What if you approached writing the way your dog approaches a walk?

J.C. O'Brien
Black dog, nose, Seattle, J.C. O'Brien
Writing companion and nose model, Leo O’Brien, shows off the entrance to his 300 million olfactory receptors.

A dog about to head on a walk is worried about three things: the leash, his human and getting out the door. Even if what happens after he’s outside is the same route he takes every day, the dog’s excited to sniff to find out who else has walked that way, how the weather has shifted and if there is anyone exciting up ahead.

In other words, even though he might use his 300 million olfactory receptors , he’s only concerned with what actually reaches his nose.

Which is a lot like writing:

  1. Take in as much information as you can.
  2. Figure out what it means.
  3. Share that information with others.

The dog’s sharing takes the liquid form of paying it forward or swapping sniffs with dogs he might meet along the way. Writers can do the same thing, with shorter missives like this blog post, or through longer, crafted works.

But the main thing is that the dog saves his worry for important things, like when the hell you’re going to get home, which proves to be great advice for a writer. Save your worry for when the humans are going to return and write as far as your nose takes you.

Risky business

J.C. O'Brien

I want to be seen.

Don’t get me wrong, I still want to be heard, but some of the time I want to speak with my hips, my hands and my false eyelashes (because belly dancers wear them now … they’re like weights for your eyelids).

While I’ve never vomited before performing, my stomach used to roil (and not because I was doing belly rolls) and my head would spin without my ever turning my feet.

That stopped last August.

Not because I got on the stage when asked, but because a caring teacher planted the idea that I might be ready and, a few months later, another teacher lovingly pushed me into scheduling a performance.

In my head, dancing on a stage is the equivalent of submitting stories: you’re inviting judgment. You may be hoping for feedback, but the opportunity for a negative response is there, which, given the involvement of your heart in whatever you’re doing, could be rather painful.

But I’m realizing that the greater risk lies in practicing, but not showing.

If you never risk being seen, you slowly fade until your spine is a thin line of vapor.

People squint at you and still can’t see who you really are.

So, *deep breath*, even though dance is ephemeral, video changes that. I’m posting the dance that took me over to the other side, to that place where it’s not only OK to be seen, but where the graciousness of your audience can fill in all the thin spaces.

Whatever you do, take the risk and let yourself be seen.

(Not so) fatal mistakes

J.C. O'Brien
snake venom
A snake is milked at a snake farm in Chiang Mai. Courtesy of Steve Belcher via Flikr

“[Snake milking’s] a hands on job where you put your fingers millimeters away from the sharp, fangs of asps, vipers, cobras, corals, mambas, kraits, and rattlesnakes. One slip of a finger and, well, its all over.”

—JobMonkey

While writers can publish in an instant, we have the option of a do-over. Did I really mean to say that? If I tweak this paragraph, does it read better? You can spend too much time editing, but, generally speaking, your work is stronger if you and the work get a cooling off period and can come back to each other when things aren’t quite so exciting.

Which may be why I like writing about people who have to make fast choices with high stakes. Today, while working on SIGHT (book two in my supernatural noir series featuring David Delsarto), I created what I thought was a one-off character.

I borrowed Tarkan’s green eyes because I’ve been warming up for belly dance to his music and gave them to a smart entrepreneur selling above-board and black-market snake venom out of a tiny apartment in Seattle.

After doing a bit more research, I realized my snake milker would need hundreds of snakes to remain profitable, which altered the size and location of his apartment. He now lives in a loft in Sodo and by that time, I’d grown attached to the snake milker and decided to broaden his role in the book, giving him a few more critical scenes with my killer.

Like writers, snake milkers learn by experience, but if I’d been a snake milker, that first mistake — the size of his apartment — could have been fatal. Good thing I catch some of my thrills vicariously.

Cursed guitar playlist

J.C. O'Brien

Writing about a cursed guitar’s made me break my usual habit of writing in silence. I just wrapped the draft of RIFF, the third book in my supernatural noir series featuring David Delsarto. Never mind that I thought it was the second book when I was writing it. (I’m tending to book two now.)

But here’s some of the great stuff I was listening to. Be sure to check out 74-year-old Beverly “Guitar” Watkins while she tears up the strings. May I be at least half as hip when it’s my time.

Happy listening.

Writing exercise: Pacing

J.C. O'Brien
Finger cymbals, zils, zills, Peter Fels, Jamila Salimpour
Learning to play these finger cymbals helped me figure out a new approach to pacing my novels.

A few weeks ago, my belly dance instructor sent me back to zill kindergarten. (Zills are the metal disks dancers attach to their fingers so they can accompany the musicians or make their own music.) Despite the grace displayed in scenes like this one in “From Russia With Love,” playing them takes a helluva lot of coordination — and then you add moving your body.

I’ve spent the last couple of weeks walking around my house, playing the right cymbal, then the left, then the right, starting out on a different foot with each set of three. Luckily I’ve talked my bass player husband, Dan O’Brien, into being my personal metronome, so the pacing-the-house-while-playing is slowly switching to dancing.

What the hell does any of this have to do with writing?

Everything.

In addition to coordination, playing cymbals requires serious listening. I’m training myself to dance to complicated Turkish rhythms, which means I’m listening intently to how the song is paced. With seven minutes of music, you have an intro, building to some excitement, a lush sexy bit, then more excitement and even more excitement.

Dancing and playing to a song like this is an exercise in pacing, which has definitely affected my writing. I’m more conscious of the need to release as well as build tension. And Dan, who’s been my involuntary beta reader for a long time, noticed a real difference in my latest book, saying it’s more of a page turner.

So here’s my challenge for other writers:

Pick a song you love in a language you don’t know.

Put it on repeat on your iPod.

Listen to it at least an hour a day. More if possible. Play it while you’re driving, dealing with housework, walking the dog.

Continue with your regular writing schedule, but consciously let your song inform your writing.

At the end of the week, take a look at your work and see how it’s changed. My bet is that your pacing will be better, your transitions will be stronger and the need for expository prose will fade away.  That was my experience. I’d love to hear about yours.