Despite being the first book I started reading this month, Steering the Craft was the last that I finished. This is not to speak ill of it, mind you, as it is an excellent book on writing, written with candor, honesty, and expertise. Nor is it long. It IS, however, chock full of exercises of varying length and difficulty, and in trying to do at least some of them, it took longer to complete than I had expected. I’m glad I took the time, however, and I hope to return to the exercises I did not complete in the near future. Ursula LeGuin is easily one of the best science fiction authors in the history of the genre. If science fiction authors were a royal court, she would not just be a dame or duchess — she would be the Queen. And justifiably so. He writing is eloquent and remarkable, and her knowledge of the genre and field of writing in general is awe inspiring. I hope very much to meet her at some point, given that she lives a mere two hours south of me, in Portland, Oregon.

One of the interesting aspects of Steering the Craft is that it is actually a how to book, a book about writing, unlike most of the other writing books I’ve read thus far, which really amount to writer’s memoirs. To top that off, the book is done well, unlike so many other books of its type. It includes a glossary of terms, and an appendix of tips and advice on handling common issues like the lie/lay/lay debacle (it is not simply a matter of laying something down and lying down, there is also the intransitive verb that requires an indirect object, with its own set of rules), and the use of tense. The chapters themselves are insightful, and handle the more substantial aspects of writing well (tense, point of view, rhythm, sentence structure). She does away with many of the more stolid (read: stupid) rules from grammar school, and explains the ones she chooses to keep. Basically, what it comes down to is that any rule can be broken, but if it is broken, it should be broken well, and for a reason.

The book can be used in a variety of ways. Each chapter can stand alone rather well, and can be referenced fairly quickly as a desktop companion. Additionally, it can be used as a textbook for a peer writing group (and one of the appendixes is how to find or start such a group), or simply slogged through individually (what I ended up doing). Because each chapter stands alone, it can be done at whatever pacing necessary, though she recommends trying to spend at least a few days to a week on each chapter. Something else that I find particularly encouraging is that she includes her mailing address, and encourages readers to contact her with opinions on the text, how we found it useful, what could be improved, et cetera. Given her list of achievements, talent, and respect within the field, she could very easily have handed this book down from “on high.” I respect her a great deal for choosing not to do so.

Some parts of the book were more useful to me than others. I already have a fairly strong grasp over point of view, and while I occasionally absent-mindedly slip, a good grasp of tense as well. That said, it was vindicating to hear someone I respect as much as LeGuin declare that there is nothing wrong with using some of the more esoteric tenses (future perfect and past perfect, for instance), if you understand how to use them (which I do — four years of Latin does have SOME uses), and that largely the current avoidance of them stems from many mainstream authors and journalists NOT understanding how to use them properly. Her comments on the use of passive voice was also insightful and directly relevant: I am notorious for using qualifiers and passive voice in my writing, which makes the writing instantly less personal than it otherwise would be. It also makes it seem more “scholarly”, which is where I picked up that particular rut. It’s a vicious circle: we spend 95% of our academic career learning how to write things in an “academic” manner, which then permeates the media through graduates entering the workforce, which spreads it to the rest of the world… leaving so much of the population’s writing dense and impersonal, lacking the ability to truly COMMUNICATE.

A chapter that I found particularly useful for my own writing and myself is the first chapter, “The Sound of Your Writing”. It’s not just a matter of the rhythm, but also a matter of the sounds each word makes, in your mind and out loud. Using strong words, onomatopoeia, alliteration, rhyming, the flavor of what you’re talking about can convey a different effect. Something else I noticed about it, however, is that the nature of the exercise encourages word association, which can lead your story in unexpected directions. Word association is like a backdoor, getting you past that guard-dog we call our self-censor, and can let you be honest in ways that might not have otherwise gotten out. When I did the exercise for chapter one, what had started out as a silly little exercise ended up being a somewhat angst-ridden prose poem, which led me to discover that I still have a lot of angst in me, for better or worse. It made me realize that maybe I’m not handling my depression as well as I thought, because it became clear that I wasn’t DEALING with any of it, just burying it. Now I’m actually trying to take a more proactive stance in dealing with my depression.

Another chapter I really enjoyed was chapter nine, “Indirect Narration, or What Tells”, mainly because it’s a weak point for me. I’ve spent so much of my writing life outlining or creating character sheets and histories and not actually TELLING THE STORY, that I really found the information in the chapter really useful. It discusses ways to work in personality and history (both of the characters and the world) directly into dialogue and narrative, without creating “expository lumps”. I’ve always found my dialogue to be somewhat flat or weak in my writing, and this chapter made me realize that what I need to work on is weaving history into the dialogue. This will smooth out the story, and add a great deal of depth to the dialogue. I’m still not very good at it, but at least I’ve realized a method of improvement and can work on it more. (This is far more useful advice than what Stephen King said about dialogue, namely, you either have an ear for it or you don’t, and no amount of practice will change that.)

This is a remarkable book, and I would definitely recommend it to anyone interested in writing. In particular, I’d recommend it to writing workshops and teachers (in fact, I’m going to email my high school creative writing teacher and suggest it), as so many of the exercises in it are perfect for a workshop environment (LeGuin even marks the ones she feels are particularly suited for workshops). I’m greatly looking forward to returning to the book as the semester goes on, to visit and revisit some of the exercises within it. Like any other artistic endeavor, art is not just a matter of creativity, it is also very much a craft. I’m looking forward to refining mine.

LeGuin, Ursula K. Steering the Craft. Portland: Eighth Mountain Press, 1998.

Zen in the Art of Writing is not precisely a book about writing. Rather, it is a book about being passionate about what you do. While there are tips and tricks to writing and writing well, it is rather superfluous to the overall value of the book. In my eyes, where the book is most valuable is in encouraging you to be passionate. We have emotions, and yet so much of our academic lives are spent subjugating those emotions in a misguided attempt at objectivity. It is like a breath of fresh air to not only be told it’s okay to get angry or excited, but to be encouraged to do so.

The book is broken up into several essays, written over several years for various other reasons, collected into one book. As such, there is a bit of repetition in his subject matter (he comments on several of his stories several times through several different essays, often saying almost exactly the same thing), which can largely be forgiven. It really only irks when the points of repetition essentially boil down to some personal horn tooting on the case of the author (which kind of jives with what I’ve heard about Ray, namely that he is a very nice person but not all that modest about his talents). None of the repetition really harms the core of any of the essays, so no harm done, I suppose.

I thought about responding to each of the essays, but decided it would be more fun and rewarding to point out the parts that really struck me. In the essay “On the Shoulders of Giants”, Bradbury talks about the Science Fiction Explosion:

[…]and placed a gentle bomb on teacher’s desk. Instead of an apple it was Asimov.
“What’s that?” the teacher asked, suspiciously.
“Try it. It’s good for you,” said the students.
“No thanks.”
“Try it,” said the students. “Read the first page. If you don’t like it, stop.” And the clever students turned and went away.
The teachers (and the librarians, later) put off reading, kept the book around the house for a few weeks and then, late one night, tried the first paragraph.
And the bomb exploded.
They not only read the first but the second paragraph, the second and third pages, the fourth and fifth chapters.
“My God!” they cried, almost in unison, “these damned books are about something!”
“Good Lord!” they cried, reading a second book, “there are Ideas here!”
“Holy Smoke!” they babbled, on their way through Clarke, heading into Heinlein, emerging from Sturgeon, “these books are — ugly word — relevant!”
“Yes!” shouted the chorus of kids starving in the yard. “Oh my, yes!”
And the teachers began to teach, and discovered an amazing thing:
Students who had never wanted to read before suddenly were galvanized, pulled up their socks, and began to read and quote Ursula LeGuin. Kids who had never read so much as one pirate’s obituary in their lives were suddenly turning pages with their tongues, ravening for more. (Bradbury 102-103)

This piece right here is precisely what I’m talking about when I say that Bradbury’s writing is passionate and bordering poetic. It also strikes a very strong chord with me, on many levels. For one thing, I was one of those kids growing up, but in a later wave with a different fight on their hands. I had the side of the teachers now, and instead I was up against the other students, trying to convince them to just try it, and if they didn’t like it, they could throw the book in my face. I can count the number who actually took me up on my suggestions on one hand. A different but related chord is that the essay explains and encapsulates my feelings about science fiction so well. Science Fiction in so many ways should have stuck with an earlier moniker: Speculative Fiction. The genre is filled with ideas and notions and questions and ideals, some of which become reality, but that’s really superfluous to the nature of the genre. It’s the IDEAS that are important. And, for me at least, it is the challenge of Humanity.

The next most striking and invaluable essay for me was the title essay: “Zen in the Art of Writing”. It is one of his more straightforward essays, dealing with a (somewhat) more technical part of writing, namely how to do it. The entire essay can be summed up in one line: “WORK – RELAXATION – DON’T THINK – FURTHER RELAXATION” (Bradbury 144). The rest of the essay just explains that statement. What it comes down to is this: writing is WORK, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. There is craft in addition to art, and that is the structure of writing, and the act of writing itself. That said, if you are stressed out, your work will be stressed as well — it will not flow, and it will not be nearly as honest as you likely want. Likewise, if you let yourself think about what you are writing, you censor yourself: get it OUT THERE, you can always censor it later — chances are, once it’s out, you’ll be glad it is, no matter what your censor tells you when you’re writing it. Which brings us back to relaxation: ideas are from a deep part of your mind, and it takes being relaxed and receptive to get them to the surface. It’s where the “Zen” in the title becomes slightly less of just a turn of phrase. A major principle of Zen is an acceptance and receptiveness to one’s surroundings. Writing is very Zen.

The third and final essay I’m going to write about is “How to Keep and Feed a Muse”. There is always talk about a “writer’s muse”, talk that never seems to get anywhere, mostly involving some people arguing against any outside source, and others citing divine inspiration. Personally, I’m somewhere in the middle. Bradbury seems more in the camp of citing the Muse as our subconscious. There’s nothing wrong with this, and the essay is very valid regardless of which “camp” you belong to. It is worth noting that in either camp, there is the agreement that a muse must be fed. It needs experiences to grow from and work with, and life is its food of choice. It must also have an outlet, however: whether the work is good or not or feels particularly inspired or not, you need to write to keep a muse. Or paint, or sculpt, or any other creative medium — take your pick, the fact remains the same: if you are not willing to let the muse speak through you, then the muse will stop trying to. Of this I am absolutely certain, speaking from first-hand experience. You don’t even realize how important the interplay between yourself and your muse IS until it’s gone, whether through abuse, or neglect.

Zen in the Art of Writing is definitely worth reading. I would recommend happily (and have) to anyone willing to spend the few hours necessary to read it (it is not precisely long, weighing in at 176 pages in trade paperback size… I read it in less than a day). Those looking for a how-to book on writing should look elsewhere… and then come back when their priorities are in order. After all, what is the point in knowing how to write if you have nothing to say?

Bradbury, Ray. Zen in the Art of Writing. Santa Barbara: Joshua Odell Editions, 1994.

Before getting into the meat of the actual book, I thought this might be a good spot to point out an observation I’ve discovered in the books on writing that I’ve read so far. It may not be a requirement to be egotistical to be a successful professional writer, but it certainly seems to help. Perhaps it is because they spend so much time pretending to be or writing about someone else, but it seems like any opportunity where it MIGHT be appropriate to talk about themselves, they do so, often in the most self-aggrandizing fashion they can. This isn’t just an observation from the books on writing I’ve read thus far, it’s also from meeting various authors at conventions. (I should, however, mention that there are definitely many exceptions to this notion… it just doesn’t feel like it, sometimes.) I’m not trying to single Terry out, either. He is no worse (and in many ways better) than a lot of others I’ve had the chance to read or talk to. Honestly, I think my frustration just stems from reading a chain of these books, and Mr. Brooks is really nothing more than the proverbial straw.

In the tradition of other books of its ilk (such as On Writing and Bird by Bird), Sometimes the Magic Works is more a memoir of a writer than it is a book on writing. There is a lot to be said for this style of book. The subject material is kept interesting and engaging through personal anecdotes, and their autobiographical story is inherently encouraging (no one lives a charmed life, after all). The drawback, of course, being that it is more up to the reader to glean the useful information out of the text than it would be with more cut and dry books on writing. By and large, I think that tradeoff is a worthwhile one.

Sometimes the Magic Works is broken into separate chapters that largely work as self-contained essays (there is the occasional reference to an earlier chapter’s comments, but otherwise are encapsulated nicely). The reading was informal and amusing, making for a quick read. Rather than break it down chronologically, Brooks breaks up the book according to the subject he’s talking about. For instance, one of the early chapters is called “Luck”, which discusses when his first novel was accepted, by none other than Lester Del Rey, who personally took him under his wing and made the book (The Sword of Shannara) the flagship fantasy novel under the fledgling Del Rey imprint. Had his submission been a few weeks earlier or later, that flagship role would have gone to a different author, and we may have never heard of Terry Brooks at all. That is a prime example of Luck, with a capital “L”. There is no amount of planning or skill that can account for fortuitous timing. (The encouraging flipside of this story: it points out that these sorts of lucky breaks DO happen, fate will help you, but you have to do a little legwork as well, like writing a good book and submitting it.)

Another chapter that was interesting to read was called “It’s Not About You”. This chapter talked about his very first book signing, sitting next to the esteemed A.J. Budrys, a well known and respected veteran author. He’d had these grand dreams of how book signings would be… which were promptly squashed thoroughly by the reality of the signing: he didn’t sell or sign a single book the entire day. This was a pretty humbling experience for him, and made Terry really reassess his idea of what book signings were about. What he decided ultimately was that book signings are about making a connection with your readers (or potential readers). It’s not about being adored, or having swarms of fans around, hanging on your every word. It’s about talking with another person and making a connection with them that they (and hopefully yourself as well) will remember later. I can really get behind this idea. It is a far more rewarding experience, in my opinion, than it would be to sit around acting like an ass because you think everyone there is a fanboy.

On the topic of actual writing, it was nice to get an alternative viewpoint to the other authors I’ve read: neither King and Goldberg don’t use outlines for their writing, but Brooks swears by them. His stance is this: because of outlining the story, plot, characters, and locations before writing the actual story, he is able to keep his first draft far more cohesive than other authors. Generally speaking, he is able to write one draft, do one rewrite, and be ready for publication. Other authors end up doing rewrite after rewrite trying to wrap up their story. He does mention, however, (and if he hadn’t, I would have) that it comes down to figuring out what style works best for you, as there are plenty of successful authors in both camps (and even some in between).

Overall, I found this an enjoyable book, and reasonably insightful and informative. I’d definitely recommend it to anyone interested in learning more about Terry Brooks or fiction writing in general. I would say it is a worthwhile addition to the “writer’s memoir” genre.

Brooks, Terry. Sometimes the Magic Works. New York: Del Rey, 2003.

Stephen King is not exactly what one would call an “obscure” writer. In fact, you walked down the street, any street, and asked random people who came to mind when asked for a modern author, chances are fairly high that a pretty large number will mention Mr. King. Some rave about his work, others think he’s a hack, but either way, he most decidedly someone who knows how to write, and whom people will listen to about writing. It’s fitting, then, that he chose to make his memoir about writing.

King makes a point at the very beginning of the book of pointing out that he has tried to strip away the bullshit, leaving just useful (or at least anecdotal) information. I applaud his efforts, and feel that he largely succeeded: it reads both fast and well, with very little getting dragged out beyond what is necessary to convey his point.

The book is broken into several sections, starting with a personal memoir of his childhood and early writing career, basically spelling out how he came to be who and how he is. This was amusing and insightful to read, as well as vaguely validating concerning my own life: in terms of creative impulses and literary origins, we have a lot in common. For instance, as junior-high children, he and his brother created their own newspaper (“Dave’s Rag” named after his brother David), which they sold among family, neighbors, and classmates. As a sixth grader, I was involved in a similar endeavor (though entirely on my own), writing a book review newsletter that I sold for a dime to classmates, until the school shut me down (I was not using any of their resources, and privately the teachers appreciated the effort, but there was a policy of not selling non-school related things in school).

One of the most moving bits in the personal memoir portion of the book for me would have to be when he was talking about the call he got when Carrie’s paperback rights sold. He and his wife were living in a beat-up, roach infested apartment, scrambling to make ends meat. His editor called him, and told him that the rights to Carrie had sold for $400,000 dollars. His wife was out of town and Stephen had no way to contact her about it, and spent the afternoon pacing around waiting for her to get home… when she did, he told her. She just looked around the shithole of an apartment and started crying. That’s a pretty intense little bit of humanity. Both Stephen and his wife Tabitha were college educated, but from poor working class families. Quite literally, it’s like being given a golden ticket out of the hard life. It’s not enough to retire on, no, but it’s enough to get out of the hard place they were in. I know it’s a rare thing to get that much money for book rights, but it really does leave this gem of hope for anyone who wants to be a writer.

The next portion of On Writing is called “What Writing Is”, and is really about just that. The section is short, just a chapter long. What it comes down to for Stephen, and I largely agree with this assessment, is that writing is a form of telepathy. It is a meeting of minds: the writer’s and the reader’s, at least if it’s done well. It’s not a matter of describing every detail (that really does nothing more than bog down this mental communication), but sharing enough that there is a shared picture in the minds of everyone involved: the reader, the writer, the characters in the story. He closes this section with a pleading request that we take writing seriously, which I second. Something worth clarifying here: I’m not talking about writers being taken seriously — too often, they are taken TOO seriously, in fact. Nor am I talking about what is written being taken seriously — I somehow doubt Douglas Adams wanted Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy to be treated as a serious tome. What I (and Stephen) am talking about is taking the act of writing seriously. If you aren’t willing to commit yourself to the task of writing, then don’t do it. Go read a book, play a game, watch a movie, do anything else, but don’t waste your time and ours by going in and writing half-assedly.

The third section of the book is called “Toolbox”, and discusses the writer’s toolbox, at length. The metaphor of a multi-layered toolbox is a good one: you keep your key tools at the top, and open deeper when you need to. Vocabulary and grammar are the two biggest tools at the top: looking for themes within your writing, something the author suggests leaving until your first draft is DONE, is further down. This may be less true for plot-driven pieces, but his work is largely situational. He does not outline, just comes up with a situation, creates the basic skeleton of some characters, and sees what develops where and when. It’s an interesting concept, and one that I don’t see suggested often enough. So many books on writing talk steadily about the need for outlining, and pre-planning in varying amounts (but rarely no planning at all). This isn’t something that should need validation (ie, hand-holding), but it is still nice to actually have a successful writer say “Don’t worry about it, just let it go where it goes.”

I found the ranting King does in the Toolbox section hilarious but spot-on. He discusses several of his pet peeves such as adverbs, passive verbs, and cliché metaphors and similies. Of course, after all the rants and arguments against them, King does point out that he is vaguely hypocritical about this. He tries to catch these things, but sometimes stuff just slips through. But really, I think that’s kind of the point. In my opinion, it’s not that these things should be actually shunned, but that they are things that if used too much, they become painful. Unless you have angelic levels of restraint and a DEEP understanding of the English language, it’s best to avoid them simply so that when they DO appear (and they will), they’ll be used in moderation.

The fourth portion of On Writing is the title section. It is a strange mishmash of personal curmudgeonly diatribe and remarkably useful and sage writing advice. His discussion of the use and development of theme was remarkably insightful, as was his diatribe about getting over ourselves about trying to pretend that we live in a vacuum as writers. In so many other artforms, especially when learning, it is expected that you will try to emulate the style or even composition of prior artists. But in writing, there is this myth and fear that writing “in the style of” another author is plagiarism. It’s bullshit, and if you stop to think about it for even a moment it’s obviously bullshit, but that doesn’t stop us from having that initial gut feeling that we have to fight to overcome. I’m as guilty as the next person about this one… I used to get so upset, feeling like I was “ripping off” some of my favorite authors, and only realized much later that there was nothing wrong with what I was doing. It is part of developing your own voice, if nothing else.

The final section of the book was about recovering and returning to writing after a near fatal accident the author was in during the summer of 1999. It’s a pretty intense piece of writing, deeply personal and yet filled with fact-finding and observations. In all of it, I’d say the part that most impacted me was when he was talking about his intial recovery:

I entered the hospital on June nineteenth. Around the twenty-fifth I got up for the first time, staggering three steps to a commode, where I sat with my hospital johnny in my lap and my head down, trying not to weep and failing. You try to tell yourself that you’ve been lucky, most incredibly lucky, and usually that works because it’s true. Sometimes it doesn’t work, that’s all. Then you cry. (King 263)

What was really heartening about the whole ordeal is just how supportive his wife was throughout all of it. When the author decided he needed to get back to work, Tabitha backed him up, setting up a workspace where he would have access in his wheelchair, and then staying within earshot but not in the way while he tried writing (this was a period of time that due to his injuries, even being upright for more than 45 minutes at a time caused him serious searing pain). This sort of support is way more valuable in my eyes than any amount of accolades. It’s a real show of trust.

Overall, I’d definitely recommend this book, without qualification. Regardless of whether you are a Stephen King fan or not, or whether you are interested in writing or not, it was an enjoyable book, and worth the time to read.

I think it is worth mentioning, at least in passing, the similarities between what is discussed in Writing Down the Bones and what is brought up in Art & Fear. This is by no means a bad thing, as the similarities focus around a very important message: get out of your own damn way and let yourself be the creative person you truly are. When congealed down to a single statement like that, it may seem a little hokey, a bit like something a motivational speaker would say, but it is absolutely true: the biggest limitation in our creative growth is our fear of being creative. The sooner we realize this and stop being so self-critical (to the point of paralysis, in some cases), the sooner we will become what we hope to be.

The structure of Writing Down the Bones is simple and more useful through its simplicity. Rather than building upon each prior chapter in a linear fashion, this book can largely be read in any order you want. This is intentional, a design used to allow these brief (2-5 page) essays to be used on an individually encapsulated fashion, like a reference book. I really enjoyed this style of writing, at least partially because it kept any thought or message the author was trying to convey encapsulated into a small body of text. This really helps keep the “literary mental masturbation” to a bare minimum: in a five page essay, there is much less room for the sort of hoop-jumping and fluffing that occurs in most writing of this type.

One concept that Ms. Goldberg brought up repeatedly was the use of regular journaling as a technique to both get the creative juices flowing as well as to get you used to the concept of generating output every day, even if it is never seen by anyone else (or even if it’s material you don’t WANT anyone else to see). It gets the crud at the surface of the mind out of the way, allowing your deeper creative self room to express itself. Generally speaking, I agree with her: streaming consciousness is all well and good, but the “good” stuff is when we progress past that into the streaming unconscious. I disagree with her to some extent, however, concerning how much she uses that period almost entirely as warm-up, delineating it from any other writing she chooses to do that day. This disagreement, however, is roughly akin to whether milk chocolate or dark chocolate is best: both are good and perfectly valid choices, and which is preferred is entirely a matter of taste.

Something we are in complete agreement about, however, is the need (almost requirement) for passion. What makes a writer — or any artist, for that matter — good is the ability to see even the most mundane, ignored aspects of life in a passionate manner. Red wheelbarrows are glazed with rainwater all over the world, but it took William Carlos Williams to notice and appreciate it enough to write about one. Long before anyone suggested this to me, I was declaring to anyone who would listen how important the little moments were to me. I live for them, and cherish them so much. I feel emptier when I haven’t noticed any of these moments in a while, and I feel enriched every time I do catch it. The next step, a step I used to take but for some reason have become too timid to do now, is write about these moments.

Which brings us to the another subject Goldberg wrote about: validation. I used to write about the moments I had experienced, but did not receive any validation from my peers about what I was sharing. Most of the time, the most I could get out of anyone was “It’s good, I just don’t know what to say.” Finally, I just stopped writing, because I felt like I was ripping my heart out in my writing only to find out that no one was willing to take it. (I am aware that this is largely whining, crying over spilled milk, but that’s part and parcel with this subject: it is easy to get into this cycle of feeling under appreciated and then refusing to believe if even when you ARE appreciated or validated.) This, of course, is just another way we block ourselves: we should be writing for ourselves, not writing to be validated by our peers. By seeking validation, all we do is set ourselves up for disappointment, because a lot of the time, it simply won’t happen.

The final subject I want to bring up specifically from Writing Down the Bones (though not the final subject of the book) is that of coffee shops, restaurants, and other public spaces to write. Some people need their dens to write in, they need it quiet (or with their choice of music playing), and the door closed away from the world. Others — like myself, apparently, as well as the author — need public spaces. Borrowing a term from Ray Oldenburg, third spaces, places that are neither home nor work that serves a social function. Especially as an introvert, these spaces (generally coffee shops, personally) create a sort of insular bubble where there is activity around you, but that you are not required to participate in. I find this environment extremely motivating, and end up writing easily three times as much as I do at home (it took me over a day to write the first paragraph of this essay at home. I have written the entire rest of the essay in a little over an hour sitting in a Barnes & Noble Café). Some of her suggestions about new third spaces have a lot of promise, which I plan to look into at some point in the not too distant future (restaurants, for instance). Some might call third spaces a crutch, and that I should be able to write ANYWHERE. They may be right, but frankly I don’t really care. It is worth it to me to spend the $1-5 a session buying coffee, tea, or juice in exchange for the amount of creative output I gain over sitting at home for free. I’m inclined to believe that Goldberg would agree.

Overall, I really enjoyed reading Writing Down the Bones, and would definitely recommend it to anyone who wants to write (or to a lesser extent, create any sort of art). I finished the book very quickly, which is more a testament to the writing in the book than it is to the length. Originally, I was considering just borrowing this book from the library, but after reading it, I am glad to be able to have it on my shelf.

Goldberg, Natalie. Writing Down the Bones. Boston: Shambala Publications, 1986.