And I think the only way inspiration comes is through practice. Just keep writing, even if its about something mundane. I’m keeping a diary of my son’s pre-schooling years, because those are the years when Deb and I have the biggest impact on him. Some days the words just flow. Other days I just keep on writing, even if its only about what we had for dinner. I feel that if I don’t write the mundane stuff, I’ll never get to the other stuff.

In a way, this is like meditation. My understanding is that meditators have to let go of all the little crappy stuff that floats to the top so they can get to the good stuff.

I mostly just think about death in the abstract. I’m not yet at the point where I’m comfortable with it on a personal level. I’ve been extremely lucky in that everyone to whom I’m close is still around, so I haven’t had the experience of dealing with such a tragedy.

And yet, I’ve somehow become the designated eulogy-writer for my extended family. I’ve been working on one for my 105-year-old great-grandmother for a while now, at her daughter’s request. She’s not even dead yet.

Many of my favorite books have a character who dies. I’ve heard that creative writing profs often ask students to write an obit for their favorite characters, but I didn’t really take any creative writing classes so I don’t know if that’s true. All of that said, I have written a book with a protagonist who works in the obit department of a major newspaper.

Couple of thoughts came into mind after reading Trent’s comment.

One was a comment by Chris Lynch who said, “you don’t need to say everything in one book. There will always be more books to write.”

The other was a comment by Bruce Brooks. It is often said that as a writer you have to kill your babies meaning that you have to cut those beloved lines when they are unnecessary. But Bruce Brooks didn’t compare his edits to babies but rather car parts. He used a VW bus analogy. Save those parts in your garage (or did he say front yard?) and use them for another bus.

Best,

Mara

I figure that if red ink is the biggest problem my students will ever have in their lives, then they are headed for greatness. On the other hand, if they can’t handle a red pen, they are doomed to failure and might as well start in my class.

On a more serious note, while researching for a lecture, I was recently in touch with some very well respected authors in the kidlit field. When asked how they marked improvement as a writer, they again and again answered that it was very important to learn to cut and get rid of material that the story can do without.

Maybe it is a function of the human instinct to value that which is rare. If diamonds were as common as limestone, then they would not sell for nearly as much money. Children are reluctant to share their last piece of gum; that one last piece is more valuable. Perhaps it is the same with our writing. If a person has only written one novel, he finds it very difficult to cut parts of it, for fear he won’t be able to come up with something as good again. But if a man has four or five different manuscripts, he is better able to cut, knowing that there’s more where that cut scene came from. Thus, more experienced writers would point to the ability to let parts of one’s writing go, as a measure of improvement and development.

Excellent post, as usual, Mara. Thank you.