I scratched the words across the yellow page of my legal pad in red: Too much magic. Underlined it. Then I looked at my manuscript, sat back, and realized I had a problem.

But, let’s come back to that in a minute. First I want to talk about how I got to that point.

Lately, I’ve been reading books on screenwriting. Not because I want to be a screenwriter (I don’t, at least not yet), but because those brave men and women who write for the small and big screens understand storytelling better than 99% of the world. They certainly understand it better than I do, so I’m learning a lot along the way.

Why do they understand it better? Well, it’s because they have to. Their job is to distill all of the elements of a good story–the dialogue, characters, narrative, plot, all of it–into a thick reduction sauce that goes down smooth. It’s got to taste slow cooked, but has to be done in microwave time. They don’t have 400 pages to tell their story. They have 110 if they’re writing for movies. Less if they’re writing for TV. That means they must force the story down to its essence, which is ultimately what the audience cares about and will invest themselves in. If they do it right. Continue Reading

At the moment I hate running. The only redeeming value I see in it is that I’m learning some lessons about writer’s block that maybe will help someone. I hope.

Now, understand, I’m not a natural runner. I’ve never really liked it or understood why people are fascinated with endlessly pounding asphalt for mile upon mile upon mile. The only time I used to kind of like running was when I lived in Colorado and could do it in the mountains on winding trails. That was at least a little engaging because I had tree roots and mountain bikers to dodge, and endless views. Not so in Nashville.

But despite my disdain for running I’ve begun hitting the road in the morning with my neighbor, Kevin. (Yes, he’s really my neighbor and his name really is Kevin. He’s one of three Kevin’s on our block. It’s a cosmic anomaly, I know.). And thanks to my newfound hobby, I’ve learned a few painful lessons that apply to the writer’s life. Learn from my pain, dear friends, because something good has to come from my early mornings. Continue Reading

I have a new friend and her name is Tosca. I’m sure you’ve heard of her, but if you haven’t you will soon. She’s a fantastic writer. During a recent conversation I asked if she would jump into the “epic_” series and share the ups and downs of authorhood from her perspective. She said yes. So here we are. I hope you enjoy this honest look at the messy work of get words on paper. (Thanks LM!)-KSK

**

My sister’s bulldog has a penchant for eating stuff he shouldn’t: bits of Frisbee, sponge animals from my niece’s bathtub, the eyeballs of stuffed bears. They all emerge like little treasures in the yard after a warm rain.

You get me.

Far be it from me to compare my beloved art form to a pile of dog business, but you know, there’s a reason Anne Lamott calls them, in so many words, “Crappy First Drafts.”

When I write I put down a lot of words—upwards of several thousand a day. I do time in my chair (the first part of which may consist of internal debate on the merits of Botox or mindless eyebrow pulling). But somewhere around the 20 minute mark I get down to it. I write fast and ugly.

I do not look back.

Anyone who knows me knows this goes against all natural law. That I am, in fact, an obsessive nit who will pick at just about anything–sweater pills, labels, cuticles. Especially cuticles. That I can rearrange a sentence like a kitchen shelf for the better part of an hour. But I also know that without writing a bunch of essential caca, I cannot get to the good bits.

What are the good bits? I don’t know. Really—I never know. I never knew flies would swarm the fallen fruit of the tree in Eden. I never knew a jogger would get hit by a car in Demon. I did not know, I did not know. I did not know how a man’s head would shake on his neck in mortal fear… how Eve’s name would sound on the lips of Adam. Without letting it run out from the fingers, I still would be none the wiser.

And so I’ve just learned to trust that those bits are in there.

But let me say: writing crap is tough. We don’t want it to stink long on the page. We have high aspirations for these words; they should reflect on our insouciant brilliance, maybe be worth some kind of money. In the very least, they should not embarrass us, like sweet-faced children who parrot the best expletives of their parents.

And yet, there they are: parroting, stinking, and not worth… well, you know.

I prepare to go mucking on the second pass. I expect to shovel out a load. I expect to wade through manure.

And, against logic, I expect to find treasure.

**

Website: www.toscalee.com

Twitter: @toscalee

Facebook: www.facebook.com/ToscaL

What was it like to be the first woman on earth, to wake to a brand-new creation—and Adam? Why did she become so beguiled by the serpent? In this lyrical retelling of the biblical narrative, Lee brings Eden to life, revealing the dawn of mankind from Eve’s viewpoint.

Visit the book website.

A recent blog post by designer Andy Rutledge, which I discovered thanks to Dee Wilcox got me thinking about the thin golden thread we call inspiration. My own experience, both personally and from engaging with other artists, confirms his point: inspiration is overrated. That’s right, overrated. In fact, inspiration isn’t even essential to jump starting the creative process. So all you artists waiting around for your muse to show up, well, it’s time to get a new strategy because she’s probably not gonna show up.

Now, before you go throwing stones at the heretics hear me out because I want to be straight with you for a minute. If you are an artist (particularly a writer), you will probably never start, let alone finish, anything if you’re just waiting for inspiration to strike. You feel that twinge right now in your chest? That’s because you know what you just read is the truth. And that’s why, if you’ve ever waited until you were inspired to start something, the weeks bleed into months and months into years, and why that ________(fill in the blank) still hasn’t gotten done (or started).

Why is that? It’s because the creative process has nothing to do with making something out of nothing and everything to do with discovery. Creating is discovery. Creating is doing. And that, friends, means action. Movement. Blisters.

I love how Stephen King describes it in his book On Writing. He says that every story that you will ever tell already exists, but like a fossil buried in a field, you have to find it. And that means picking up a shovel and digging and digging and digging until you find it. The creative process, with all of it’s sweltering work and blisters, is the digging. It is the deal. Now, every once in awhile a muse will come along and point out exactly where an extraordinary specimen lies just beneath the surface almost in plain view. They’ll even be snarky about how clueless you were that it was right under your nose. That’s what muses do. Those are the gifts. They don’t happen often, and they only happen to the people in the field, never to the ones on the sidelines.

Now, you may think this is the dumbest thing you’ve ever heard, but I can tell you that it’s true. Every author I know–every single one–has told me this exact thing in one way or another. Inspiration is nice, but not necessary. The sooner you can set the romantic ideas aside and get on with the business of digging, the better. Inspiration may eventually find you, but your job is to show up and get dirty. That’s enough. The rest will take care of itself.

Tomorrow, I begin posting a weekly series that I’m calling epic_.

Now, let me frame this for you. Those four letters are what you get if you boil authentic adventure down to its essence–a potent reduction sauce thickened by impossibilities conquered and new horizons crossed. Epic.

I’ve had several experiences in my life that I would describe as truly epic. Topping out on three 14,000 foot summits in one day. Standing ten feet from a moose in Jackson Hole and thinking “this thing could kill me and go back to chewing that grass there without missing a beat.” Watching my wife give birth to our daughter. All of them, and others, rise to the top of my memory because they were extraordinary. Epic.

Webster’s defines it as “extending beyond the usual or ordinary especially in size or scope.” As creatives that defines precisely what we are about–extending ourselves and our work beyond the ordinary, the status quo, and setting new boundaries that we then turn around and bust through because we can.

So here’s what this epic_ thing is all about: I’m embarking on a personal journey, one that will extend beyond my “usual ordinary” and S T R E T C H my boundaries.  I’m writing a novel over the next several months. And I’m inviting you to ride shotgun.

Along the way I will be sharing the lessons I’ve learned (and am learning) about the craft from some of the smartest writers and artists I have the great privilege of knowing. I’ll also give you some insights from the vantage point of a literary agent. But, more importantly (for me at least), I will be sharing the novel writing experience with you through a weekly video journal. I can promise you honesty, but it may not be pretty. Chances are that it won’t be.

So, whether you’re a writer looking for the dish on the business of writing or if you’re someone just interested in watching me attempt an epic climb that’s been beckoning to me for years, I’m happy you’re here. Welcome to the ride.

Do something epic.