In The War of Art, Steven Pressfield examines the difference between professional writers and amateur. He writes,

“The conventional interpretation is that the amateur pursues his calling out of love, while the pro does it for money. Not the way I see it. In my view, the amateur does not love the game enough. If he did, he would not pursue it as a sideline, distant from his “real” vocation. The professional loves it so much he dedicates his life to it.”

I’ve never seen a better analogy in print!

The War of Art is a book about writing and being a writer. It has no writing tips in it, not one. Yet it’s going on my shelf next to On Writing, Starting from Scratch and The First Five Pages. This is because there’s never been a more dead-on approach to what it takes to turning pro. Need a kick in the pants? Buy it – read it – LIVE IT! And write.

L. L.

Something happened when it came time to send The Things We Crave into the world. I froze. I couldn’t pull the trigger. “The book needs a rewrite,” I told my friends, smiling like a goon. “It needs revision…”

The revision lasted several months. During this period I reworked scenes, then entire chapters. I paced about my apartment and acted out dialogue, as confident as a long haired cat in a room full of rocking chairs. I didn’t know it at the time, but a Dream Eater had me by the throat; and I was the Dream Eater.

Your best friend and worst enemy is the guy or gal in the mirror. This is true for writers, especially when it’s time to share their work with the world. It’s one thing to write a story and show it to you friend and quite another to put a book into the hands of strangers. But writing is about sharing your work. It’s what Ariel Gore means when she says, “Nourish the world with your words. Yo.” What good is a manuscript on a hard drive? On that note, what good is that writer?

Publishing your work is proclaiming to the world, “This is the best I can do. It’s the best book I can write and it’s worthy of your time and money because I say so.” That’s frightening because it goes without saying that somebody is going to disagree. Hell, maybe a lot of somebodys will disagree. And if too many somebodys disagree it’s going to hurt. It’s that fear that the internal Dream Eater feeds upon. The paralysis will keep your words hidden away while someone else’s earn an Amazon ranking.

The fact is The Things We Crave is the best book I can write at this time. Will it be the best book I can write next year? No way, next year I’ll be better. Did it benefit from months of revision? Not really. Will some people like it? Yup. Will some hate it? Definitely. Does it matter? You know the answer. 

What I know for sure is that one particular Dream Eater is dead. I’ve got my sock clad feet propped on his sorry, dead ass right now. ”Rest in peace, mother fucker.” Good riddance to him. And now that he’s down the world’s gonna hear a lot more from me.

Like most people who want to write novels for a living, I read a lot. I devour books. The urge to read overpowers me the way a bottole does an alcoholic. It’s part of learning how to write a novel. If you don’t read a lot, you won’t be a good writer. It’s about as simple as that.  

This week I read, for the second time, James Patterson’s Along Came a Spider. Now say what you will about Patterson – some literary types believe his tight, compact prose hardly warrants writing. Those guys are welcome to their opinions and may freely share them with the students they torutre in their Sophomore Year English Lit classes. The truth is, Patterson undertands STORY and he is a master. (So is Stephen King and don’t let any snotty lit-type in a sweater vest tell you otherwise. That’s a different rant, however.)

WARNING – SCENE SPOILER BELOW. IF YOU HAVEN’T READ THE BOOK THE BELOW WILL RUIN IT FOR YOU.

For example – Along Came A Spider begins December 21, 1992. (The prologue takes place in 1932, at least in the antagonist’ imagination, but the story opens Dec. ‘93.) In part IV, we cross November 11, 1993. That’s a lot of time and a helluva lot happens. Every chapter raises the stakes, increasing the tension and keeping one flippen pages. And when you think you’ve got it figured out, a plot twist punches you in the eye. I like that in a story.

I didn’t like that Sampson shoots the bad guy. Come on, we all know the good guy has to win his own war. He can’t be rescued. I was disappointed to see an otherwise solid craftsman break that rule. Thoughts?

Earlier this week Patti Stafford, of The Stafford Scribe, wrote, “The muse is like a child. It needs love and affection, but sometimes it needs to be scolded too.”

Most writers will accept this as truth, me included. The child-like muse roams about charged with fiery excitement and fueled by adrenalized curiosity. It pokes its sticky fingers into a topic, then moves on before boredom attacks. If left unsupervised, without parentel guidance, it will make no progress. Child – indeed.

For some, the muse is more reckless twenty-something than adorable toddler. The muse that haunts me, for example, prefers to stay up all night, drive fast and toy with dangerous friends. Its half wannabe rock star and half outlaw, rebelling against the confines of story structure and character arc. It prefers to do most things – well, everything – its own way. It has a volatile temper and is prone to angry outburst on journal pages. If ignored, he shuts down completely, a sullen little creature sulking in the darkest corners of imagination-land. He is troublesome, yes, but I wouldn’t have him any other way.

Tonight I’m thinking about my Chicago friends. The windy-city-crew was there for me through black eyes and bad luck. When times were bad, they held the net taut and ensured I wouldn’t crash into the pavement. When times were good, they shared grins and laughs for free and without reservation. Friends come and go because friendships require face time and life changes so fast that sometimes we can’t put in the hours. But the good friends, the ones that love you, stay with you forever even if it’s only in your heart.

It leaves me melancholy and tired and, because I’m a writer, wondering what kind of story it would make. The subject is more theme than conflict, I suppose. Stories driven by theme make boring reading, so I don’t want to explore it in that context. Maybe I could write about a guy who goes back to his roots, to where he had the best friends of his life, and tries to recapture that sense of belonging and acceptance? It might be a good story… Need to sleep on it and flesh it out.