Month: March 2021

Writing is fun and frustrating. The lists for what make it either fun or frustrating are almost as varied and numerous as the people who write. (I read a lot of essays written by writers about the ups and downs of writing.)

Sometimes I wrestle with a short story or an essay for days or weeks (or months). I wrangle with voice, tense, point of view, structure, characters, dialogue, and a bunch of other writing concepts. Finally, when I feel I’ve pinned the piece to the mat, I set it aside for a while. At this point, I’m not ready for another match with a new story or essay idea that’s been patiently waiting on the sidelines.

I want to keep writing, but if I’ve struggled with a piece, I need a break. I need to watch a good movie, laugh with friends, binge watch British TV shows. And, I need to write fluffy! (Sometimes I even need to write fluffy during an epic clash with a story or an essay.)

For me fluffy writing is like a good walk, a session of yoga, and a good night’s sleep.

I’ve developed some fluff strategies:

• I write about humorous events. I’ve written about losing a belt and the odd way I found it, learning to use my new pressure cooker, my fear of reading at open mics, a takeout order gone awry, and a chaotic art project with my four grandkids. There’s often humor lurking beneath the mundane. I don’t worry if my writing is funny or not; I just enjoy writing about something that amused me.
• I write outside my typical style. My writing tends to be unadorned. But sometimes I yearn to write something flowery, jacked up on purple prose (but hopefully, I draw the line at a pale shade of lilac). I splash on too many metaphors, adverbs, and adjectives, like cheap perfume. These pieces often sound old fashioned. In this vein, I wrote a flash essay about visiting Split Rock Lighthouse in the 1970s with my father and again in 2017 with my grandchildren. Editors keep declining it, but one of my readers said it’s one of his favorites. (His friend told me to ditch some of the adverbs and adjectives, so I cut one adjective.) I wrote an essay about my tulip buds being eaten by rabbits during the pandemic spring of 2020. And, I wrote an essay about trying to write and take care of four grandchildren thirty hours a week. Both essays are a lilac shade. But I like them because they capture how I felt.
• I write about writing. I always have something to say about writing. I’ve covered writing titles, avoiding household chores so I can write, wondering if I’m a real writer, writer’s block during the pandemic, and a rebellious character in a story who refused to follow my plot. Right now, I’m writing this essay (and I have more rough drafts about writing saved in a file).
• I ask myself what if questions. One of my relatives said of my dog, “Ziva is such a cat.” Her accurate assessment of my dog’s personality made me wonder, Could I write a story about a dog that behaves like a cat? It’s not a fine literary story or even a literary story or maybe even a story, but when I read it, it reminds me of my relative and my dog, both of whom I love. I wrote my only historical fiction story based on my great-grandfather’s parents by asking, What if a certain event hadn’t happened?
• I wrote a spoof on romance stories. At least I think it’s more spoof than satire or parody. I don’t consider myself a writer of spoof, satire, or parody, but it’s fun to try. I smile more when I try to write humor. Smiling relieves tension, and that’s the point of my fluffy writing interludes.
• I write for or about my grandchildren. I enjoy this for the same reason I like taking pictures of them, reading to them, or walking down the street with them. Or doing anything with them.
• I write for my blog, which prefers light, fluffy pieces and always accepts my work. It’s nice to know I won’t be getting a rejection letter.

For me fluffy writing is like a good walk, a session of yoga, and a good night’s sleep. It gets my blood flowing, centers my being, and energizes me. It’s like watching episodes of a Keeping Up Appearances, a British sitcom, after watching the lives of characters unravel on Upstairs, Downstairs, a British drama. It’s like topping a healthy sweet potato casserole with large sugary marshmallows.

And now, fluff break is over. Time to wrestle with the next story idea that’s been waiting for its match.

Victoria Lynn Smith enjoys writing fiction and creative nonfiction as she listens to classical music while her two poodles relax on the nearby couch. When she’s not writing, she loves to read and quilt or watch British comedies and mysteries. Her number-one travel wish is to visit the Shetland Islands. Her essays and stories have been published in Talking Stick, Spring Thaw, and Red Cedar Review. Her work has also appeared on Lake Superior Writers’ Blog, Brevity Blog, Perfect Duluth Day, Better Than Starbucks and Wisconsin Public Radio. Read more at https://writingnearthelake.org/

Eventually the cogs start gripping and the smoke starts billowing and words lay out in lines…

I don’t know yet if I fancy myself as a writer, but I do know I am a lover of words, and like others with this affliction, I look for strategies to feed my passion.

Arthur Miller, author of Tropic of Cancer, had what he called a “Daily Program” that went something like this:

• Mornings: Write if you can, otherwise do some organizing and research.
• Afternoons: Focus on a section of work, no distractions, no interruptions.
• Evenings: Live. Bike, go to cafes, go to museums, sketch in streets, write small things if in the mood.

This makes me think I simply don’t have time to be a writer. My “Daily Program” looks something like this:

In the morning, get up ridiculously early, feed the cat, do a little yoga, then settle in with my pen or my laptop and my mug of coffee and start calling the muse. Eventually the cogs start gripping and the smoke starts billowing and words lay out in lines and strikeouts and dot dot dots. And then I feel the anxiety and disappointment as I look at the clock and realize it’s time to get presentable for work, so I wade through the words pooled on the floor, choke on phrases clouding the air, and head upstairs.

I continue to jot down notes on a pad I keep in the bathroom, I talk to my windshield on my drive to work, I tell Siri to jot down a few more ideas or revisions in the parking lot before I head in and transform into a hopefully functioning, useful human being.

My evenings are the mundane, the chopping, the roasting, the dishes, catching up on emails and other correspondence, then reading something delicious until the page blurs, something that often happens in a matter of minutes.

I am sometimes frustrated with the choices I’ve made in life that have cramped a writing lifestyle — changing college majors when life made me tired, settling down with a fun, supportive soul mate rather than a sugar daddy, deciding that health insurance and a 401k were worth the trade-off of having less time to run through the tall grasses of literary fields, chasing and capturing words with a net, examining each one in the palm of my hand.

Still, I write yet hesitate to label myself as a writer. I feel that in order to wear that label, I need some kind of success. But then that depends on how I define success. Have I lost myself in a powerful wave of description and alliteration? Have I entertained myself by reading my poem out loud, then decided that was so fun I’d read it again? Have I had trouble sleeping because I’ve done a terrible thing to a character? Has the thought of a beautifully turned sentence helped me through a dull day at work?

I have to tell myself this is enough for now, the satisfaction of lovingly, slowly, sloppily bringing a story to life one frantic coffee-fueled morning at a time, anticipating it will eventually find a home somewhere, sometime.

Meanwhile, I wear my writing like discreet fancy underpants or a snarky hidden tattoo, my secret alter ego that only I enjoy for now.

Sara Sha is a lifelong Minnesota resident and a recent Duluth transplant. Besides writing, she enjoys historical research and wandering through the woods and rocky areas of Northeastern Minnesota with her husband. She also spends a lot of time staring over the waters of Lake Superior, and she’s not sure why.