Hello, it’s (all) me again. I hope you enjoyed these posts with me and ChatDog, talking about exposition and scene. Wrapping up, I thought I would tell you a bit about my personal journey as a writer. This is, after all, my practice and process blog, where I expose myself and the structure of what I do, whether that’s a happy story or a confused mess.
Before I wrote my first complete novel, I read thousands of books: found on my parents’ shelves, checked out seven a week from the Women’s Club Library, or bought for a dollar or two from the Book and Tape Worm. I developed an ear for cadence, and I used it to my advantage. Teachers approved of my writing: my thanks to Rachel Hord, Jill Richard, and so many other fine teachers and friends who helped me see myself as a writer.
My first finished novel might have had a thin plot and knee-deep characters, but it also had good pacing, decent dialog, and a judicious mix of scene and exposition.
I didn’t know that. I just did what sounded right.
In college, I learned basic technique, both in English, where I was exposed to great fiction and educated about why it was great, and in journalism, where I was taught how to convey unvarnished facts — sublime in the pen of a skilled writer like John Hersey or John McPhee.
Later, as a composition and speech teacher, I had to teach the rules to students who depended on me to tell them something more substantive than, ‘Just listen to the sound of the words. It’s like poetry!’ I had continued to rely on my ear for writing, rather than apply the rules.
I could tell them where their writing went wrong, but not what was wrong with it. I could fix problems, but not tell them how to fix it themselves. Sorry, class. Ms. Swanson is a writer, not a teacher.
After stints in marketing and graphic design, I moved into tech writing, where my journalism skills came in handy: strive for objectivity; write for the audience; ask and answer all the questions; and most important of all, let creativity take a back seat, if you even bring it along.
I finally got back to fiction. It felt incredible. But the habits that served me in tech writing were not so helpful in creative writing. I also didn’t know about getting through the tough grind of tens of thousands of words, the brain-bender of plotting, or the howling terror of publishing submissions.
I joined a writing workshop led by the awesome Jamie Morris. There, writing in the company of many talented and dedicated writers, I learned about plot, subplot, and character arc. Since then, I’ve been lucky enough to work with Pat Matthews as a critique partner, whose generous feedback helps me trust my voice.
Some things still baffle me. I forget to include visual and auditory details, making my scenes read like screenplay dialog; I bog down in exposition; I write about my plot and characters. I rarely get writer’s block, but I can get stuck typing page after page of competently composed cruft.
I still consider myself a natural writer rather than a masterful one. Instead of having a firm grasp of craft, I rely on intuition, an ear for language, and my emotional responses to guide me through a story. When I know things are going wrong, I lean in to the most important things I’ve learned: I ask my critique partner or readers for feedback; I read aloud to engage my own reader’s ear; and sometimes, I teach myself a new trick.
Like using AI.
I mostly couldn’t absorb information from books on writing. Among the exceptions:
- Ursula K. LeGuin, Steering The Craft: A Twenty-First-Century Guide to Sailing the Sea of Story
- Percy Lubbock, The Craft of Fiction
- E.M. Forster, Aspects of the Novel
- Edward Gorey, The Unstrung Harp; or, Mr. Earbrass Writes a Novel
- E.B. White, The Elements of Style