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Being a Writer
August 26, 2014
writer / ˈrʌɪtə / n. [1.] A person who has written something or who writes in a particular way: the writer of the letter. [1.1] A person who writes books, stories, or articles as a job or occupation: Dickens was a prolific writer.
Yup, I’ve finally done it. I’ve started a piece of writing with a dictionary definition. But I’ll request that you don’t let fly your rotten fruit in my direction for just a second, even if I perhaps deserve it.
Being a writer, and identifying oneself as a writer, is the result of an individual journey. Some writers carry the self-knowledge with them for as long as they can remember, like an indispensible piece of baggage. Other writers may have the realisation hit them like an epiphany.
Being a writer is great, in its own way. It’s fun, it’s engaging and it quickly teaches you how to avoid wasting food in your fridge due to that whole no-money-in-writing shtick. But it’s also an occupation that can feel a little murky around the edges – and ill-defined as a career, line of work or even a hobby. You’ll never hear of an accountant or lawyer having the same internal conversation – the hours and duties of most lines of work are, more often than not, strongly defined. Unless you’re a content writer for a company you’re not going to have the same sense of existential security all the time. Some writers might become offended if their writing is referred to as a hobby or pastime, even though it might be an activity wrapped around their primary job. Sometimes ‘being a writer’ – the duties and responsibilities, the requirements, the ‘job description’ – becomes an area of investigation in itself.
The typecast view of writers being introspective worriers wouldn’t be such a stringent stereotype if there wasn’t at least a grain of truth in it. And the identity crisis of ‘being a writer’ is a common zone for many writers – especially if there’s been a long dry season of writing little or no content.
The problem is that the nature of the conversations that spring up around this topic, both publicly and internally, is often … well, what might the right word be …
overkill / ˈəʊvəkɪl / n. Excessive use, treatment, or action: animators now face a dilemma of technology overkill.
Perhaps because the occupation of ‘writing’ can be a loosely-defined one, it’s far too easy to start worrying unduly about what ‘makes’ a writer. The more one pours into ‘being a writer’, the more this question can completely derail the whole thing.
The obvious answer to the question is that a writer writes. Most writers know this. And yet the nagging feeling doesn’t always go away. Many who seek to start off as a writer – in the professional, industrious sense – can often feel lost and disoriented by the prospects of putting together a short story, poem or novel. Can I be a writer without a diploma in Professional Writing and Editing? How many words per day/week/month need to be written? Am I a writer if I’ve never been published? Why do I write?
The result is a lot of white noise on becoming a writer. Being a writer. Fulfilling the criteria and checking off the list of what once needs to be in order to be a writer. Everyone has something to add and it’s not always helpful. I mean, this one article alone lists 201 tips on becoming a writer. Over two hundred tips. One of them recommends marijuana to foster creativity. That sounds like a great idea.
sarcasm / ˈsɑːkaz(ə)m / n. The use of irony to mock or convey contempt: she didn’t like the note of sarcasm in his voice.
If we were to accept that some writers may need more of a comforter than ‘writers write’, then where is the line drawn? Well, probably with another w question. Why be a writer. To publish a certain story; to indulge oneself in active escapism; to just let something out. The reason defines the way you approach the profession.
If you can’t answer why you want to be a writer, then maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe that means it’s a standard function, a natural outlet for you – and being a writer is just an extension of your creative state of mind. That’s awesome. Keep doing it.
And everyone else – if you’re worrying unduly about ‘being a writer’ then you’re focusing on the wrong things. It may seem important to define the parameters of being a writer, especially if approaching the gig professionally. But you’ll already have some sense of why, even if not consciously. It’s an intimate and private motivator that keeps you on track. That’s what matters.
Beau Hillier | Editor, page seventeen
All dictionary definitions are from www.oxforddictionaries.com.
Off the Page
August 21, 2014
In a story, we can’t cover every single thing that happens. We just don’t have the time, the space, or the reader’s indulgence. If a character is making a coffee, we don’t detail every single action to make that coffee. E.g.
- Bob filled the kettle, put it back on its base, and switched it on. He went to the cupboard, opened the cupboard door, and pulled out his favourite cup. He took out the coffee, unscrewed the lid, opened a drawer, grabbed a fork by accident, put the fork back, rifled through the cutlery until he found a teaspoon, dipped it into the jar of coffee, found the teaspoon too heaped, sifted some of it clear, then unloaded it into the cup.
We’re not even halfway through the coffee-making at this point. It might be how you genuinely make a coffee, but it’s not exactly interesting reading. Usually, we’ll summarise something like this, or maybe even leave it at, ‘Bob made himself a cup of coffee.’ If we include more details than that, it’s generally not for authenticity (in this case), but because we want to draw specific attention to those details, e.g. Bob might heap three sugars into his coffee, implying he’s a sweet tooth.
There’s a lot unwritten in storytelling – stuff the reader doesn’t need to know, or which is prohibitive to detail for the narrative’s development. We can sum up actions succinctly, or summarise large spans of time in a page or two. In Julian Barnes’s The Sense of an Ending (winner of the 2011 Man Booker Prize), the first half of the book is dedicated to the protagonist’s life through his secondary schooling. Then, in a couple of pages, we follow his marriage, the birth of his kids, his separation, and his life into retirement – forty years whiz by just like that. Consequently, the second half of the book picks up the protagonist’s life from that point.
Summarising large passages of time is a skill in itself, particularly to handle so much information so simply without digressing into exposition. Lots of writers struggle with this aspect of writing – how do you deal with what happens between events? Often, writers set-up the story at a new point, and briefly digress to explain there has been a jump in time. E.g.
- It had been two weeks since Bob’s argument with Gloria.
And, just like that, we’ve jumped forward.
Some writers don’t even bother resetting, but trust in the reader to get up to speed once they resume reading. Stephen King’s Pet Semetary is split into two halves, the second beginning after a tragic event which we never see happen. But through the new setting, the new scenario, you reorient yourself, and whatever dislocation you experience as a reader actually works dramatically, because it’s what the protagonist would be feeling – dislocation, shock, and perhaps even a blur since the actual event took place. Here, the jump is also a narrative device.
As a writer, you need to work out what happens off the page, whether your story works with it occurring off the page, and whether you’ve successfully been able to resume the story. Some writers struggle with this. There are times a scene begins with characters in improbable situations which might be dramatic or exciting or compelling, but wholly contrived. You always need to consider how your characters get to where they are.
For example, we could write a scene where our protagonist rides an elephant from the zoo, but how did he get on that elephant? How did he break the elephant free of its enclosure? How did he break into the zoo? It’s not enough to assume that your reader will take your unspoken word that all this just happened off the page. You need to create and sustain an infallible logic that this could occur (as governed by the laws you have created for the story in your world).
This is a rule screenwriters often flaunt for dramatic effect. How often do you see in a movie a conversation that spans several locations? Characters might be talking whilst driving. Then we cut to their apartment, and they’re continuing this conversation. Visually, it works – it’s a cut that’s instantaneous. Logistically? So they were talking in their car, paused the conversation, parked the car, walked up to their apartment, went into their apartment and sat down, and then resumed their conversation at the exact point they left it off – it just doesn’t happen. On-screen, it can work. In a book? Uh uh.
Some stuff that occurs off the page seems much too important to leave off the page, but writers jump it because they’re more interested in getting to another point of their story, something that offers more excitement for them. There are plenty of stories we read for our various anthologies, where an author has skipped something pivotal and which deserved exploration (in prose), but they’ve deemed unimportant. Sometimes, the best scenes aren’t the ones that are the most explosive, but the journey of how they became explosive.
When you’re writing, think about the things that occur in your story which are not being written about, whether they deserve words, whether they’re being left out for dramatic effect and, if that’s the case, whether you’re doing your story justice when you’re resuming the narrative.
LZ.
P17 #11 Competition Shortlists
August 19, 2014
So we are finally at that moment. Page seventeen has finalised its list for Issue 11 and the judges have selected their picks for the competition shortlists.
All shortlisted short stories and poems will be included in Issue 11 of page seventeen, currently scheduled for release in Melbourne around mid-October. The winners and runners-up of these respective shortlists will be announced on the day. Of the shortlisted images for the cover comp, only one will be utilised as the final cover image for Issue 11, also to be revealed at the launch.
A big thank you to Emilie Collyer, Ashley Capes and Kev Howlett for their roles as judges for 2014. And, of course, thank you to everyone who contributed to our competitions. We’ve never received so many submissions for a single issue across both general and competition submissions. It made the selections an unexpectedly tight race.
So without further adieu, ordered by the contributor’s surname:
Short Story
- Geraldine Borella – Achilles and the Maple Leaf
- Joshua Coldwell – Swan Song
- Ben Grech – Pikes Ridge
- Anne Hotta – The Taste of Cedars
- Lois Murphy – Mosquito Bites
- Maggie Veness – Cicada
Poetry
- Jude Aquilina – Love Suffers
- Nadine Cranenburgh – Dustbuster Farewell
- Kevin Gillam – The Hush
- Leanne Jaeger – Meat Puppets
- Rachael Mead – What the Fire Didn’t Touch
- Loran Steinberg – Moodswings
Cover Image
- Shane Carey – Brightest Light, Darkest Shadows
- Shane Carey – Social Common-Tree
- Shane Carey – Timber, Stone and Cattle Dog
- Claire Kastelan – Consideration
- Danielle Tam – Bat-Girl
So now, we approach the end of the marathon that began in April. The launch date for Issue 11 is to be confirmed – expect a mid-October date but details will come to light in coming weeks.
Let us know if you’re excited about the approach of Issue 11 – I know I am!
Beau Hillier | Editor, page seventeen
Putting Myself Out There
August 14, 2014
I’ve always been a writer. It’s just part of who I am. For the last few years, however, I’ve been so focused on training for a career in the publishing industry and searching for an entry-level job that I neglected my writing altogether. At the start of this year I realised that I was starting to suffer for it.
Without my creative outlet I was feeling restless and depressed. Needing to get back to writing, I went looking for new inspiration and found it when I attended my first Open Mic Night at Busybird. I just came to watch but was so impressed with the supportive atmosphere that I came away determined to get up and read some time soon.
I had a rough idea for a story but I basically had to start from scratch. I set myself to task and the first couple of weeks were great; I felt fresh and inspired and the story came along well. Then I hit the all too familiar wall. The point where I wanted to rip everything up and start again. I had succumbed to defeat at this point so many times before that I was sure that this story was also destined to join the unfinished pile of stories under my bed.
Yet another Open Mic Night went by and I still wasn’t finished. The doubt had well and truly set in. I was too out of practice. No one would get it anyway. The more I told myself, It’s not right yet, I’ll read next time, the more I knew that I wouldn’t. I gave myself an ultimatum: next time or never. At the eleventh hour I had a breakthrough and finished the story in no time at all. I was ecstatic but I still had to get up and read it.
I was quite nervous at first because I’d never read my work in front of an audience before, but I knew that everyone wanted me to succeed. Blaise called me up and I started reading, my hands shaking just a little. Soon I was so caught up in the story that I forgot my nerves altogether. I had a captive audience and it felt wonderful. Why hadn’t I done this sooner?
Rebecca Courtney
– Assistant Editor.
A Writing Blog Hop
August 12, 2014
Ah, the blog hop. I’d say it’s a time-honoured practise or other some such malarkey, but blogs aren’t really old enough to claim that kind of institution. So for the time being, let’s just say it’s a bit of harmless fun, and an intermission from page seventeen* and lessons about writing.
I’ve been invited into this chain by Les Zigomanis, who posted his responses to the blog hop’s questions here.
After my turn, two more writers will follow with their responses over the next couple of weeks, so keep an eye on their blogs!
Emilie Collyer is an award winning writer of plays, fiction and poetry. In 2013 her sci-fi play The Good Girl won Best Emerging Writer at Melbourne Fringe and a Green Room nomination. Her new play Once Were Pirates will premiere at Fringe 2014. Her stories have appeared most recently in anthologies: Cosmic Vegetable (USA), Thirteen Stories (AUS), with upcoming stories in Allegory (USA) and Unfettered (AUS). Her short speculative crime fiction has won three prizes at the Scarlet Stiletto Awards (2012 & 2013). Emilie’s first collection A Clean Job and other stories was published with Clan Destine Press in 2013. Website: www.betweenthecracks.net
Luke Thomas is a Queensland writer of short fiction. His work has appeared in [untitled], page seventeen, Award Winning Australian Writing, and the Sleepers Almanac. In 2012, his short story collection, Home Mechanics, was shortlisted in the Queensland Literary Awards for a Manuscript by an Emerging Author. His website is lukethomas.org.
* * *
What are you working on at the moment?
As usual, there are several pieces I’m working on at the moment. With my most recent batch I’ve gone back to speculative fiction, something I revisit from time to time. I’ve got three separate short stories in progress: one is a limbo-esque piece where the main characters aren’t sure if they’re dead or alive; another combines vampires with human trafficking themes; and the third is a straightforward thriller with a fantasy setting.
How do you think your work differs from that of other writers in your genre?
The tricky thing there is that I hop between genres a lot. The current batch is fantasy-flavour, but many of the stories I wrote in the months beforehand were more realist and often centred around unlikely or dysfunctional romances. In a few months I’ll probably be playing with something entirely different.
If I have a particular signature that works across anything I write, it’s probably the short, sharp endings. I hate writing neat endings. There’s always a beginning that rises from an ending, or something happening that might have repercussions beyond the natural ending point of that particular story. So I’m always trying to perfect an open-yet-satisfying way of concluding stories.
Why do you write what you write?
I veer towards what interests me at the time. Usually a story I write has an idea or concept acting as its lynchpin, whether that idea is overt or hidden. It might be a theory on the function of dreams, or the debate on rehabilitation v incarceration for prisoners (although I’m usually more open-ended rather than spruiking one side of the debate). Or it might just be what a certain kind of person would do in a particular situation. I’ve always got something new to explore that keeps my motivation up and pushes me to make the new fiction different from my earlier works.
What’s your writing process, and how does it work?
My fetish is whiteboards. I have a large one just above my computer and an A4-size board I can carry around the house. Once I have an idea I often sketch out plot points, character relationships or priorities on the board as a brainstorming process. I don’t plan everything right down to the smallest detail, as some adjustments always develop during the actual writing process.
The writing itself is usually in short bursts. I’ll often have a couple of pieces open at once for the original draft, so I can hop between projects when I need time to think about the direction one of them will take. I always need a break of at least a couple of days before re-drafting or editing, so that I can view everything with fresh eyes. There could be several redrafts and rounds of editing before I’m happy with the end result.
* * *
Feel free to have a go at the questions yourselves, and be sure to keep an eye on Emilie and Luke’s blogs for their responses. After all, every writer has their own particular fingerprint and way or working with ideas.
Beau Hillier | Editor, page seventeen
* For anyone hungry for P17 news, be sure to watch this space next Tuesday, 19 August, when we’ll announce our 2014 competition shortlists!