Stephanie Watson

Maybe

swadmin — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 15:39:11 +0000

Behold! My First Book

swadmin — Wed, 11 Jan 2012 15:53:51 +0000

I have been lying to you for a long time. I have let you believe that Elvis & Olive was my first book, but it wasn’t.

My very first book was written and illustrated when I was 10 or 11, on the coffee table while sitting in front of the TV that was airing an episode of Roseanne. Or Empty Nest. The book was made from typing paper, stapled together, and illustrated with markers, some of which were drying out because I left the caps off.

You know, I think “behold!” is underused these days. I should bring it back.

Make Friends with Failure

swadmin — Wed, 09 Mar 2011 18:27:40 +0000

Perfectionism can be a useful tool as a writer. It helps you put in the necessary effort to make a good story great. It can also be a barrier to the risk-taking required to create outstanding original work. If you are too worried about being perfect, you will play it too safe because you know that risks, in addition to leading to breakout work, can also lead to big, fat failures. And failure can be uncomfortable.

I think that becoming friendly with failure is an important thing for writers to do. I am not suggesting that you fail on purpose. But if you learn to treat your creative flops lightly, even with some humor, and accept them as an inevitable consequence of being a writer, you might feel freer to take big, bold risks.

Failure and I became fast friends in 1993. I was a freshman at South High School in Minneapolis, and I decided to join the cross-country ski team. I assumed that I would be good at skiing, like I was good at lots of things. Plus, I was a dancer, and what is skiing but dancing on skis? After a little begging, my parents bought me the expensive equipment.

I had a dance rehearsal on the first day, so I missed the coach’s lesson for new skiers. So what? I thought. I don’t need lessons. I will be a natural.

My first experience on skis was at a meet, also known as a race, at Theodore Wirth Park. Once the team trundled off the bus, the coach pointed out the finish line, marked by a couple of orange flags. He told us to ask the girl with the stopwatch for our time once we crossed the line. Yes, yes, I thought. Let’s start the race already so I can win it.

I was surprised by two things that day. First, at how hard it was to actually propel myself forward in the snow, versus just pumping my skis back and forth in place. When I did manage to move, it was mostly to topple over sideways. The second surprise was that no one else seemed to be having this problem. Everyone zipped past me while I inched toward the finish line.

But I couldn’t be sure that I had actually crossed the finish line, since the poles that once marked it had been plucked up and put away by the time I shambled past. The girl with the stopwatch was gone too—my time was irrelevant at this point. It was dark out and the entire ski team was waiting on the bus. For me.

Sadly, this bout of horrible skiing was not a first-day fluke. I was terrible all season long, with very little improvement despite tremendous effort. I never made it down a steep hill without a cartoon wipeout. Many courses ended in a big hill, and as I was always the last one down, the entire congregation of skiers would witness my epic falls. In the middle of the season I felt like quitting, because my daily failure was hard to swallow. But my parents had spent so much on the skis that I didn’t have the heart to drop out. So I kept going.

I remember the day when I decided that being on the team, even if I was its worst member, was not so bad. It was when the star skier, a senior named Lisa and a state champion, cheered me from the sidelines (long after having crossed the finish line herself). “You can do it!” she yelled. Her friend Liz yelled and clapped her mittens for me, too. They weren’t laughing at me. They were genuinely cheering me on. My failure didn’t seem to make them uncomfortable. What if I could relax into it, too?

Toward the end of the season, I won the only prize of my short-lived skiing career: A 12th place ribbon. There were only 12 skiers, which meant I was awarded a ribbon for losing. I pinned the ribbon on my bulletin board proudly. It was a symbol of my great effort and willingness to fail, both prize-worthy in their own rights.

Almost 20 years later, I still have the ribbon. It’s an important reminder to take risks, to treat inevitable failures lightly, and to keep shuffling forward.

Where Do You Get Your Ideas?

swadmin — Wed, 26 Jan 2011 18:23:50 +0000

When I visit a school, it’s dollars to donuts that I get this question: Where do you get your ideas?

Ideas are nice and we would all like more of them, so this is a perfectly reasonable question. My answer is that ideas are everywhere, a revelation that feels reasonable to me but never seems to satisfy anyone hoping to write. I think people would prefer an answer that involves 6 simple steps to writing success. I will work on that. Meanwhile, read this:

Writers you love, writers of stories that inspire you, live in the exact same world you do, which is bustling with interesting things and dull things and everything in between. The same sorts of unfiltered thoughts that come to you as you are wandering through your day come to your favorite writers, too.

The difference is that skilled writers are ready to catch the most interesting ideas like butterflies in a net. They have learned to recognize the little thoughts that could be developed into something bigger—they catch these and nurture them into stories or poems or songs. Boring and unoriginal ideas come to wonderful writers too, just like they come to everyone. But with practice, they have learned to let these less interesting thoughts flutter off.

Ideas aren’t the problem—the world is cram-jammed with those. What you need is an idea-catching net and some practice using it. And here, when I say net I mean “notebook.”

Okay, here’s what you’ve been waiting for:

How to catch good ideas in 6 simple steps

Go about your business as you usually do. Go to school, go to work, ride the bus, walk to your usual haunts, talk to your friends, pet your dog, etc.
Pay attention to the things that happen during your day. But pay MORE attention to what you find most interesting or curious about what happens. Your interest might be piqued by someone shouting, “Hey there, Javier!” across the alley. Or you might see something you find curious, like a bag of blank nametags in the garbage can.
Jot these things down in a notebook or on note cards. These are your ideas.
Once you have caught some ideas safely in your notebook, let one loose on the page. Start writing and see what happens. Follow your idea where it leads, which is usually to a place in your mind and heart where there are more interesting ideas along the same lines as the first.
Keep noticing what is interesting to you, and keep collecting these bits in a notebook.
Keep writing

Photo courtesy of o hello’s photostream on flickr.com.

Thank You

swadmin — Thu, 15 Jul 2010 00:13:14 +0000

Thank you thank you
for all that I am
and all that I have and
all whom I know

Thank you for all that is easy or hilarious or hard about this world
beautiful or strange or sad or soaring

Oh, thank you for bringing me along on this grand mysterious adventure
when you just as easily could have
left me at Home

Writing is Tough Sometimes

swadmin — Tue, 02 Mar 2010 00:29:29 +0000

I recently got a very lovely letter from a ten-year-old reader. She said lots of nice things about Elvis & Olive, and closed with a confession I deeply appreciated and will not soon forget: “I want to be a writer like you. But the problem is, I don’t actually want to do the work. I just want to have a book launch party and collect awards.”

You and me both, girl.

In fact, I would wager that every single writer who has ever published a book has felt that way at one moment or another. All of my writer friends feel that way quite a bit. Parties are lot of fun. Pen-to-paper is only fun some of the time. Mostly, sitting down to write is plain old work.

Recently, I wrote a really rough first draft of a new story. When I say rough, I mean that it sounds like Frankenstein wrote it after a couple glasses of champagne. Girl feel bad. Girl then feel better. Oh no, more trouble. The imagery is clutzy and there are plot holes bigger than one of Frankenstein’s platform shoes. But there are parts of the story that delight me too, and ultimately I am really hopeful about it, and very much in love with it. On certain days, the writing is so fun it feels like flying.

That is what keeps me going, the hope and those intermittent high-flying times. It makes the difficult days worth the trouble. And honestly, getting happily lost in the creation of a story is way more fun than launch parties and more satisfying than awards.

Writing is tough sometimes. But so what? It is worth it.

Branching Out

swadmin — Sat, 16 Jan 2010 18:21:03 +0000

Nobody is just one thing. But sometimes, we tell ourselves “I am this and that is all.” It’s simpler to classify yourself as a doctor or a writer or a plastic spoon sorter—it makes for shorter introductions at parties. And brief titles fit more neatly on a name tag or job application. But nobody is just one thing. Most people spill in many different directions. I do.

In private, I have always been more than a writer. For 2010, I have promised myself that I will branch out in public. Here are some branchy projects in the works:

Birds’ nest rings. I have made these twisted copper wire rings for years, giving them to friends at birthdays. Now that most of my friends have one, and I still like making them, I decided to start selling them in the Twin Cities. Beginning in February, you can buy a ring at these Minneapolis stores: I Like You and Laughing Water. They are cheep cheep! Go pick up one or two.

Improvisation. I have studied and performed comedy improvisation at the Brave New Workshop since 2004. This year, I will be teaching beginning improv classes at Dreamland Arts in St. Paul.

Writing instruction. This fall, I taught a middle-grade and YA novel-writing class at the Loft Literary Center with my good friend Jacque Fletcher. I had never taught writing before, and it was both scary and exciting to call myself a “writing teacher.” Our challenge to the students was to write a completed first draft of a novel. Most everyone did it by the end of 12 weeks! It was amazing, and inspiring, and so much fun. We plan to teach another class in 2010.

Painting. Art Materials in Minneapolis was having a sale this fall on canvases. I had never painted on a canvas before, but because they were cheap I bought a bunch. I also picked up some acrylic paint tubes. So far, I have painted a horse diving under a dark sea. My goal is to have lots of pretty pictures to hang around the house. And maybe a few ugly pictures, too.

Dancing. When I was in high school, I planned to become a professional dancer. I went to modern dance class every day at the Zenon Dance School in Minneapolis. When it was time to pick a college, I chose Sarah Lawrence in New York because they had a great dance program and a nice, big dance studio.

An injury eventually made it hard to dance full time, and I had to direct my energies toward other things, and I began concentrating on acting, writing and literature. Lately, my back has been feeling strong and I have missed dancing. So I started taking a modern class again at Zenon, my old haunt. My balance is shaky, but I am getting stronger, and having a lot of fun.

Being branchy is good for the soul. I am so happy to share these many stems of myself with you. Thank you for stopping by.

Write or Flight

swadmin — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 18:39:14 +0000

Lately, I have been seeing writers in warrior helmets. The monolith that is National Novel Writing Month traded in their decade-old mascot of Man Running with Pencil for a horned Viking helmet this year. By the videocasts, I can safely say that NaNo founder Chris Baty spent most of month proudly wearing the official helmet, and sometimes, chain mail. YA novelist Libba Bray wore a gladiator helmet for an interview with fellow writer Maureen Johnson.

Random, right?

Not really.

Writers are fighters. To face your fears and imperfect pages day in and day out, draft after draft, you must be a warrior. The battle writers wage is not so much with words as it is with self-doubt. Also, procrastination and sleepiness. Most days, I am desperate for an out. I want to do anything but write. Laundry always looks good, as do dishes, phone calls, Facebook, Googling old friends and enemies, and sorting spare buttons by color, then shape, then size. Daily, hourly, I feel the push-pull of Write or Flight.

We can choose to run from the dragons. Or we can stay to slay them, and claim the treasure of our finished stories and dreams made real.

Writing is a daily fight, and sturdy helmets are helpful. They keep the dragon’s fiery breath from scorching your hair, and protect you from your internal and external critics. They keep you creatively safe, so you can venture out with your mightier-than-swords pen and slash away. While gladiator helmets are made of iron, writerly helmets are forged of hope. And self-confidence. And persistence, because your dragons return daily.

Tomorrow, will you flee? Or will you write your dragons to death?

Nicknames for Nino

swadmin — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 18:46:05 +0000

My dog’s name is Nino. Lately, I have been calling him Lunar Module, much to the bewilderment of Nino, myself and my husband. The nickname Lunar Module came out of Lunar, which came from Lou Face and Lulu, which came from Lou, which came from Scooby Loo, the Brazilian version of Scrappy Doo, Scooby’s little nephew. Before that, his nickname was Bo.

Come here, Lunar Module, time to eat. Lou Face, do you want a bone? Scooby Loo, where are you? Hey there, Bo.

I don’t know where these nicknames come from. I don’t consciously think them up; they just tumble out of my mouth one day and then they stick. I like some of them (Lulu and Bo), some confuse me (Lou Face?), and some annoy me very much (Lunar Module, and the subsequent Lunar Landing and Lunar Moth). But I find myself saying the nicknames no matter how much I like or dislike them. Anyway, none of them last for long. The current name always sparks a new name, which sparks a new name, which sparks a new name.

The process of nicknaming Nino feels a lot like writing a story. Ideas spring up spontaneously, and one idea leads to another. Each thing builds on the last. In a first draft, a lot comes from the subconscious, and it isn’t always clear at first (or ever) what something means. That’s okay.

Some of the ideas that appear during a first draft are wonderful, some are confusing, and some are stupid or annoying. That is the nature of a first draft. But the point is to keep going no matter what; keep writing and trust that the story is leading you somewhere. It is not your job to judge or try to make sense of everything. Your job is simply to follow the pull of your story while trying to not take yourself or your writing too seriously.

When you are writing a first draft, be playful. Let strange ideas come up, then let them be, at least until you’ve completed the first draft. Have a little fun. Okay, Lou Face?

Me, Myself and I, II, III

swadmin — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 19:38:18 +0000

The first time I took myself on a solitary writing retreat, I was no good at it. I didn’t pack enough food, so I was starving the whole weekend. I tried to start a fire in the little fireplace, but I got frustrated and gave up. Once I finished a day’s writing, I didn’t know what to do. The silence made me so jittery that I went home a day early. I couldn’t bear to be so lonely.

A couple of weeks ago, I was close to finishing a draft of a new story. I needed some peace and quiet in order to complete it, so I decided on a four-day retreat to Little Falls, Minnesota.

I’d stay in a tiny one-room cabin a quarter mile from the Center of Franciscan Sisters to which it belonged. A cabin in the middle of nowhere, all to myself, where I can do exactly what I want? The idea thrilled me. And terrified me. Alone with myself again?

I decided I would do things differently. First of all, I’d put the “treat” in retreat. I bought myself all kinds of healthy food for the trip and packed my trusty teapot. I went to the library and checked out a bunch of “friends” in case the panic pressed in. I took the writing of Anne Lamott (always a great companion), and Gabrielle Bell’s graphic novel Lucky. I brought poems by Mary Oliver, who is as comfortable in nature as she is in her own skin. I brought my laptop and spiral notebook and good black pens—my beloved writing tools.

But more important than the soy yogurt and poetry and pens was the new willingness to be totally lonely. I wanted to face that feeling and see if it really was as scary as I was making it out to be.

When I got to Little Falls, the first thing I did was sit in the rocking chair by the stove and cry. I felt very far from home and everything familiar. The solitude was overwhelming. But I just sat there with those scary feelings and released myself into the loneliness. And after a while, I felt a little nudge inside.

“Why don’t you make yourself dinner, darling?”

It’s funny, because once I was really willing to be alone, I realized that I wasn’t. All the many versions of myself—everybody’s got ‘em—had followed me to Little Falls. And I was finally quiet enough to listen to them.

“Look at the tiny kitchen. It’s so cute, like a dollhouse kitchen or the kitchen on a ship.”

“We’re here to finish writing a story. Isn’t that exciting?”

In the quiet, I could hear the nurturing part of myself. And the part that delights in being alone. I also gave audience to a part that I will call Eeyore.

“I probably won’t get much writing done. Not that it matters,” Eeyore announced.

“That’s not true,” said the positive voice known as Wonder Girl. “We have everything we need to do great work.”

“Oh no! There’s a dead cricket in the corner!” Eeyore cried.

Wonder Girl crouched beside the cricket. “He’s just a little guy. Let’s leave him here, and make him the official mascot of the retreat.”

Over the long weekend, I discovered that some aspects of myself make wonderful companions. It required feeling very lonely to get in touch with them. I am so glad that I was willing to go to that shadowy spot inside.

Of course, Eeyore is not the most pleasant company. But he’s still a part of me and I must be kind to him. He was only allowed to “what if…” before dark. And when I was writing, I would ask him to please go out and search for his lost tail, so I could work in peace. But he was always invited back inside for a hot dinner.