About 2 or 3 months ago, I helped to start a youth writing group in my community. Our group has kids between the ages of 10 and 16 who get together, critique each other’s writing (in a wonderfully supportive, helpful way), and play writing games.

I’ve been so inspired by the intelligence and humor and gifted writing and commentary from the members of this group. It is so much fun to be a part of.

For the last two meetings, we have had a blast doing round robins. The way this works is that everyone in the group starts with the same sentence and then begins a story with that sentence, writing only about two more sentences. The sheets are then passed to the right. Each person then reads what the new sheet says and adds two more sentences. This goes on until the stories are back to the original person. We laugh so much as we do this. I thought I would share some of these stories. The // slash marks indicate a change of author:

It was a dark and stormy night, but I still had my flashlight and the cabin’s roof didn’t seem to leak much. // Who, oh why, had I decided that going on an evening expedition would be a good idea? It was too late now, of course…. // I was planning my night different but then at the stroke of midnight, everything went wrong. It’s all my friend’s fault. She brought me to the ranch for a week, and “we” meaning “she” planned an evening expedition in the buggy outdoors. I’m not a nature girl. // I’d rather put on skits–endless comedy skits to make people laugh. That’s my idea of fun, not swatting at the mosquitoes that seemed to have infested our cabin. // With grim determination, I decided that even here, in this wet cabin, in the middle of the night, a person could perform. I turned on the flashlight, shone it on myself, and began singing “Over the Rainbow” while doing a simple tap routine. // Hooray! I thought, Hey, why do I keep saying Hooray? Suddenly I blacked out. // I woke up in a bee’s hive and tried to get out. Then I thought, Why am I here? // “The answer to that question, if you complete three challenges!” said a game host bee. // 1, collect 50 gallons of hone, 2, stinger or sword fighting, and 3, eliminate the evil Bozzz Bee!!” // “OK, one sec,” I replied. I pulled out my cell phone and ordered 50 gallons of honey. // The sword fighting proved not to be a challenge–it was just a bee, after all, but what about the evil? I looked up to find my friend laughing and clapping; was she the evil, or was this only the awkward end of a skit?

Here’s another story with the same beginning, so you can see how the stories diverge:

It was a dark and stormy night but I still had my flashlight and the cabin’s roof didn’t seem to leak much.// But still it was miserable. JoJo! I thought and got my dog and brought him in. // It was a horrible thought; my dog sitting in a cage. They would have to put him down if somebody didn’t come and get him in two weeks. So I decided that, even if I had to go to the depths of chimichanga land I would buy my dog back. Not a chimichanga. // Or maybe I would buy my dog and then buy him a chimichanga. I might as well buy one for me while I’m at it too! // And maybe a chimichanga land T-shirt too! Wouldn’t the kids at school be jealous! But I was wasting too much time in daydreams. // Now was time to get to business… I started making a plan in my head as I rummaged through my messy room for supplies. // My dog is man’s best friend. How could they take away man’s best friend? // “Viva la chimichanga!” I shouted, grabbing a leash, a collar, and a small bag of Dog-O-Bits and heading out the door. It would just be me and my dog, forever, … and maybe Crystal, if I could convince her to join in my quest. // My dog was locked in a cage just across the street, but as I neared the road, an ice cream truck pulled up. “Ice cream!” I thought. “This is better than a chimichanga or a dog!” I bought a rainbow blast and was so delighted by the flavor I didn’t see the truck back straight at me.

I was on vacation last week and so didn’t do any writing at all–but I did do a lot of thinking. Before leaving town, I wrote a chapter in which my main characters arrive at a country house for the weekend. There are about a dozen people at the house, and so I had to introduce each of them and make each distinctive enough that the reader wouldn’t get confused. I was pretty happy with how that scene turned out.

While on vacation, I kept thinking about what would happen next, and it seemed, with all these quirky people gathered for the weekend, that it was time for a murder. What!? I said to myself. I’m not writing a mystery! There is NOT to be a murder at this country house! I fought this for several days, but finally gave in and thought, OK, if there were to be a murder, who would be killed? It was easy to answer, because one of the characters (who I’d imagined to be a very nice person) had turned out to be rather nasty. I realized that if this were to be a mystery, my heroine Olivia would be the detective and I would need to adjust her character a bit. With these changes, I realized I liked the new Olivia much more than the old Olivia.

So, I guess I’m writing a mystery. Funny how these things turn out. I wonder if historical mysteries sell better than literary historical fiction….

Hey, I have a question for you novelists out there. Do you write your books scene-by-scene, in order, or do you jump around? I don’t seem to be able to jump around. I’ll have scenes in my mind that I know I will eventually get to, but I don’t write them until the story has progressed to them. A few times I’ve sat down to write a future scene because I’m stuck where I’m at, but then I find myself trudging through the muck of “the present.” On a few occasions I have written those future scenes, but by the time the story progresses to them, they no longer work.

What do other writers do?

School ended last week and so I’m back to writing every day. The first two days weren’t very good. I’m still having trouble with this new novel; it doesn’t seem to flow as easily as my others did. When I’m not writing, I don’t seem to think about it much.

Anyway, I think I’ve decided on a pattern that will help me continue to write daily. One day I spit out what I need to get out: describe a specific event, introduce a new character, etc. This can be done as well or as poorly as necessary just to keep the story moving. So far, my first day on a new scene has been miserable. I get out what I need, but the writing is clunky, the characters are flat, and I feel like a total failure. But then I find myself re-thinking the scene. Ah… I could have done this better, oh, this character should wait and appear after this… and so on. The next day is clean up day. I improve the scene and feel good about it: a scene well-written in two days. Then I’m back to a garbage day. Today is a garbage day for me. Knowing that really takes the pressure off. I’ll get out what needs to happen and then I can focus on improvement.

I never believed in writer’s block. I always felt that it was the result of a lack of discipline. A writer should sit down and write and eventually he/she will work through it. I’ve come to think that perhaps writer’s blocks is something a little different.

Let me explain to you my boxes metaphor. I think of my mind as a big open space with a few boxes floating around. The big open space is where I live most of my life. When my head is in the here and now (at work, with my family, doing ordinary chores, etc.) I am in the big open space.

There is a box for my reading life. When I sit and open a book, I move into one of the boxes floating in my big open space. I’m in a different world, a fun place to be. I can go in and out of that box whenever I want.

There is a box for my writing life. If I sit down at my computer, I go into that box and stay there until I leave the computer. I can go into that box in a day-dream sort of way at other times in my day as well. I go there to meet with my characters, sort out what’s happening with them, what they think and feel about the plot, tour their landscapes, etc.

Lately, I find I don’t have access to that box. I’ll step inside, start to think about what is happening with the story, but then I’m suddenly outside the box. I’m not thinking about what’s happening with the story. So, I go back in and like a mirror trick I find myself outside the box again. I can’t seem to focus on the story or the characters or anything. I sit down at the computer and type (I’m disciplined), but everything is flat. I’m only writing what I remember from being in the box–I’m not actually in the box.

How has this happened?

There is another box floating around that has its door open, and I can’t seem to get it closed. It is the box where I keep all the unpleasantness of life: world poverty, wars, communities not willing to pay for public education, divisive government, global warming, etc. That box used to work quite well. It had a strong door that I opened when I wanted to be a good citizen, knowledgeable about what was happening in the world and my community. I would go into that box when I listened to or read the news or when I talked politics with friends; however, I could leave and close the door when the news was too painful, so that it would not interfere with my everyday life–my big open space.

Now the door to that box is open. I can’t shut it. I’m plagued by the ignorance and selfishness of mankind. We are a cancer upon the earth. Unable to shut that box, I’ve tried desperately to get inside my writing box so I can be productive, do something “happy” and maybe when I come back out, the pains-of-the-world box will have a working door again. But my writing box won’t let me in.

Which brings me back to discipline. Should I force myself in front of the computer more often? If I write flat, then I write flat. If I just stare at the screen trying to access the box, will I eventually gain admittance?

Comments? Ideas?