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Women, Writing, and Guilt: How to Give Yourself Permission to Try

I’m on the home stretch of revising my novel (again). Lately I’ve been having trouble focusing at home, partly because it’s too cold to hide in my barn office, so I’ve had to write in the living room, and partly because my husband is now working from home. Even when he’s quiet, I hear him thinking. As a friend said recently of her husband being at home, “It’s like having a Mylar balloon floating in the background.”

During one of my low points, I Googled writing retreats. Up popped a perfect place, an old house in a remote setting. Perfect for the kind of intense writing and revising that requires solitude.

A writer’s paradise

I emailed the owner to inquire about availability. Just one week, that’s all I wanted. The owner emailed back and said, yes, the house happened to be free during one of the weeks I could come, so I booked the house.

I was happy for maybe an hour. And then guilt came roaring in, nipping at my heels and yapping in my ears. You shouldn’t spend more time away from home. Your family needs you and you have work deadlines. Paid work! And you still haven’t cleaned out the closets you meant to clean out last year. Oh, and shouldn’t you be getting ready for your son’s graduation/daughter’s birthday/high school reunion?

I emailed the woman back and said sorry, I couldn’t come after all. Too much going on.

And then I fell into a slump. Spring is coming. If I don’t finish my novel soon, my agent won’t be able to submit it before the New York publishing world goes on summer hiatus.

Finally I phoned another writer-mom friend. “Is there ever a day when you don’t feel guilty?” I asked.

She just laughed. “No. There’s always someone I’ve let down, or something I’ve left undone.”

Every time I teach a writing class of any sort, I start by giving my students the first rule of writing: give yourself permission.

This is harder to do than it sounds. If you’re new at writing, you probably have trouble believing in yourself. If you’ve been writing for a while, but you’ve had trouble publishing a book, or you’ve been watching the publishing industry tank, it’s tough to think you should keep banging your head against that particular wall.

Never mind the time. How can you justify spending money on a writing retreat. Surely there’s something better to do with that money. An oil change for the car? A birthday gift for your husband? Shoes for your kid? Groceries?

Recently, I saw a documentary on Matisse, and was bemused to learn that he left his wife and children for long stretches to paint in a hotel by the sea, where he hired a woman and children to be his models. The paintings often present an idealized portrait of family life: a woman sitting in a chair, children playing board games. But it’s all fake. Matisse couldn’t paint at home with the chaos of family around. He had to leave.

Likewise, Hemingway wasn’t about to stay in that flat with his wife and baby in Paris, right? Off he went, frequenting cafes and getting tanked while he scrawled his pages.

Yet, women are seen as selfish, if not downright monstrous, if we leave our families so we can write. I know all of this, rationally. I’ve even written about the benefits of writing retreats. (I remembered this only when I Googled “Why go on a writing retreat” and my own damn article on Huffington Post popped up.)

Still, I couldn’t give myself permission to go, so I did the next best thing: I called another writer-mom friend. “I need you to do something for me,” I said.

“Sure,” she said. “What is it?”

“Tell me to go on a writing retreat.”

“Of course you should go on a writing retreat,” she said.

And so I emailed the owner of the house again and booked it. Then, before I could change my mind, I mailed the check and committed to the plan.

I couldn’t give myself permission. Luckily, I belong to a community of women writers who know that, sometimes, only solitude will let you finish a book, and that you are worthy of that solitary creative effort, no matter what the outcome.

Why Is That Book Taking You So Long?

By Holly Robinson 4 Comments

Recently, one of my writing students asked for advice on how she should structure her novel. “I already have fifty pages and I don’t know where it’s going,” she complained.

“You only have fifty pages,” I said. “Of course you don’t know where it’s going.”

I should know. I’ve been working on the same novel for almost three years. I’m only now finding a clear path forward after dumping one entire plot line, changing points of view, and creating an entirely new character who is essential to the book.

It’s a mystery to me how books get written at all. I’ve written and published many novels and, as a ghostwriter, even more works of nonfiction, but every single time, it’s a fresh puzzle.

You ask yourself, “What’s wrong with me? Why is this book taking so long?”

I’ve asked that question many times, usually after a friend says, “Wait. Are you still working on that same book you told me about last year?”

Every now and then, I find solace in an unexpected place—usually in a book I’m reading. Right now, for instance, I’m reveling in Late in the Day, a novel by the remarkable Tessa Hadley. Take a look at this sentence from the very first page:

“A gang of parakeets zipped across from the park, and the purple-brown darkness of the copper beech next door fumed against the turquoise sky, swallowing the last light.”

As I read this sentence, I hear the parakeets chattering as they swoop out of the park. The description of the copper beach creating a “purple-brown darkness” is exactly right, if you’ve ever seen a beech tree at dusk. Then there’s that “turquoise sky.” It’s the perfect way to describe that pale blue-green you get sometimes as the sun lowers, and I love the idea of a beech tree that “fumed” against it. (The word is the past tense of “fume,” which can mean “angry” or “vapor.”)

Then we get to that last phrase: “swallowing the last light.” That phrase is beautiful all by itself, but the image is even more spectacular when you realize it also serves as foreshadowing: by the next page, we learn that someone important to the characters in the book has died.

Hadley, as gifted as she is, probably didn’t come up with that sentence right away. How many tries did it take, I wonder, before she put together those phrases so perfectly?

We live in a world where we can order everything from shoes to motor oil instantly. We binge on an entire television series in one weekend—a series that probably took years to make. Many of us feel compelled to write as quickly as we do everything else. If we’re traditionally published, we worry that the world will forget us if we go more than a year before publishing our next books. If we’re self-published, we worry that our readers won’t find us at all until we fill up an entire virtual book shelf.

But what is the point of writing a novel? What if, for you, writing isn’t just about the story you tell, but how you tell it? What if, to you, the sentences matter, all by themselves?

Then you can’t rush the process. All you can do is play with the words in your head and heart, moving them around until you have chosen exactly the right words and put them in an order that makes them shine. The process can be agonizing.

When you’re finished, though, the payoff is worth it. That sentence will gleam on the page like a rare jewel.

Give it all you’ve got. Don’t hold anything back. And don’t let anyone say that you’re taking too long.

10 Ways to Blow Up Your Wobbly Book and Put It Back Together Again

By Holly Robinson 4 Comments

Congratulations to everyone who took part in NaNoWriMo! Whether you made it to the finish line or not, we probably all have this in common after National Novel Writing Month: we have wobbly manuscripts.

In fact, I have a wobbly manuscript, and I even didn’t participate in NaNoWriMo. This particular Jenga game between my book and me has gone on for three years now. I hope the next revision will be the last, but I can’t focus on the end game. Right now I’m playing around with thigs like which characters should live or die, and what to do with the second half of the book now that I’ve removed an entire point of view.

That’s the thing about being a writer. You don’t just have to “murder your darlings,” as Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch once said (and as countless writers have paraphrased since, because what we do best is steal lines). Sometimes you have to murder the whole town and burn down the houses, too. The secret to being a decent writer is to become a ruthless editor of your own work.

See all of those pretty books lined up on your shelves? They were not born that way. Every page inside those gorgeous covers was most likely tweaked, played with, cried over, and rewritten entirely before that page made it into the final manuscript.

So how, exactly, do you murder your darlings after creating them with such love and excitement? Here are 10 strategies to try:

Put the book away for at least two weeks. It’s impossible to see your work objectively when you’re in the heat of creation. Give the manuscript time to cool off. Go work on something else, or take up tennis. Then come back to it.
Jump ahead in the story. One of the most common problems with early drafts is that the story takes too long to get going. Shorten your runway.
Ditch the research. If you’re writing historical fiction, as I am at the moment, take out as much of the research as you can—it’s probably clogging the story. Put back only what’s necessary.
Play with point of view. If you chose third person, rewrite the first 50 pages in first person and see what it does for the emotions on the page. If your draft is in first person, try the story in third to see what a broader perspective does for your narrative arc and descriptions.
Delete flashbacks. Set them aside in a file and then see if you can work in the backstory in another way—in little pieces scattered throughout the book, perhaps, or even worked into the dialogue. Only put in flashbacks that are crucial to the main plot line.
Check images. Are you using off-the-shelf metaphors, or are they original? Are the images you’re using too much for the story, so that your reader will be distracted by the language?
Do a scan for adverbs and adjectives. Use only what you need, and try to make them fresh.
Outline your plot. Review each scene to see if it contributes to the story. If not, jettison it into a separate file and see how the book reads without it.
Find Beta readers to critique your manuscript. Don’t rely on your best friend. Find other writers to swap manuscripts with, and then see if there is a consensus of opinion on what needs to be revised.
Start with #1 and repeat.

Why Keep Writing?

By Holly Robinson 26 Comments

It’s easy to give up on your writing. Whether you’re working on a novel, a memoir, a short story, or an article, writing is hard. Not shoveling-horse-stalls difficult, but hard in a way that can do your head in. There are blank pages and screens to duel with every day. Words that refuse to be wrangled into decent sentences. Query letters and book proposals that never catch an editor’s eye. People who say, “Are you still writing?” or “When’s your next book coming out?”

Maybe hardest of all, there are the novels and memoirs we pour sweat into day after day, for two or five or twelve years, only to have the publishing world reject them.

Which, of course, is easy to hear as the whole world shouting, “You’re not good enough!”

“I’m giving up fiction writing for good,” I said to a good friend recently, after a particularly painful rejection letter on a novel my agent is shopping around.

“I think that’s very wise,” she said. “I mean, why shouldn’t we binge on Netflix at night like everybody else? Besides, you’ve already published lots of novels.”

“Exactly my point,” I said. Then I hung up and cried.

She’s right, of course. I have already published lots of books. Many are novels. I am also blessed in other ways, with a lovely home, thriving children, a loving husband, and satisfying paid work as a nonfiction writer. Why, then, did I feel so despondent? So what if I quit writing novels? It wasn’t like publishing any novel had made a giant difference in my life. I still drive an old car and have a mortgage. My energy would be better spent hustling up more paid nonfiction gigs.

More time went by. I collected more rejections. I reminded myself that it didn’t matter. Having your novel rejected definitely qualifies as a First World Problem, right? There are people starving or being beaten every day. The political scene has gone bonkers. The Ebola virus is breaking out again in Africa. Climate change is here to stay. I have friends grieving over dead parents. Friends who are recovering from heart attacks, strokes, and cancer. My life is a cakewalk. Certainly, there are bigger things to feel depressed about than some stupid unpublished manuscript.

And yet I was, to the point where I gave up on writing fiction. I couldn’t bear the idea of starting a new book only to fail again.

“What’s wrong?” asked another friend as we took a walk and I told her I’d been depressed.

“I’ve given up writing fiction,” I said. “It’s pointless.”

This friend very kindly did not point out how unattractive it is for a woman to whine about something this lame. Instead, she said, “Okay, but tell me something. Isn’t it making you feel worse, not to write?”

It kind of was, I had to admit.

“The thing you love doing more than anything else in the world is writing fiction,” she went on. “So aren’t you robbing yourself of joy by quitting?”

Oh yeah. Joy. “It’s not so joyful if you can’t sell what you write,” I grumbled.

She laughed. “I’m a poet, remember? Do not talk to me about money.”

A few days later, I stopped in a bookstore and, on impulse, picked up an issue of Creative Nonfiction magazine. At home, I began reading the editor’s letter, “What’s the Story?” by Lee Gutkind, and was stopped by a particular passage near the end:

That’s what writers do: we start over. For a writer, every day is a new day with a new beginning. Even if we are writing an essay or a book chapter we have been working on for days or months—or years!–we face our notebook or keyboard not really knowing what is going to happen to our work next. We may think and hope that we know, but we really don’t—at least until we are deep into the story. Even then, we are invariably surprised.

I set the magazine down and poured myself a cup of tea, pondering this “aha!” moment. Now I knew why I had been feeling so sad: because, without writing, it’s more difficult for me to start over every day and be surprised. That very morning, I started a new novel.

Sure, I hope my writing will be published, and that it will find readers. But, even if it doesn’t, I’m still in it for the surprises that lie ahead.

And the joy, too.

Shipwrecked in Margaritaville

By Holly Robinson 14 Comments

My friend Scott is Canadian. This gives him a secret power: he’s nice. It is therefore impossible to refuse him, because it would be like having a slapdown with a kitten. So, when Scott asked if my husband and I would go with him to a Jimmy Buffett concert at Fenway, of course we said yes.

I’d heard of Jimmy Buffett. It’s pretty hard to grow up in the U.S. without knowing some of the words to “Margaritaville,” Buffett’s trademark anthem. But I’d never had any desire to see the guy–I’m more of a World Music fan—and I had no idea what to expect.

Scott drove down from Quebec prepared with appropriate concert attire for all of us: giant Hawaiian shirts and, for himself, a hat with an actual stuffed parrot on it.

“Are you sure this looks okay?” my husband asked, modeling his shirt for me.

He looked like a cruise ship refugee. “Scott’s Canadian, honey,” I reminded him. “We have to do whatever he says.”

In my case, the Hawaiian shirt hung down to my knees, so I thought I could beg off looking like a Parrothead, which is what you call a Buffett groupie. But Scott had thoughtfully brought a backup: my very own Margaritaville t-shirt. I dug a bird purse out of somewhere deep in my closet and off we went.

Apparently the highlight of Parrothead life is tailgating, but since tailgating isn’t permitted at Fenway Park, Scott suggested that we pre-game at one of the bars offering a Jimmy Buffett party before the show. “Really?” I said. “They do that?”

They do. We ended up at The Summer Shack, which had gone all-out with blow-up tropical accessories like parrots and palm trees, and offered special deals on—what else?–margaritas and cheeseburgers. There was even a Jimmy Buffett imitator. The place was packed with people in Hawaiian shirts and leis; the guy next to me at the bar cheerfully confessed that this was his ninth Parrothead experience.

The music didn’t stop when we left the Shack, either. Walking to Fenway with small herds of other people in Hawaiian shirts, grass skirts, and coconut bras—yes, even the men–we were passed by dozens of pedicabs blaring Buffett tunes as fit college kids pedaled Parrotheads to the concert, many of them hefty from too many cheeseburgers in paradise.

Fenway Park was solidly booked. We were funneled up the stairs to our seats with all of the other Parrotheads, many of whom were guys in their twenties and thirties—Buffett must play big in frat houses and at spring break parties—and I began noticing shark hats as a feisty alternative to parrot hats, though I had no idea why. The Fenway crowd was warmed up by the always energetic, entertaining Peter Wolf and the Midnight Travelers, and then it was time for “Sweet Caroline” and the crowd shouting “So good! So good!”

Finally, Buffett took the stage with his Coral Reefer Band. The crowd went wild, with beach balls and blow-up sharks and parrots being tossed around as the backdrop screens showed beach scenes with guys surfing, hula girls, hammocks, and sailboats. Buffett appeared, barefoot and in shorts, and my first thought was that he looked a lot like my dad, with his monk’s fringe of white hair. My second thought was, “Wow. Nice tan.”

The meaning of the shark hats became clear halfway through the night, when Buffett played “Fins,” a song I’d never heard, and one that has lyrics that probably wouldn’t fly in this #MeToo day and age. The crowd didn’t care. They embraced the opportunity to joyfully dance like sharks, putting their outstretched arms over their heads and clasping their hands in a move we do in yoga, though less vigorously.

In fact, the crowd embraced everything: Buffett’s songs, his dad jokes, his cheesy backdrops of sailboats and beaches. It was like being at an adult Disney park, a separate, candy-colored universe where everyone just wants to hang out on the beach and eat cheeseburgers, get drunk, and screw after finding that long lost shaker of salt. Buffett himself is like Disney, with his own $550 million empire of restaurants, merchandise, retirement condos, and now a Broadway show.

I should have hated the concert. I am not a wannabe beach bum. But, as we walked back to the car from Fenway with our nice Canadian, I felt oddly peaceful in the humid dark. It was almost as if I’d spent the day at the beach.

Where the Red Dirt Roads Have Led Me: Celebrating a 25-Year Love Affair with Prince Edward Island

By Holly Robinson 8 Comments

Just a week ago today, my new puppy, Merlin, and I were rambling down another one of Prince Edward Island’s red dirt roads with my good friend and fellow writer, Toby Neal. This particular road is a favorite of mine, because it takes us through fields of blueberry bushes and deposits us at a path to the beach.

It’s a particularly fragrant path, one that tunnels through wild rose bushes and Queen Anne’s Lace, lupins and boneset before arriving at the base of a steep dune. Up and over the dune we go, and then we arrive at what I call “Sea Glass beach,” because of the quantity and colors of sea glass you can collect here. Toby and I walk along the water while Merlin dashes in and out of the waves. As we walk, we keep our heads down, talking and poking through stones to find the bits of color. I’m so relaxed that my jaw actually feels heavy.

We’ve had a lot of meditative beach walks on this trip, Toby and I, as well as the excitement of the Rollo Bay Fiddle Festival, dinners and teas with friends, and an evening caleigh just down the road. All of this has helped us dive into our new books during long hours of morning writing.

It’s a different rhythm for me here on the island than I used to have, way back when I first started coming to PEI twenty-five years ago as a newly divorced mom with two young children. I couldn’t afford to rent a vacation cottage on Martha’s Vineyard or Cape Cod, or even in Maine. Then, one morning, I read a classified ad by someone renting “a dreamy seaside cottage in Anne’s Land” for $300 a week. (Anne, of course, is Anne of Green Gables, the plucky orphan in the books by Lucy Maud Montgomery.)

Even I could afford that. So I called my friend, the poet Emily Ferrara—another single mom—and the two of us drove up to PEI in a rented van with our four young children. You could only get here by ferry, before they put in the Confederation Bridge—eight miles of miracle engineering—and so it took us nearly fifteen hours. We arrived at midnight, and I drove on my first red dirt road by moonlight to a small cottage, unlocked the door, and fell into bed.

The next morning, I woke to fiddle music. I went to the window and saw that my first red dirt road had led me to Rustico Bay. Great blue herons stood like sentries along the edge of the water, and the white church across the Bay had a steeple striped in red like a barber pole. The fiddle festival was at the church, and away we went to glory in the music.

That was the start of my love affair with the island. Eventually I invited another of my best friends, the writer Susan Straight, to come with me. She flew to Boston from California, and together we caravanned up to PEI with our children to rent side-by-side cottages. After spending several more summers together on PEI, Susan bought a house on the island. By then, I had married my second husband and introduced him to PEI. The two of us bought a cottage after our fifth child was born, and then sold that and bought a year-round farmhouse, because we realized that we wanted to be able to come to the island all year long.

“What’s so special about it?” friends have asked, and I’m hard-pressed to describe the appeal. I’ve been to magnificent cities and beaches and hiking trails around the world, from Nepal to New Zealand to Spain, yet I always want to return to PEI, where there are homemade biscuits with every meal, fish and chips for dinner, an East Coast music scene that redefines Celtic fiddling and traditional music, a hundred different varieties of potatoes or more, people who still have time to stop and chat, and long red dirt roads leading to a different paradise every time you ramble.

Our turn-of-the-century blue clapboard farmhouse is a quirky place—one of our son’s friends once said, “What is this, Little House on the Prairie?” because of the three shingled barns and the view of sheep grazing below and the potato fields across the street, and because of the quirky kitchen, which has five doors but neither dishwasher nor washing machine. The tall windows have to be propped open with sticks, and every room upstairs has a different floral wallpaper pattern. Oh, and the shower ceiling is low enough that I barely fit, and I’m only 5’4”.

But the woodwork is all original, including the gorgeous floors, and I love how the newel post is worn smooth from so many hands reaching for it over the years. A few days after arriving here, I always feel like the steady breezes of the Canadian Maritimes have whisked away all of the usual worries I carry around back home, and the writing always comes more easily here.

“It’s a pilgrimage for you, isn’t it?” Toby said, and I suppose it is, now.

There is always a moment, during that long, long drive to Prince Edward Island through the pine trees of Maine and beneath the wide open skies of New Brunswick, where I think, “This is too far. Why do we have this house? I ought to just sell it. This is stupid.”

Then I cross the Confederation Bridge and there’s the island, with its red cliffs and verdant fields and Victorian farmhouses, and those red dirt roads that lead to the light sparkling silver and pewter and blue and deep purple on the sea, and I take a deep breath and know I’m where I was meant to be.

Meet Bestselling Author Maddie Dawson, Whose Writing Tips Might Surprise You

By Holly Robinson 3 Comments

(Peter Casolino-New Haven Register) Guilford author Sandi Kahn Shelton, who also writes under the pen name of Maddie Dawson. 3/31/14

Within days of publishing her newest novel, Matchmaking for Beginners, author Maddie Dawson hit sales numbers most writers only dream about. I’m always happy to see other writers do well–we all know how tough it is out there–but I’m especially happy in this instance, because Maddie is one of my dearest friends. There couldn’t be a funnier, nicer, more generous woman on the planet, and she’s one of my go-to Mom Writer Pals when I need to celebrate something or be talked off the ledge after an epic fail. Here, she tells us about her novel and gives some savvy writing advice.

Q. First of all, congratulations on hitting stratospheric bestseller status with Matchmaking for Beginners! You know how much I loved the book. How did you hatch this unusual plot?

A. Matchmaking for Beginners arrived in my head in bits and pieces, the way a lot of novels do. (I’ve never had one glide in, plant itself in the center of my brain, and then cooperate while I unpacked its contents, have you?) My novels give me little drabs and dribbles of information, letting me go on writing for quite some time in the wrong direction before some character clears her throat and suddenly decides to release another tidbit or two that (usually) changes the whole story. I could be mistaken for a maniac when I’m starting a new novel: staring vacantly into space and then leaping up to scribble notes on the backs of envelopes and receipts; veering my car to the side of the road when my main character decides to tell me some startling news that I’m sure I won’t remember if I don’t write it down that moment; and (my husband’s personal favorite), jumping out of bed at 2:37 a.m., grabbing for paper and pen.

With Matchmaking, all I knew at first was that I was sick of listening to the news, and I wanted to write a story about love and its infinite possibilities. I didn’t want it to be a romance novel in the classic sense—but I wanted a protagonist who was unusual and wise and who could perform a bit of magic. And then I was off. Blix, age 85, showed up in my head, and she told me she had all kinds of matchmaking projects going on—most of them going rather badly, by her own estimation—and since she was dying, she wanted to do one more amazing connection before she went. And that’s where Marnie came in—Marnie who was engaged to Blix’s grandnephew, a lout named Noah. From the moment they met, Blix was working on getting Marnie to recognize her true love, an introvert who had turned his back on life. These two kept me entertained by each telling parts of the story, competing for my attention, and weaving a tale that came out in bits and pieces. They were exhausting (see above: 2:37 a.m.) but by the time I was writing the words, “The End,” their story had also cheered me up and made me smile.

Q. You’ve been a journalist for most of your writing career as well as a novelist. How does your journalistic experience influence your fiction, or vice versa? Which do you prefer writing and why?

A. Journalism and I have a funny relationship. It knows it was my second career choice (after novel-writing seemed like it wasn’t going to yield steady paychecks for a while, if ever.) I minored in it in college during my senior year, and then, upon graduation, found myself suddenly the editor of a hometown weekly paper attending town meetings and writing about sewer bonds. I was stunned to discover that I actually cared about such things. I became passionate about town meetings! I urged my friends to start hanging out at Planning and Zoning Commission meetings—there was fun and drama to be soaked up there, fascinating characters and plot twists! I wrote feature stories about people who were passionate about something they were doing. I learned the discipline of writing on deadline and of making each word count. I also started writing a humor column about family life that ran for ten years in The New Haven Register.

Still, journalism had one big strike against it, to my thinking. Everything that happens in journalism has one strict caveat: it has to be true. (I know–unbelievably limiting.) So to keep myself happy, I was always working on a novel on the side. By the time my first novel was published, seventeen years after I’d started it (ahem), I had made friends with journalism, and it no longer felt like the stepchild of my writing world. But I love fiction more. I love it with a passion that knows no bounds. Journalism is the safe older aunt, with the writing proceeding in a nice, orderly progression and no wild surprises. Journalism, it must be said, does not wake me up in the middle of the night out of excitement.

Q. In teaching writing classes, what are the three most important pieces of advice you hope your students will absorb?

A. After writing (and sometimes instead of writing, if a novel is giving me fits), I love teaching best. I teach writing workshops, and my favorite moments are when someone discovers the power of storytelling—seeing and feeling the reaction that their own words can evoke in others. After all, that is why we write, isn’t it? And in workshops, that feedback brings almost instant gratification. I have a few pieces of advice that over the years I give to the writers who gather around my dining room table.

The first is: be yourself. The best pieces show a kind of vulnerability and willingness to tell the truth, even if you’re just writing a humor piece about last night’s dinner table. Tell the emotional truth in everything you write, and we’ll follow you anywhere.

The second piece of advice: There is no substitute for actual, you know, sitting down and writing. Planning isn’t writing, researching isn’t writing, and talking about your book certainly isn’t writing. You have to put your butt in the chair and really do it or it won’t get done. Here’s another startling piece of news, that I have to learn again and again, even after so many years: the more time you put in to writing something, the more words you’ll accumulate. It’s startling, I know.

Third (and most important): Don’t think you’re going to be able to write the final draft first. Being a writer requires that you get over the fact that you are going to write badly, (sometimes very badly) and that first drafts suck, and that you will re-read what you’ve written and want to go seek employment cleaning out sewer lines. Take comfort in the knowledge that all writers have to deal with the fact of the Horrible First Draft, and that things only get better when you’ve rehashed the same material many, many times. Many. You wouldn’t believe how many. Tell yourself you’re in no hurry, and that this is where the fun is. Learn to love revision.

What Can Puppies Teach Writers? Plenty

By Holly Robinson 14 Comments

After my beloved dog Leo died, I entered a thick fog of grief. I felt his absence keenly because he was such an integral part of my life, keeping me company on walks and while I was writing, on the couch and in the car.

Logically, I knew I shouldn’t get another dog. I’m never bored. I have a great marriage, two lovely old cats, lots of friends, and work I love. I tried hard to allow myself to grieve, while at the same time embracing the idea that I was freer than I had ever been since parenthood. Without a dog to tie me down, I could work a solid nine-hour day, sleep late, and take off for New York City on a whim.

But, after several months, I’d had enough. I’m a dog person and nothing can change that.

Leo was a Pekingese, a sort of accidental purchase. It’s an uncommon breed but I adore it—Pekes are small but sturdy, great on hikes and calm enough to lie around while you work–so I sought out a local breeder and found a puppy I loved. Even before bringing him home, I named him Merlin because of his tufted eyebrows and white beard.

“A puppy?” a friend gasped. “Honest to God, think of the work. You need to have your head examined.”

I knew what she meant—the housebreaking and constant chewing, the endless hours of play a puppy requires are huge responsibilities. (Even as I write this, I’m playing fetch.) But, in the week since Merlin joined our family, this tiny man has shown me just how much puppies can teach writers:

1. “Who’s a Good Dog? You’re a Good Dog!”

Ever notice how that’s the first thing most people say when greeting a puppy? That’s why most puppies run up to strangers, wagging their tails and launching themselves into the air for pats and treats: they expect to be praised.

Making time to write means giving ourselves permission every day to be writers, even if we’re not making money at it or our agents and editors keep saying our drafts need work. Watching Merlin made me start imagining how great I’d feel if everyone I met said, “Who’s a good writer? You’re a good writer!” Try this, and you might start believing in yourself.

2. Chew on It

Chewing on something is one of the best ways to find out whether you like it. From rug fringe to new treats, from shoelaces to squeaking toys, Merlin chews whatever he can reach: aggressively at times, meditatively at others. Writing is exactly the same. You need to give yourself time to taste every new idea and ruminate on it for a while before you know whether it’s going to be good.

3. Go Fetch

If there’s something moving, run after it and bring it back! That idea floating through your dreamy state as you go to bed might be just the one that helps you work out your latest plot kink. Capture it in a notebook or even on a scrap of paper and bring it back. Test it out, change it, then bring it back again.

4. Friends Make Life Better

We writers spend an unholy number of hours alone every day, playing with ideas and imaginary friends. But real-life friends can make you see the world—and the worlds you’re creating—from different perspectives. Seek out other authors not only as critique partners or when you need blurbs for your new book, but as friends who understand the highs and lows of the writing life.

5. Exercise Your Body as Well as Your Mind

Sometimes the ideas don’t come, no matter how much time you spend at your desk or on your bed. It’s fine to take a break from writing. Run around, play fetch, and hike the trails. Taking a break is often a good way to get some fresh writing done, because you’re unlocking your creativity through movement.

6. Embrace Surprises

One of the funniest things in our house is watching how hard Merlin tries to play with our two old cats. One of them wants nothing to do with him and told him so on the first day with a good swipe of her claws. The other cat surprised Merlin—and us—by playing along. He takes walks beside Merlin as if he’s on a leash, too, and lets Merlin bat him around and lick his ears like he’s a giant stuffed toy. When you’re writing, your characters will often surprise you by misbehaving, or they’ll go in directions you didn’t expect and say things that you didn’t plan to put in their mouths. Embrace the surprises. That’s part of the fun of writing.

Okay, your turn: What have your pets taught you about the creative life?

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How to Keep Running Even If You Hate It

By Holly Robinson Leave a Comment

I’m no athlete. I made the cheering squad in high school only because I was loud and had a job shoveling horse manure, so I was strong enough to hold up the bottom of the pyramid. As the years went by, I begrudgingly joined a few gyms and made halfhearted attempts at using treadmills and other torture devices, but nothing stuck.

Then, a couple of years ago, I noticed an ad in the local paper for a “couch-to-5K” program. No way could I afford it, I thought, but when I emailed the coach, she told me it was free. Ha! Well, I probably couldn’t make the practices anyway. I work, right? But, when I emailed her to tell her this, the coach shot back a note saying the group met on Saturdays and in the evenings. Out of excuses, I dragged myself to the track and began putting one foot in front of the other.

It was hell, but a hell made tolerable by the fact that other people were panting with me in our walk-run training sessions. I made it through the first 5K after six weeks of training, and didn’t even come in last. (Yes, I set the bar low.)

After that, I thought I’d probably stop running, like I’d quit every other exercise regime. Instead, a funny thing happened: I began to feel better when I was running consistently than when I wasn’t, and stuck with it. Now I run three to five miles almost daily, and I’m getting ready to do a 10K.

How did I keep running even through the times I hated it? Here are a few strategies that worked for me. I hope they’ll help you, too.

It Starts with the Shoes

For years, I wore the wrong shoes to exercise. I didn’t know this until I actually went to a running store and asked their sales people to evaluate my stride. (Yup, it was humiliating to have these clerks, all built like greyhounds, watch me puff away on their treadmill indoors). They told me to go up a half size and buy wider shoes to accommodate my various arthritic humps and bunions, and boy, I’ve never had such comfortable footwear. It might cost you a few more dollars to get shoes this way, but do it. You can’t run if your feet hurt.

Make Some Music

Many coaches encourage runners not to listen to music. It’s a safety thing, obviously, especially if you’re running on roads. But I would have quit running for sure if I hadn’t had music to keep me going, so get an iPod nano and make some play lists, or subscribe to Spotify and use your phone.

Let Yourself Walk

One of the mistakes I made when I was trying to run on my own many years ago was that I’d bolt out the door and get discouraged when my lungs couldn’t keep up with my legs. Even now, I always walk for five minutes or so before I start running, and hey, if it’s a hot, humid day, I still walk now and then. So what? I’m covering the same distance, and gradually I’ve had to walk less and less.

Vary Your Runs

People told me to vary my runs, but I didn’t believe in the value of this until I tried doing it myself. Why would I drive anywhere, when I can just start running out of my own front door? Because it’s freakin’ boring, that’s why. After a year of circumnavigating every road in my neighborhood, I was sick to death of the scenery. Driving to new places takes a little time, but you’ll cover more distance if you have new things to look at. Signing up for 5Ks in different towns is another great way to discover cool running spots.

Try the Trails

Once I’d gotten used to the idea of driving different places to run, I also began experimenting with trail running. This is my newest favorite thing. Yes, some trails are tricky—again, it’s fine to walk if you’re descending a steep gravel hill and don’t want to break your hip in the middle of nowhere—but the beauty of loping in the woods like an antelope (okay, I’m an optimist with an imagination) makes up for the extra footing challenges.

Add Some Weights and Yoga

Running is a great cardio exercise, but don’t forget to work out your arms and abs—add some weights a few days a week. It’s also important to keep stretching the muscles you’re growing. I added yoga two or three times a week, and it has made a huge difference in my overall strength training. Plus, who doesn’t want to lie on a mat after running five miles?

In Praise of Special Library Collections and their Curators

By Holly Robinson 4 Comments

As necessary as libraries have always been to me for books and quiet spaces, until recently I never understood that libraries provide one more essential service: curating and maintaining special collections for scholars and writers.

As the author of contemporary fiction, the only research I’ve had to do involved gathering firsthand experiences in, say, making pottery or sheep farming. Then, for a series of complicated reasons that included a museum visit and my love of gardening, the muse brought me the idea of writing a book set in the 19^th century. There are two plot lines revolving around a mystery and clues planted in a hidden garden. One of those plot lines features a contemporary character, while the other is set in 1878 on the Isles of Shoals, where Celia Thaxter, one of the country’s most beloved poets at that time, ran one of the country’s first grand seaside resorts, Appleton House, and had a famous garden.

I loved the idea of the book, but I was wary about being able to write it. I have never been much of a history buff. When I went to school, history was taught in a way that ensured most children would be asleep within ten minutes of the class starting, because of the emphasis on memorizing dead people’s names and dates of distant battles, so I knew little about the 19^th century.

As I started writing the novel, my ignorance became apparent whenever I had to describe things like what my characters were wearing or eating. It’s easy enough to research things online, and I was able to find three biographies of Celia Thaxter; however, I still felt like my writing in the historical plot line lacked vivid imagery, believable dialogue, and attention to detail.

And so I started stumbling around in libraries, and discovered an entire world of special collections curated by librarians who were generous and enthusiastic about guiding me on my journey.

My first find was a cache of letters in the Boston Public Library written by Celia to her best friend, Annie Fields, wife of the publisher James Fields. (Can we please just say “Eureka!?”) While some of those letters had been collected in a book, many had not been, and they often contained juicy bits about Celia’s life. These letters are in her handwriting, on her stationery, and there was something mind-blowing about being able to really “feel” Celia’s personality through her penned words.

I read through about half of the letters and began writing the novel. Later, when I wanted to make an appointment to read the rest, I was devastated to discover that the library was undergoing renovations and they were digitizing the archive, so I couldn’t access them. Then the Curator of Manuscripts, Kimberly Reynolds, flew to my rescue, suggesting that I could send her a flash drive and she’d have the letters downloaded onto it and mail it back!

Meanwhile, once I had discovered the power of primary source material, I set about searching for other special collections. Over and over again, I was amazed by what I found, and astonished by the generosity of the curators who guided me on my journey.

The Portsmouth Athenaeum had not only letters, but some of Celia’s original paintings, photographs, and several pieces of the porcelain china she used to decorate and sell. The Harvard University Herbaria & Libraries proved me with journals and letters by Celia’s husband, Levi, and information about her son, Roland, who studied and taught botany at Harvard. Beyond that, Senior Curatorial Assistant Walter Kittredge gave me essential information about a particular plant that I wanted to use as one of the clues in the hidden garden.

Colby College had a unique stash of correspondence between Celia and the writer Sarah Orne Jewett, among other things. And then, lo and behold, I discovered an entire library at the University of New England devoted just to women writers from Maine: The Maine Women Writers Collection. There, curator Cathleen Miller opened up boxes containing more of Celia’s letters, original copies of The Atlantic Monthly where Celia published her first poem, and a box that contained the most beautiful porcelain teacup I’d ever seen, painted and signed by Celia in 1879. (See photo above, along with the photo of a letter from Celia, also housed in The Maine Women Writers Collection.)

I sent the final revision of the novel off to my agent last week with a kiss for good luck. (Okay, I only blew the kiss at the laptop screen—back in the old days, I would have literally kissed the giant padded mailing envelope before sending it on its way.) Now I feel bereft, not only because the novel is gone and I’m no longer living in 1878, but because my passionate quest into curated library collections is over, and so is my treasure-hunter’s euphoria.

Unless, of course, I decide to pursue this next idea I have…