Calling all #writers on tumblr! We have something very special lined up for you here on @books this month: Your very own Betts (@bettsfic) is running a writing workshop!

Who is @bettsfic?

Betts has been on Tumblr since 2012, where she mostly answers writing advice asks but occasionally goes on reblogging sprees of fleeting hyperfixations. She’s the Editor-in-Chief of OFIC Magazine (@oficmag), a literary journal for original fiction by fanauthors. She also leads the Fanauthor Workshop (@fanauthorworkshop).

Beth’s fiction has most recently appeared in The Write Launch, Barren Magazine, and Rivet Journal. She received the Barbara Deming Memorial Fund Grant and was a Hudson Prize and Launch Pad Prose Competition finalist. Her work has been supported by the Millay, Jentel, and Kimmel-Harding Nelson Center artist residencies, among others, and she’s been teaching creative writing for seven years as a college instructor and a freelance writing coach. You can find out more at bethweeks.com.

What’s this about a workshop?

A writing workshop is generally a gathering of writers sharing work and giving feedback. In this case, we’re hosting what’s called a generative workshop, which means we’ll be introducing core writing concepts and providing prompts for you to work on and share. 

How does this work?

• Each Monday over the next four weeks, starting August 14, we’ll post a workshop post for the week at 10 AM EST. 
• On Wednesdays, Betts will answer any questions you might have. Please send us your questions here on @books on Monday/Tuesday, so she can review them and prepare answers for posting on the Wednesday of that week.
• Every Friday is Feature Friday! Betts will select work from the #tumblr writing workshop with betts tag page, and we’ll reblog it to Books. 

How to join:

• You can get as involved as you like. Message us here at Books to be included in the tag list on each Monday workshop post so that you get a notification. 
• You can also simply follow along quietly on the #tumblr writing workshop with betts tag page.

Questions? 

Ask any questions you might have before we start here, and Betts will answer them here on Books through this next week.

So, sharpen your pencils, polish your keyboards, and follow the #tumblr writing workshop with betts tag, and we’ll see you in the writers’ room <3

Welcome back, writers of tumblr! I’ve loved reading your prompt fills for Week 1 and answering your insightful questions, and I’m looking forward to seeing what you come up with for this next prompt.

Last week we talked about the things we love, the things we go and retrieve, that we can hold in our hands. This week we’re talking about loving the things that find us, the parts of the world that come into our gaze by happenstance. In other words, the anatomic matter of all art: observation. 

Observation relies on attention, and our ability to attend relies on circumstance. It’s impossible to pay attention to everything at once, so the mind selects what to notice and what to ignore. Sometimes we attribute conclusions to our observations and move into perception. I think as children we make great observers, but when we grow up and gather enough experiences, we fall into the trap of mundanity. Things we’ve seen before and that we’ll see again, so they’re not worthy of note—eating breakfast, putting on your shoes, going to a restaurant and telling the host how many people are in your party. 

The art of noticing, of curating all the rich details of life, is a fight against mundanity. To do that, you have to carry your inner child around with you, pointing things out that you’ve seen a hundred times before and allowing yourself to witness them with new eyes. As writers, newness is a skill we can always improve. 

Airports are one way I practice newness. If I have to choose between a one-hour layover and a six-hour layover, I’ll always choose the latter. There’s no mundanity in airports. Aside from employees and people who travel frequently for business, everyone is doing something outside of their usual routine, and it’s so much easier to soak up the minutiae that we otherwise miss when we’re walking our usual daily paths. 

On Love

Someone once told me, “Love is paying attention.” The person who told me this was an artist and her subject was her family. Portraiture of the people she loved was the closest attention she could offer. And I agree—you naturally attend to that which you love. When you love a person, you pay attention to the clothes they wear, the tenor of their laugh, their mannerisms, the things they carry in their purse or pockets. But I think it can also be expanded: the more attention you pay to yourself, the more you love yourself. The more attention you pay to the world, the more you love the world. This idea can be a two-way street: love will direct your attention; attention will lead you to love. In other words, if you practice paying attention, you will come to love things more than you already do.

A quick note about neurodivergence: some people attend to the world differently than others, in different patterns and with different guiding forces. Some people have the ability to shift attention quickly, and some slowly. Some people have more control over their attention than others. Some people attend more closely to certain senses (like hearing or feeling) than others. Wherever you’re at, whatever is driving your ability to notice, use it as a strength. There is no mode of observation that is inherently better or worse than another.

Many writers struggle with motivation to write. I have come to reluctantly agree that there is some discipline necessary in being a writer. I don’t believe in “butt in chair every day” mentality, but I do think any skill requires a patterned dedication no matter what your practice looks like. A self-promise. That promise is much more easily kept if you focus on love. 

I don’t mean writing love stories (although that’s often what motivates me). I mean sincerely meditating on what love means to you. What you love, who you love. I’ve participated in so many generative workshops and there’s always a moment I receive a prompt and go, “I have no idea what to write about.” And then I ask myself, “What do I love?” Many things come to me, both big and small, abstract and concrete. I love my family and friends. I love to travel. I love holding a book in my hands and the satisfaction of turning its pages. I love parts of myself and I don’t love others, and this is something I’m working on. 

When you ask the question, “What do I write about?” the answer can always be love. When I ask my students to write about what they love, some of them write about their relationships—the joy of a present relationship or the ache of a past one. They write about their hobbies and friends and interests. Once I had a boy write twenty pages of poetry about frogs. Some people write about passion that toes the edge of love and hate. Love is not always good. Love can be destructive. It can motivate people to cruelty; it can distort perception. Love can be complicated and weird. Love can lead to regret. But love is a strong feeling, and strong feelings drive creativity. 

On Sharing

I think sharing the things you notice, the way you see the world, is an act of love. Carrying around your inner child to show them what they’ve never seen is a way to nourish yourself, replenish what you expend. You can apply this to any aspect of writing you want to work on. If you want to set a story where you live, you can go around your city pretending you’re showing it to someone who’s never been there. If you want to develop your characters, pretend you’re about to introduce a close friend to someone else, and you know they’re going to get along once they meet. If you want to better explore your themes, pretend you’re talking to someone who has no concept at all of your worldview, who maybe has an opposing worldview but is interested in learning yours.

People, especially writers, can be so afraid to put themselves into the world. To see and be seen. But when you begin to view sharing as an act of love, it becomes easier to listen, to bear witness and say, “Thank you for sharing that with me.” And when you say that enough to others, it also becomes easier to share yourself, in hopes that you’ll be met with gratitude.

Prompt time!

What I’d like you to do today—or tomorrow, if it’s late—is to notice three things. Three seemingly insignificant details, things you would otherwise forget or maybe not even see (or feel, hear, etc.). Bonus points if you write them down in a notebook, but the notes app on your phone will do.

Even if you don’t want to do it, simply by virtue of reading this, I think you’ll begin noticing things. If you’re a very observant person with a good working memory, maybe you can think of three things you observed earlier, and maybe that’s effortless for you. If this is you, your task is to write not just three observations, but three paragraphs of observation throughout the day. 

Here’s an example: I am at this aesthetically pleasing coffee shop but I’m concentrating on the flimsy paper menu fluttering beneath a fan, held down with a ceramic plate. The tapping sound of my sister’s acrylic nails on her MacBook. My own self-consciousness that everyone has a better sense of style than I do. One of the baristas is a young man who looks like an ex of mine, and I’m wondering where that ex is, if his hairline has fully receded, if he still works at FedEx, if he ever married that nice veterinarian’s assistant who was way too good for him and always wore tye-dyed t-shirts for some reason, and I honestly liked her a lot, she seemed like a genuinely good person, and he knew it too and that was why he treated her well, so why had he treated me so poorly? 

And now I have a narrative question: Why do people hurt some loved ones and not others? What is it about the chemistry two people make that causes this to happen? The only way to answer these questions is to either live it all again and take notes—and I’ve had too much therapy for that—or write a story about characters navigating this chasm I’ve found in my understanding of being human. And I got all that from sitting here on this uncomfortable stool in this nondescript coffee shop, hanging out with my sister on a Friday afternoon.

I recommend taking an entire day to find your three things. You’ll find many more than three, but for the purpose of this activity, I think focusing on the three most interesting or compelling ones is best. Once you have your three things I’d like you to work them all into a piece of writing. Here are some ways you can approach this:

• If you want to write nonfiction, write about your day, focusing on building around your three things to eventually pull a story out of them, the way I did above. Follow the associations and memories that arrive to you.  
• If you want to write fiction, write those three details into a new story or the world of your current work in progress. If you’re not sure how, make the first your inciting incident, put the second in the middle of the story, and end the piece with the third. 
• If you want to write poetry, make a poem of your three observations, and note what happens to the meaning when you squeeze three disparate observations together. 
• If you want to do something experimental, convey your three things with a stylistic constraint of your choice. For example, write only in sentence fragments (by that I mean, no verbs).  

A quick caveat: You might be thinking, but Betts, I write science fiction (or fantasy, horror, etc.) and so nothing in reality is of relevance to me. I would argue that everything you perceive in reality can be applied to all things that are created. You think they don’t have pretentious coffee shops in space? Well, maybe not. And definitely not in a magical version of medieval Europe. But there might be something akin to a nondescript strip mall in Midwest America with cracked asphalt, half abandoned, with some kind of sketchy dentist or urgent care in it and a vape shop. Every place, even places that don’t exist, possess some realistic texture, and when you render these images, that space becomes real to the reader. You could argue, even, that the goal of genre fiction is the highest possible suspension of disbelief. And the only way to do that is to make the world you build feel as lived-in as reality.

Questions? Ask ‘em here before EOD Tuesday so @bettsfic can answer them on Wednesday. And remember to tag your work #tumblr writing workshop with betts if you want her to read your work and possibly feature it on Friday!

And, for those just joining us: @bettsfic is running a writing workshop on @books this month. Want to know more? Start here.

Hello again, my very talented writers of tumblr! I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed reading your work. I’ve seen such stellar craft happening, and I’m eager to see where you’ll take this next prompt.

In week 1, we focused on a single object. In week 2, we attended to the objects in our environment. This week, we’re considering the environment as a whole—setting.

One of the reasons I’ve chosen this order specifically, small to large, is because setting can become overwhelming. But last week we already practiced it in our real environments by observing our surroundings, and putting those details into our work. Setting is not as huge and amorphous as it may seem—when it comes down to it, setting is the interaction between character and place. Notice I didn’t say that setting is the place itself, and that’s because a place is meaningless without grounding it in the personal stakes of a character. It’s like walking around a grocery store and not putting anything in your cart. A setting only exists to hold its contents. 

Setting can refer to the largest and smallest of places: universe, galaxy, planet, continent, country, city, home, bedroom, pillow fort. Setting can also refer to time: millennium, century, decade, year, month, week, day, hour, minute, second. 

In writing, not all of these things have to be defined, nor should they. The difficulty in setting is the negotiation between our lived reality—in which we have all of this information at all times—and the restrictive nature of writing, in which we not only control all these variables, but we also have to organize and convey them. In reality, events can occur simultaneously. You can drop a plate at the same time you get a text message. But in writing, even if those things happen at the same time in the lived reality of your character, you have to convey the plate dropping and then the phone vibrating in consecutive sentences, linked usually by the word “simultaneously.” Your reader then retroactively crafts those moments happening at once in their memory, but there is a brief moment between those two details where the reader knows the plate has dropped but not that the phone will vibrate. Just as a film is restricted to the width of a camera’s lens, writing is restricted to the sentence. As immersive as writing can be, it is still always a constructed thing.

When it comes to setting, you not only have control over all these details, you also have to figure out the order of information those details are conveyed. Which brings me to…

Decision Fatigue

One of the reasons people think fanfiction is “easier” than original fiction is because there are fewer decisions to make. You have an established universe to play in and so you don’t have to pull up a name generator to figure out the name of your protagonist, or however you make those choices. But that’s not true—fanfiction requires a different type of decision-making and therefore a different (but equally difficult) skill set of creative thinking. The analogy I like to use is a playground versus a beach. On a playground, the equipment is already there, but you can use it however you want. On a beach, you have to decide what to bring with you. One is not inherently better than the other. It’s all play. 

I say this because I’ve coached a lot of writers who are transitioning from fanfiction to original fiction. It can be jarring to go from the playground to a beach. And so I see a lot of writers succumb to decision fatigue—the exhaustion of creativity. You have to decide what kind of car your character drives, how old they are, where they live, what they do for a living, their relationships, the conflicts of those relationships, their educational background, and so on. Creativity is making decisions. And that’s why it’s hard.

Relevance

I would argue that setting is the most difficult series of decisions to make. Our entry into a new piece is generally a character, a premise, or an image. Or, as we say on Tumblr, we put a guy in situations. That guy’s environment will affect him and his situations, because that environment will either help or hinder him in some way. A meet-cute, for example, is nearly always related to setting.

I remember doing my first generative workshop on setting. It sent me into a spiral I couldn’t climb out of for four years. The spiral was this:

All narratives, even narrative poems (as opposed to lyrical), exist in a time and place, and the author has control of those factors. The more specific those details are, the stronger the story becomes. The specificity of those details is rendered in imagery. Ergo, I have to develop my imagery.

And now I’m going to tell you the result of that line of thinking so you don’t fall into the same trap: I wrote a totally unpublishable novel. It was too long and not very interesting, and both of those things happened because I was more dedicated to developing my setting than my story. 

Although that was great practice, it kind of sucked to spend an entire year working on something only to put it in a drawer and never look at it again. What pulled me out of the spiral was dedicating myself to narration—I decided I was only obligated to describe that which my narrator observed. And because I didn’t want to bother with setting anymore, I made a character who was totally oblivious.

(We’ll be looking at narration next week.)

I began to view the setting through a character rather than around a character. My narrator was narrow-focused and obsessive, so I was only obligated to write that which came into the one-lane bridge of her attention. In other words, I only wrote what was relevant to her. And the only thing that was relevant to her was the object of her fixation. 

The big caveat here is that a story isn’t always obligated to its narrator. That’s a choice I’ve made for my own work, because I’m interested in narrators and the development of voice. My prose will never be beautiful or floral. I’ll never have the patience to lovingly describe what it’s like to live in Ohio. I’ll probably only ever write a character who has driven past the HELL IS REAL sign a dozen times and who maybe has strong opinions on corn. It’s the best way I can find to help me avoid the decision fatigue of building an entire world. 

Prompt time!

For this week’s activity, I’d like you to think of a place you really love. This can be your home town or the house where you grew up or wherever has brought you joy. (Remember: love inspires.) 

Next, I’d like you to write 3 facts of public information and 3 facts of private information about that place. 

Public information is anything that can be found, either by researching the place or visiting it. This could be factual—population, square footage, location. It could also involve community knowledge, like legends, cultures, or customs. It can also include major historical events. If you were to show this place to a total stranger, what would you tell them about it? This part may require some research. 

Private information is what can’t be known by anyone but you (and maybe the people who were there with you). This includes memories you have of the place, secrets, unknown histories; anything that can’t be understood unless you have intimate knowledge of the place or lived there during a particular moment. 

For example, when I taught in the South, I had a lot of students who had lived through Hurricane Katrina. They were all young children at the time. When I had them do this activity, many of them chose to list facts that anyone could find about New Orleans in August of 2005—that there were over 1300 casualties, that Katrina was a Category 5 hurricane. They also shared things that no one else could know, about their families housing total strangers whose homes were destroyed, about living for days or even weeks without electricity. About why their parents chose to stay rather than leave, or leave rather than stay. About loved ones who had died.

Once you have your 6 things, I’d like you to write a piece based on them. Here are some ways you can approach it:

• If you want to write nonfiction, tell the story of one of your private pieces of information.
• If you want to write fiction, write a story using at least one of the public pieces of information. For example, you can tell the story of a legend, or make a legend up. Or you could do something similar to what we did last week, where you take those three pieces of information and weave them in.
• If you want to write a poem, try to capture the sense of place by using one or more pieces of information, either private or public.
• If you want to write something experimental, write a story about a piece of private information from the perspective of the place itself. 

You don’t have to share your 6 things (unless you want to). While you’re writing, note the details that emerge naturally while drafting, what becomes relevant to the story versus what doesn’t. Like our previous prompts, allow yourself to lean into associative thinking and make connections with your memories.

Questions? Ask ‘em here before EOD Tuesday so @bettsfic can answer them on Wednesday. And remember to tag your work #tumblr writing workshop with betts if you want her to read your work and possibly feature it on Friday!

And, for those just joining us: @bettsfic is running a writing workshop on @books this month. Want to know more? Start here.

A Narrative Imperative

My dearest Tumblrinas—

Sadly we’ve come to our final week of workshop, but I’ve saved the best for last. Rather, I’ve saved my favorite for last. This week’s prompt is one I’ve taught in every class, from developmental composition to advanced creative writing courses. In the hundreds of fills I’ve read over the years, I haven’t found one that has been poorly written or uninteresting. This prompt tends to bring out the fire in everyone, and I’m jazzed to see what you do with it.

Last week we talked about setting as a function of narration. This week we’re talking about narration as a function of…nothing.

The reason I say narration is the function of nothing is because you can strip a piece of writing of every craft element—conflict, character, imagery, etc.—and you’ll still have narration. Even emails have narrators. A narrator is simply the acknowledgement of a mind behind the writing, the vehicle of comprehension. 

Click through for this week’s workshop and prompt:

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