
Ah, that famous chicken, the one that crossed the road! We never really find out why it did what it did.
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Last time, I wrote an essay about endings—and for this issue I decided to write about beginnings. Topsy-turvy thinking, or all part of my careful plan? Let’s go with the topsy-turvy thinking. But I have a great excuse for going in reverse order: once again, I’ve been given food for thought by some excellent writers.
For me, a list is like a life preserver, something to keep me afloat when I feel like I’m sinking under the weight of “shoulds” and “gotta’s.”
If I had to name the most challenging aspects of writing—no matter if we’re talking about fiction or nonfiction—nailing the ending would come at the top of the list, followed by “getting started” and “doing the middle bit.” Coming up with the right ending can throw a writer into a tizzy.
We had two reference books at home when my siblings and I were in elementary school. One was a massive dictionary, the other was a massive encyclopedia. These two volumes must have each cost my parents a small fortune, but they were invaluable. Together, the tomes probably weighed more than any one of us kids. …
I own nineteen books about—or related to—writing, not counting the big fat Houghton Mifflin Dictionary that I rarely use since I now have the dictionary app on my iPhone.
We love the zing of a snappy line, the mournful tones of a somber one, the cadence of a staccato beat of dialogue. Once you’re hooked on language, it’s a drug.
Writing is like any relationship. You have to spend time on it and nurture it in order for it to stay healthy and grow. So it is no wonder that the longer we avoid it, the more terrifying it becomes.
Changing titles and endings are just the beginning: spade work. Working on a rewrite requires serious machinery—the type of heavy equipment that allows us to dig deep and plow ahead.