Phytoncides.

Okay, stay with me. The logic on this one is a little convoluted. First of all, forest bathing. By now the term is familiar, yet another Eastern idea (in Japan it’s called shinrin yoku) glommed onto by Western society. The Japanese ministry of agriculture, forestry, and fisheries coined the term in 1982. It refers to “making contact with and taking in the atmosphere of the forest,” an activity that leads to all kinds of good physical and mental health outcomes.

Sounds good! But, to many Western, left-brained, show-me-the-evidence types , it also sounds a bit . . . woo.

Not to worry. It’s since been scienced, by both Japanese and Western researchers. Turns out the main actors in this magical woodland medicine are phytoncides, “airborne chemicals that plants give off to protect themselves from insects,” according to New York’s department of environmental conservation.

I mean, the word seems pretty villainous, if you look at its etymology: phyton = plant, and cide = kill. How can something that kills plants, or how do killer plants, help people?

When we inhale phytoncides, as we’re innocently meandering—or sitting, or hammocking—in the backcountry, we give a special white blood cell in our bodies a boost. Get this: the special cell is called a natural killer cell. So much death!

Well, it’s death we want, because NK cells kill off, you guessed it, harmful other cells. They’re killers, but they only kill bad guys: tumor- and virus-infected cells.

And how does that help me write? It’s the mind-body connection. Sure, there are ample examples of alcoholic and mentally ill writers who nevertheless succeeded wildly. Those are exceptions. Most of us need to be at our best in order to write well.

So this solstice, see if you can spend some time outside, breathe in the killer-plant compounds, ramp up your killer-cell production, be healthy, and write well.

Everyone needs an editor. But do you have to hire one?

As an editor, of course I think you should hire me. 😁 But an editor and a writer need to be a good fit. Things have worked out beautifully in the very vast majority of my working relationships with writers, but not every match is made in heaven.

Editors across the board should share some fundamental skills and knowledge:

• Mastery of grammar and usage

• Understanding of narrative structure

• Appreciation for voice and how to help authors develop theirs

But they can—and should—be unique, as well. Not every writer is looking for or needs the same kind of editing or the same kind of editor.

Setting aside different types of editing (or see here for some discussion, or sign up for my free seminar on same), editors take different approaches with their clients. Do you want an editor who

·       Is available right away?

·       Is willing to work on multiple drafts?

·       Will “hold your feet to the fire”?

·       Will hold your hand through the dark and scary wilderness of writing?

·       Specializes in your genre?

·       Works with many genres?

·       Has expertise and connections in the industry (spoiler alert, this won’t guarantee a book deal)?

·       Is a really great writer (writing and editing are related but not identical skills)?

·       Is a really understanding champion of your work?

It’s important to find the right editor for you, and you should feel free to interview several, ask (and pay) for editing samples to determine whether they get you, and build a way out into your agreement.

Don’t work with an editor who

• is unresponsive

• guarantees publication

• won’t do a (paid or free) sample edit

• charges an amount you can’t feel good about

I’ll be discussing all this and more at my 🎊free 🎊seminar on Saturday, November 18th at 10 a.m. EST.

You can sign up here!

I have a candle in a pretty tin—a splurge from Anthropologie for my 43rd birthday. The scent, pomelo sea salt, is delicious, butI long ago burnt it down so the wick is gone.

It’s not just a nice smell; it’s an evocative one. My partner, Inti, and I took this candle with us on our first camping trip. Although I had my doubts, it turned out I loved the experience. The first few times we went, we always burned this candle.

Years later I can open up the tin and flood my thoughts and feelings with everything about those outings—our bright-green tablecloth, our Ticket to Ride board game, hoppy craft IPAs, Spotify jazz on a Bluetooth speaker.

What odor evokes an entire set of concrete associations and feelings for you? Think how powerful aromas are. I mean, an entire holiday industrial complex is built around pumpkin spice!

So what does this have to do with writing? It’s “one weird trick” that actually works.

(I know, I know. Stay with me. :)

Scent activates a group of neurons in your brain. Positive emotions sparked by other elements of an experience activate a different group of neurons. Over time, these neurons start to grow connected. As neuropsychologist Donald Hebb puts it, “the neurons that fire together wire together.”

Smells do not have to pass through the thalamus (a kind of relay station) before going directly to the hippocampus (seat of memory) or other higher areas of the brain. Scent can also directly access the amygdala (emotional responses).

How can that help us write?

With writing, showing up counts for so much. But we resist showing up, and we need to overcome that. The way we do that is to build a habit. The way we do that is to make a tiny commitment and reinforce it with rewards.

Enter nice aromas: We can wire some smell-good neurons to some keep-our-butt-in-the-chair neurons.

We need to show up consistently—never mind the writing quality or quantity right now; this is just the habit-building part. Over time we will produce great writing.

Light a candle, sit down to write. Fifteen minutes later, blow out the candle, have a tiny treat (I’m partial to sea salt caramels), and move on with your day. Resistance breaks down. We train our unconscious it is safe—even pleasurable—to spend 15 minutes in the chair. We teach our muse that we will consistently welcome her into our space.

Is it gimmicky? Yes. Is it Pavlovian? Yes. Does it work? Yes.

Let me know how your writing is going and what weird tricks have helped you. I have a few spots left on my fall and winter editing calendar. Contact me today!

Q: What writing project or projects are you working on right now?

A:  I am working on Book 2 in the Trading Secrets trilogy and also toying with idea of writing a self-care book on becoming the woman you want to be.

Q: How long have you been working on these?

A: Just released Book 1 of the trilogy on May 4, so very early into the writing process for Book 2. The self-care book is still in concept phase.

Q: What is something you love about writing?

A: I love that I can shape a fictional world to tell a story and get messages across.

Q: What is something you could do without?

A: Sitting hunched over a laptop! I’m an introvert, so I don’t mind the time alone, lost in my thoughts. I do, however, take issue with my aches from sitting!

Q: While working on this project, what are some of the most valuable things you’ve learned about writing?

A: The importance of perseverance and rituals. Writing a book (unless you’re under a contractual deadline) is not like school where all the steps are mapped out for you. It’s a fluid process, and you’re almost completely driving it. Going from “I’m writing a book” to “I’ve published a book” takes a lot of commitment and discipline to persevere.

In terms of rituals—for me, I need to ritualize writing. I thrive with a regular writing schedule—a certain time of day with a set amount of time blocked out for it. Whether it’s 20 minutes at lunch time or after everyone goes to sleep, it helps me to have a habitual schedule, as well as a ritual attached to it. For instance, in the mornings, I’ll have hot water with lemon after my morning meditation practice and dog walk.

Q: How might you advise someone who is working with a coach or editor (or considering doing so) to approach the process?

A: It’s the best investment I made in myself as a writer and in my finished product. I don’t have an MFA or a MA in Creative Writing. I just had a love for books and for storytelling. To translate that into chapters and plots takes some organization, and while storytelling may come naturally, formal writing didn’t.

It’s extremely important to have coaches and editors who have the right balance of honesty and motivation for your style of learning. You were the right mix for me—I knew there was no beating around the bush when I wasn’t submitting my best work, but I also knew you were always there to keep me excited, motivated, and progressing forward.

Q: What’s your day job?

A: Lawyer

Q: Favorite writing location?

A: I used to romanticize writing at the beach, but the logistics of the sand/keyboard situation and sunburn risk make that a little unrealistic. Nowadays, I’m ecstatic for anywhere I can see and hear the ocean.

My first attempt at an MFA began inauspiciously.

An instructor, a published novelist at George Mason University, looked around the classroom at his bright-eyed students, eager to write and workshop our essays. Workshop, a verb. As in, submit our prose for criticism and feedback so we could revise and improve it.

His first-day comments about logistics and the syllabus trailed off, and he fixed us with a hopeless look. “I’ll be honest,” he said. He flicked his wrist derisively. “This doesn’t really work.”

We shifted in our seats, side-eyed each other. What doesn’t really work? As he went on he made it clear he was talking about the workshop process itself.

Thank god I had participated in others and knew that, with good leadership, they did work.

Of course, they’re imperfect, and, as writing instruction goes, simply receiving feedback from other writers—with varying degrees of competence and talent—isn’t enough. But to dismiss them altogether was absurd. Sadly, in this instructor’s hands it was also self-fulfilling.

Unfortunately, he was expressing a belief held by many writers, one I suspect says more about their own sense of specialness than their understanding of pedagogy. Most MFA faculty are writers first and teachers second—they teach to pay the bills. Some are reluctant, even resentful. They aren’t necessarily devoted to the art of teaching or trained in the science of learning.

Happily, many love the craft so much they transcend these limitations in order to promote it. They learn how to teach. They discover that yes, actually, feedback, discussion, and revision does result in better writers. Workshopping, done well, does work.

It’s true that there’s magic in writing, and magic isn’t conferrable the way facts are, or the way skills can be.

But writing is only about one percent sorcery. The rest boils down to putting in time, with intentionality: reading and analyzing mentor texts, drafting regularly, and revising ruthlessly.

The 99 percent of writing that isn’t sheer-luck talent is a knowable, if vast, domain. Certain elements make for good stories, and these elements are not a mystery: For example, (nonexperimental) fiction and narrative nonfiction need a protagonist with a clear conflict—something at stake—and a narrative arc. Descriptive nonfiction must be structured in a way that clearly conveys its main ideas, supporting them with illustrative details. Arguments must be rhetorically sound and should anticipate and address counterarguments. 

Those are just the basics. If writing couldn’t be taught, writers would never get better, but I see writers improve all the time.

After the George Mason instructor of little faith told me I should acquire assignments from editors by showing up at their offices rather than emailing them because “you’re young, you’re attractive,” I dropped out. A few years later, I earned an MFA in creative nonfiction at Goucher College, where the instructors understood the pedagogy of writing.

Pity the reader. –Kurt Vonnegut

There may be as many reasons to write as there are writers, but most if not all can be lumped into three categories:

1. self-expression and creative fulfillment
2. sharing information, entertainment, and/or inspiration
3. calling readers to action (e.g. political, spiritual, commercial)

Of the three, only the first reason allows for the possibility of not taking readers into consideration—and then only if the writer plans to leave the writing on a shelf.

Otherwise, we write to connect. We have something to say and want others to hear it.

It’s surprising then how easy it is, putting words to paper, to forget the reader. It’s alarmingly common, for example, to read political commentary that assumes its readers already agree with its author. Otherwise, it wouldn’t insult people who don’t—the very people whose minds the author is trying to change.

Another kind of disregard for readers is self-indulgence. Our own voice seduces us; it warps a piece of writing into a showcase of our intelligence, wit, expertise, or sophistication. Nobody wants to read that. Except the writer—until she finally acknowledges these motivations and winces at how transparent the preening must have been all along to everyone else. Guilty.

Sometimes we get hung up on our vision for a piece of writing. I understand the integrity of creative expression, and writing (particularly poetry and experimental fiction) is art. But if we want that vision to land we must follow Vonnegut's advice.

A writer I met recently was frustrated with her book editor. The editor suggested adding background and context. Telling me this story, the writer made a face. “That wasn’t what my focus was,” she said. She didn’t want to emphasize that.

This line struck me, because I both recognized the sentiment behind it—what writer hasn’t felt thwarted and misunderstood when sharing her work?—and agreed with the editor.

The writer seemed to forget her purpose for writing, which was to explain an important problem so her readers would do something about it. Frankly, it didn’t matter if she didn’t want to emphasize that. Assuming readers needed it for understanding, she had to include it.

I’m no expert in her topic and don’t know her readership, so I can’t make the call, but the editor’s suggestion sounded solid. If the writer had said, “My readers already know that,” or “Readers don’t need to know that,” okay. But her reluctance wasn’t reader related.

So how do we pity the reader? One way is to put ourselves in his shoes and ask, “If I didn’t know this author, what would I get out of reading this?

Is the writing entertaining? Insightful? Informative? Inspiring? Does it shed some light on the human condition?

Pitying the reader is a mindset. It may be one you set aside while writing the first draft—at that point, it’s best to let it all fly—but it is one you must adopt when revising and editing.

There comes a time when it strikes you that you have got some stories to tell. You have something to say! You’ve seen some crazy s**t in your lifetime; you’ve come through some harrowing times. Now, you’re on the other side of those experiences, but they’re hanging around in your heart and your mind.

Or it strikes you one day, after a decade or so in a field, that you that you know a hell of a lot about a subject, and that this is a subject other people should know about.

There’s something there. Something worth sharing, or maybe even simply something worth documenting, remembering, or exploring.

But, damn. What do you do with it? How do you even start?

The New Yorker’s Adam Gopnik once wrote that writing is “turning time into language.”

So you start with time.

You put it on your calendar. Maybe it’s an hour on a Tuesday night—maybe an hour every Tuesday night. Or maybe it’s a chunk of a Saturday afternoon.

Then you consider space.

You pick your writing happy place—maybe the far end of the couch. Maybe that one table in the back of the coffee shop. You get there early enough to order your coffee, to brew your tea.

You bring your beverage to your happy place. You silence your phone and put out of sight. You open your laptop or your paper notebook. On your laptop, you turn off the WiFi and maximize the window—in your paper notebook you turn to a clean page—so there’s nothing to see but a sheet of white paper. Maybe you set a timer, maybe you don’t, but you definitely do not do anything—anything—else for the time you’ve carved out of your life for this important work.

And then you write. Easy, right?

No? No. It’s not easy. Maybe nothing will happen. Maybe you will stare at the blank page for a long, long time.

Maybe you’ll type a sentence, but as soon as you see it on the page, you’ll decide this writing is for other people, who are you kidding, and you’ll want to delete it immediately. Don’t. Instead, hit return a few times, or turn to a new page, or open a new document, and try again.

Maybe you write a sentence, and it makes you think of another one, and then another and another until your tea has grown cold and your timer goes off. (You are very lucky if this happens to you.)

Most likely it’s something in between. Some good sentences, some sentences that embarrass you, some long stretches of time with nothing happening.

Be patient. Love yourself. But, as writer Ron Carlson has put it, “Whatever you do, stay in the room.”

Because the secret to turning “time into language” is to spend the time.

At this point, that’s all that matters. At this point, you’re just getting started. Down the road, you’ll re-read that language, and some of it will please you and a some of it won’t. (If all of it pleases you, this writing thing really may not be for you, because humility and an ability to see ways to improve our writing are key qualities for writers.) Down the road, you can think about showing it to someone else—a writing group or a friend or a teacher or a coach—and that person can help you tease out and polish the parts with potential and identify and discard the parts that aren’t so brilliant.

But for now, it’s about time. Make the time.