Jeff Chapman discusses the positives of writing under a deadline.

This year I’m taking part in Write1Sub1, an experiment with writing and self-imposed deadlines inspired by Ray Bradbury, who used to write and submit a new story every week. There are two flavors: the weekly for the brave or insane and the monthly for the realistic or wimpy. Participants check in each week or month to report on their progress. I chose the monthly version because I didn’t want to fail. Most of my stories stretch to several thousand words, but I’m getting better. So far, I’m keeping up with my commitment. Four months in and I’ve written four new stories and placed two of them.

Write1Sub1 has pushed me to produce more stories and approach writing more like a craftsman rather than an artist. I have an order for this month and I have to complete something. I have to finish that first draft, which for me has always been the stumbling block. I’ve tackled ideas that would likely still be sketchy ideas in a notebook. I didn’t feel swept up with inspiration for these stories but I needed to write something. Strangely enough, as I worked on these stories, I did become inspired and passionate about them. Sparks for the inspirational fire come from the pen scratching the paper.

The deadline gives you no time to bemoan writer’s block. If you’re stuck, keep writing. If a part of the plot is blocking you, throw it out and try a different path, but above all, keep writing. Producing a large number of stories diminishes the personal stake you have in each one, which makes cutting and rewriting easier. There’s always another story to throw your heart into around the corner. You also have less time to be verbose. If you want to finish the story and have some time to reflect and rewrite, you have to stick to the essentials in the first draft.

With the threat of public humiliation hanging over me like the grim reaper with his scythe, Write1Sub1 has curbed some of my worst writing habits. If you’re having trouble finishing stories, create deadlines for yourself and stick to them and tell others so they can hold you accountable. Most importantly, produce something. You can always rewrite it.

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Jeff Chapman writes fairy tales, fantasy, and ghost stories and hearing the expression “just a fairy tale” rankles him. His works have appeared in Golden Visions Magazine, The Midnight Diner, Mindflights, and Residential Aliens. He lives with his wife and children in a house with more books than bookshelf space. To learn more, stop by his blog at http://jeffchapmanwriter.blogspot.com/.

“It’s easy to have a hard life,” my Reverend said in his sermon last week.  “Just make it all about you.”  This isn’t just good advice for those of us prone to bemoaning our sad fates (I have so much grad school debt, I lost my job, my sister is annoying me, all the people I know in this town are idiots) but it’s also fabulous advice for writers.

Nothing is more transparent in fiction than a “me” story.  In the “me” story, the main character, a stand-in for the author, is utterly flawless and is wronged by everyone around him, who just don’t understand what a fragile perfect specimen of awesome he is.  The level of awesome can range from being a perfect lover betrayed by her boyfriend, an immortal half-fallen angel assassin with perfect aim, giant bat wings and a magic power which allows her to decide who is innocent and who is guilty, or the last man standing in a zombie battle because he is just so strong and manly. These are very common in undergraduate fiction classes and unfortunate in graduate level work. 

Tommy Weiseau’s film The Room is a perfect example (for those of you who haven’t seen it, DO NOT, I repeat DO NOT watch it without the downloadable Rifftrax commentary).  Written by, directed by, produced by, starring and most likely catered by Euro-weirdo Tommy Weiseau, the story revolves around Johnny, who, as every character likes to point out, has a very good job, is very stable and loves his cheating wife Lisa very much.  He buys her red dresses and roses, he fends off a drug dealer attacking his adopted son Denny, he is absolutely perfect.  Watching the film, you just know this is how he views himself, and that some woman somewhere along the line hurt him.  If this is true, The Room is no longer a tragedy (and an accidental comedy) but it is a story of revenge . . . just a poorly done one at that.

Writing about oneself—even thinly veiled as a barbarian with a leather loincloth and well-oiled pecs—makes not only the writing process difficult, but it makes the editing process near impossible.  The writer gets more defensive as usual because you are no longer critiquing the piece, you’re critiquing the person.  In a creative non-fiction class, no one would dare say, “The part where your dad died you wasn’t working for me . . . can you change it so that he recovers from cancer and takes you to the zoo instead?”  But in a fiction workshop (or as an editor) we say these things without knowing that the protagonist is actually the author, even if it is as clear as cheap cellophane.

We all tap into ourselves when writing.  It’s part of the process because we can only write what we ourselves understand.  If a writer has never known hunger or cold, how can they truly capture the experience of a homeless woman huddled in a church doorway?  We can put words down, words like “growling stomach” and “frostbite,” but those words will just be hollow, empty sentiments.

In “Preacher Man” (vol. 3) Derringer’s abandonment issues are not solely the product of my imagination.  But having learned from a long, painful series of “me” stories (some of which I cringe to think about) was to let a character stand on their own and not be an avatar for the writer.  I gave her traits—good and bad—I don’t come anywhere near possessing (her maternal instinct, for one).  I let her develop naturally, informed by my experience but not locked into it . . . because each character has her own experiences and his own story to tell.  It’s selfish not to let them tell it.