writing

Places where inspiration finds me

J.C. O'Brien
Seattle alley, Pioneer Square, J.C. O'Brien, Night Shift
While I’ve witnessed some racy things happening in Seattle alleys, I have, fortunately, not run into any of the scenes that happen in my novels.

I find my inspiration in Seattle’s dark alleys.

Seattle burned to the ground in 1889. 32 blocks of the city were rebuilt to new fire standards and so far (fingers crossed), they’ve done OK with quakes (with a few exceptions).

Seattle’s rain is no myth. Like New Orleans, downtown’s streets end up with puddles of “mystery” liquid that sometimes develops an oily sheen. Mix in some moss and subtract some sunlight and it doesn’t take much to imagine something dark and lovely hunting through Pioneer Square’s streets.

I also like to include real locations in my stories. Bars like the Alibi Room or restaurants like the Crumpet Shop show up in my work because I want readers to be able to taste what it’s like to live in Seattle.

But while I might go out in the streets at night hunting inspiration, when it comes time to express it in a story, I turn to locations I visit almost on a daily basis.

[soliloquy id="301"]
[soliloquy slug="green-lake-inspiration"]

My favorite place is probably Green Lake. Designed by the Olmsted brothers, who’d been hired by Seattle in 1903 to oversee park planning, this manmade lake includes a nearly three-mile track that I walk five to six days a week with my husband and dog.

But my history with Green Lake goes back to when I moved here from Detroit in 1987. I’ve walked that same track for nearly thirty years, oddly enough, almost always in the same direction. I’ve watched the seasons change, rabbits, eagles, hawks and red-winged blackbirds appear and disappear and had the opportunity to watch my own child and others grow into teenagers.

In other words, the lake provides a familiar place where I can go and observe change — a sort of laboratory of human expression, storytelling and condition combined with my absolute favorite source of inspiration — movement.

There is something to be said for knowing a large swathe of land with great intimacy and knowing that you share that space with people having a similar experience.

The Olmsteds created their parks with this kind of sensation in mind. If you’re lucky enough to live near one of the spaces that they created across the U.S. or in Canada, it’s worth exploring. But the same feeling can be had anywhere that you call home, because it’s going back to that same space day in and day out and looking really closely sometimes and not so closely the next that layers experiences in your brain. I believe an activity like walking or running allows you to coax those experiences onto the keyboard and combine your knowledge of daily existence with any dark, magical thing that strikes your fancy.

This piece was written as part of a blog carnival with six other others. Find out where they find their inspiration.

How to train your mind and body to let creativity find you

J.C. O'Brien

electric-fire

For me, the secret to staying inspired is movement.

Whether it means that I move my fingers across the keyboard from the moment I sit in my writing chair until I leave, or that I get up for regular dance or tea breaks, it’s shifting my body that shakes ideas loose.

I think ideas are sticky. They’re the product of all kinds of processes and I think they get stuck in our heads and it can be hard to pry them out.

This is why movement works.

Instead of concentrating on the outcome or the absence of an idea, you shift your focus and move.

Much of day we shorten our gaze to the width of a screen. Whether it’s on a phone, a computer or a television, that flat screen defines the span of what we encounter. Despite the knowledge literally at our fingertips, creativity can flatten and shrink during the hunt for small pieces of information if we don’t expand our gaze.

There are moments when you need to narrow your focus. Instances when the ability to zero on your quarry is what allows you to push through a deadline with the requisite number of words.

But to create those moments when the work feeds itself, I need to allow it to come to me. Instead of hunting creativity, I need to let it find its way into my story.

I do some of that by removing doubt.

After I walk the dog, unless there’s blood or fire, I’m going to eat breakfast and write for two hours. Whether or not I feel like it or am inspired is irrelevant. It’s what I do at that time of the day.

Once I’m in my writing room, I follow a set pattern of turning on the electric fireplace, the weird dolphin light I got at Good Will and lighting my candles. My dog gets off his bed and stretches out on the cool basement floor and I make my fingers move. I don’t stop to think if what I’m writing is good or if I like the scene I’m working on because I might not like the answer. And more importantly, when I get to the editing process, I might find out that “writing me” was wrong.

Thanks to NanoWrimo training, I write through to the end of the story and when it’s done, I start the next one, because it’s easier to keep going than it is to get started.

Momentum works.

And movement, done with intention, can keep the momentum going.

Instead of zeroing in on your screen or book or task at hand, softening your gaze allows you to notice things out of the corner of your eye. Lulling your brain with rhythmic movements allows it to relax and make connections between a random comment on Facebook, the music playing through your speakers and the trouble with the pacing your last chapter.

Movement done in a relaxed, steady manner, whether it’s walking, dancing or loading the dishwasher replaces chasing after the story with an invitation for it to come to you.

This is easier if you pay attention to your breath. Allowing your in breath to descend into your diaphragm to spread your ribs like wings and following the breath through a complete exhale can help you relax enough to let your story find you.

If all of this sounds like yoga or meditation, you’re close.

For me, creativity comes when I achieve a state of trance. I can get there through rhythmic movement or immersing in a task, but it’s the product of relaxed action.

This doesn’t come easily.

It’s not like you can go sit wherever you write, snatch a couple of breaths and tell yourself to relax and it will work. Especially when faced with multiple demands on your time, the state can be hard if you haven’t laid the groundwork. This takes practice. You have to train both your mind and your body.

Figure out when you do your best work by trying to write at different times of the day. See if that time meshes with your schedule, which may take some rearranging. (My best time doesn’t work for mine or I’d have written this at three in the morning when the only sound is the world breathing.) If you have too much to do, get your writing done first. Even that shift in priority can provide the perspective to receive other ideas throughout the day.

Because you’re in a story mind, co-workers may offer bits of dialogue or plot points. You might encounter colors or situations that suit your plot.

Putting your story first sets you up to receive inspiration instead of chase it.

Because inspiration is a little like love — it finds you best when you’re doing something else.

Need more inspiration? This post was written as part of a Blog Carnival of Inspiration with several of my fellow writers.

What if you approached writing the way your dog approaches a walk?

J.C. O'Brien
Black dog, nose, Seattle, J.C. O'Brien
Writing companion and nose model, Leo O’Brien, shows off the entrance to his 300 million olfactory receptors.

A dog about to head on a walk is worried about three things: the leash, his human and getting out the door. Even if what happens after he’s outside is the same route he takes every day, the dog’s excited to sniff to find out who else has walked that way, how the weather has shifted and if there is anyone exciting up ahead.

In other words, even though he might use his 300 million olfactory receptors , he’s only concerned with what actually reaches his nose.

Which is a lot like writing:

  1. Take in as much information as you can.
  2. Figure out what it means.
  3. Share that information with others.

The dog’s sharing takes the liquid form of paying it forward or swapping sniffs with dogs he might meet along the way. Writers can do the same thing, with shorter missives like this blog post, or through longer, crafted works.

But the main thing is that the dog saves his worry for important things, like when the hell you’re going to get home, which proves to be great advice for a writer. Save your worry for when the humans are going to return and write as far as your nose takes you.

Cursed guitar playlist

J.C. O'Brien

Writing about a cursed guitar’s made me break my usual habit of writing in silence. I just wrapped the draft of RIFF, the third book in my supernatural noir series featuring David Delsarto. Never mind that I thought it was the second book when I was writing it. (I’m tending to book two now.)

But here’s some of the great stuff I was listening to. Be sure to check out 74-year-old Beverly “Guitar” Watkins while she tears up the strings. May I be at least half as hip when it’s my time.

Happy listening.

Writing exercise: Pacing

J.C. O'Brien
Finger cymbals, zils, zills, Peter Fels, Jamila Salimpour
Learning to play these finger cymbals helped me figure out a new approach to pacing my novels.

A few weeks ago, my belly dance instructor sent me back to zill kindergarten. (Zills are the metal disks dancers attach to their fingers so they can accompany the musicians or make their own music.) Despite the grace displayed in scenes like this one in “From Russia With Love,” playing them takes a helluva lot of coordination — and then you add moving your body.

I’ve spent the last couple of weeks walking around my house, playing the right cymbal, then the left, then the right, starting out on a different foot with each set of three. Luckily I’ve talked my bass player husband, Dan O’Brien, into being my personal metronome, so the pacing-the-house-while-playing is slowly switching to dancing.

What the hell does any of this have to do with writing?

Everything.

In addition to coordination, playing cymbals requires serious listening. I’m training myself to dance to complicated Turkish rhythms, which means I’m listening intently to how the song is paced. With seven minutes of music, you have an intro, building to some excitement, a lush sexy bit, then more excitement and even more excitement.

Dancing and playing to a song like this is an exercise in pacing, which has definitely affected my writing. I’m more conscious of the need to release as well as build tension. And Dan, who’s been my involuntary beta reader for a long time, noticed a real difference in my latest book, saying it’s more of a page turner.

So here’s my challenge for other writers:

Pick a song you love in a language you don’t know.

Put it on repeat on your iPod.

Listen to it at least an hour a day. More if possible. Play it while you’re driving, dealing with housework, walking the dog.

Continue with your regular writing schedule, but consciously let your song inform your writing.

At the end of the week, take a look at your work and see how it’s changed. My bet is that your pacing will be better, your transitions will be stronger and the need for expository prose will fade away.  That was my experience. I’d love to hear about yours.