Learn to write 101 by Kimberly Jackson (best historical biographies TXT) 📕

to do with a real live girl, but it’s still a fun fantasy. Okay, there’s an idea. I could use it in my fiction. Maybe even in a Pep Talk. The mundane world has provided me with an opening. It will do the same for you, if you’re alert.
Here’s a secret: fictive text doesn’t necessary flow easily. Most of the time it’s more like cutting a highway through a mountain. You just have to keep working with your pick, chipping away at the rock, making slow progress. It may not be pretty at first. Prettiness doesn’t come until later, at the polishing stage, which is outside your month. You just have to get it done by brute force if necessary. So maybe your ongoing story isn’t very original. That’s okay, for this. Just get it done. Originality can be more in the eye of the reader than in any objective assessment.
You can make it from a standing start, even from a foolish daydream when you should have been paying attention to the Pep Talk. You will want to try for a bit more quality, of course, and maybe a spot of realism. Garner an Idea, assemble some Characters, find a suitable place to start, and turn them loose in your imagination. Now go home and start your engines!
Piers
You can learn more about Piers Anthony’s writing here.


Kelley Armstrong’s Pep Talk
Dear Fellow NaNo Writer,
So it’s all over. How’d you do? If you hit 50,000 words, congratulations! If you didn’t, and you gave it your best shot, congratulations! Whether you achieved the word count goal or not, you now have a brand new story. So what do you think of it?
When you reflect back on what you’ve written, you may be thrilled. You may be amazed at what you’ve produced. Or you may not… You may be disappointed. You may even feel like you’ve just wasted a month and an awesome idea. You haven’t. Trust me. I’ve been there.
I first did NaNo in 2005. I’d been hearing about it for years. By then, I was already published myself, but I thought it would be a great exercise for members of the online writing community I host on my message board. To truly support and encourage members, though, I needed to take the challenge alongside them. And I knew exactly what I wanted to write—the first draft of an idea I’d been toying with for years, that of a young adult story set in my Otherworld universe.
So I wrote that novel, called The Summoning, and this summer, The Summoning was released and made it onto the New York Times children’s best seller list. And that sounds so much more impressive if I don’t point out that the novel I wrote for NaNoWriMo is not the same version that was published.
What NaNoWriMo gave me was a quick and dirty first draft, and by the end of it, I could see that my book had some good stuff…and it had some serious problems and missed opportunities. So I put it aside for a rest period and pondered how to fix it while I worked on my next contracted novel. The manuscript underwent significant revising, reworking and, yes, rewriting, before I let my agent take it to market.
If a multi-published author can’t expect to turn out a publishable first draft during NaNoWriMo, then neither should you. Of course, you could—some people do—but what NaNoWriMo has given you is at least two things you didn’t have on November 1.
The first reward will vary. Maybe you have a first draft you can work on. Or maybe you’ve realized that your idea wasn’t as novel-worthy as you thought. Or maybe, in the course of writing this book, you got an idea for another.
The last two may not seem as rewarding as the first, but they’re equally important. If you’ve been writing for a while, you probably have stories you’ve labored on for months, even years, before realizing the idea wasn’t novel-worthy. To hit that realization in a month frees you up to start something new without lamenting all the time you put into a story that didn’t work.
The second reward is one that every NaNoWriMo participant gets: one full month of writing practice. It’s a rare writer who publishes the first book they wrote—I didn’t—so practice is invaluable. And whether you dream of getting published or not, you have just spent a month discovering and exploring the joys of storytelling.
Oh, and in case you’re wondering, yes, I did hit 50,000 words this year. I just barely squeaked by with a win on Saturday, though. I can blame my near-miss on a month of book-touring and unexpectedly early edits, but I’m a full-time writer, so I really have no excuse for not hitting 50,000 words. For all of you who reached the goal words despite school or work or kids, I bow to you.
I’ll let you get back to your post-NaNo rest, right after I wish you good luck with your manuscript—this one or the next one. Because, even if you aren’t planning to edit this one, there will be a next one, right? I hope so. The world always needs more storytellers.
Kelley
You can learn more about Kelley Armstrong’s writing here.


Julianna Baggott’s Pep Talk
Dear NaNoWriMo Author,
You’re hearty stock. This is obvious. You don’t have prissy notions about the muse as some airy thing that sometimes does and sometimes does not alight on your shoulder. And I like this about you. It is, in fact, one of your most endearing qualities.
If you look at the world one way, it takes from you—it’s a thief of time, energy, creative mojo. But if you look at the world another way, it gives you an endless supply of motivation. Here are a few things that the world offers (in furious fistfuls) that get my butt into the chair: petty jealousy, the chip on my shoulder (a slight deformity I was born with), my kids’ pending orthodontia bills, guilt of the Catholic variety, rejection, and, on a Freudian level: my parents’ love.
And now my tips:
Polish your jealousy to a high shine—like the chrome of a well-loved Mustang.
My jealousy took the form of the phrase “two-book deal with Dutton.” My student, Sharon Mitchell, who went on to become #2 on the African American Bestseller’s list for her first novel Nothin’ But the Rent, had just gotten a two-book deal with Dutton. I hadn’t. I was her teacher. I’d been at this, seemingly forever. She was a psychologist, dabbling in the novel. This phrase haunted me: “two-book deal with Dutton, two-book deal with Dutton.” Luckily, I couldn’t shake it. At that point we were running a boarding house out of our home, and my desk was in the living room. Every night I went to bed, after turning off my computer, late at night, and it had a light that, even when the computer was off, blinked at me across the room. Each time it blinked it said, “Two-book deal with Dutton, two-book deal with Dutton.”
Ditto the chip on your shoulder. Treat it well. Feed it crackers, and maybe it’ll turn into a parakeet—one of those blue ones who knows how to cuss.
Luckily I was born a scrawny fourth child after a suspiciously long gap. I was forever trying to prove that I could hang with the conversation, that I was a good enough athlete to be chosen for Kick-the-Can-Dodge-Ball (a virulent strain of Kick the Can that entailed hurling a ball at someone when you snuck up on them in a hiding spot). I eventually grew into a vicious field hockey player in high school, known for shoving in the box. I liked the tall itchy socks, the pleated skirts, the wooden sticks, even the mouth guards, but most of all I liked that I was shorter and scrawnier than everyone else on the field—because they expected nothing from me. If you lavish the chip on your shoulder, you will always be the underdog, and I’ve found this—for me—is the best place to write from. Every insult, every slight, every underestimation—I take comfort in these days, because I know they’re rocket fuel.
Stare at your children’s crooked teeth or imagine the crooked teeth of your imaginary children. If this doesn’t work, jump straight to college tuition. This writing could pay off at some point.
Nowadays, I write because it’s my job. I go to work, just as any fishmonger would, and at the dinner table, we often end up talking about the business as a fishmonger would talk about the discount prices he’s got going on salmon. I write because I have four kids, and although kids start out pretty cheap—especially the breastfed variety—they do add up. Frankly, almost anything times four is pricey—-like jimmies on ice cream. (Do they all need jimmies on their ice creams? Turns out, they do.) Piano lessons times four. Orthodontia times four. College education times four. It gets ugly quickly. And although I’d write if I made no money whatsoever, I do use money as a motivation. And, who knows? You could sell this novel you’re working on … It’s been done … Regardless, if money motivates you, use it.
Remember Vocation Day at your grade school. If you’ve got a nun rattling around in there, remember how she told you not to ignore a gift from God. Try to think of writing as a gift—more complexly put: it is the curse and the cure.
For me, writing has become like breathing—a necessary exchange with my environment. If I get too much air, hold my breath, I’ll pass out. If I take too many breaths, I hyperventilate. Writing is how I sort the world. I allow it its mess. I don’t make sense of it. I witness and rummage until I feel better. The more I write, the more I need to write? Maybe. Maybe so.
As for my nun, yes, I had a good one. Sister John Marie. Faith is involved in this writing curse and cure—but I’d rather not go into all of that here. (You’ve got a novel to write. I won’t dawdle.)
Invite rejection in. Offer it a drink. Become pals-y-wals-y. Don’t fight it even when it goads you with inflammatory politics and ribald jokes.
This business offers endless opportunities for rejection—even in the most successful careers. (At a certain point, you just have the opportunity to fail bigger, no?) In any case, rejection is guaranteed. And if you haven’t been rejected as a writer yet, look forward to it. And when it happens, cherish it. It’s a sign of authorial authenticity. Also, rejection is a spur, if you see it the right way. A beautifully sharp spur.
When all else fails, call your parents just to talk about the weather and termites and hip replacements.
We all want our parents’ love. We might hide it – most of all from ourselves. But it’s there so you may as well use it, too, on top of all else.
Plus, a reminder of your own mortality can do wonders to drive you to the page.
That’s a sampling of what gets my butt in the chair.
What keeps it there? (This is the most important part. In fact, if you get this part, you can forget all of the above.)
A love of this mad work, the thrumming in the chest, this pure desire to tell it.
Julianna Baggott
You can learn more about Julianna Baggott’s writing here.