsh, looks at the books, and says “readit, readit, readit.”

Do you think it’s a good idea to examine our personal motivations for creative endeavors, or anything else for that matter? Especially under the influence of chocolate? Or should it be saved for professional counseling, a “do not try this at home” kind of thing?

P.S. My short story – very short, like, 25 words short! — is available today in HINT FICTION: An Anthology of Stories in 25 Words or Fewer. Other, way more famous contributors include Tess Gerritsen, James Frey and Joyce Carol Oates (!). The stories have been called “fun and addictive, like puzzles or haiku or candy.” Uh, I don’t want to talk about candy…