Starting at age three, I used to sit on my mom or dad’s lap in front of the computer and dictate stories to them to type for me. A few years later, with some guidance on spelling and grammar, I learned to write my own stories. While helping my parents prepare for a garage sale this summer, I rediscovered these stories in their basement where they have been well-preserved for the past 20+ years.

I wrote about sporty girls who lived alone in the woods, and about playing Ninja Turtles at recess – complete with drawings of female Ninja Turtles wearing pink and yellow ribbons—and about a “house with many doors.”

I blush with embarrassment at the silly things I wrote, but more often than not I think, wow, where did that idea come from? I would love to sit down with my elementary-school-aged self and ask this question. At that time, I wasn’t concerned with publication; I just loved to write, so I did.

I always believed that if I wrote a really great story and pitched it to an editor who liked it, I would be a published writer one day. I believed the publisher would take care of all the marketing and promotions. I believed I could live comfortably for many years off the publication of one book. I believed that all I needed to be a writer was the passion and the knack for writing. I believed many things that are slowly revealing themselves to me as myths of the writing profession.

I don’t fault myself for this naivety. I can’t be expected to know everything about the writing business all at once, and if I did, it would take the fun out of the process. As a child, I didn’t suddenly know how to write one day. It was a gradual, trial and error process I developed with the help of my parents and teachers.

Learning about the business of writing is also a trial and error process that requires the help of many outside sources. I subscribe to writing magazines, attend writing workshops and conferences, and speak to as many writers as possible about their experiences and I enjoy every minute of it. The main lesson I’ve learned through these resources is this: writing isn’t the only skill writers need to be successful these days, but it is still the most important. There is no substitute for great writing.

Although I have had some short stories and magazine articles published, I will not feel like I’ve met my writing goals until a traditional publishing company picks up one of my novels, and I am working towards that. Until then, I am enjoying the process of writing and the process of learning about the profession. I enjoy the multi-faceted steps of becoming a published writer, but I do often take a step back and remind myself to tap into my elementary-school-aged brain and remember what it was like to love writing just for the sake of writing.

Anne Greenawalt graduated with an MA in Creative Writing from the University of East Anglia in Norwich, England. In 2008, she was runner-up in a short story collection competition, which resulted in the publication of her collection Growing Up Girl. She now lives in her hometown in Pennsylvania. More information on Anne and her writing can be found at www.annegreenawalt.com.

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The Writer’s Life: Thirty one years after the publication of Fat is A Feminist Issue, you released Bodies. Whilst Fifi dealt with women’s eating problems, Bodies explores the effect that the pharmaceutical industries and the media are having on our body image. What originally influenced you to write about our relationship with food and the media’s obsession with the female form? Is the pressure to conform to a generic body ideal something you have been a victim of yourself?

Susie Orbach: Mmm. When I first started thinking about this all those years back, I wouldn’t have had the words to describe what it was I was a victim of. I simply followed what I thought it meant to be a grown up woman – being caught up with dieting and body size. I did not think there was a political dimension to it or that the fact that I used to start a diet on a Monday was part of a whole social phenomenon. By today’s standards my eating then would be considered very normal. That shows how far we have come from eating in response to hunger.

WL: How would you describe the difference in what is considered the beautiful body aesthetic today, or the desire to obtain it, compared to what it was at the time of writing and publishing your first book, Fifi?

SO: The beauty ideal has become democratized today so that we are all encouraged to see beauty as absolutely essential to who we are and what we might want to do. When I wrote Fifi, it was a preoccupation that lasted a few years and did not affect every single woman. It started later. In my school maybe one in 20 girls were interested in fashion, make up, and style – and that was from age 14. Now girls as young as six up until women in old age homes are fretting about their appearance. It would be hard to take a junior high school or high school class and not notice body criticism as rife. As the idea of beauty for everyone has spread, so that ideal has narrowed and the look – at present, long thin straight hair, big boobs – has become intensified. A third point is that we seem to be exporting beauty terror around the world so that we are losing variety in what constitutes beauty and replacing it with the current western notion.

WL: The diet industry and this business of body modification appears to have grown drastically since the publication of Fifi, over thirty years ago. The over the counter diet pill, Alli, and popularity of cosmetic surgery are examples of this. Where can you see these industries heading over the next thirty years and what can we do about it?

SO: Yes. We really have to take them on. They are part of the problem often rather than part of the solution. The research shows that people gain weight after dieting, especially repetitive dieting. I say we need to insist they publish their failure rate (97%). They need to carry a warning and probably in some case prosecuted for false advertising.

WL: How do the people involved in the diet industry and those members of the media who treat eating disorders as a badge of honour, almost, react to your views?

SO: Not sure!

WL: Will fat always be a feminist issue?

SO: There will always be a way that looking through the lens of gender inequality – whether that is around femininities or masculinities – we will find interesting things to observe, understand, and theorize!

- Laura Cude

Susie Orbach is the co-founder of the Women’s Therapy Centre in London and New York. A former Guardian (UK) columnist, she was visiting professor for ten years at the London School of Economics and is the convener of www.any-body.org. She is a consultant and co-originator of the Dove Campaign for Real Beauty. The author of a number of books, including On Eating, The Impossibility of Sex, and the bestseller Fat is a Feminist Issue, she lectures extensively worldwide.

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“The best literature is far more than any journalism.” -William Faulkner

At a few minutes after midnight on September 9th, 1996, I was standing on the grounds of the Oregon State Penitentiary recording a group of revelers celebrate the execution of condemned killer Douglas Write. He was the first man to die by lethal injection in Oregon, and his execution was the first to be held in the state in more than thirty years. I was a reporter for public radio, and my assignment was to tell the story of that execution for NPR the following morning. But as I stood there, the orange lights of the prison reflecting on the low lying Pacific clouds, I knew whatever story I told the following day would be a paltry representation of what actually occurred that night, and all the preceding nights that led to Write’s execution. And I told myself that one day I would tell the fuller story.

Nine years and much research later, I began to write my first novel, The Crying Tree.

Fiction, I decided, would accomplish what I could not on that cloudy night in September: create a world for my audience to step into, experience, and feel. It could pose the deep philosophical, moral, spiritual, and social questions that come from crime and punishment. It could give people characters to hold onto, eyes to see through, points of view to wrestle with, and conclusions to debate, or live with, or cry about. It could feed the soul.

So I struck out, forging my way into a medium I knew little about, learning as I went: Going to classes, finding critique groups, doing the research, the interviews, and the constant observation, writing, and revision needed to create a story that feels both real and alive.

To be a writer, I learned, is to tap into the gift of experience and voice – yours, others – blending them into a painting that gives people new ways to see, think, and feel. For me, this comes best by observing my world with a painstaking attention to detail, and listening attentively for the stories we all hold and the potential they all provide.

Back in 1996, I did not know that when I was recording a group of rowdy drunks partying at the gates of an execution, they would later play a role in a novel I would one day author. But I made note of their celebration, and its effect on me. And then, at the appropriate time, it appeared in a scene in The Crying Tree, and appears here now in this essay as I consider how important it is to reach into the moments we have and glean what we can.

Naseem Rakha is an award-winning author and journalist whose stories have been heard on NPR’s All Things Considered, Morning Edition, Marketplace Radio, Christian Science Monitor, and Living on Earth. She lives in Oregon with her husband, son, and many animals. When Naseem isn’t writing, she’s reading, knitting, hiking, gardening, or just watching the seasons roll in and out. www.naseemrakha.com

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Pop.

That’s the sound that nearly every author hears once his or her book is released out into the world. It’s the sound of the bubble deflating, as he or she looks around and thinks…now what?

It both seems and feels impossible to believe that after a year of work, The One That I Want, has been out for nearly two weeks, and while yes, I have some big things ahead – some prominent reviews (fingers crossed), some signings/readings out west next week (Seattle – June 22nd, LA – June 24th) – for the most part, now, the book goes out and does its thing, and it is time to get back to life.

Pop.

It’s strange, to toil so much on it – the book, the promotion, all of it that goes into a year’s worth of work – and then realize, well, life goes on. And in my case, that means turning my attention back to my next book, which I’ve neglected in the wake of the promotional flurry of this one. In many ways, books feel like children: you focus your attention on them for a while when they’re young, and then you realize, “Oh, they’re going to be okay, let’s see what else is going on around the house,” and you stop worrying. I’m not at the point where I’ve stopped worrying about The One, but I am at the point – which I promise you every published author reaches – where I think it’s time to start looking around the house to see what else there is. The revelation came this week when I was talking about The Memory of Us (my next book), and I couldn’t remember the name of two of my main characters. Oops. I’ve neglected one child for another, and that’s never a good thing.

I think this is the hangover phase of a book release, and it’s inevitable. I have literally never spoken to an author who didn’t experience this. What did we expect? That the world would stop spinning on its axis with the release? That our lives would be magically changed? I dunno. I’ve been through this twice before, so I didn’t expect anything along those lines, and to be sure, my hangover is much lighter compared to my previous books’ releases. I know that the pop is coming – that the world certainly won’t stop spinning on its axis – and I’m ready for it. I have my figurative Advil standing by, and in many ways, I’m relieved. There’s something almost disconcerting about spending so much time obsessing about a singular thing in your life, and I’m exhaling that it’s time – and that I’m ready – to concentrate on everything else now.

To be sure, there are still some great things ahead for The One, and I cannot wait. But I’m almost glad this bubble has popped. That’s the difference between the first two books, when I was discombobulated when I had to move on. Now, I welcome it. There is so much more in life than just a book’s release! Like writing my next one and remembering both the names of my characters and why I loved them. Also, things like balance with my family and letting go of stress and being grateful for the fact that I got to publish a book at all.

So maybe this time it’s not a hangover, it’s waking up the next morning after a huge party and realizing that I’m NOT hungover. That’s so much better.

Writers – will you share your experiences of post-book feelings? Did you feel this pop too?

Allison Winn Scotch is the author of the novels The One That I Want, The Time of My Life, and The Department of Lost and Found. Her work has also appeared in Parents, Glamour, and Redbook. She lives in New York with her husband, son, daughter, and their dog. www.allisonwinn.com

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I have always been one to break the rules. My journey writing my first novel was no different, and I broke the rules from the very start, before I even knew what the concept or story of my début novel would be.

I broke the first of many supposed rules at age 13, when my English teacher told me that because I am Dyslexic, becoming a writer was just not a viable option for me. Spell check put a stop to that myth. The next rules stuffed down my throat were that I needed to go to university to learn to write my own name, let alone a book, and that I could not possibly afford to live while investing my time “writing books that may never get published.” Well, because I am not a nitwit, I have managed to write a brilliant novel without a degree, and because I can multi-task, keeping a part time job as well as writing has kept me off the breadline.

It is a shocking reality that at every turn society seems to be against the investment of your life into the arts, whatever medium it may be. These endeavors are seen by your teachers, your careers advisor, that acquaintance you happen to bump into in the street who asks you what you are doing with your life, and most parents, as a pipe dream that will never come into fruition. You could wonder at what their motivation is for acting as a rain cloud of doom. More importantly, you could wonder whether they realize how hard it can be to break into any industry, writing included, without that connection to give you a good word in a publishing house, or that family friend who works for a literary agent, forgoing their words of woe.

Either you let these condemnations take you down and defeat you, or you let it take your passion to a new level. Take the lack of belief around you and look at it as something to be proven wrong, to defeat. Every writer occasionally loses inspiration and writes on a mediocre auto-pilot, then looks at the chapter they just finished only to wonder where their talent went. Unfortunately, when I was writing my first draft these times would tend to happen to me consecutively, becoming the norm. It was only when I managed to get into a fighting frame of mind—me against the world—that I could accept it when I was failing to meet my potential, and then rise above it, if only to prove those who like to dish out the rules wrong. With that in mind, I have managed to write some of my best passages, best chapters, and finish my first novel with assurance of my future.

Annie V. Lucey resides in Surbiton, Surrey, U.K. She is currently preparing for the publication of her surrealist, character driven debut novel, BEKOS.

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What is most remarkable about the fifteen pages of my great-grandmother’s journal—the same that inspired my novel, The Quickening—is the fact that she wrote them at all. The difficulty was not a “room of her own” phenomenon, but a matter of temperament and time. In early to mid-20th century rural Iowa, extended periods of contemplation were a luxury, “writing” was necessary only in letters to keep family connections and communicate loss or gain, and further expressions of grief or joy were considered taboo. Not to mention the trouble of light: a farm wife worked from dawn to dusk, squinting to finish her evening mending. Electricity didn’t reach most Midwestern farms until the mid to late 40’s, gas lanterns were expensive and rare, and kerosene lamps so dim a person had to light a match to see that the lamp was burning, let alone detect the outline of a page. In any case, no one likely had the energy to pick up a pencil once the chores were done.

But rob a woman in her seventies of her husband of some fifty years, and she might just find the time and reason to write. Perhaps my life, she starts, and that of my dear husband has meant little or nothing to anyone except to us and our immediate family. My great-grandmother’s account is a summary at best, often skipping over significant circumstances. At one point, after explaining one of her husband’s illnesses, she writes: I told him I would have to stop taking care of him for a little while because I had to give birth to our daughter. I laughed when I first read these lines, but they are more than serious. A person couldn’t stop time for long to tend to human nature. And make too much of any personal triumph or tragedy and the neighbors will think you loony.

Some of the events in the journal seem outlandish: My great-grandfather suffered from “Typhus Malaria Fever,” a disease that does not exist; my great-grandmother cured herself of tuberculosis by wearing “kerosene and turpentine close to my chest”; and a “meteorite” presumably crashed near their farm, setting the land afire and smashing windows “for miles around.” I found no evidence of this meteorite. For the novel, I borrowed only a handful of the journal’s events, but still the meteorite kept making its way in. Luckily, first-person narration offers plenty of license, especially if one of your narrators is a religious fanatic and considers extreme astronomical occurrences an act of God.

But more important were the journal’s omissions. A recent Amazon review faulted the novel for “stopping just short of allowing [the characters] burning lust, religious fervor, bright bursts of joy, cold fear, maternal love, screaming grief….” Of course, “stopping short” was my point—and my dilemma. In a contemporary world where women are required to play the emotional outlet, how does a writer express a different kind of female temperament, an older kind that prefers patience and restraint, private suffering and public strength? Are such women to be considered stunted or resilient?

In itself, my great-grandmother’s decision to write about her life is the greatest demonstration of her grief. And when one of my characters gives birth to long-wished for twins, only quiet can express her confusion of joy and fear: “They were small and weak and stayed with the doctor for longer than any mother should bear. Enidina sat with Frank in the back row of the church, holding on to herself. Her cheeks were doughy and full, her mouth showed hints of a smile, but in her eyes was an inward look that said she was trying not to think of anything at all—not of how she could lose them, not of how something might still go wrong. She sat in the church and held her own, wishing the time would soon pass for any such thinking to be possible.”

My great-grandmother’s journal is significant because of this duality. For the most part, the pages show her determination, persistence, and toughness. Yet after I finished the last sentence, I realized I’d never before heard a family member cry out with such loneliness. I myself have tried to explain and defend what I consider a very Midwestern temperament ever since my move out east. I carry this temperament with me, both admire and try to break from it. In the novel as in its inspiration, extreme emotion is simply not allowed. Upbringing and values, family and town, even the surrounding landscape all support this resistance. When the more stoic of my narrators keeps to bed after the loss of another child, the neighbor women scold her, “Get up, this is no way.” My narrator responds, “I couldn’t tell one voice from the next, only that what they said was true.”

I’ve got plenty of light and more time than my forebears. I’ve had none of the troubles others might in using a family journal. Most of the early players are buried, and my extended family nod their heads when I read the book to them. If anything, the novel has brought me closer to a large group of cousins, many still farmers themselves. For me, this was an unexpected gift, and something I hope my great-grandmother would be proud of.

Michelle Hoover teaches writing at Boston University and Grub Street. She has published fiction in Confrontation, The Massachusetts Review, Prairie Schooner, and Best New American Voices, among others. She has been a Bread Loaf Writer’s Conference scholar, the Philip Roth Writer-in-Residence at Bucknell University, a MacDowell fellow, a Pushcart Prize nominee, and in 2005 the winner of the PEN/New England Discovery Award for Fiction. She was born in Ames, Iowa, the granddaughter of four longtime farming families. www.michellehoover.net

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