Advice for Writers

Last summer, at the Writing Yoga® Retreat that I host with my colleague Stefanie Lipsey, I learned something that some might say, “No, duh!” to, but that I’d kind of forgotten. It was during one of our afternoon yoga sessions, and Stefanie was leading the yoga. She reminded us to focus on what was happening on our own yoga mat. That is to say, it didn’t matter if the person next to me could balance on one foot while wrapping their other foot behind their head, all while humming a satisfying OM to the universe, while I might be struggling to figure out which way to turn my head, where to place my hand, and how my foot happened to get where it is. Yoga isn’t a contest. It’s not a competitive sport. When I focused on what was happening on my own mat, not only was it a much more pleasant experience, but I was able to achieve the tasks I set for myself there.

Similarly, writing isn’t a competitive sport. “What?,” you might ask, “How can that be?!” Because your writing isn’t going to keep improving if you don’t keep your focus on your own work. Measuring yourself against other writers won’t make your writing any better or worse. Putting others down or putting yourself down in comparison to others also won’t change how you write. What will change how you write is writing and reading.

So, if you’re not a write every day kind of writer, that’s ok. If you’re a plotter or a *pantser, that’s ok. If you only write during the summer, that’s ok. If you can’t read in your genre while you’re in the midst of a manuscript, that’s ok. If you need to eat mini marshmallows while you write, that’s ok. However it works for you is ok. Keep your concentration on what’s happening on your own “yoga mat.” In that way, you’ll know what you need to focus on next and it might be a more pleasant experience.

*a “pantser” is someone who writes by the seat of their pants, as opposed to outlining a whole plot beforehand.

What’s one bit of advice you’d like to give other writers? What’s one bit of writing advice that made a difference for you?

Random Acts of Writing: Hold On To Your Hat

In honor of NaNoWriMo, I’m  spending the month of November offering you all some writing prompts! Here’s the game: A few times each week I’m posting a picture and a setup. Your task is to write 500 words or less. That’s about a page (single spaced). If you want, you can email me what you come up with (linda dot p dot epstein at gmail dot com) with “writing prompt” in the subject line and I’ll pick a few to post on the blog. Please don’t submit your writing in the comments section, I’m not posting them there. 

Here’s the task: The boy looks under his bed and finds this object. Now write the scene! You can use dialogue, but it should be <50% of the writing. 500 words or less. Go!

Random Acts of Writing: When Miriam McNamara met the Breadbox

In honor of NaNoWriMo, I’m  spending the month of November offering you all some writing prompts! Here’s the game: A few times each week I’m posting a picture and a setup. Your task is to write 500 words or less. That’s about a page (single spaced). If you want, you can email me what you come up with (linda dot p dot epstein at gmail dot com) with “writing prompt” in the subject line and I’ll pick a few to post on the blog. Please don’t submit your writing in the comments section, I’m not posting them there. To give you an idea of what I’m talking about, for the next few days I’m posting some of my clients’ writing on a picture/setup I challenged them with. If you haven’t yet, try running with this one!

Here’s one from Miriam McNamara. The task was: Two people are walking in the woods and come across this object. Write a scene where they use the object. You can use dialogue, but it should be <50% of the writing. 500 words or less.

Birdie ran the last few yards, curiosity getting the better of her. The box was tucked neatly in the rotted out base of an oak tree, fitting so neatly that it almost seemed as if the tree had grown around its edges—but the box was freshly painted bright blue, it’s little sliding metal door closed neatly, the metal smooth and undented—it couldn’t have been there long. An round area the size of a dinner table was cleared in front of it, and marked off with rocks.

“Who’d put a mailbox here?” said Birdie. It looked neat, actually—a post office for squirrels, or fairies. Her fingers tingled as she put her hand to the cold knob on the door. What would be inside?

“That’s a breadbox,” said Izzy, wheezing a little as she caught up, and Birdie felt bad that she’d left her behind, even for a moment. “Ms. Gershwin’s breadbox, I’ve seen it on her counter. Gus must’ve made off with it for one of his games.” Izzy leaned on her cane, her skinny back rounding as she took the weight off her bad leg, but she looked unfazed. 

Maybe all Mom’s insistence was right. Maybe Izzy would get all the way better. 

Mom was never right, though. It had been three years since Izzy’s fall. If she was getting all the way better, it would have happened by now. She wasn’t right about Daddy, either. But everything was black and white with Mom—either you were sick, or better. Either you were here with your family, or you were dead and gone.

Birdie slid back the tin door and knew Izzy was right. A set of marbles, and a set of jacks, all jumbled together in a colorful heap at the bottom of the tin. The cleared ring must be where Gus and his friends came to play. She frowned at the hijacked breadbox. “Stealing and gambling, at eight years old! Maybe we should tell Ms. Gershwin.”

Izzy stepped to the edge of the circle and gingerly sat down, her left leg straight out to one side, cocked at an ever-so-slightly off angle. She looked up at Birdie. “Care for a game, my de-ah?” she said, in her best fancy accent.

Birdie cracked a smile. “I’m quite sure fancy ladies like use wouldn’t know the first thing about playing marbles,” she said, but she reached in and scooped out the bright bits of glass and metal. Her fingers caught a corner of paper, and she pulled it out. She unfolded it. It was a picture, creased inkless along the pleats.

It was Daddy’s Jenny.

She recognized the picture instantly, and her heart was in her mouth. That was Daddy’s plane, she knew it. The image was black-and-white but her mind painted it canary yellow, the star on the wing red, white and blue. 

DONT FAIL TO SEE
MERRIWETHER’S FLYING CIRCUS!
AERIAL INSANITY! DOGFIGHTS, THE DIP OF DEATH, THE SPIRAL DIVE!
FEATURING the INCREDIBLE HAZEL, the DEATH-DEFYING OSCAR “The Wizard of the Air”, and “AIRDEVIL” CHARLIE! 
COME SEE THE MOST STIMULATING SHOW YOU’LL EVER SEE! LOOP-DE-LOOPS! FLYING UPSIDE DOWN! DEATH-DEFYING AERIAL ANTICS!
Time: 3pm. Place: Coney Island. Admission: 25 cents.

“That looks like Daddy’s plane, doesn’t it?” said Izzy faintly, peering over Birdie’s shoulder as she sank to the ground beside her.

“It is Daddy’s plane,” said Birdie. His “baby,” he called it. The only baby he took with him when he left. 

“It can’t be,” said Izzy, her voice small, close to tears. She believed Mom, that Daddy was dead. But Birdie didn’t. 

That was Daddy’s plane on that flyer. She had to go to Coney Island and bring him back home.

Miriam McNamara has her MFA in Writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts. She is currently deeply involved with an historical fiction manuscript featuring double lives, star-crossed romance, and lady pirates. She lives in Asheville, NC.