Megan Haskell (with Greta Boris) was one of the authors from the online writing seminar I attended last fall. On her Substack, she recommended a technique I’ve begun applying as a means to develop better writing habits.
In a notebook, I write goals, broken down by year and by month. I list things I want to do on a daily or weekly basis, such as fiction or non-fiction writing, or social media interaction. I keep daily track of my progress. I also list what I’ve achieved on a monthly basis.
Of course, I have to remember to do this. At times I forget.
The idea is to achieve consistency and self-accountability. I don’t expect to hit every item on my list every day, but if I can get into habits on a regular basis, hopefully I can make better progress. “Something is better than nothing,” Haskell says.
I try to remember that.
Writer get-togethers
Aida Zilelian is a fellow Queens writer. Back in January I attended a signing for her new novel,
All the Ways We Lied, a women’s fiction piece.
I met her several years ago (pre-pandemic) at a reading for a local lit mag. She read one of my short stories. I felt obliged to return the favor by buying her book.
During the nineties, when I self-published comic books, I dug the experience of signing them at conventions. I have read that in-person appearances may be less important to a writer these days since more people read e-books. It’s nice to know that book signings are still a thing. Aida, in fact, has been doing signings on the west coast as well as locally.
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Virtually,
Emma Dhesi conducted a series of online interviews with other authors, also back in January, about aspects of the writing process. Some of it was material I had heard before, but others felt fresh.
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In March, I participated in another of
Jami Attenberg’s 1000-words-a-day virtual events. This one wasn’t as productive for me, partly due to other things I had going on, partly due to laziness, but I got some writing accomplished.
Writing culture
In late December I saw the movie
American Fiction, an Oscar winner for Original Screenplay. It’s a satirical comedy about an intellectual black writer. His books don’t sell. He writes a lowest-common-denominator, stereotypically-black novel, with crime, ghetto violence, “cool” misspellings, the works—and it becomes a hit. Jeffrey Wright stars.
It’s hilarious. It has poignant moments of family drama, too, which I didn’t expect, but the main draw is Wright’s dilemma when he sees his new novel, which he wrote as a joke under a pseudonym, take off.
In case you didn’t know, I’m black. But! I don’t play sports, I prefer Bruce Springsteen to Jay-Z, and the way I write non-fiction (such as this) is how I talk in real life.
I make no apologies for this, but sometimes, not always, I feel as if that’s not how I’m “supposed” to be, if modern pop culture is any indication. Fiction is a rare story where I saw a black character closer to my experience than most. Relatively speaking, of course: I’m not a college teacher, my mother doesn’t have Alzheimer’s and I sure don’t own a beach house.
I’ve written “street” characters before. I probably will in the future, but I prefer writing black characters more like myself.
Miscellaneous
To return to the subject of writing prompts: I had an opportunity to discuss it on my Facebook page back in February. One friend compared writing short pieces, as opposed to long ones, to playing a musical instrument slower rather than faster.
I had just completed a flash story in a single day, a rarity, because I had a limited amount of time to finish and send to the competition of which I had taken part. Once in awhile the mind finds ways to complete a story when one is up against a deadline. And I have to admit, a deadline gets me done sooner. Less time spent debating a word choice or a plot point.
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On his Substack,
Justin Deming encourages readers to write fifty-word microfiction every Friday. Here’s some of what I’ve come up with so far:
From Isaiah’s porch, the Rocky Mountains turned purple in the twilight. He lit a cigarette.
“I’m sorry, Daddy, but it’s true.” Sally’s foot bumped her suitcase. “I don’t believe anymore. I never did.”
Snow next month. Snowshoeing might be relaxing.
“Say something.”
He shut his eyes and imagined the trails.
***
Our colony starship approached the planet within the hour. The purple sphere didn’t resemble the greens and ochres many of us knew from our previous home, but that was okay. It was alive. Unpolluted.
Unlike the dead rock we abandoned.
Maybe this time we can build a world that lasts.
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Christmas gift.
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