Category Archives: The Writing Life

A Day At YALLWEST

YALLWESTHard to tell from my crappy photo but yes, the first annual YALLWEST festival was held this past weekend in Santa Monica!

An offshoot of YALLFEST, this was a gathering of high-profile YA and Middle Grade authors, agents and editors coming together to connect directly with fans and to celebrate writing and reading teen literature.

I checked out the festivities on Saturday, attended a few panel discussions, and thought I’d share what struck me at what I hope will become an annual event:

“The first time I read you is probably in an email.”

“A writer should be able to capture the essence of her book in a single, elegant sentence.”

“The toughest times I’ve ever had is when I went against my gut.”

“You can publish anything regardless of what’s trending if the book is great and you can convince your team to believe in it.”

“Are we done with gay teen witches?”

“Publishers want to buy stories they can build on.”

“Writers these days need to engage directly with their readers because their readers expect it.”

“Don’t go to law school.”

“It was called the ‘Taco Bell of books’ ”

“So much of creative success is luck and timing.”

“Every ‘failed’ manuscript made me a better writer.”

“Can you imagine if everyone gave you instant feedback on everything you did every day? You’d never leave the house.”

“Writing is like a Roomba.”

“Writing is like a glass of wine: it makes sense when you start but then it all goes downhill and you should probably just sleep it off and hope that when you wake up it makes sense again.”

“Sometimes I’ll just find myself sobbing outside on the porch.”

“Science fiction and fantasy stories are a great way to talk about the present but with a protective gauze.”

“I can’t write with too much ‘genre’ in mind.”

“Writing is inefficient.”

“The inner voice is raw and impolite.”

“The YA authors I know whose work is banned are the nicest white women.”

“I choose to be ignorant of the people who might be vastly misinterpreting my work on Goodreads.”

“The YA writing community is amazingly tight. It’s a small world.”

“Kids are afraid to be their authentic selves. They think they have to be something they’re not.”

“An administrator once told me they only have ‘2% reduced lunch’ at their school and I’ve come to realize that ‘reduced lunch’ means ‘black.’ ”

“The number one thing that kids need to know: ‘You are not alone.’ ”

“We cannot underestimate the emotional intelligence of teenagers.”

“What we’re trying to do is find a voice in order to show as realistic a portrait of young people as we can. We need to be patient to find that voice.”

WHO SAID THIS STUFF: Richard Abate, Jennifer Besser, Sarah Burnes, Barry Goldblatt, Emily Meehan, Julie Scheina, Erin Stein, Jo Volpe, a smirking teen in the crowd, Brendan Reichs, Melissa de la Cruz, Lisi Harrison, Tahereh Mafi, Veronica Roth, Coe Booth, Greg Neri, Lauren Oliver, Rachel Cohn, Ally Condie, Susan Ee, Ellen Hopkins, Ransom Riggs, Carrie Ryan, Alex Morel, Madeleine Roux, John Corey Whaley, Aaron Hartzler

 

Let’s Get Serious

Photo by Ananian

Photo by Ananian

*September fades into October and with it any last traces of the frivolity and mindlessness of summer. We make our last fart noises of the season and then lock away childish things inside the vacation home that is our immaturity. When the temperature drops and the leaves change and Jean-Luc Godard has a new film coming out, the time has come to get serious.

Time to reengage the intellect and flex the brain, challenge ourselves away from the intravenous drip of unreality, from the quick easy morphine shots of J.D. Robb and “Sing Your Face Off.” We are no longer glazed doughnuts passively gazing through the cellophane window of our doughnut box. We are thick, layered pastries out of our cages; we are thinkers and we are brooders; we start using semicolons in our sentences, and that can only mean we are getting very, very serious.

Seriously.

No, really. For example: I’m getting serious and putting on my business hat with one novel and my deep sea diving gear in the creation of another. And of course continuing to work on my treatise concerning the vagaries of quantum foam theory.

How about you? What are you getting serious about this very serious Fall season?

 

*Hooray, we’re back online! BryanHilson.com settled its case with Internet and has been reinstated on the World Wide Web. And all of us here are getting along famously with our new intern, Irwin Chattendale. When he’s not bored with the Kim Kardashian: Hollywood app or writing “Outlander” fan fiction, Irwin makes a mean cinnamon raisin bagel breakfast sandwich. Great to have you aboard, Irwin!

The Writing Life Is Not The Retired Life

Photo by Angela George

Photo by Angela George

Recovered memory in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1…he said what?!

You kind of know me by now, right? Hopefully well enough to agree I’m not given to using this platform to launch self-righteous rants into the social media stratosphere. But this…this…trauma buried so deep until I saw an AARP commercial a few days ago…

Suffice to say if I had a craw (okay, we’ve all got craws that extend and retract-just give me a reason!) this comment from an otherwise affable fellow I met at a Christmas party last year would be nigh impossible for even a crawbar to remove:

“You’re a writer? Oh, that’s just like being retired.”

Um, excuse me?

Oh, I see, you’re saying writing isn’t real work. Writing is shuffleboard on a cruise ship. Putting “affable” and “nigh” in the same sentence comes as easily as stuffing one’s face with Fritos watching reruns of “Criminal Minds” on TNT. (Retired people do that don’t they?)

Let me be clear: This isn’t a diatribe against retired people. I love retired people. But what that (recently retired) guy did, this reflexive move to equate writing with leisure activity, is something I’ve heard too many times and it just burns me up.

Writing can be done for leisure, it can be a hobby, but when pursued seriously requires as much if not more focus, determination, perseverance than any “real” job. Yes, it may appear illegitimate because it can be accomplished while wearing pajamas and often resembles staring blankly into space, but trust me and all the fingernails I’ve chewed down to the nubs, writing is a demanding vocation.

Now if you’ll excuse me I’ve got to go see a craw doctor so I can get back to my lawn bowling–I mean my manuscript.

Trust Me, Said The Unreliable Narrator

Photo by Erling Mandelman

Photo by Erling Mandelman

Reading the novel & Sons by David Gilbert has me musing about one of my favorite literary techniques: the unreliable narrator.

The book follows the story of the famous but reclusive author A.N. Dyer, a seventy-nine year old self-described failure as a father who calls his estranged sons back home to New York City. The treat here, and what gives the novel its edge, is that the narrator is Philip Topping, son of A.N. Dyer’s oldest (and recently deceased) best friend. Philip literally and literally inserts himself into the lives of the Dyer family and tells us things that he has witnessed and that he may have heard secondhand, and then proceeds to relay with conviction what he cannot possibly know: the inner thoughts, feelings, and intimate histories of Dyer the author, his sons, and even his ex-wife. Topping is actually upfront about it, suggesting early on that he’s guilty of “narrative fraud.”

But what is his agenda? Halfway through he’s already dropped more than a few hints and clues, but I’m eagerly anticipating a fuller picture by book’s end.

So what about this idea of unreliable narrators? A story is already a lie in a way, and an unreliable narrator suggests another (I wager more profound) layer of deceit. I love the notion that as readers when we open a book we automatically go along with the fiction, the lie, that this story is “true” in the context of the world the author has created. The trust between reader and writer is inherent. But what happens when the narrator-character telling the story does something that makes us question the validity of the tale? That unsettling feeling we’re in shifty hands. Alert, the author says, we’re going to have to be sharp here.

Unlike & Sons an unreliable narrator often takes his time in giving himself away, revealing his ultimate aim. He’s usually betrayed by what he focuses on. Particular observations, attention to certain details, contradictions, a snowball’s effect of slip-ups that show us he is not who we first thought, that events have been tailored to show himself in a favorable (sympathetic) light. This is what I’m going after in my own novel.

It’s an approach that is definitely not for everybody. But it excites and engages another level of my reading brain. I like the challenge, the hunt, the tangle with a character who is troubled and possibly a danger to himself and others. Why else does a character craft his own reality but to disguise his pathologies?

So what about you, fellow reader? Do you prefer your literature more conventional, or do you go for something more elusive now and then?

My Inner Critic’s Inner Critic

Photo by Matthew Brady

Photo by Matthew Brady

The inner critic, that nagging voice inside the head that consistently ignores the old maxim if you don’t have anything nice to say don’t say anything at all. Judgmental, cynical, reductive, irrational it can take a yeoman’s effort to keep it at bay, let alone ignore it completely.

The inner critic can be especially debilitating for a writer working on a new project, which is where I’m at the moment. I need to be able to spill my story on the page as messy as it might be and worry later about precision and refinement; those duties await me in the revision process. Ideally, the first draft is a safe place where mistakes are not only allowed they’re highly recommended; a place that should be anathema to the inner critic.

Should be, but oh how many times have I allowed my inner critic too much room at the table and yet it’s still elbowing me in my pride? More than I’d like to admit. However, and mercifully this does happen often enough I don’t have to write home about it, I am able to mute the son of a bitch and move freely through a writing session with nary a negative thought.

And so that provoked me to wondering this: What does my inner critic do when I ignore it? Well, luckily, my inner critic loves an audience, and was more than happy to write a guest blog addressing this very subject.  Please welcome, dear readers, my inner critic.

Yeah hi, I’m Bryan’s inner critic, who the hell do you think you are? Anyway, semi-interesting question he poses, though I definitely would have phrased it better and wouldn’t have spent 300 freaking words on an introduction, and my god, “nary a negative thought” Bryan? Kill me now.

Anyway, what do I do when I’m ignored? Well, think of it like you do your toys when you’re not at home. Yeah, they come to life, right, and have jolly adventures. Okay, except in my case when they come alive I am home and defenseless in bed against a relentless attack of miniature shivs and fire pokers.

That’s right, roughly translated this inner critic’s got its own inner critic to deal with. What’re you doing you lazy piece of subconscious? You just gonna let him ignore you like that? Get back out there, schmuck! Come on, get more aggressive on the sentence structure, he’s practically rubbing your face in it. Aw cripes he just ended another sentence with a preposition! And he’s laughing about it! I knew right away you weren’t gonna cut it. I told your parents, looks more like a salami than a sledgehammer. The kid who never took off his kid gloves! Oh sure have another danish, yep, eat your problems away. Num, num, num, good luck with the diabetes, moron!  

Okay. Yeah. Need to towel off after that one. Don’t feel sorry for me, though, most of the time I am able to mute the son of a bitch and toodle around in my cave with nary a–uh, never mind.

And what happens when I’m able to ignore that voice? What does an inner critic’s inner critic’s inner critic sound like? Man you don’t want to know.

 

Whaat?! You’re just gonna let it end the blog post like that? Disgrace! Last time I send a neuron to do a synapse’s job!

(Wet Your) Whistle While You Work

Steamwhistle-University of Kansas

Hey, guess what?

I’m a morning writer and keep to a routine on my writing days: shower, normal dress (i.e. no bathrobe or Zumbaz), cereal, newspaper, and then a mug of something warm while I tickle my brain along with the computer keys. For years my beverage of choice was regular, black coffee and my m.o. was to overdo it; I probably drank half a pot during the course of every writing day. Eventually my body became so accustomed to the stuff it might as well have been black water. I could have enjoyed a few cups before bed and slept soundly through the night.

Finally, it was my stomach that let me know it was time to quit, so I downgraded to something gentler, green tea. I had a good run there as well, but my body was ultimately displeased with any caffeine, so I had a decision to make. Herbal decaf teas, especially chamomile, make me drowsy, and while a good writing day is often like a waking dream, it’s none too productive to be constantly fighting droopy eyes and a nodding head.

What to do, right? Well I wasn’t about to give up such an essential element of my morning habit. So I decided to switch to hot water. And no, it’s not to soak my dentures in. Easy there, I’m not even 40 yet. Although I suppose at this rate of reduction, in a year or so I may only need a photograph of steam to get me through the day.

Right now, however, what is it about needing something warm in a mug in the morning? It’s no longer about the jolt that caffeine once gave me. And I live in Southern California and (usually) don’t need to worry about the cold weather creeping in. This is something different. Is it my security blanket? My talisman? A weapon in case any of those feisty squirrels manage to break in?

This is why I have a blog, ladies and gentlemen. A platform from which to cast out my life’s most perplexing questions and hope that they land at the feet of someone wiser than I. Can anyone out there diagnose my behavior?

But hey, I’m not alone, am I? Doesn’t everyone, writer or otherwise, crave a mug of something warm in the morning regardless of what it is?

Are You An 8-Armed Creator?

Photo by Terrance McNally

Was trapping my wife recently in a conversation about time management and multitasking and what I should do about advancing the various writing projects I’m working on that are in various states of development.

Do I stick with my tried and true approach of  focusing (obsessing) on one thing at a time and seeing it through to its next stage of completion? Or do I challenge myself and split my writing days in half, one project in the morning, another in the afternoon? Or, do I split the week up, odds are for Project A, evens for Project B? Or, do I keep all my computer files open and set an alarm for 15 minutes, and every time it goes off I work on something different all the while putting on the special hat I’ve picked out for each project?

Interestingly, my wife and I do not have similar conversations when it comes to my ability to vacuum the apartment or clean the bathroom.

Anyway.

Obviously there’s prioritizing involved. Is any project on a deadline? And a passion test. Is this short story about the opening of a Ziploc bag lighting my fire today? But mostly this is a general process issue. Very subjective and every writer’s going to have a different approach.

So what about it, fellow writers or other creative types out there? Are you more like me or do you multitask? How many projects do you have going simultaneously? Do you split time in each day/week to work on more than one project?

And of course, most importantly…do you wear special hats?

My Late Summer Hiatus

“The Third Man”

I’d like to say that it’s a late summer tradition to embroil myself in some shadowy espionage in the former Soviet bloc. I’d like to say the apple trees in Minsk are burning this time of year. (I’d also like to say that yes, Yuri Andropov, that last line might be directed at you.)

Sure, I’d like to say all of that, but then the “Agency” would “disavow” any “knowledge” of my “overseas rubber shoe factory,” my “credentials” would be “stamped” “MEDICAL LEAVE,” and I’d have to “vacation” in “Kurdistan” selling “figs” and “plums” at a “bazaar” until the “weather” “improved.”

Ha-ha. Let’s be clear. I am “not” a “spy.”

What my “handlers” would prefer me to say (I mean, of course, if I had handlers) is that what’s been taking me away from the blog the past few weeks is that both The Wrinkleman and Ensnared film projects are advancing in a very positive and exciting direction. Yes, and—excuse me I need to rub some salve on these electrical burns—yes, and because both are moving forward at the same time some of my other creative interests have received less attention.

Okay, I think that “shelters” everybody’s “assets.”

And so with that, in closing, I’d just like to say the dog’s nose is wet when pointed away from the crotch. (It’s possible, Yuri, that this is the line you’ve been waiting for. Again, since I’m not a spy I have no idea. J)

What do you like to do when you’re on “hiatus”?

Ray Bradbury and Attitude

Photo by Alan Light

By now I’m sure you’ve heard that we lost one of the great titans of literature a few days ago: Ray Bradbury, the grand fabulist, visionary,  prolific concoctor of enthusiastic, exuberant, far-sighted prose. Admittedly, I’ve read only a small fraction of his vast output, focusing on his longer works like Fahrenheit 451, Something Wicked This Way Comes, and Death Is A Lonely Business, but even so I can feel his influence, his imprint, in the skin of my own dark-fantastic stories.

As impacted by his fiction as I’ve been, however, it’s Bradbury’s nonfiction, specifically his collection of essays on writing known as Zen in the Art of Writing, that’s raising the hair on the back of my neck these days.

Because lately I’ve been thinking a lot about attitude. As in, how the right attitude about his work can usher a writer through the occasionally tumultuous and volatile terrain of story-telling. And how that attitude can carry-over and color his view of his life. To say Bradbury’s attitude toward both was ecstatic is certainly true, but still the word seems too meager to encompass the size of his passionate curiosity as a man of this world and a creator of “other-worlds” to be seen by our collective mind’s eye.

This passion is immediate, right there in the preface: “Every morning I jump out of bed and step on a landmine. The landmine is me. After the explosion, I spend the rest of the day putting the pieces together. Now, it’s your turn. Jump!”

Throughout the essays in his book Bradbury implores writers to work with zeal and gusto. Joy. To first, be excited, to be a “thing of fevers and enthusiasms.” He poses these questions: “How long has it been since you wrote a story where your real love or real hatred somehow got onto the paper? When was the last time you dared release a cherished prejudice so it slammed the page like a lightening bolt? What are the best and worst things in your life, and when are you going to get around to whispering or shouting them?”

There’s energy in these words, encouragement, and obviously some provocation, like a finger poking you in the chest a little too hard. But there’s also a deep sincerity here; I think it infuses every piece he’s ever written, and I find the mixture pretty intoxicating. Maybe that sounds a bit overheated, but this book affected me, and perhaps it’s because I broke it open at a moment in my writing when I needed to hear certain things said without equivocation.

Like this: “The other six or seven drafts are going to be pure torture. So why not enjoy the first draft, in the hope that your joy will seek and find others in the world who, reading your story, will catch fire too?”

Isn’t that what any writer wants to achieve?

And also this: To reach a point where “…you might easily find a new definition for Work. And the word is Love.”

Thank you, Mr. Bradbury. It’s sad to say good bye, but thank you for the life you’ve led. No doubt you’ll lead one just as fantastic in the after…

 

 

 

Distractions

Illustration by El Gordo

If you’re like me and write from home, you know there’s no shortage of enticing distractions that desire to consume your attention and pull you off course. You’ve got your Internet and its evil henchmen Facebook, Twitter,  and YouTube. You’ve got your emails, your texting, your IM’ing. If you’re old school you’ve got your TV, your radio, or a phone that actually rings that you actually answer and use to talk to people. And of course there’s always a shelf that needs dusting, a rug that needs beating, and a very persuasive bottle of glue that needs sniffing.

Despite these challenges, I’m proud to say I’ve done a good job over the years of maintaining focus while in the act of writing, of steeling myself against any unnecessary divertissements. And yet the universe continues to test me–taunt me is more like it– with no end of new diversions.

Lately it’s the talking birds.

You know what I’m saying, writers, you’ve heard them too. So many opinions about everything, right? From how to turn the economy around (giant bird feeders on every street corner would require a huge workforce to pull off) to saving the US Postal Service (carrier-pigeons work for worms, unemployed postal carriers can build the giant bird feeders), to reversing climate change (allow more nests to be built in more smokestacks).

Sure the world can always use more problem solvers, but their timing is awful. It never fails. There I am tapping away on my computer having locked in on a steady rhythm, and there they are tapping their beaks against the window near my writing desk. I don’t want to acknowledge them but they won’t stop tapping until I do, and oh look, it’s Mr. and Mrs. Crow all fluffing-feather-excited about something. “Hey Bry, you busy? Wanna hear about our brilliant new low-cal regurgitation diet?  That’s okay, you go ahead and bang your head against the desk and we’ll just tell you anyway.”

I remember the bumper stickers that said KILL YOUR TELEVISION, and as stated above TV is most definitely a distraction. Using this logic I guess I should shoot all the talking birds; however, a very similar strategy didn’t make me many friends in the neighborhood back when talking squirrels weren’t extinct.

What’s the solution here? I need help. How do you deal with your talking birds?