Veteran's Day Review: The Things They Carried, by Tim O'Brien

The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


It took me a while to read this book, and I'm not sure why. It's not very long, but it seemed really dense. I'm not sure I could have told you if I liked the book as I was hearing it, but somewhere towards the end, I just fell in love. I think it was when he told about the girl who went to Vietnam and became addicted to it. That part rang so true that the whole thing, all the talk about war stories and how they didn't have to be true, it all fell into place. I understood what he meant. Just as there is truth in fiction, truth to the stories, truth to the characters, so could a war story be true even if it wasn't, in the strictest sense, factual in all parts.
After the story of Maryanne (pardon if I'm a little off on names, I listened to this one so my spelling might not be correct), I wanted to hear all about the rest of the characters. And it was the characters who really made this story. It's not so much a story, in the linear-progression, plot-arc kind of way. But all the stories together made something beautiful. I wanted to hear all about Jimmy and Henry, about the suicides and the 'accidents,' about the medics and Tim and the shit-fields and, yes, the things they carried. It didn't matter a bit which parts actually happened.
Really the book wasn't so much about what happened or didn't happen, it was about the characters and about humanity, about maintaining humanity in the face of the most horrid circumstances, about finding joy in the sickest places imaginable, about the horror and pettiness and cowardice and beauty not of war, but of the human spirit and of life.



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Overcoming Writer's Block: An Inspirational True Story (Part 2)

For two years, I did not write. I made due with journaling and poetry. But it wasn't the same. Sure, poetry was nice because I could write and edit the entire poem in a day or less. But it was not a novel. I wanted the drive, the writer's high, the sponge-brain I got from being creatively drained after a long day of writing. For two years, I starved for it. I had ideas, sometimes felt inspired. I'd sit down and...nothing. A few pages would trickle forth before the inspiration dried up.Where once I had a muse, now I had only wishful thinking.

This past December, I published the third Superiors Series novel and began reading over some old ya stuff I'd written. It wasn't bad. I dug through the files and inevitably landed on my favorite, the last novel I'd finished before writer's block set in. It wasn't bad, either. In fact, I got sucked in and read the entire book, editing a bit as I went. I thought I'd add some scenes between the protag and a future love interest and, to make it realistic, a few background characters.

It. Was. Like. Pulling. My. Own. Teeth.

The words did not flow. They were as hard to write as it is to read the inappropriately punctuated sentence above. Through much frustration, I forced what no longer came naturally. Then I went back to the first novel in the series, the unfinished one, and finished it. The ending wasn't great. I'll probably change it if I ever publish. It was more summarizing what I knew happened than showing the events unfold. But as I finished the few scenes, something began to happen. A bit-part character began to nag at me, circling like a mosquito. This had happened before, so I wasn't too hopeful.

Surrendering to the quiet nagging, I began to write the novel that was tentatively asking if it could be written. It petered out after a few pages, as most of my ideas over the past few years had. But my muse-troll had begun to scratch one stiff finger against the grimy, dust-covered block that had held me back for two years. Then it knocked a hole in the block and peered at me with its beady little eye. It taunted me with promises too good to be believed. I hated that thing by now. I told it to shut up.

It refused to be silenced. This story did not ask if it should be written. It demanded to be. So I began to write...painfully, haltingly, uncertainly. I made every excuse to procrastinate, distract myself, and avoid the call of duty. I spent hours pinning, unfollowing unfollowers, and exploring the creepy world of instagram hastags. I struggled through passages of my novel, rewrote, rearranged, deleted, added, rearranged again. It seemed an impossible task. How had I done this so many times before? Why was I putting myself through it again? And why on earth did I think I'd missed it?

I finished the novel last week, the first I've written in over 2 years. I'm still shaking off the dust, or, more aptly, chipping away at the block. But maybe, just maybe, I'll tear the whole thing down. If not, and this was just some sort of fluke...I've always got the backlog.

Overcoming Writer's Block: An Inspirational True Story (Part 1)

I used to be quite the prolific writer. I wrote a series of 6 ya novels in seven months, only to learn that, by industry standards, each book was actually the length of 3 ya novels. Therefore, if I divided them into industry-sized ya novels, I wrote the equivalent of 18 ya novels in a span of 6-8 months. Then, though it was challenging and a struggle at times, I slogged my way through the 7 vampire novels in The Superior series in 6 months. Yes, this was during a time when I thought I was slow and uninspired. I had lots of bad days. Of course, back then a good day meant writing for 16 hours straight, churning out 50 pgs in a day, a novel in a week.

Then came a dry spell. Oh, the horror! I had writer's block. I went back and edited some of those bazillion books I'd churned out during the year. I soon found inspiration for a dystopian series, though not particularly original. I wrote 3 of those novels before running across a short story that inspired me to write 3 other ya sci-fi novels.

Wait, I'm not done yet.

That summer, I struggled through a YA novel, and got within chapters of the end before being distracted by a supporting character. I wrote a novel about her instead, and then one about her best friend, then one about her brother (also close to finished, but left without the final few chapters). This entire writing frenzy/binge/burst occurred over two years.

Now you can hate me. 

Around this time, I began dating the man I later married. But, I stopped writing. I was not inspired. I was busy, so I shrugged it off. I had lots going on in my life, and I'd had a few dry spells before. I figured it would last a month, and then I'd go back to churning out a book every few weeks.

I didn't.

As time went on, I became increasingly suspicious that my writing career was finished. I tried to console myself with the knowledge that I had a huge backlog of unedited novels to edit and publish. But as any writer knows, editing is a whole different thing from writing. Writing is creative. Editing is analytical. Writers don't write so that we will have something to edit. We write because we have stories that demand telling. Stories that will not let us rest until they are birthed from the rankest recesses of our brains.

Writers don't write to publish. While writing my first series, I didn't care that no one had read my writing or even knew that I wrote. I knew. My characters knew.

Now, I had no characters. I had no stories clamoring for release. I was barren.

I was blocked.

Accepting or Rejecting Writer Advice

You see it every day, all over Facebook, Pinterest boards, Twitter, and every other electronic forum/social media site: quotes by famous authors on writing. Memes. Funny e-cards. All with an overwhelming amount of advice for the hoards of us struggling through, and a lucky few breezing through, our novels. Every time I read one of these, I think it's a great quote with merit. So what happens when these famous authors begin to contradict one another? Do you choose to follow the advice of the one you admire more? The, "I want to be like him so I'll follow his advice" attitude. If that worked, we'd have many more Hemingways and Twains than we do.

With as many writers as we've had, and even more now, it's inevitable that all the advice won't be in perfect agreement. Writers love giving advice. Nowhere can you find a people more fascinated by our profession than writers. Why? Because it's a mystery. The well-known comparison of novel and baby works here, too. There's nothing a pregnant woman loves talking about more than pregnancy. Why? Because that baby growing inside is like some kind of miracle, some wonderful mystery. So, too, is the novel taking place in the writer's head. The only solution is to seek to explain it somehow, make sense of something that makes very little sense even to those doing it.

As with love, as with motherhood, there is no perfect way to write a novel. There are pantsers and planners. There are those who say, with regards to writing as well as love, "If it's worth working for, you must work for it!" and those who say, "If it don't come easy, you better let it go." To this, I will throw in my own two cents. If it's coming easy, that's a wonderful thing. You are blessed. Don't stop writing for anything. Because one day, it may stop coming so easy. And when it does, you will have to, as Hemingway famously said, "Sit down at the typewriter, and bleed."

I speak from experience here. On several occasions I churned out 50 pages in one day, leaving my brain feeling like a cooked potato. Now, I'm lucky if I can pry 5 pages from my miserly muse. I couldn't tell you what changed for all the money in Mr. Gates's bank account. One day it was easy, and the next thing I knew, it wasn't. I thought this was a phase I would let pass, so I stopped writing fiction for two years. I kept a journal, went back to dabbling in poetry, came up with an idea or two and followed them for the ten or so pages until they turned to ether and vanished. And then, I got tired of waiting for the muse, and I sat down at my computer, and bled.

Yes, it is frustrating. Sometimes my characters refuse to tell me what's going on, so I make something up, and later, they tell me I was wrong, and I have to go back and change their family, their back story, even their names. But there is something on the page. And that's better than nothing. Maybe one day, my Prinspiration will come, scoop me up on the inspiration pony and ride away with me. Until then, I'll struggle to pull my ox out of the mud.

My best advice for writers is this: Don't stop writing. When it's easy, go with it. When it's hard, dig for it. When you finish it and it's amazingly magically perfect, set it aside and come back to it later (if it's a first draft, it's not perfect, I promise). When it's ugly, edit it and rewrite it until it's passable. Then, when you have finished one novel, whatever your process, whatever your product, pick up your proverbial pen and start all over again.