Even though I have been writing since I was a kid …
Even though I have a degree in creative writing …
Even though I have written almost every day for the last four years …
I sometimes still feel as if I have no idea what I am doing. Once a month, I meet with a group of talented women writers who read my work and give me ideas on how to improve my work, and I leave these meetings doubting myself, wondering if I should go to grad school to learn more, if I should be reading other books than what I am, if I should throw in the towel.
I won’t. I love writing too much to do that. But it doesn’t mean that I don’t go home wondering if I am wasting everyone’s time with the scratches and jottings that I bring to the table every month.
My knowledge of the craft is still so limited. My stories lack essential ingredients that I’ve known about since grade school. My scenes go nowhere. My characters are hard to believe. I am thirty years old, and sometimes I feel as if I know nothing.
This is not the fault of the women in my writing group. This is a lack of confidence in myself and in my work.
And yet, when I consider it, I know that I have grown as a writer in the years since undergrad. I know that, draft after draft, I am improving. I have a fierce dedication, such that I would write even if I were guaranteed to not find success.
Any ideas or encouragement for this doubtful girl today? Please share.
Once my writing instructor showed me a book, the spine of it flat like a bridge with a steep slope on each side, and said, “A lot of times we feel that walking in God’s will is like this, a skinny path that we have to walk carefully or else we’ll slip easily out of it. But I think it’s more like this.” She flipped the book around and opened it, so that the pages formed a sort of valley into the creased center of the book. “We are safer than we think.”
What I know is that when I am writing I feel safe inside the will of God, as if I am walking in that crease, protected on either side in a way that actually guides me along the path. Writing is this safe and holy valley for me.
To write, you have to think, to risk, to intuit, to listen– and so, after I write, I feel as though I have spent time with God. As if he has taken my hand and reminded me, This is what I made you for, as I explore the world with him.
Several things have recently come together to inspire me to write this post. First of all, you should know that, in general, I have not been the biggest supporter of fan fiction because
1. It is usually bad.
2. Or dirty.
3. And I’d rather invent my own characters and world instead of piggybacking on someone else’s.
In fact, I have gone so far as to write a scene describing it as such:
The leader of Emmaus University’s brand-new fan fiction club was named Mallory Stevens, and somehow I’d agreed to be the club advisor. “Can it be crossover fan fiction?” one girl asked us at the sign-up table on Club Day. “I have some stories where Harry Potter stumbles through a wardrobe at Hogwarts and finds himself in Narnia.”
“That sounds great!” Mallory gushed, while I inwardly cringed. “Are the Pevensies there too?”
“Yeah,” said the girl, flushing with pride, “I think Harry and Lucy are going to fall in love. Maybe. We’ll see.” She bared her teeth when she smiled, looking more than a little pleased with herself. I smiled back, but really, I was mortified that one of my creative writing professors would walk by at any moment and see that I was mopping the floors in literary hell.
But is that assessment too harsh?
Just last week John Green (whom I adore, and whose story The Fault in Our Stars was the inspiration for my novel) posted a video with his thoughts on fan fiction:
To summarize, he rather likes it because it allows people to explore areas the author didn’t without making it canon: “to write and write creatively without there being an authoritative voice about the story.” Fair enough.
And, let’s be honest, I already do this. Just the other week I posted this story, exploring life after The Last Battle. And then, last Monday, I wrote a whole post about how I think about the Narnia characters outside of just the books, including– and I quote— “Because I have the heart of a thirteen-year-old teenybopper, I often wonder about the love story of the king and queen of Archenland. There is so much teenage angst in it that it almost makes me want to write fan fiction. Almost.”
Writing and posting “Nine Names” plus thinking about Cor and Aravis plus John Green’s video all intersected in such a way that …
I have to admit …
this week, I chose to write some fan fiction.
I decided to try a writing prompt from fanfiction.net, one where I’m given 50 words/themes, and my challenge is to write one sentence about each. I liked this idea because it was different, intriguing, and because it was a challenge to write fifty tiny vignettes that somehow gave snapshots into a story and yet were not really a story themselves— not quite.
I am embarrassed, but without further ado, I present to you my Narnia fan fiction, which– to be honest– I hope is the last of its kind. 🙂
#01 – Comfort
In those early weeks at Anvaard, she’d nightmare and cry out in her sleep, but when she’d sit up in her bed, slick with sweat and heart pounding louder than the hooves of the 200-horse army of her dreams, he’d be there—silent in the corner, gentle but with a newfound ferocity in his eyes.
#02 – Kiss
He didn’t speak in those midnight wakings but would take her small, dark hand into his pale one and wait for her breathing to slow, and when it did, he’d press his mouth to her fingers and leave her, knowing she’d sleep soundly till morning.
#03 – Soft
He didn’t know that though her breathing slowed, her heart always beat faster.
#04 – Pain
Daylight was a different story: “At least when you’re sleeping, you quit arguing,” Cor muttered after yet another fight.
#05 – Potatoes
She stares at them warily—back home, they were flavored with garlic and onion and made her eyes sting—but next Corrin passes a big dish of yellow butter, and she’s grateful for these northern lands.
#06 – Rain
It was so dry on the other side of the desert that on the first night of rain, she marches straight out into it and laughs.
#07 – Chocolate
It takes Corrin twenty minutes to convince them to bite into the horrid-looking brown thing.
#08 – Happiness
There are nights they spend around the fire sharing poetry and songs, and when Corrin embellishes his stories, Cor and Aravis catch each other’s eye across the fire and smirk.
#09 – Telephone
“I’m only telling you what Hwin told me Bree told her he’d heard Cor mention to the king,” Corrin says, “but you can make of it what you will.”
#10 – Ears
Why do her ears and face get hot when she thinks of him talking to his father about her?
#11 – Name
One night he stays after her nightmare and hears her whisper, “Shasta,” before she smiles in her sleep.
#12 – Sensual
He didn’t tell anyone about his dream that night, especially not Corrin.
#13 – Death
He’s been thinking of his mother a lot and what she’d think of him now—even taller than Corrin and (secretly) enjoying his education.
#14 – Sex
The Queens of Narnia give Aravis her first exposure to late-night girl-talk, and the young Tarkheena is grateful they can’t see her blush in the darkness of the room.
#15 – Touch
Another argument; only this time, he closes his eyes and takes her hand.
#16 – Weakness
She didn’t want him to let go, but her pride made her withdraw.
#17 – Tears
“Just something in my eye,” Cor tells his twin, who would be merciless.
#18 – Speed
When she needs to be alone, she rides like a maniac up into the mountains.
#19 – Wind
The wind rolls down from Stormness Head like a gale, like a baptism.
#20 – Freedom
Only once has she gone to the border, staring southward across the desert, realizing for the first time that she had been in slavery there too.
#21 – Life
She returns to Anvaard with new purpose, a clearer mind.
#22 – Jealousy
When he sees Corrin and Aravis whispering on the terrace, he seethes, but when they hug before parting, it’s a night for the history books: for once, it’s he who knocks his brother down.
#23 – Hands
Aravis is small but strong, and she pulls Cor off of his brother, shouting at him while he shouts at Corrin while Corrin just laughs and laughs.
#24 – Taste
“Listen to me, you idiot!” she says, taking his face in her hands and shutting him up by putting her mouth over his.
#25 – Devotion
His response is … enthusiastic.
#26 – Forever
The two retreat to the garden to share overdue truths.
#27 – Blood
King Lune only rolls his eyes when he sees Corrin’s bruises the next morning; Cor apologizes handsomely to his brother without letting go of her hand.
#28 – Sickness
Joy floods the king’s heart, soaking the cough that sits in his chest like a sponge.
#29 – Melody
She grins when she hears the crown-prince whistling after breakfast, knowing she is the reason for the tune.
#30 – Star
“Your father says they are people,” she whispers to him while she stares at the sky. “Can you imagine such beauty?” He says, “Yes,” and he is looking at her.
#31 – Home
She was confused at first over where to call home; then she dreamed of the lion and knew.
#32 – Confusion
There is concern in all their eyes when the king mutters nonsense before it’s even dark.
#33 – Fear
“Something’s wrong with Father,” Corrin says, and it’s that tone of voice—serious, like Corrin never is—that scares Cor the most.
#34 – Lightning/Thunder
They hold each other through the storm, and when it grows late, neither wants to leave.
#35 – Bonds
“Let’s get married,” he whispers, “so that we can stay like this.” “That almost sounds like a proposal,” she responds, an eyebrow raised, intrigued.
#36 – Market
Aravis asks Bree if she should do some of their old-fashioned “raiding” for the gown, and he grins, remembering.
#37 – Technology
Lasaraleen sends her regrets, but also a present: a most interesting wind-up toy that reminds Aravis of her friend’s pet monkey; they hide it in Corrin’s room.
#38 – Gift
The king looks strong on his son’s wedding day, and he tears up as he tells her, “The lion returned him safely to me; today I give him to you.”
#39 – Smile
He will never forget the way she looked at him while he made his promise: all at once, he saw her as a child, a proud Tarkheena, a humbled princess, a future queen and mother, and he loved all of the girl she had been and was now and would be.
#40 – Innocence
They are awkward with each other that first night, but sweet; the future king and queen have a few things to figure out first before they can manage a kingdom.
#41 – Completion
She purrs like a cat as she curls into his side to sleep, and he has never been happier.
#42 – Clouds
The fog from Stormness is thick on the day they leave for their honeymoon in Terebinthia; Aravis wonders if it’s a sign, but Cor can’t fear the fog, not anymore.
#43 – Sky
“Their majesties are missing out on the good views, shut up in their cabin as they’ve been,” comments one sailor. “I think they rather like the views inside,” quips another with a wink.
#44 – Heaven
This is perfect, to discover each other while carried on the waves of the Great Eastern Ocean.
#45 – Hell
But the lion meets them with hard news on the island; to put it quite gently, King Lune has gone home to Aslan’s country.
#46 – Sun
How can it shine when his father is gone? “Because he is not gone,” she tells him, though he didn’t ask aloud.
#47 – Moon
“I’m not ready to be king,” he whispers on the deck that night as they return to Archenland.
#48 – Waves
The ship rocks gently as a cradle, reminding him that he is safe between those great paws.
#49 – Hair
When he returns to the cabin, she is sleeping soundly, her dark hair lying silken on the pillow. She doesn’t nightmare anymore, he realizes, then understands it’s because of him.
#50 – Supernova
The lion’s strength fills him like light, like brilliance.
I’m reading a novel right now, and one of the characters featured is the author H.G. Wells. Since it is fiction, I don’t know if the following is true, but the book said that H.G. Wells was a writer who hated writing but who liked to have written.
I was thinking how sad that is. But I suppose people do that sort of thing all the time, an exercise in delayed gratification. I know a ton of people who hate exercise but liked to have exercised. Actually, I am the same way with travel. I don’t particularly love it, but I liked to have done it.
But writing.
I love it. I love sitting down and opening up my document. I love thinking of an objective and then stategizing the best way to achieve it. I love landing on that perfect “lightning” word.
Don’t get me wrong. It is hard. Writing is an arduous process, difficult, sometimes painful. It is not always exciting. The rush and thrill of freewriting last perhaps a few months before you find yourself settling into the nitpicking task of editing. It comes with criticism, difficult to swallow and frustrating as hell. Your characters take on lives of their own, and they become as impossible to steer as headstrong toddlers. You write yourself into a dark corner and have no idea how to find the way out of it. You cry. Sometimes you write brilliant, lyrical prose that everyone in your writing group hates and makes you cut. You have to “kill your darlings” left and right. It hurts your heart.
But I love it. I love that whole process, painful and heartbreaking as it may be. There is such true joy in the act of creation. It is an adventure, a battle of wills against your characters (and sometimes yourself), and there is nothing I enjoy so much as returning night after night to my manuscript, trying to shape something lovely out of blank pages.
I love the process just as much as the product. The journey is a joy.
“The best work is done with the heart breaking, or overflowing.”
Mignon McLaughlin, journalist and author (1913-1983)
“No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader.”
Robert Frost, poet (1874-1963)
These quotes, which I have long loved, are moving from head knowledge to reality in my life. Allow me to explain.
Draft one of Truest was written ferociously in a period of six months. It was a typical first draft– write the easy parts, skim over (or completely ignore) the hard parts– and that is fine with me. I am the kind of person who needs to write about seventeen drafts before it’s ready for the public. I had a few friends read it, most of whom enjoyed it and made important recommendations (a special thank you to Kristin Luehr, who changed the whole course of the novel).
The next draft was hard. It absolutely, completely broke my heart. Ask my roommate. For a period of about a week I was despondent, and for about three days in a row, I could not stop weeping. Desiree would ask about my day, and I would just start to sob and say to her, “I don’t know what to do for them [Silas and West, my characters]. My heart is broken in two, and I’m stuck. I don’t know how to fix the problem that I have gotten them into.”
I was depressed, grieving, and at a loss for what to do next. My friend Kristin swept in again (she is a hero!) and reminded me that my characters lived in a world where Christ existed. After that, the story’s ending started to fall into place.
When I had friends read this draft, most of them reported that they cried. I will have to investigate further, but my expectation is that since my own heart was torn in two as I wrote, all that pain was able to flow out of it freely and unhindered and land directly in the pages of my story.
So yes, McLaughlin. Yes, Frost. I believe you now. I really do.
This is meant to be its companion essay, written by yours truly, Jackie Lea Sommers, entitled “Date a Girl Who Writes.” Enjoy!
Date a girl who writes.
You know the type—she’s the one in the corner booth with her earphones in, battering the laptop keys to high heaven. The one who, despite appearances, is not really in the restaurant at all, but in a world of her own making, or else with one foot in and the rest of her looking up a synonym for blue and debating whether the sky is more of a cobalt or an indigo.
A girl who writes can take you on a date to Venus and have you back in time for dessert. Five minutes with her, and she will usher you through the gates of philosophy and religion and metaphysics. She’ll make an explorer out of you. You’ll need to run to catch up.
Creativity rolls off her in waves. She can think of beautiful ideas and make them real. She is quirky, fun, witty, and wise. She notices everything, and all of it matters to her. Can’t you see her eyes flickering from the old couple playing cards in the corner to the whipped cream melting into her cocoa? She also just memorized every detail of your sigh, and now she is thinking of the name of an obscure artist and of the waitress’s accent.
Date a girl who writes because she is observant and smart, and what is sexier than an incredible vocabulary? Think of how many different ways she’ll be able to tell you she loves you.
Writers are quirky, strange, fascinating people. You will never be bored if you date a writer. In fact, your life with her will be a wild adventure. The highs will be a pleasure, and the lows will remind you that you are alive and that truth and excellence matter.
Date a girl who writes. She’s funny, a storyteller; people are drawn to her at parties. But you’ll be the one who brought her, and think how proud you’ll be! Every interesting thing you do or say will go immediately into her notebook and crop up somewhere in the future—a lasting posterity. You’ll never have to buy a cheesy greeting card again. All you’ll need to do is write a heartfelt message; she prefers when things don’t rhyme.
While it’s true that sometimes it will seem you’re taking the backseat to people and situations that aren’t real, she still loves you. If you want to bring her back to where you are, wrap your arms around her and ask about her draft. Ask questions and listen carefully to her answers. If you help her out of her writing rut, trust me, she’ll reward you.
Date a girl who writes because she knows that the best stories make you laugh and cry, and so your romance will be infused with amusement and passion, jokes and joy. She makes the connections you can’t, looks for lessons in life, makes sense of the chaos.
If you date a girl who writes, you can be confident that she will work at your relationship—she is used to second, third, and seventeenth drafts without giving up. She willingly returns to conflict day after day. She won’t leave when you fight—she knows the climax comes before the denouement.
Bring your A-game. Remember that she has probably already dreamed up the most incredible Prince Charming, one who is tall and has gray eyes, irrational fears, strong arms, and a twisted sense of humor. If you want to compete with her protagonist, you’re going to have to step it up.
It will be worth it.
Because when you date a girl who writes, the two of you will happen to life and not the other way around. She will teach you how to make a moment extraordinary, how to appreciate this beautiful world spreading its arms to you both in majestic invitation.
She dreamed often of a lion, tawny gold and glorious, with light that scattered from his mane as if it were born inside of him. In her dreams, she stood beside him, staring east across a vibrant sea, and when she woke, it was always with the refrain, He has nine names.
She hated to wake. The sea in her sleep was alive but behaved, and in the days since the accident, her days were a horror. She was in a stupor, flummoxed with loss. How can I be the only one left? The mornings were darker than her dreams.
Her aunt and uncle had planned the funeral, which, she realized, was perhaps not the best choice, but she herself was of no use to anyone. Then again, no one expected much of her at a time like this. And when that dreaded service came, with the nine closed coffins at the front of the sanctuary, she could not greet the guests or be consoled but instead fled to the solace of the church nursery, where she sat in a chair meant for a small child, her arms wrapped tight about her body, rocking back and forth as if the motion itself would somehow comfort her. There is no one left.
On the wall was a mural of Noah’s Ark—painted in the friendly, child-safe version that curtailed the dreadful details. Instead, there was a large boat with a smiling man on board, surrounded by animals, and above them stretched a rainbow in the primary colors of youth. Two giraffes poked their heads from the roof of the ark; a dove carried an olive branch back to the man; pairs of smiling anthropomorphic animals stood together on the deck. Two elephants, two horses, two monkeys, two zebras. One lion.
The lion. He has nine names.
She grimaced as she brushed away thoughts of her dream.
“Susan?” Aunt Alberta said, leaning her head inside the nursery door. “Oh, there you are. The service—it’s about to start.”
She nodded. “I’ll be there in a moment.”
No tears had come yet, although she was certain that they would—and when those floodgates opened, she wondered if they would ever close again. Her mother and father, her brothers, her sister, her cousin, and three friends—all gone, leaving her life as shredded as the railway tracks that day. She had seen the bodies before they’d closed the coffins. Nine plastic faces smiling serenely, as if they were all in on a secret she did not know.
Her throat caught as she stood to her feet for the service. She wanted to blame someone, but whom would she blame? She glanced again at the mural on the wall, all those happy animals looking as if they were talking beasts. She frowned; it was as if—as if—it was like a moment of déjà vu. Stop it, she told herself. Just get through the service, through the burial. Just hold together for a few more hours.
And yet, as she walked back toward the sanctuary, now full of mourning guests, it happened again. This time an image burned in her mind as if it were a memory from another life: a stone table, cracked in two, empty of life or death, but full of meaning and magic. And when she opened the door to the sanctuary, she uttered a loud gasp when she saw the crucifix at the front of the room. The guests turned to look.
I am writing this post from the Starbucks located in the lobby of the Boston Sheraton Hotel, having had an incredible weekend. My friend Cindy joined me in Boston, and I was sooooo blessed by her company; together, we explored Boston and Cambridge, including adventures like eating White Trash cheese dip at Bukowski Tavern, incredible treats at Georgetown Cupcake, and my first experience on the subway!
But Saturday night was certainly the highlight. First of all, the International OCD Foundation has incredible staff members, and they made this whole experience so simple for me– booking my flight and hotel, picking me up from the airport (someone was there with a “J. Sommers” sign!!), and giving me plenty of time to explore the city. Jeff Bell, spokesperson for the foundation and founder of the Adversity 2 Advocacy Alliance, was the emcee of the event, and he sat down with me on Saturday morning and asked fascinating questions about my OCD and my writing, putting me totally at ease about the on-stage interview that would come that evening.
The event began with a cocktail hour, and then the award ceremony began. Jeff Bell is an absolute all-star, and he discussed the theme of OCD awareness week, which was “Dare to believe … together we can beat OCD,” hitting hard on the DARE, the BELIEVE, and the TOGETHER. I cannot tell you how impressed I was with this man– I can’t wait to learn more about his A2A Alliance. He has also written a book, which I’d like to read and review on this site soon.
After that, I was the first to share. I read an excerpt of my novel, and people laughed in all the right places. It was an incredible audience, a vocal one, so you knew when they were totally jiving with you. Love that. Then Jeff interviewed me on the stage about my experiences. The only question he asked me that I didn’t expect was “Do you ever worry that people will think your fictional story is actually your true story?” and I said, “No, I don’t worry about that because I’m not ashamed of my OCD. Neely has a lot of the same experiences as I’ve had … except she has a much better love life,” which made the audience laugh. We also talked about cognitive-behavioral therapy and about how it is simultaneously horrible/incredible and how someone will know he/she is ready for it “when the hell you’re in becomes worse than the hell you’ll have to go through.” It’s true.
Next up was Jenn Cullen from Washington, DC, who wrote a children’s story called Ranger Ben Discovers the Mysterious Mr. OCD, this wonderful story to help children with OCD feel empowered to tackle their disorder. She wrote it for her son Ben, who was diagnosed with OCD at age 5. He is 13 now, and he joined her on the stage. Very, very cool.
Then we watched a film trailer for Englander Claire Watkinson’s in-process documentary called Living with Me and My OCD. Claire is so talented, and I am so excited to follow the progress of her documentary!
Vincent Christoffersen from New Zealand finished off the evening with his song called “Till I’m Down,” which I completely adored. Vincent is 21, looks 15, and has the maturity of a 30-year-old. He had wonderful stage presence and everyone LOVED him!
They also presented an IOCDF Hero Award to Denis Asselin of Walking with Nathaniel. Denis’s son Nathaniel suffered from intense body dysmorphic disorder, on the OCD spectrum, and took his own life in 2011. Denis made a 500-mile pilgrimage from Cheyney, PA, to Boston, MA, for BDD awareness and research. It took everything in me not to weep as he spoke.
Afterward I met him and was very impressed by his humility. I also met Michael Jenike, professor of psychiatry at Harvard Medical School (by the way, I just looked him up, and his CV is 92 pages long! Intense!), and a slew of people who thanked me for my story. It was a wonderful, well-planned event, and I enjoyed being in a group of OCs and awareness advocates, and it only made me want to do MORE. I want to just scream from the rooftops about CBT, and I want to help the general public to understand more about OCD (unfortunately, it still believes primarily that OCs are just “neat freaks”).
This whole Boston trip was an incredible adventure, and I want to thank everyone who voted for me in the creative expression contest. I loved-loved-LOVED this entire experience, and I am so grateful to you for making it possible for me.
On a sidenote, I really want to go to the IOCDF annual conference in Atlanta when it rolls around next year … anyone want to join me??? 🙂
JACKIE LEA SOMMERS 