Category Archives: writing

Thoughts on Completing a Novel

Posted on by matthewcook

     I’m done.

     More or less, at least. My novel has been through three full revisions and stands strong at 175,000 words. That’s about 455 pages in paperback. It’s good. I like it. It’s done. It even has a title: The Chronicler and the Bard. Soooo sexy.

     So now what?

     I feel…

  • Light. As a novel grows it gets heavy. Doing that final revision late last night was cathartic. It was as if the book was a big bird on my shoulders that finally decided to fly.
  • Satisfied. I’ve opened Scrivener a few times this morning just to look at what I’ve done. I feel like a man who’s just finished building his house and is ready to move in. And it’s a house I can stand beside. I feel no reason to be falsely modest about this: the book is good.
  • Encouraged. This is my second novel. Do you know what that means? I’m a freakin’ novelist. That’s right, I’m kind of a big deal. And if I can do it twice, I can do it again. And again. And a-freaking-gain.
  • Sober. Storytelling is sacred. The storyteller creates worlds and, thus, mirrors God. It’s a holy thing, when it’s done right. I look at my work and am glad that I never took it lightly.
  • Hopeful. The novel is done, now I need to make it fly. I entertain thoughts of book tours and signings and meeting all my nerdy celebrity heroes. I think I’m allowed those dreams, too.
  • Thankful. I’ve always thought that creativity comes from outside. I’m thankful for that elusive Muse who’s been buzzing around and flirting with me. She led me on a merry chase, and pissed me off more than once, but she eventually gave me the whole story. Thanks, Muse. I’m also thankful for my wife, who has always encouraged me. When my busy work week is done, her first thought is how she can enable me to write more. She’s my hero. This book is for her.
  • Excited. What comes next? What do I write from here? Whatever it is, it’ll be something new. And that’s a wild thought.

    •      That’s how I feel. But what do I do? What do I do the day after I’ve completed a novel?

         Start the next one. Duh.

Things That Make Me Creative

Posted on by matthewcook

Things that aid my creative spirit:

  • Quiet. Peace. Silence. Stillness. There is something holy when you are alone and still. And when things gets holy, wild stuff happens.
  • Noise. There is even more holiness in noise! The bustle of a coffee shop. The movement of traffic downtown. Kids in a park. Noise is a product of life and it gives some of the best creative energy I’ve tasted.
  • Mysticism and Meditation. I’m a spiritual person. When I retreat into prayer and mindful meditation, I connect myself with the Divine. Sometimes I verbally pour out my spirit. Sometimes I merely sit and breathe with mindfulness. Sometimes I use a mantra. Whatever path I take, touching God is a beautiful, energizing thing.
  • Wandering. Literally. I wander around the house. I wander around my neighbourhood. No plans or goals. No thinking. Just wandering. And, as I go, my muse starts walking beside me. I say ‘hi’ to her. She says ‘hi’ back. And suddenly she’s telling me about all the neat things she’s been thinking about.
  • Tea. Green. Steeped for two minutes in 80 degree water. Any longer and it’s bitter. Green tea does wonders for my soul.
  • Diet. I cannot do anything creative or useful after eating something deep fried. A (relatively) consistently healthy diet has energized all my creative endeavors.
  • Reading. I can’t produce if I don’t consume. All the great writers disagree on how writing gets done, but they agree on this point: If you don’t read, you won’t be able to write.
  • Doom II. Quick, mindless, plotless video games. I unplug for ten minutes and come back to my work refreshed and sated.
  • Yellow Notepads. When I’m stuck, out comes the notepad. Things become unclogged when I’m scribbling and drawing arrows and lines and plotting things out.
  • Sleep. Sometimes it’s not about laziness or a lack of drive. Sometimes I’m just tired and I need a nap. And I refuse to feel guilty about it.

What drives your creativity?

The Next Tolkien

Posted on by matthewcook

     I don’t want to read him.

     Not even a tiny bit.

     It would be like watching Aladdin 2. It would be like watching the live-action version of Blood: The Last Vampire. Why would I do it when the original is better in every single way possible?

     So why do writers want to be rehashed greats?

     If you ever, in your creative journey, imagine yourself to be the next Tolkien or Hemingway or Lewis or Eliot, stop. Stop right there. Don’t write another word. Because you’re doing something horrible.

     The world does not want another Hemingway. We have him. He’s immortalized in the things he’s created. We don’t need another. We need you. We need your thoughts. Your ideas. Your love and wit and stories.

     Don’t aspire to be like anyone you’ve read. Aspire to be yourself.

     This is why so many urban fantasies seem exactly the same, today. Too many people want to be the next Meyer. And that’s why there were so many young-kid-turns-wizard books a few years ago. Too many people wanted to be the next Rowling. Not nearly enough people were brave enough to strike out on their own, find their own voice and stories, and pour themselves into their work.

     You remember those bracelets people used to wear with WWJD on them? Good advice for life, to be sure. But some people are tempted to put on WW(insert favorite author here)D when they are writing.

     But what would you do? What would you write?

     Write that.

Good and Bad Similes

Posted on by matthewcook

A dented yellow and black taxi weaved like an epileptic snake in and out of traffic through Karachi’s dense streets.

     I admit it. I wrote that. My first novel was an unpublished practice run called The Foolishness of God. It was about life, religion and culture found within the blossoming romance of a Canadian guy and a Pakistan girl. Sound familiar? It’s never seen the light of day. And I wouldn’t let it, either. Not without some major rewriting, at least.

     Because it’s chock-full of bad metaphors and similes like this one.

     A metaphor or simile is supposed to connect the reader to whatever it is you want to connect them to. In this sentence, I was hoping to communicate the idea that driving in Karachi is whack. Instead, I manage to completely distract the reader by making them wonder what a snake with epilepsy would look like. By the time the reader figures it out and tries to apply it to the taxi, he or she is completely disengaged from the story. Bad simile, Matt. Baaad. Here’s one that seems a tad better (though significantly grosser):

I can hardly stand the food, and the stuff I do eat rushes out the other end like a garden hose.

This one works better because everyone is very familiar with water coming out of a garden hose. So when the garden hose is applied to the character’s digestive system, you get a very clear, and overly graphic, understanding of what the author wants to communicate.

     Most of the similes I used when I started writing were large and elaborate. Maybe I thought big, original similes showed people how clever I was. It tainted my writing, though. It tires the reader. So, in honor of bad similes, I made a list for myself so I can remember to keep my similes powerful and useful.

     Rules for similes:

  • They must be connected to human experience. That’s why the epileptic snake fails. You’ve never seen one. But everyone has seen a garden hose.
  • They must fit your voice. If you were writing an off-the-wall comedy, then maybe there would be a place for epileptic snakes being compared to driving. But The Foolishness of God was not a comedy.
  • They must not be trite. It’s trite when it’s overused to the point of meaninglessness. And trite is always bad. So never say ‘She blubbered like a little girl.’ or ‘He ate like a horse.’ Boring!
  • They must be more effective than simply stating what you want the reader to hear. If your simile or metaphor is so complicated that the reader has to scratch his head over it, maybe you should just say ‘She was sad.’ Yes, it’s always better to show her sadness, but if you can’t, just tell.
  • They must not be bound up by rules. If your muse demands it, throw all these rules away. I just made them all up, after all. Writing is like a puzzle with unlimited solutions.

What are some of the worst, distracting similes you’ve ever seen?

As the Project Ends

Posted on by matthewcook

     I’m neck-deep in polishing my nearly-finished novel.

     It’s surprising how much of the first draft is, as Hemingway put it, shit.

     But as the revisions continue, the bad gets washed away and there is something shiny underneath. Something I’m proud of. Something I can stand beside and say, “Look at this thing I have made!” That’s a good feeling.

     I should be working on it right now, so I don’t have much else to say. Here’s a tiny excerpt. It’s the open paragraphs. The opening used to be a massive, gaudy info-dump of religious liturgies, boring histories and other world-building things that were sure to turn readers away. I think this is better:

     Pari’s cousin did not get a funeral.
     Her tiny body was heavy in Pari’s arms; so much heavier than it had been last month when Pari bounced the child in her arms. That had been a happy day. The child was a year old. Pari had just become the hakeena’s apprentice. Her relatives came with cakes and dates. Her parents laughed and smiled. Pari skipped around the house with her baby cousin.
     She was smaller than her brother, though the same age. Pari never wondered about that. Never wondered when the girl refused to eat. Never wondered at the way she slept so very soundly.
     She got sick two weeks later. And then she died. And she didn’t even get a funeral.
     Pari stood over the open, tiny grave alone. The Karvan said that a soul comes to a person once they are named. And the baby was a year from her naming day at least. So the family had not come to see Pari put her into the ground. She supposed she should not have wept so much over such a tiny baby. But there was no one to watch or rebuke her, so she wept freely.
     Even in the tiny grave, Pari’s cousin seemed too small. It was a long time before she began filling it in.
     The unmarked graveyard was outside the village walls. So was the real graveyard, but it was different. The real graveyard had markers and names and a tiny fence to keep spirits out. The unmarked graveyard was simple and hidden, unless you knew what you were looking for. Tiny bumps in the earth, some with dry grasses growing on them. None of them with flowers or sweets. None with any sort of marker. None with names because people with names were never buried here.
     Pari looked up and across the horizon. The sun was threatening to set. She had to fill the hole before dark, or else the child might turn into a demon or rakshasi. That’s what the elders said. Her back was to the village and she gazed south to the wastes. The wind played on the grasses and thorny bushes that grew in the hard, dry dirt. She took off her glove and rubbed the soil with her hand. It had been dark and soft when she dug the grave. It was dry now and crumbled at her touch. In the grave, her cousin waited.
     She buried her cousin before the sun set. She wanted to vow never bury a child again. But she was the hakeena’s apprentice. And she knew it would not be her last.

Writing and Emotions

Posted on by matthewcook

     Here’s how a night of writing typically goes:

  • 1:00-1:10 – I sit down with computer, notebook, tea and water. I turn on some ambient Zen music. High expectations and energy. I’m going to rock my own face off tonight!
  • 1:10-1:40 – I get distracted by Facebook, Twitter and blogging. If I’m lucky this produces a new blog post, a couple Tweets and a Facebook share. If I’m less lucky this produces nothing.
  • 1:40-3:00 – I turn off all my distractions and look at what needs doing. Generally this produces a sickening angst. I see some plot holes and character inconsistencies. I realize that I have made a horrible mistake and I never should have started writing in the first place. I should have been an actor. Or an accountant. Or anything at all because I suck at this and it’s going nowhere and I’m wasting my time and it’s all pointless and I’m an idiot and OH GOD NOOOO!
  • 3:00-3:30 – Play Doom II
  • 3:30 – Guilt forces back to the stupid book.
  • 3:31-6:00 – I work. It’s hard. It’s frustrating. But, as I work, the story takes hold of itself. I write. Tap, tap, tap go my fingers. My characters breathe and live and act. I’ve forgotten that I’m writing. I am simply being. I am doing what I do. And, suddenly, I notice that it’s nearly 6am. I look at my wordcount and I gasp. I read it over and I gasp again. I did well. Not perfect. Needs work. But the scenes are true. The characters are real. Dear God, I’m a writer.
  • 6:01 – Happy dance.

     Okay, maybe that’s not a typical day of writing. I don’t really have typical days. But the wild roller coaster of feelings is real. In one night I’ll both despise and adore my work. I’ll both despise and adore myself. But most nights end on a higher note than they began. Which leads me to believe the higher emotions are the more authentic. Which, further, leads me to believe I’m on the right track.

     How about you? What strange things does your creative outlet do to your heart?

Opening Paragraphs

Posted on by matthewcook

     I decide if I care about a story or not in the first couple lines.

     In a perfect world, this wouldn’t happen. In a perfect world, I’d read every story. I’d give every author the chance to tell their tale. But I don’t have the time or energy. So I give them a couple sentences. Or, if the book comes recommended or the world seems interesting, a chapter.

     Some books open like a textbook. Like the author wants you to understand how wonderfully complex their world is before you meet the people in it. Frankly, though, I hardly care about your world if I don’t love the people in it.

     Other authors try a bait-and-switch. I did this with my first novel. It was dirty. My opening scene was an action sequence with guns and blood and stuff. But the novel was about love and culture and a bunch of people chatting in coffee shops. Dishonest. If I ever resurrect it, that opening will be cut.

     But sometimes, glorious times, the author makes you care in a single line. It’s not a formula. It’s not a science. It’s like meeting a new person. Sometimes you just hit it off. Sometimes you just decide to be yourself and that authenticity works.

     Here’s an idea for a slick writing exercise: Write the first few paragraphs to a novel that you never plan to write. Make it good enough to bother you that it doesn’t exist. If you can pull that off, you’re dancing.

Revision, Rewriting, Redoing

Posted on by matthewcook

     I finished the first draft to my second novel on October 30th. It’s a rush to hit the save button and laugh over the epic word-count.

     Now what? Print, pack and send off to the drooling masses?

     Not for a long, long time.

     I’ve compared the creative process to giving birth. It’s messy, painful, and sometimes you can’t remember why you’re doing it. But the baby at the end is always worth it. After the baby (novel) is born, what do you do with her? Do you dress her up, pat her on the head and send her off into the world? Not a chance. She’s not ready. She’s not complete. She cannot stand on her own two feet yet. So you spend the next few years raising her.    

‘The first draft of anything is shit.’ – Ernest Hemingway

     Thankfully I love rewriting and revising. I’m already halfway done my first pass. I have no idea how many passes I’ll need. It’s a great feeling to finally squeeze out the first draft. It’s an even better feeling to mark it up with red pen and turn it into the novel that it’s meant to be.

     I think a lot of people get discouraged as they write because they recognize what they’re writing is crap. The thing is, it’s supposed to be crap. The first draft is just giving birth. It’s bloody, loud and not a thing you’d invite your neighbour to be a part of. You do it in secret, or maybe with a ridiculously close person. The baby needs to be cleaned up before you trust her with extended family. And most of the world doesn’t get to play with her until you decide she’s ready.

     It’s the same with your novel. Don’t worry if it seems whiny or trite. Don’t worry about the shallow dialogue and the painfully obvious plot holes. It’s supposed to be that way. Your revisions will fix everything. Everything.

     So write that crap. You can clean it up later.

It’s Quiet … Too Quiet

Posted on by matthewcook

     I’ve heard preachers claim that noise is the music of hell. Have you heard that before? Silly, eh?

     I used to try writing in the library. I went nearly every day for a month. I think I managed a couple hundred words a day. A pittance. Good enough to keep the dream alive but not enough to give it breath.

     The problem with writing in a library is that it’s too quiet. And when it’s too quiet, it gets really loud. I can hear the gentle tinkling of the air conditioner. Down on the other side of the library two people are having a conversation in hushed whispers that I can hear perfectly. The employees are gently putting books on the shelf. And they’re all so damned quiet that the noise is overwhelming.

     One of my favorite places to write is the mall food court. There is not a drop of quietness to be found.

     Teens yelling and goofing off at the table next to me. Janitors cleaning up spills and emptying garbage bins. The loud smells of food and coffee dancing throughout the place. Always movement. Always life. Always noise.

     When everyone is special, no one is. When everyone is quiet, no one is. And when everything is loud and chaotic, in truth it is peace and quiet of a purity that is hard to manufacture.

     When there is noise and movement all around you, it’s easy to sink into that special place where all the good things flow. But when everyone around you is trying to be quiet, then the tiniest change in the artificial stasis is jarring.

     Don’t seek for peace and quiet. It only exists in places where there is no life. And don’t dare try to create art in a place where there is no life. Noise is a gift, not a curse. Embrace it. Love it. It charges your art and soothes your psyche if you let it. And if you’re writing at home and your wife and kids are trying their best to create an environment of peace and quietness, tell them to watch a loud movie and listen to music and wrestle in the next room. It’ll make your process that much better.

Writing in Coffee Shops

Posted on by matthewcook

     My brother showed me that after he caught me writing in a coffee shop.

     Thankfully, when I write in tea stores and coffee shops, I don’t do it to be watched. I do it to create a place where I can feel alone, isolated and nurtured with a hot drink.

     But art sometimes has that showy temptation to it. That shadowy urge to front and say ‘Yeah, I’m creative and making things that few mortals can make. I’m kind of a superhero that way. No big.’

     We need to ask ourselves an important question. Do we love being called ‘artist’? Do we love the attention we receive because of our product? Do we love the good reviews and the accolades and the recognition and all the other perks that come from making good art?

     Or do we love the creation itself?

     One of those loves is mercenary. The other is born of Imago Dei. One moves us toward becoming celebrities. The other moves us toward becoming creators.