A conversation with my muse
Cheryl Coast
“Sooo… you think you want to learn to write?” she probed.
“Does a cross-eyed piano player tinkle off key?” I shot back. “What’s the secret? How do I get from here to the bestseller list? My prose is so flat and heavy I have to get a drywall knife under it to scrape it off the floor.” Vocal intensity rising in tandem with frustration, I fumed on.
“I can’t get the hang of this! I guess I’ll just throw a couple more words on paper and see what happens. If I write ’em real close together, maybe they’ll mate and before long I’ll have a story!”
“Sweetie,” she began calmly, “words aren’t like Legos, interchangeable, any one you grab will fit in anywhere. You must create the perfect nuance, search for just the right words. Sometimes it takes an hour, a day, of thinking and searching and scouring before the right word emerges. You can’t just snap together a string of clichés like a prefab coffee hut and call it a story.”
“You mean when push comes to shove, if I put on my thinking cap, get my ducks in a row and leave no stone unturned, when all’s said and done at the end of the day, I’ll be a better writer?”
“Ummm… not quite like that,” she said, mentally noting she had a long road ahead with me. “A writer creating a story is building a window into another place. It’s your job as the builder to make your window as clean and clear as it can be, so the reader can quickly see that unfamiliar place come alive when they peer through. Your job is to make that new place so intriguing, so inviting, the reader happily steps through your window to linger there a while.”
“Well, what should I write about, there on the other side of that window?”
“Write about what you know.”
“I know me. Of course that would make me puppy-dog happy, but how can I know if writings about me would be as enchanting to other people?”
“Don’t make it just about you. Make yourself the pivot, the window-hinge. Make it about what happened to you, or what you saw, who you met, what you did.”
“But that doesn’t seem like very heady stuff. I want to be an outstanding writer,” I said, “an extraordinary writer. I want to make people chuckle, I want to make them cry, I want to make them say 'Awwwww' …. I want to be David Sedaris-ish. I want to be Nora
Ephron-esque.”
“Does a cross-eyed piano player tinkle off key?” I shot back. “What’s the secret? How do I get from here to the bestseller list? My prose is so flat and heavy I have to get a drywall knife under it to scrape it off the floor.” Vocal intensity rising in tandem with frustration, I fumed on.
“I can’t get the hang of this! I guess I’ll just throw a couple more words on paper and see what happens. If I write ’em real close together, maybe they’ll mate and before long I’ll have a story!”
“Sweetie,” she began calmly, “words aren’t like Legos, interchangeable, any one you grab will fit in anywhere. You must create the perfect nuance, search for just the right words. Sometimes it takes an hour, a day, of thinking and searching and scouring before the right word emerges. You can’t just snap together a string of clichés like a prefab coffee hut and call it a story.”
“You mean when push comes to shove, if I put on my thinking cap, get my ducks in a row and leave no stone unturned, when all’s said and done at the end of the day, I’ll be a better writer?”
“Ummm… not quite like that,” she said, mentally noting she had a long road ahead with me. “A writer creating a story is building a window into another place. It’s your job as the builder to make your window as clean and clear as it can be, so the reader can quickly see that unfamiliar place come alive when they peer through. Your job is to make that new place so intriguing, so inviting, the reader happily steps through your window to linger there a while.”
“Well, what should I write about, there on the other side of that window?”
“Write about what you know.”
“I know me. Of course that would make me puppy-dog happy, but how can I know if writings about me would be as enchanting to other people?”
“Don’t make it just about you. Make yourself the pivot, the window-hinge. Make it about what happened to you, or what you saw, who you met, what you did.”
“But that doesn’t seem like very heady stuff. I want to be an outstanding writer,” I said, “an extraordinary writer. I want to make people chuckle, I want to make them cry, I want to make them say 'Awwwww' …. I want to be David Sedaris-ish. I want to be Nora
Ephron-esque.”
She looked at me and smiled.
“Becoming an extraordinary writer doesn’t happen by copying someone else’s style. That might get you started, but eventually you must find your unique voice. That takes skill. Almost anyone can learn to write well, but really great writers have more than talent: they have great determination to develop and polish the natural skill within them.”
“How do I know if it’s in me?” I asked, frowning.
She keenly appraised me. “When you’re talking, can you make someone’s eyes tear up?”
“If I’ve been eating onions.”
“Well, that’s a start, I guess,” she muttered.
“Unless you’re talking about my perfume,” I added. “I’ve seen it bring people to their knees.”
She turned a longsuffering gaze onto me that I recognized. Frequently.
“Right,” she sighed. “What you need is a great story idea. Then just build around that idea, encase it in lively and colorful word shingles.”
“Word shingles?” I asked, surprised. “My Uncle Augie put shingles on his outhouse. But he didn’t peg the darn thing into the ground. A storm rolled in and blew it over with my Aunt Beulah inside— the thunder crashed just when the big wind came!”
She frowned and shot a disapproving look at me.
“The most important thing in becoming a good writer is just doing it. You must write. And write. And write. How much writing have you done?”
“Counting grocery lists?”
“No.”
“Counting ‘Dear teacher, please excuse my kid from school to go to the dentist’ notes?”
“No.”
“Counting the directions to Wal-Mart for my halfwit sister-in-law?”
“Becoming an extraordinary writer doesn’t happen by copying someone else’s style. That might get you started, but eventually you must find your unique voice. That takes skill. Almost anyone can learn to write well, but really great writers have more than talent: they have great determination to develop and polish the natural skill within them.”
“How do I know if it’s in me?” I asked, frowning.
She keenly appraised me. “When you’re talking, can you make someone’s eyes tear up?”
“If I’ve been eating onions.”
“Well, that’s a start, I guess,” she muttered.
“Unless you’re talking about my perfume,” I added. “I’ve seen it bring people to their knees.”
She turned a longsuffering gaze onto me that I recognized. Frequently.
“Right,” she sighed. “What you need is a great story idea. Then just build around that idea, encase it in lively and colorful word shingles.”
“Word shingles?” I asked, surprised. “My Uncle Augie put shingles on his outhouse. But he didn’t peg the darn thing into the ground. A storm rolled in and blew it over with my Aunt Beulah inside— the thunder crashed just when the big wind came!”
She frowned and shot a disapproving look at me.
“The most important thing in becoming a good writer is just doing it. You must write. And write. And write. How much writing have you done?”
“Counting grocery lists?”
“No.”
“Counting ‘Dear teacher, please excuse my kid from school to go to the dentist’ notes?”
“No.”
“Counting the directions to Wal-Mart for my halfwit sister-in-law?”
“No.”
“Not much.”
“Well, good writing takes lots of pencil time. It’s like learning to play the bagpipes. It takes practice, practice, practice.”
“Hey, my cousin Wally, the farmer, plays the bagpipes. He needs more practice. He usually practices out in the barn. On the cows. He says when he goes in the barn, they look sad, so he plays to cheer ‘em up.”
“Focus!” she snapped. “We’re talking about writing.”
“Well, maybe I should take a writing class. For struggling storytellers. They can struggle with my stuff for a while.”
“Getting feedback from others is a key part of the process,” she agreed. “Be sure to have a variety of people read your drafts, give you their impressions and make suggestions. That will help you write stronger.”
“The last essay I gave to a friend to read—he said it was real strong. Then he soaked it in lemon juice and buried it in his backyard.”
“Well, to start with,” she sighed again, “the word is ‘really,’ not ‘real.’ If you want to be taken seriously as a writer, you must always avoid bad grammar. Do everything you can to clean up your bad grammar.”
“Boy, I had one really bad grammar,” I said, “and I tried to avoid her as much as I could; but my mom insisted I go see her occasionally. She fed me sardines and stale soda crackers. And she smoked like a chimney. So much smoke in the house I could hardly find my way through it. Had to crawl around on my hands and knees to stay below the toxic zone. I spent my visits with one eye on her canary. When the bird fell off his perch claws up, I knew it was time to head out. But I didn’t dare start coughing, or she’d yank my shirt open and slather me with so much Vicks VapoRub I could slide home. She was a bonafide bad grammar. But I never tried to clean her up. I think she would have rearranged my corpuscles if I turned the hose on her and her cigarette went out.”
“There you go, using worn out similes. ‘Smoked like a chimney.’ Just the sort of thing a good writer would never say.”
“What? You think I should say my grandmother smoked like bear grease on a Weber?”
“Not much.”
“Well, good writing takes lots of pencil time. It’s like learning to play the bagpipes. It takes practice, practice, practice.”
“Hey, my cousin Wally, the farmer, plays the bagpipes. He needs more practice. He usually practices out in the barn. On the cows. He says when he goes in the barn, they look sad, so he plays to cheer ‘em up.”
“Focus!” she snapped. “We’re talking about writing.”
“Well, maybe I should take a writing class. For struggling storytellers. They can struggle with my stuff for a while.”
“Getting feedback from others is a key part of the process,” she agreed. “Be sure to have a variety of people read your drafts, give you their impressions and make suggestions. That will help you write stronger.”
“The last essay I gave to a friend to read—he said it was real strong. Then he soaked it in lemon juice and buried it in his backyard.”
“Well, to start with,” she sighed again, “the word is ‘really,’ not ‘real.’ If you want to be taken seriously as a writer, you must always avoid bad grammar. Do everything you can to clean up your bad grammar.”
“Boy, I had one really bad grammar,” I said, “and I tried to avoid her as much as I could; but my mom insisted I go see her occasionally. She fed me sardines and stale soda crackers. And she smoked like a chimney. So much smoke in the house I could hardly find my way through it. Had to crawl around on my hands and knees to stay below the toxic zone. I spent my visits with one eye on her canary. When the bird fell off his perch claws up, I knew it was time to head out. But I didn’t dare start coughing, or she’d yank my shirt open and slather me with so much Vicks VapoRub I could slide home. She was a bonafide bad grammar. But I never tried to clean her up. I think she would have rearranged my corpuscles if I turned the hose on her and her cigarette went out.”
“There you go, using worn out similes. ‘Smoked like a chimney.’ Just the sort of thing a good writer would never say.”
“What? You think I should say my grandmother smoked like bear grease on a Weber?”
“Pay attention,” she commanded sternly. “Now make sure you don’t clutter your content with unnecessary or redundant words. Write ‘tight.’”
“Not on your life!” I retorted. “I can tell you from experience the tighter I get the more I dribble unnecessary and redundant words. As well as other things.”
She scowled at me; but soldiered on. “Keep it crisp,” she warned. “Muddy structure will destroy your writing.”
“A muddy structure will destroy your best shoes too. One Sunday afternoon Wally sent me out to the cow barn to fetch a reed for his bagpipe. I still had my church shoes on and ended up ankle-deep in mud and other unpleasant organic substances. Never could wear those shoes again…. I filled ‘em with wood chips and set ‘em on fire.”
“I’ll bet you never had a hotter pair of shoes,” she grinned. “Now, one other tip: an occasional long sentence is ok if it’s necessary. But most of the time, shorter sentences are better.”
“Oh, yeah,” I nodded. “That’s exactly what my ex-boyfriend told me. He always preferred the shorter sentences. Once he did such short time, he didn’t even get his tattoo finished. Had to re-offend so he could get the crossbones that go with the skull. At Folsom you’ve got to be indicted to be invited.”
She rose and gently shook first her head, then the folds of her gossamer gown.
“Time for me to move on,” she said. “I must drop in and motivate a mystified musician. I’ve given you a lot to think about, but if only one thing stays with you, make it this: writing is all about communicating.”
“No doubt about that,” I said confidently. “Sure as snow falls in Sitka, if I follow your guidance, I’ll be a successful writer in no time. Just look how well I communicate with you!”
“Not on your life!” I retorted. “I can tell you from experience the tighter I get the more I dribble unnecessary and redundant words. As well as other things.”
She scowled at me; but soldiered on. “Keep it crisp,” she warned. “Muddy structure will destroy your writing.”
“A muddy structure will destroy your best shoes too. One Sunday afternoon Wally sent me out to the cow barn to fetch a reed for his bagpipe. I still had my church shoes on and ended up ankle-deep in mud and other unpleasant organic substances. Never could wear those shoes again…. I filled ‘em with wood chips and set ‘em on fire.”
“I’ll bet you never had a hotter pair of shoes,” she grinned. “Now, one other tip: an occasional long sentence is ok if it’s necessary. But most of the time, shorter sentences are better.”
“Oh, yeah,” I nodded. “That’s exactly what my ex-boyfriend told me. He always preferred the shorter sentences. Once he did such short time, he didn’t even get his tattoo finished. Had to re-offend so he could get the crossbones that go with the skull. At Folsom you’ve got to be indicted to be invited.”
She rose and gently shook first her head, then the folds of her gossamer gown.
“Time for me to move on,” she said. “I must drop in and motivate a mystified musician. I’ve given you a lot to think about, but if only one thing stays with you, make it this: writing is all about communicating.”
“No doubt about that,” I said confidently. “Sure as snow falls in Sitka, if I follow your guidance, I’ll be a successful writer in no time. Just look how well I communicate with you!”