What Moves?

Motivation moves the world, don't you think?
If you think about it, motivation is responsible for everything. From the shows we watch, or don't, to the books we read, or don't...right back to the classic myths.
Hercules was motivated to complete his tasks out of desire to prove himself.
Crime fighters want to see justice done, heroes want to protect the innocent.
So it is, or should be, with good fiction.
Readers want to see a character reach their needs, get whatever it is they want. Writers use motivation to help shape characters, to help drive the story forward, to build tension and conflict.
(I think a lot of writers block could be resolved with a look at motivation, but that's just my opinion and doesn't apply if the block is caused by too much 'real-life')

It's interesting that for me, as a writer, character's motivation isn't always clear to me on the first draft. So I slog through the first draft, only having a vague idea where I want my folks to end up, and then sometime during the second draft, I get this A HA! moment where I suddenly see what they want or need. After that comes the fine mince-step of re-writing, editing and making sure it all comes together properly.
This does not all come together in harmony. More often than not, it requires multiple drafts. This is the stage that I either stick with a story or let it drift away in the wind.
Once or twice, I've had a story idea come back to me months after I let it go. Stories like this, it's clear I need to write them for one reason or another. I look at what part(s) of the story are still flapping around, begging for attention. I look at why that needs to be written. Is it a character? A concept? The theme of the piece?
Sometimes I'm motivated to pick it apart and start over, like a piece of my knitting that's been let languish in the basket for weeks on end.
Motivation to work with those characters or concept either moves me to write, or waste time on Goodreads.

See? Motivation makes the world go 'round. 

"I Rise"

"I Rise"

Maya Angelou

“I Rise.”

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

Aspiring Is For Pansies

I saw this on a writing blog I frequent. For me, this could be a tattoo, permanently inked into my arm where I can see it and repeat the words over and over.

"Screw aspiring. Aspiring is for pansies. It takes guts to be a writer." 

Kristen Lamb 

The Introspective Side of Writing

(I've always thought the graphic above should be on a t-shirt. I'd buy five)

Little brings out the introspective side of me like warm weather.

Our dogs  go outside frequently, for a variety of reasons, and this affords me more time to think. My thoughts lately turn to many things, not the least of which is my writing.

Writerly-thoughts come to the forefront of my mind more often than not. I ponder what I think of as a “come-back”, how best to do it, who do I want to write for in a shorter format, what publisher would I shop my newest novels to when I finally finish them, and so on. 

I think about how uprooting my family has influenced my writing, my muse and how I look at life. I ponder the things I want to write about, how I attempt to construct my week so that I allow my writing time to grow, and how often that plan falls flat.

We all lead complex lives, and often we all feel as if we are the only ones with this much on our plates. Some of us can roll with demands on our time and some need to guard our writing time like a dragon with a horde of gold. (Yes, I have just seen The Desolation of Smaug, why do you ask?) 

One aspect of my life includes caring for aging parents who like to think they do a lot around the house, but most of the time they are calling me up from the basement to do something for them. I don’t mean this as a complaint, I knew this was coming when I moved my little family back up north. I use this to illustrate how our lives can cut into writing time. I can be hip-deep in a love scene when a sudden shout from the floor above demands my immediate attention. Never mind questing lips and thrusting hips, now I’m needed to change a bed, or uncover an air conditioner, hang a new light, or some other task that could have been mentioned before I sat down.

My parents know I’m a writer. They know I’ve written a novel that’s been out of print for years. They’re usually proud of the series of children’s short fiction I’ve written. They know I’ve written a couple of articles published in vague magazines no one has heard of. They’ve enjoyed the short stories I’ve written in the past two years. They don’t understand why I write fan fiction, and then obsess over it. They’ve even bragged about my writing to their acquaintances. But they never hesitate to interrupt my writing time.

I let them have their own way for a while before I have to slam limits down. I’m pretty sure other writers have issues similar to this. 

But how do we writers without a time of our own, and a separate place to write outside our homes, carve out that which is necessary to our creative genius?

Ray Bradbury and Stephen King, and even J.K Rowling have all said that writers must be able to focus on their inner voices, write every day or until our eyes bleed. Easier said than done, I say.

I think about all of these things while I stand in the sun, waiting for my ‘old man dog’ to find just the right spot too relieve himself. I continue to chew over my thoughts while my ‘toddler dog’ tries to stalk the rabbits in the yard.

I have yet to find the answers.

In the meantime, the longest winter inspires me to write about adventurers stranded in blizzards. The local newspaper spawns outline notes about a woman and her dog stuck on a train without fuel in the middle of the dark woods miles from any community. While I search for answers, I write about a hunter who saves a white moose from hypothermia.

I still don’t have the answers I seek, but I think I’m making my writerly-comeback.

One short story, one outline, one blog-entry at a time.