Writer's Block Exists, But Not in the Way You Think

It's pretty common knowledge that writers (or any other type of artist) need a kick in the pants every so often, and usually that kick needs to come from themselves. Artists are great at getting themselves into creative ruts and flailing helplessly when they realize there's no easy way out. And it can be so tempting to stay in that rut, because while there, you have no artistic responsibilities and can just hang out.

I'll just be down here.

But if you stay in the rut for too long, you realize it's boring as hell. Not being expected to do anything can make you feel useless. If you're an artist who invests a lot of their identity in said art, it can also lead to a slight existential crisis à la, "Why am I even on this planet if I'm not doing [x]?"

This year, I've spent a lot more time in creative ruts than I usually do. I'm no stranger to these ruts, of course, and I don't think any artist is. But the ruts of 2015 proved a lot harder to get out of, and, thanks to a number of circumstances, my willpower was no match for how steep they were.

Why am I even calling these ruts? Why am I not calling it writer's block? Because I don't think writer's block exists, or at least, it doesn't exist in the way most people seem to understand it. When I hear people complain about writer's block, it often comes in the form of, "I can't think of anything to write about. I'm sitting there and nothing is coming out."

Oh, something could come out, all right. All you have to do is think of words and type them onto the page, or scribble them into your notebook or napkin or stone tablet or whatever you use. Your problem is that nothing good is coming out.

Well, duh. That's, like, 75% of writing a first draft. Like I've said before, writing involves wading through a lot of shit before you can get to the good stuff. It's about not judging yourself and trusting that you will be able to look at it with fresh eyes later, to clean up the language and cut out entire sections that aren't working. It's about not being afraid of your own failure because nobody gets it right the first time.

To me, writer's block is less about your creative abilities no longer working and more about some paralyzing fear holding you back from writing at all. It is incredibly hard to push through this, and sometimes, you have a lot working against you. A major event could disrupt your life, whether it's a positive or negative one; you could be battling mental illness; your living conditions might make it more difficult or outright impossible for you to work on your art. But there's a fine line between giving yourself a break because of an obstacle and not pushing yourself to work when you know enough pushing would get you where you need to be.

Clearly, I am still struggling to find this line.

As many of you know, I'm writing a YA fantasy series meant to be four books long. I've written books one, two, and three, but shortly after finishing the third, I took a step back. I didn't want to start book four until I was fairly satisfied with the first three. Book one was polished thanks to a significant rewrite I undertook with it after becoming more familiar with the publishing industry. I was happy with book three, since it was my most recent work and written by a much more mature author than the other two.

But book two was a total mess. So, last year,  I promised myself I would revise the thing before drafting the final book in the series.

I'd been avoiding revising book two for a while, and only recently did I start thinking about why that was. Drafting it had been a messy process. I'd stumbled through the first ten chapters with no idea how to organize it, the last section was plagued with overblown tangents, the main plot got lost in a tangle of subplots. But I also wrote that book during the most difficult emotional period of my life. As a result, the book includes some of my best writing, but also made me not want to look at it.

Re-reading the first several chapters, I had no patience for the miserable kid who'd written the original draft (the me of several years ago). I called her stupid and annoying, cursed her for the monstrosity she'd left me with, and laughed at all her amateur mistakes. Revising her prose proved exhausting, which made it easy to slip into a rut. At some point, I tumbled into the rut and stayed there.

To be fair to myself, I've been up against a lot this year. My last semester of college took a toll on me. I was dealing with a school newspaper fiasco that left me disillusioned with my university and with universities in general. My significant other was studying abroad, and the separation was, to put it mildly, hard. I was teaching a class and my mental health was suffering worse than it ever had during college. Throughout that last semester, I revised book two in small bursts, but not in any sustainable way.

Then I graduated and went to Europe for two months, as my Instagram account can attest to. It was understandable that I didn't revise during this period, since 1) I had no time and 2) I had nowhere to go. Most of my time in Europe was either spent at my significant other's flat in London, which housed like seven other people and not very many rooms, or in an AirBnB, which...is someone else's house. I wasn't about to demand a room I could revise in for two hours every night. Through all of this, I promised myself I would start revising as soon as I got home.

Guess what didn't happen.

We arrived home super jet lagged and not wanting to do anything but laze around the house. I could barely find the energy to move. It's fine, I told myself. The family trip to Alaska is soon. You'll start revising there. Then we got there for our two-week vacation and I found myself repeating the same process every day. I'd announce that I was "planning to edit" later, occupy myself with other, less demanding tasks, and become more and more anxious as the day's hours dwindled. The closer I got to midnight, the more excuses built up. I'll do it in an hour. Okay, half hour. Actually, I can't tonight. I need to spend more time with my siblings. Or I'll just finish this quest in this video game. Tonight isn't a good night because--

These weren't valid excuses anymore. I was stuck in the rut. I'd been there for so much longer than I was used to and couldn't figure out how to get myself out of it. Worse than that, I started to tear myself apart for continually succumbing to whatever was stopping me. I criticized myself every day for it. It didn't exactly do wonders for my self-esteem.

Then one day during our trip, we visited a rocky beach. I was climbing out to one of the larger rocks that was more difficult to reach, since it was further out in the water than the others. I made it there without a scratch, despite the slippery stones I had to step on and the incoming tide. Boy was I proud of myself for being a badass and succeeding in an outdoorsy activity that made me nervous. I was still celebrating on my way back to the beach when I slipped on the barnacle-encrusted rock. I landed right on my butt and earned a cut on my palm, which would later bruise.

Asshole barnacles.

It was a shallow cut that barely broke the skin. It wasn't even that big, and there wasn't much blood. But what did I do? I, a 22-year-old woman who has always had a low pain tolerance, started crying.

I didn't cry in front of anyone who wasn't understanding (just my significant other, who is very pro-feel-what-you-feel), but still, I felt humiliated. I'm not very patient with myself when it comes to having an emotional reaction I don't consider reasonable. If I'd had it my way, I would have jumped back up all Mercutio-like and said, "Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch!" But I cried, which definitely did not match the badass-outdoorsy-warrior mood I'd been indulging in a moment before. I felt ashamed.

This, of all things, made me remember why I was writing my YA fantasy in the first place.

My YA fantasy's main character has been thrust into a combat situation that doesn't match her personality at all. She, like me, is prone to crying for every reason under the sun, whether it be physical pain, interpersonal, frustration, anger, etc. Her best friend is a much more conventional warrior, and tears from her are pretty rare.

But there's a reason my main character has the spotlight instead of her friend. I want to show her fighting for her life through tears. I want her emotional outbursts to fuel her rather than indicate weakness. Through these books, I want to show people that emotion can lend us enormous strength though it may seem to hinder us. I am working against our culture's criticisms of "excessive" emotion and how it encourages people to suppress it. I especially want teenagers of all genders to read these books and feel validated when they cry. I want them to see crying as a source of power the way I couldn't as a teenager.

There is no way I'm gonna be able to do that unless I sit down and revise book two, damn it.

And you know what? When I got back to it, I thanked my younger self. Even though she didn't really know what she was doing, she'd fought through the muck to get words down during the hardest time of her life. Sure, it's a lot to revise. But without her, I wouldn't have anything to revise at all. She stayed out of her rut long enough to write this craptastic first draft. I am so proud of her.

So it took an assful of barnacles to get me out of my rut this time. Well, it didn't get me out on its own. It just threw down a rope. It still took me a few days to haul myself out of there and get down to business. Now, finally, I am revising again, and I feel much more comfortable with myself. I feel I'm doing good, important work that I hope will someday benefit other people.

Writer's block may be tough to deal with, but thinking about it in terms of fear instead of a short supply of creativity gives me a lot more control over how I handle it. I'm always better when I'm working on my craft, and I'm happy to be back on board.

If you have any methods for getting yourselves out of artistic ruts, let me know in the comments. I could sure use more ideas.

-Morgan

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I Don't Regret Giving up Acting: Some Darker Sides of Being a Child Actress

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No, I'm Not Embarrassed: Good Lit is Good Lit

When I woke up this morning, there was rage all over my Twitter feed. I couldn't find the source, but it seemed to have something to do with YA readers being shamed for, well, reading YA. What's new, right?

I went about my day normally. Later, a friend posted the link to the offending article, and I read it. It's called Against YA, with the tagline, "yes, adults should be embarrassed to read young adult books." It argues that by reading young adult literature, adults are missing out on more "important" literature, namely literary fiction. Such readers are apparently selling themselves short by choosing "escapism" over more complex, ambiguous works only found in the adult section of the bookstore.

This article reeeaaally got under my skin, for a number of reasons.

(Side note: I'm not entirely comfortable with posting the link to the article, since I know controversial articles love to generate more traffic, and I'm contributing to that by posting it. But it's not fair for me to present my argument without offering up the other side, so there it is).

If you follow this blog, you know I write YA fantasy. You might also know that I write YA contemporary, and adult contemporary, or what the writer of the article calls realistic fiction. I am interested in a variety of different perspectives and audiences, so I don't feel comfortable limiting myself to just one category or genre. Naturally, then, I don't limit myself as a reader, either.

I used to. You'll know from some of my past entries that I used to limit my reading to realistic, literary fiction, particularly classics (yet I was writing YA fantasy?? Yeah, I was still figuring out the whole read-the-genre-you-write thing...don't worry, I learned). I agreed with this woman, mostly because I considered most YA books to be carbon copies of Twilight, which I disliked. I looked down on these books because I thought people used them for escapism. I, too, thought YA limited itself to "instant gratification" and shirked the harsher realities my classics offered me.

There are so many problems here.

First off, there is nothing inherently wrong with escapism. The reason it used to give me pause is because I thought people who sought out escapism wanted to ignore the problems in their lives, and thus never deal with those problems. I thought if you wanted to escape, you were weak, and your real life would fall apart around you.

My prejudice against YA was probably wrapped up in this mindset. But how unfair is it to assume that someone who wants a little escape is going to let their world go to pieces? There's a difference between wanting to get away for a little and being seriously dysfunctional. Also, I'm a hypocrite--what the hell do I play video games for if not for the escapism? The graphics? It's definitely not the graphics.

Secondly, the generalizations about YA listed in this article make it clear that this woman has not read widely in the YA category, or at least not widely enough to appreciate its many nuances and opportunities for complexity. According to her, YA is full of hunky dory protagonists who never self reflect and always get a perfectly tied-up ending. YA is meant to be pleasurable, she says. It's fluff. It doesn't let you empathize with people who aren't like you. It's easy on the heart and satisfying.

Right. That's why The Perks of Being a Wallflower, which she mentions in the article, leaves us with a good feeling. Wait, never mind. It ends with the main character suffering a serious emotional breakdown thanks to a traumatic event from his past. The readers are left wondering how he will cope with this latest relapse, and we don't get to know. If Katsa had never self-reflected in Graceling, never confronted an upsetting emotional reality about herself, she would never have won my respect. Boy do I wish the end of The Amber Spyglass was "easy on the heart and satisfying," because then I could've avoided the overwhelming panic and indignation I felt when I realized what was going to happen (I kept flipping the pages back and forth as if that would change it). If we're counting Harry Potter, I managed to empathize with Severus Snape. Last I checked, I wasn't a bitter, thirty-something-year-old man with greasy hair and an unrequited crush he really should have let go of a long time ago (yes, I'm being critical of him here, but feeling empathy for someone does not eliminate your ability to criticize that person. I felt sad for Snape, but I could still see issues with his behavior).

Or, let's take the book I'm reading right now: Rose Under Fire by Elizabeth Wein, which follows a girl in her late teens who is placed in a women's concentration camp during World War II. The narrator has a captivating voice. The characters are interesting and respond to trauma in their own unique ways. The author does not shy away from the gruesome realities of a concentration camp, nor does she give us closure about what happens to everyone (oh, look! Ambiguity!). It is frustrating and, at times, sickening to watch these characters endure what they have to endure. It is not "pleasurable"--the only "pleasure" I could think of getting out of this book is being glad I'm not the one in a concentration camp, but I wouldn't call that "pleasure." I am not reading it to feel better about life; I'm reading it because I want to see what happens to these girls.

But, Morgan, wouldn't you ultimately get more out of a piece of literary fiction? Doesn't this book pale in comparison to those classics you love? Aren't you an adult?

Ah, there you are, Ulysses by James Joyce, which I spent last month reading with a class. I knew you'd come in handy.

When it comes to literary fiction, Ulysses is about as literary as you can get. It contains made-up words, nonsensical sentences, literally hundreds of obscure references (many of which are crucial to the experience, so have fun looking them up!), confusing narrators (who the hell is talking in this paragraph?), and stream-of-consciousness prose that is sometimes impossible to follow. Also, every chapter is written in a different style. Every time you think you're used to how Ulysses operates, boom! It transforms into a different monster.

Many people who haven't studied it closely or approached it blind think the book is a load of nonsense and isn't worth it. But I loved the hell out of this book. If you have it, or next time you visit a bookstore, flip Ulysses open to chapter eleven, the music-themed chapter. The chapter has a freaking overture made out of language. What does that mean? It means it operates like a musical overture, which plays a collection of sounds that will later appear throughout different parts of the performance that is to follow. Except Ulysses does it with words. The overture is made up of of a page and a half of short phrases that, in some form or another, appear in the chapter. As you read, you find yourself playing "Where's Waldo"--"Ah, there's the reference to the first line of the overture! Look, that must refer to line twelve!" It's mind-blowing and exciting. It makes you re-think how we use language and how stories are formed.

I also love the hell out of Rose Under Fire so far. I feel a rush of anticipation every time I sit down to read it, just as I did with Ulysses. How is it possible for me to sincerely enjoy such different books, especially one on top of the other? Because I understand that these novels are aiming for different effects, and those effects are equally legitimate. Rose Under Fire places compelling characters in a terrifying situation. It wants me to feel their reality and stress over the characters' fates. Ulysses challenges my expectations as a reader and demands that I pay just as much attention to the language as I do to plot and character--probably even more attention. These are both great goals. They are both stimulating. They both make me feel something.

Of course, if the article angered me as a reader, it angered me as a writer, too. I took most issue with the writer's claim that "[YA readers] are asked to abandon the mature insights into [an emotional] perspective that they (supposedly) have acquired as adults."

If this is what YA is about, then evidently, I haven't been reading YA. I've seen plenty of observations and epiphanies in YA literature that some adults never even think about or achieve. I have stated that there is nothing wrong with escapism already, but as someone who does not personally read for escapism, I tend to write against it. The novels I write (about and for teenagers) depend on mature insights. They feed on them. They could not exist without them. The more you follow my main character, the higher and higher she reaches for these insights, though sometimes she'll flinch away from them, too, because they're painful and she's human.

To argue that YA forces you to do away with adult emotionality negates everything I've been writing for, and negates a sizable percentage of the feelings a teenager experiences. Because many of the things teenagers feel are very real, very adult feelings. That's part of why adolescence is so terrifying--emotions aren't simple anymore. The feelings are new, but that does not make them lesser. As for adults who think reading about these "first" experiences is a form of regression, well, most of the adults I know would benefit from revisiting the roots of these emotions. That "first" feeling laid a foundation, after all.

Are you a literary novel? Give me feelings. Are you a YA novel? Give me feelings. Grip me by the heart, book, and I will love you, because feelings are the whole damn reason I'm here.

-Morgan

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My Love/Meh Relationship with Frozen

Pretty personal post ahead. But I thought it was important to share on this blog, since it is closely linked with the role fiction can play in one's life and in one's identity.

If you've been on the Internet at any point over the past three months, you definitely haven't encountered this totally obscure Disney movie, Frozen. On the off chance you do know which movie I'm talking about, be warned that this post contains spoilers.

The moment the movie came out, every other person I talked to told me I needed to see it as soon as possible. People said it was the best Disney princess movie since Beauty and the Beast. I practically knew all the songs before I actually saw the thing. Two of my college-aged friends have seen the movie in theaters five times. I thought, whoa, this movie must be Pixar-level amazing. So I walked into the theater with extremely high expectations...

...and walked out confused. Disappointed. My sister agreed with me. The movie was trying too hard to be Tangled--the Sven character was completely interchangeable with the horse from Rapunzel's film. Out of all the jokes in the movie, one made me laugh. One. Even then, it was just a little "heh." I couldn't stand Olaf (I feel so bad saying that, because he's cute and sweet, just not funny to me). Elsa rubbed me the wrong way. Much of the plot "twists" were incredibly predictable. I was glad Disney finally subscribed to a type of "true love" that wasn't romantic, but I just wish I hadn't seen it coming from a mile away. Don't even get me started on Disney's choice to make Hans evil. Why were people so crazy about this movie?

Well, big deal, right? I don't have to love a movie everyone else is, for some reason, obsessed with. I participated in the cultural phenomenon and now I can move on. I tend to be a harsh critic of movies in general, anyway, so this shouldn't bother me so much.

But then there's this:

That is a picture of me and my sister, Wendy, above the movie's sister characters, Anna and Elsa. It's great that Anna is the younger sister and Elsa older, because as far as my sister and I go, the personalities match us almost perfectly. If someone had told me, "Hey, they're gonna make a movie about an older sister who has emotional issues that she doesn't know how to control and a sweet, optimistic sister who has complete faith in her," I would have thought the scriptwriters were spying on my family.

Remember, I wasn't a big fan of the movie. But the fact that I wasn't a huge fan kept bothering me, long after I'd seen it. Part of it may have related to the fact that I felt left out, since everyone else latched onto it. But I've come up with a couple more reasons that the bitterness stuck with me:

1) I'm mad that this movie didn't come out in the 90s.

Ariel!...and Eric. Belle!....and the Beast. Kiara!...and Kovu. These are the main characters of some of the Disney movies my sister and I watched (and acted out in front of the screen) as kids. Notice something about these movies? They're running low on female characters. This meant that, unless one of us wanted to be one of Gaston's fangirls or Lion King 2's evil Zera, only one of us could be "the girl," and the other was stuck being the boy. Because I was the bossy older sister, I usually got to be the female character, to Wendy's dismay.

Sure, we could have come up with our own characters, which we did. But it was fun to pretend we were characters we could see onscreen. These movies had merchandise, soundtracks we could sing to and toys we could play with. This stuff stretched the worlds further, made the fictional playground bigger. Wendy and I had a few sister movies to choose from, of course--she was the Hallie to my Annie (The Parent Trap remake), the Mei to my Satsuki (Totoro), the Mary-Kate to my Ashley (I'm not gonna list them all). But did these movies offer toys you could play with, or outfits, or dolls? Totoro has some, but not of the sisters.

If this movie had come out when we were kids, my poor mother probably would have purchased half the Frozen merchandise in the Disney store. We would have had Elsa and Anna dolls. We would have danced around singing "Do You Wanna Build a Snowman?" and "For the First Time in Forever (Reprise)" together. We would have dressed our little brother in white and called him Olaf. Heck, we would probably have started asking people to call us Elsa and Anna (we would sometimes ask people to call us by our middle names, which are close enough--I'm Morgan Elizabeth, she's Wendy Anne).

Is it immature of me to whine about how my childhood lacked Frozen? Absolutely. My childhood had plenty of wonderful things, and I'm thrilled for the little sisters of the world who get to grow up with these characters. I'm just a little jealous of them, too.

Here comes the bigger one:

2) I saw too much of Elsa in myself.

Recall how I said Elsa rubbed me the wrong way. I also mentioned that I was the bossy older sister, kind of flippantly. But I say that with some pain.

Emotions have been a big...thing for me for much of my life. If my novels are ever published, you will see what I mean. I was always the temperamental kid in the house. I had a hitting problem that I took out on my siblings. In high school, I had meltdowns. And over the past three or four years, I realized my out-of-control emotions could hurt people. I didn't know what to do about it. I tried telling myself not to explode when I felt a freak-out coming on, but that didn't help. It usually made it worse. This all leads up to the present day, when recently, a counselor told me I punish myself for feeling things too intensely.

 This scene looked familiar.

I told my friend, who is the number one Frozen fan, about this counseling session. Later on, she said to me, "If you punish yourself for your emotions, why didn't you like Elsa?"

Hm. Well, Elsa had a resolution. I'm better than I was a few years ago, but I still haven't really resolved this yet.

One thing I knew people were wild about was Elsa's song, "Let it Go" (which I now enjoy, though I don't think it's musically or lyrically strong enough to be Oscar-worthy--the best thing about it is Idina Menzel's voice). That's when she uses her icky feelings to construct her castle, which I could easily tie to my own novel-writing. I knew Elsa was bothering me, but I couldn't articulate why at the time. Some part of me must have been thinking, or rather feeling, "Let it go, huh? It'd be nice if it were that easy."

 Pictured: not me.

I kept thinking, no, she can't win. She's still hurting people. How can this song be so triumphant when "letting it go" isn't actually the answer? The whole country or whatever Arendelle is has been plunged into eternal winter because she's cursed with emotions that overpower her--I mean, ice powers. Later, when Anna tells her this, she acknowledges this herself: "I'm such a fool! I can't be free! No escape from the storm inside of me!"

I identified so strongly with Elsa that she repelled me. That happened to me the first time I read Dosteovsky, too. I pride myself as someone who is willing to look at her flaws, but sometimes, I guess it gets too close and I start pushing things away.

And I have an Anna. I have a sister who loves me even though I bossed her around and hurt her. I pushed her away plenty, especially during my last two years of high school. Sure, our relationship is great now, but I can never undo any of that stuff.

 (And she would still probably do this for me).

Is it possible to love a character and not like the movie so much? I think so. That's how I feel about Holly Golightly--Breakfast at Tiffany's is otherwise not so great (please read the book; it is so much better). After three months of not understanding my reaction to this movie, I've settled on this stance. Frozen? Meh. Anna and Elsa? Love.

And if you see yourself in a character, don't hate him or her. This goes double if you see yourself in another person you meet--I know of so many people who see their own traits in another and so decide they dislike that person. Treat that character or individual with empathy and kindness. You may learn something about yourself.

Maybe one day I will let it go. If not, I've still got that bitchin' ice castle.

-Morgan

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The Only Thing I Know That's Keeping Me Alive

And that's the hope I have, the only thing I know that's keeping me alive. - Paramore, "Last Hope"

People have different reasons for why they write. I respect that. I also strive to be an empathetic human being who works to understand other people's perspectives. Sometimes, this is hard to do. Especially when I read about a writer who only wants to entertain, rather than instill meaning into his or her story. Especially when I read about a writer who has considered giving up writing altogether because his or her failures have become too frustrating. Not just giving up submitting to agents or publishers. Giving up writing itself.

Have I ever gotten frustrated with the writing process, or the editing process, or the rejection process? You bet. "Frustrated" is an understatement. Have I ever thought to myself that I suck, or that I'll never get anything published? Absolutely. Have I experienced moments of disillusionment with the publishing process/world? I can't imagine anyone in the writing and/or publishing world who hasn't.

Have I ever considered giving up writing?

About as many times as I've considered chopping off my arms and selling them on eBay. So, no.

(Although if someone I cared deeply about needed an arm and doctors invented some magical surgery in which arm donations worked, I would donate my arm a lot faster than I would give up writing).

I'm not one of those people who took up writing because it seemed like fun, or because I wasn't sure what else to do. No snobbiness meant there--if you're one of those people, great, and that's valid. It just isn't who I am. I'm one of the (probably) thousands of people who writes because it saved my life. Without writing, I don't know where I would be right now, emotionally or academically. I don't know who I would be. I am writing. Writing is me.

When I started really researching the writing craft, around the time I started getting ideas for my first novel (I wanted to do the thing right, see), I gathered one piece of advice that seemed to permeate all the different lists of tricks, discussions, and books I read about writing: be honest. Be truthful. That's the core of writing for me. What does that mean, exactly, especially when you're writing a novel, which by definition is approximately 300 pages of something that never really happened?

It means you have to mean every word. Every sentence must stay true to your character's personality, emotional state, circumstances, and context. Every page must fall into line with some facet of human existence that you know to be true for at least one person, whether you experienced it yourself, watched another person go through it, or even scooped it up from a book or movie. Every chapter must paint a picture that convinces the reader he/she can touch, taste, smell, and breathe the fictional world you've created. Every book must make a reader believe, make them feel the truth enveloping the core of the book.

So, before I could write something real, I had to look at my own life. I had to examine truths. There were easier truths, like what my opinion was on the best possible way to describe a rose (yes, truths can be subjective). But there were also harder truths. I had to look at parts of my own reality that were broken and figure out why. I had to accept my own truths. I had to dig into those truths, pin them under a microscope, and acknowledge that sometimes, after hours of inspection, I would still have no idea what I was looking at or why.

Many of these truths changed my life, and hurt. Really hurt. But if it weren't for writing, if it weren't for the catalyst that made me start looking at the world around me so I could write about another, I might still be living in ignorance. I might still be sad and not know why. My life would be tremendously different.

Four years ago, I sunk into a depression because of something going on in my life. The only positive things I felt like I had were Paramore's third album brand new eyes (Oh, gee, now you see where the attachment comes from!) and my second novel. The depression was bad, but it would have been a million times worse if I didn't have my writing, if I didn't have an extended goal, if I didn't have my characters. I wrote 100,000 words in four months during that depression. That is huge for me, a chronic slow drafter.

What is it about writing, then, that saves me, besides helping me discover my own truths? If I'm upset and have enough sense to write myself out of my sadness (because sometimes I'm an idiot who insists she's too upset to write. Uh huh. That's like saying "I'm too hungry to eat."), something happens. Dozens of times, I've listen to my sniffles slowly die down as I become more absorbed in the story. My problems vanish. My pain evaporates. Slowly, they are eclipsed by problems and pain belonging to other people. My issues don't matter right now, because so-and-so is miserable about such-and-such, and he/she needs me to transcribe that sorrow into words. No one else can do it. And sure, these people aren't real (ouch, my heart). But their emotional experiences are. Millions of people throughout history have felt the same fear and shame one of my gay characters feels about coming out of the closet. Countless people have experienced feelings of worthlessness, hopelessness, recklessness. This is how my characters are each, individually, thousand of nuggets of truth.

Yes, I suppose you could aim to write purely for entertainment. But a book can never be just that, at least not for everyone in the world. No matter what, your book will reveal conscious, subconscious, and unconscious aspects of your psyche. The words you choose will reveal your background, your upbringing, your values. Your characters' moral codes will reflect societal paradigms, expectations, realities. Pure and mindless entertainment, at least when it comes to fiction, does not and cannot exist.

The Paramore quote I posted at the top of this entry might seem melodramatic. Maybe it is. But it's how I feel about writing. I might not literally be dead if I didn't have writing. But I might not be as emotionally aware. I might feel like one of the thousands of helpless people who aren't sure why they're on this planet (if this is you--you'll find it, I promise, as long as you keep looking). I might not be as honest with myself as I am.

No one can tell me I'm not meant to write. I feel it in my bloodstream. Sure, someone can time travel from the future to tell me I'll never get recognition, and no one outside my family and friends will ever read my words. To that I say, so the hell what?

I might never publish a word, but I know I'm here to write until I die.

-Morgan

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Artistic Growth, In Writing and in All Forms of Art

Prepare yourselves. I'm about to get a little rambly (though if you've been following this blog, I assume that's a thing you're okay with?).

I know some people like consistency. When they listen to an album they like, watch a movie they enjoy, or read their favorite book, they hope to see more of something similar from the musician, director, or writer who produced it. It makes sense from a logical standpoint. After all, I eagerly eat chocolate because I have eaten chocolate in the past and it has proven to my taste buds time and time again that it is delicious. The difference with chocolate, though, is that it is a generic product produced by scores of companies all over the world, and has been for some time. Unless it's being featured on the food channel, chocolate is not generally considered a form of art. And when it comes to art, consumers must be flexible.

The recent release of the new Paramore album [Wikipedia link] is what got me thinking about artistic growth, but, since I'm a fan of multiple types of artists, as most people are, it's popped into my head more than a couple of times (more on that later). For those who don't know, this album, though it is the band's fourth, is the first album Paramore created without two of its original founding members, former guitarist Josh Farro and former drummer Zac Farro. Both Farros brought wonderful things to the band--Josh was responsible for writing many of the songs that have touched my heart, and Zac's an infectious drummer--so it was inevitable that this album would be different.

Boy, is it ever. They're exploring multiple genres in this album and the lyrics have a kind of optimism that, while it bubbled under the surface of their third album especially, nobody's ever seen from them before. I never thought I'd hear a ukelele or a gospel choir in a Paramore song before giving this album a listen. And I can't describe the unadulterated joy this album brought me the first time I heard it all the way through.

I was just as excited when they released their third album, brand new eyes, in 2009. But I remember that, while I enjoyed the songs immensely, I had trouble telling many of them apart. Only after a couple weeks could I hear the beginning of a song and go, "Okay, this is 'Looking Up,' not 'Where the Lines Overlap'." With this album, the self-titled Paramore, I know what song I'm listening to instantaneously, and I adore almost every one of them. I imagine part of why I'm so obsessed with this album is because I know it took risk to make it. They needed to grow as artists and, while they knew their experiment might not work out, they gave it a try, anyway. I admire that in any artist.

Hundreds of Facebook commenters don't agree with me. I won't post any actual quotes so as not to oust anyone, but here are some examples that capture the gist:

"What the hell is this pop shit? Bring back the Farros!"

"Wow, what happened to the REAL Paramore?"

"Guys, it's over. Paramore no longer exists. They've totally sold out."

And, my very favorite: "How could they do this to their fans?!"

Uhh, okay. Neil Gaiman once wrote a wonderful blog post called "Entitlement Issues" [link to Neil Gaiman's journal] when someone asked him if authors owe it to their writers to speed up the process of finishing their books, speaking specifically of George R. R. Martin, author of the Song of Ice and Fire series. Here's an excerpt from Gaiman's response:

Look, this may not be palatable, Gareth, and I keep trying to come up with a better way to put it, but the simplicity of things, at least from my perspective is this:

George R.R. Martin is not your bitch.

This is a useful thing to know, perhaps a useful thing to point out when you find yourself thinking that possibly George is, indeed, your bitch, and should be out there typing what you want to read right now.

Though Gaiman was speaking about fans expecting artists to meet certain deadlines, I believe this applies to artistic growth as well. Of course any good artist cares about his or her fans--without the fans, the artist wouldn't have success. Of course they want to make the fans happy. But that does not mean the artist should be expected to compromise whatever vision they may have for their art in order to please others. The ideal is when what the fans want and what the artist wants align with one another, which, in the case of Paramore, actually seems to have happened [link to billboard.com article]. But sometimes they don't, and the (good) artist produces whatever's bursting from their soul either way. Power to them.

Obviously, plenty of people disagree with this. That's fine. Personally, complaints about how an artist has "changed" drive me crazy. In fact, if I keep up with an artist and I don't see any growth whatsoever after a while, if I'm just listening to/watching/reading the same old thing over and over, I lose patience with that artist. Having some recurring themes across the years is one thing, and can be fun to track. Producing the same artistic product over a lengthy period of time is tedious and pointless. This probably comes from the same part of my personality that rejects the idea of sticking to one genre for my entire life. There's a reason that after I finish my fantasy series, I desperately want to write a contemporary novel. I don't like boxes very much, or figurative ones, anyway.

A similar thing happened in September when J.K. Rowling released The Casual Vacancy. Everyone was all excited that J.K. Rowling had written something else. I know people who wished their local Barnes and Noble was throwing a midnight release party for it. What happened when they read it, or started reading it? "This isn't Harry Potter!" they exclaimed. Did...did you expect it to be? Did you not see the title? Or the description? Or the fact that it is in the adult section? What the hell did you think was going to happen? You'd open the book and the title page would be like, "Surprise! This book is actually called Harry Potter and the Casual Vacancy. Here's a drawing by Mary Grandpré." ?

And I loved The Casual Vacancy. I got attached to several of the characters and had trouble sleeping the night I finished because the ending shook me up so much. It proved to me that Rowling is a powerful writer who is capable of branching out. Sure, when Deathly Hallows came out, I had expectations. I wanted desperately to read the scene where Ron and Hermione finally kissed. What would I have done if she hadn't included that scene? I probably would have thrown a fit, but that's because I was fourteen years old and ridiculous. Regardless, there would have been nothing I could have done about it. If Rowling didn't write it, it meant it wasn't part of her vision. And every artist has a right to putting his or her vision out there. It doesn't mean they're not grateful for their fans. In fact, usually it's their way of saying, "Thank you for loving my work! Here's another thing I poured my heart into, and I hope you love this one, too!"

Essentially, let people do what they love. For all I know, the next Legend of Zelda game could completely toss out their usual get-a-cool-item-in-a-dungeon-and-use-it-to-beat-the-boss formula and give Link a machine gun, or Paramore's next album could be made up entirely of rap songs. What is the worst that happens to me? I don't like the game or album, am a little disappointed, and don't buy it. Then, oh my god, my life continues. If you are an artist taking a risk for the sake of growth, I respect you immensely, and I hope I can have the courage to do the same all throughout my life.

Also, will people shut up about Hayley Williams' (lead singer of Paramore) bangs? She could shave her head and tattoo a gorilla on it for all I care, because her hair doesn't make the music I love.

-Morgan

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