Carol Berg: The Right Words As Carol Berg puts it, the difference that a single word can make is “pretty amazing.” And Carol should know. She has written 15 epic fantasy novels that have won national and international awards, including three Colorado Book Awards and the Mythopoeic Fantasy Award for Adult Literature. Her stories have…
Let’s talk about writer friends.
As the current Membership Chair of Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers, I’m occasionally asked to talk about the benefits of joining RMFW. The benefit I’m most passionate about is not an automatic perk like access to critique groups or discounted class and conference fees. It’s a bonus you must work for.
What’s the statistic—seventy-five percent of writers are introverts? Ninety percent? Like most of us, I was once that writer who talked to a few people at conference, exchanged info, and maybe sent an email or maybe not. I did this for years, making a couple of friends. I joined a critique group. I was skimming the surface, trying to convince myself that I was immersed. But then I looked around.
Other writers at conference and events had little tribes. (Many of us on the outside called them cliques.) These folks were clearly good friends, with lots to talk to each other about, with history and shared interests. Real friends.
One might assume these groups of friends had known each other before they joined RMFW, Pikes Peak Writers, or Northern Colorado Writers, but as I began to ask questions, I found that was almost never the case. These folks had built their relationships after they joined. At one time, most of them had felt alone and awkward at member events. The thing about these people who had found their sub-tribes is that they didn’t give up and go home, lock themselves into their writing spaces, and call themselves isolated. They spent time with each other, even when it was at first uncomfortable.
It eventually came clear: To find my people, I had to talk to everyone, and really talk, listen to people and learn about them, and share myself. That last part was difficult at first.
But I did it. Sometimes terrified and almost always wishing I was at home curled around a book, I talked to everyone. (Some turned out to be a little weird-in-a-bad-way. Always be careful.)
I found my people. I’m still finding my people. My people are everywhere.
If you haven’t tried to reach out to other writers, do it. The friends you’ll find are precious. These are the people who will encourage you and commiserate with you and understand you when no one else does.
To me, the most important benefit of membership in a writers group is access to potential writer friends. You can’t have too many of these, I’m telling you. They will shove your worries into perspective when you’re feeling sorry for yourself. They’ll read that manuscript one more time, even though they’ve read four previous drafts. They’ll give you reality checks, cheer you on, and give you advice that’s relevant in ways advice from non-writers will never be.
Just make sure to return these favors when you can.
Rejoice in your writer friends. Tell them they’re your superstars. Buy them a drink of their choice.
Got any great writer friend stories? I’d love to hear them. I might even share one or two of my own.
The recent Pikes Peak Writers Conference in Colorado Springs was a wakeup call for me. My conference notebook is filled with ideas and inspiration. Every presentation and panel I attended gave me at least a couple of A-ha! moments.
The most powerful of these moments was when Bob Mayer, during his presentation on the writing process, gave us this advice:
Profile yourself for twenty-four hours, and ask yourself, “Is this the kind of person who will succeed as a writer?”
The floor dropped from under me. I knew the answer to this question without having to profile myself. It was the wrong answer.
I’ve been lazy. Depressed. Discouraged. I’m hearing the same from writers on all fronts, and from non-writers, too. The state of our world frightens us. It’s difficult to focus or motivate ourselves.
Yet, I don’t want to quit. Some small part of me knows we need fiction now more than ever, to escape into sometimes, yes. But also to showcase what’s wrong with our world, and what’s right. To fuel imagination, because without imagination, we are lost. We can’t make a better future if we can’t imagine it.
Stories are our links to one another. A world without stories would be worse than a world without color. Without stories, we are flesh robots. Without stories, our existence is a bleak science fiction, a world that needs saving from itself.
So it’s important, what I do—telling stories. I want to succeed at it, again and again. All these emotions and habits that keep me from it are my enemies, as long as I allow them to separate me from my writing.
If I chose a random 24-hour period over the past few months, even years, to profile myself and ask Bob Mayer’s question, the answer would likely be no. This is not the kind of person who will succeed as a writer. My time focused on my stories has been far outweighed by my time turning my back on them.
Maybe blogs are a thing of the past. I haven’t seen many posts lately. They’re probably all going to my junk mail due to my lack of response to them. But blog posts are tools to keep writing, to lead into stories, to sharpen my senses and my prose. To hone my instincts.
Beginning on January 13th, 2014 (Was it really that long ago?) and ending on January 13th, 2015, I posted 13 blogs, one on the 13th of each month.
It’s the 13th again.
I am back.
This excerpt from author Keith Banner’s blog 2 +2=5 gracefully expresses what the loss of David Bowie means: “Bowie was a weirdo that somehow found a way to make weirdness majestic, worth putting up with. Of course it’s January when David Bowie dies. Cold silvery light, frosted-hard glass, that sense of loss locking into place: roads, tree-branches, ditches, power-lines. He was silvery like that somehow, frosty; you didn’t know him, you just experienced his atmosphere. That’s exactly how I remember him. Just enough cold to make you shiver, just enough strangeness to make you feel scared, just enough glamor to make you understand, just enough video to freak you out. Once somebody like him goes, you get what he means, and it’s startling. You’ve depended on his strangeness to get you through. I have. Truly. Depended on David Bowie’s oddness and fearlessness and creepiness, his shapeshiftingness, his ability to…
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Another great post from my favorite blog.
Todd M. Coe’s art for my upcoming novel: “Brother Cobweb.”
Brother Cobweb is a character I created at the age of seven, in a comic book, which I titled “The Brother Cobweb Chronicles.” Brother Cobweb was a response/revolt/private protest to what I considered my own personal horror of being forced to attend a Pentecostal church, along with growing up in a dumbed down and oppressive fundamentalist environment. I created that comic from volumes of sketchbooks I produced during endless church services (for eighteen years, I literally taught myself how to draw during those charismatic anti-ritual rituals).It’s interesting then to see him become an actual horror exhibit in a huanted house attraction. As I used to say (spewing sarcasm) “Amen Brother Cobweb.”
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Ahhh. The Old Dark House is one one my favorites. Well-documented here.
‘s The Old Dark House (1932) might be seen as a companion piece to his Bride Of Frankenstein (1935). Both represent Whale at his most personal within the grand-guignol genre. While Bride Of Frankenstein is post-Production Code, so that it’s thinly disguised gay spirituality had to be delivered indirectly via myth, the pre-Code Old Dark House is awash with eccentric characters mocking dogmatic, false religious morality. Tackling hypocrisy within religion was a frequent theme with this director. Like , Whale applied the critique through cutting humor. However, as a Surrealist, naturally didn’t give a damn about the intended audience; Whale deliberately sought accessibility. As his character states in the biopic Gods And Monsters: “The trick is, not to spoil it for those who aren’t in on the joke.”
Both films are replete with Whale’s idiosyncratic humor. However, Whale’s British sensibilities are more pronounced in The…
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“It’s like boot camp for the psyche. In real life, human beings are packaged in the flimsiest of packages, threatened by real and sometimes horrifying dangers … But the narrative form puts these fears into a manageable series of events. It gives us a way of thinking rationally about our fears.”
Fear, as editor Josh Viola points out in the anthology Nightmares Unhinged, is human. “Evolution made us this way. Our brains are primed for it. It’s in our bones. Nightmares tap into our most basic emotions and force us to face them.”
It is time, as Viola writes, to get scared again.
Well—sort of. “Horror” is not exactly my thing so it’s very possible I don’t know what I’m talking about.
These are some grisly bits here but to my way of thinking Nightmares Unhinged,
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