Author: lynnlshattuck

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BACCA Writers

How Do We Know if it’s Time to Shelve a Writing Project?

I have a difficult relationship with completion.

I can spot about six different half-finished crochet projects from my desk. It took me nearly ten years to complete my bachelor’s degree because I kept changing majors—and schools. And, for the past many years, I’ve been wrestling with a memoir.

Recently, I’ve been considering shelving that writing project.

A close up of a burgundy ball of yarn with two crochet hooks stuck through it.

Is it time to unravel that “sweater” or just set down the hooks for awhile? Image by Olliss via Unsplash

There are several reasons I’m contemplating letting that project go. Much of the story deals with trauma, and it’s tricky to sit in that energy while trying to also enjoy and balance the demands of my current life. Also, one of the primary reasons I was writing was to try to understand why a family tragedy occurred, and in the process of regular old living, it became clearer to me. And, in the past few years, I found an alternate way of creating resources that might be of service to people who’ve experienced sibling loss, which was one of my initial motivators to complete this memoir. Last but not least, I’ve been writing about this topic for decades. I’m curious to see what else might bubble up on the page.  

But what about completion? What about the countless hours I spent writing and revising? What about stick-to-itiveness?

One thing I love about crocheting is that the stakes are low. If I mess up partway through a project, or get bored with it, it doesn’t really matter if I rip the stitches out or start a new project. As a recovering perfectionist, there aren’t very many places in my life where I let myself off the hook (pun intended) so easily, but crochet is one of them. The meditative state I enter when my hands are busy making something with the yarn and hook is a worthy pursuit, regardless of whether it results in a blanket.

Writing is an art, but I choose to not see it only as a commodity. Writing has been a survival tool for me. It’s how I attempt to make order from the chaos. It’s often how I learn what I’m feeling. Writing helps me frame and understand parts of my life that otherwise seem disparate.

Besides, one of the best parts of writing, to me, is the magic that happens when we show up to the page and we tap into something outside of our own minds.

From that perspective, all those hours I spent on that memoir weren’t wasted.

In the time I spent on my memoir, I grieved. I remembered. I made sense of. I tinkered.

I’ve also been doing a whole lot of living in between. I’ve been raising two kids and nurturing an almost 20-year marriage. I was able to be present and helpful through my dad’s illness and death. We have a dog and a mortgage, and I exercise on the regular. From this little list, perhaps I’m not actually a quitter.  

Completion isn’t the same as commitment.

Maybe writing doesn’t need to be that different from crochet—it’s not the end of the world when I have to rip out stitches or trash the sweater project because it ends up looking more like an oven mitt. Maybe there’s freedom there. Curiosity. Openness.  

But. There’s still one thread of the memoir that I can’t quite let go of. It’s about the amazing women who shepherded me through losing my brother, and how they basically taught me how to connect, get through the tough stuff and live a rich life. I’d like to find a way to tell it, though I’m not yet sure what that might look like. I’m looking forward to giving the story some space, letting go of the vision I had of it in my head, and seeing what might take shape.

Lynn Shattuck grew up in a Southeast Alaskan rainforest and is now a Maine-based writer. She’s a columnist at Elephant Journal, where she writes about grief, parenting and wellness. Her essays have been featured in Human Parts, Al Jazeera, P.S. I Love You, The Fix, Vice, Fabric, and Mind Body Green. 

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BACCA Writers

Could This Be the Cure for Writer’s Blah?

Writers tend to be a quirky bunch. You may have heard the quote attributed to Dorothy Parker that many writers relate to: “I hate writing. But I love having written.”

I’ve been in a creative slump for a while. I’ve paused work on the memoir that I’ve been wrestling with for years. I’m puttering around on another project that, while easier, I feel less driven about. And I’m querying the project about which I recently wrote about crafting a book proposal. I wouldn’t quite call it writer’s block—it’s more like writer’s blah.

A few weeks ago, I met with a new friend for coffee. She’s a writer, too, as is considering getting an MFA. As we talked about everything from the publishing industry to our favorite memoirs, I heard these words come out of my mouth:

“I miss the feeling of just sitting down and not knowing what’s going to come out on the page. That feeling of curiosity. Play.”

I’m struggling to remember the last time I experienced that. It was probably several months ago, when on a whim, I delved into a piece of fiction. I approached it with an unfamiliar gentleness. The stakes were low; it was an experiment.

That spirit of inquisitiveness, of play? It’s the best. When I stop ruminating about agents and publishing routes and social media, and I just become a channel, a divining rod, an adventurer.

The best part of writing are the moments when I don’t feel like I’m in charge.

When my son was a toddler, one afternoon I brought a bucket of ice cubes outside for him to play with. The warmth of his hands and the summer air alchemized the ice. The cubes shrank, transforming into drips of water. My son’s eyes went wide and bright, amazed at the wizardry that was occurring. He wasn’t worried about whether he could turn the water back into ice or if anyone besides me would witness the magic he’d just created. He was an explorer, a chemist, a student.

It’s similar to the way I feel when I read something that takes my breath away. An unexpected metaphor or a passage that’s so transcendent that I can’t quite put my finger on why I love it—it simply lights something up in me in a place beyond words. It’s similar to moments when we catch a glimpse of how small our human lives are when measured against the vast history of the universe, or the unexpected delight we might conjure during a casual exchange with someone in the grocery store. The pleasure of making a new friend.

I guess I’m talking about awe. Tapping into the mystery. So many of us feel starved for wonder these days; modern life offers a billion ways to distract us, our to-do lists are never-ending and bad news bombards us around the clock.

Next time I sit down to write, I’m going to think about my son, captivated by those ice cubes. What might happen when my fingers hit the keyboard, if I show up with an open mind and a curious heart?

A black and white photo of a measuring cup holding several ice cubes

Photo by Tomáš Lištiak via Unsplash

— BACCA guest writer Lynn Shattuck grew up in a Southeast Alaskan rainforest and is now a Maine-based writer. She’s a columnist at Elephant Journal, where she writes about grief, parenting and wellness. Her essays have been featured in Human Parts, Al Jazeera, P.S. I Love You,The Fix, Vice, Fabric and Mind Body Green. 

Categories
BACCA Writers

The Unexpected Gift of Writing a Book Proposal

I’d been aware of the enigmatic document for years. But whenever I’d start to research how to write an actual book proposal, I got overwhelmed.

Besides, I was writing a memoir. While some agents and publishers liked a book proposal, I’d heard that most preferred the memoir itself. Why spend my time writing an overwhelming, difficult document like a book proposal that no one might read, when I’m already wrestling with a vexing memoir?

For years, like the proverbial person opening a closet door to peek at the disorganized stash within, I’d slam the book proposal door shut, vowing to deal with it later.

But recently, I decided to pursue an anthology project that I’ve been contemplating for decades. While it’s hard to get a straight answer about whether memoirists need a book proposal, for the book I had in mind—a nonfiction anthology—I definitely needed one.

As a writer, I love the magic of words. The feeling of transcendence when a piece of writing hits me on a soul level. Gleaming imagery and alliteration and striking metaphors.

I’m less keen on the salesy stuff.

My colleague and friend, Lisa Cooper Ellison, describes a book proposal as a business document that builds a case for the salability of your book. I was fortunate enough to take a class Lisa recently offered on writing a book proposal. Being among a group of other writers who were tackling this document was incredibly helpful.

Dingy closet full of stacks of books

Overwhelming closet of doom

Image by Julia Joppen via Unsplash

Still, the process, at times, felt much like wading into a closet full of junk. Book proposals usually consist of several different sections, including an overview, a description of the target audience who’d buy the proposed book, a marketing plan, comparable titles, and sample chapters. When I started the class, I was particularly confused about the blurry borders between the target audience and the marketing plan. I also knew I’d made some mistakes as a writer— namely, I’d been inconsistent in building my author platform. Writing the proposal meant taking that out of the closet, staring at it, and deciding how to proceed.

With time, baby steps and Lisa’s fantastic teaching, I began to get a clearer understanding of the different sections of the proposal and which information needed to be included in each.

What I didn’t expect was for writing this beast of a book proposal to supercharge my enthusiasm about the project. I’d figured it would be a dull but necessary slog. But as I wrote and revised the document, blending my personal experience with statistics and research, and reviewed the sample chapters I’d compiled from contributing authors, that’s exactly what happened.

By the time I was ready to send the latest version of the proposal to my co-editor, I’d experienced a significant shift. The proposal became cohesive and convincing. It has an arc, and it clearly demonstrates that there’s an audience for this book. I even found a little room, in this starch-collared business document, for a little creativity, when I realized I could include social media screenshots that demonstrated high engagement on the anthology’s topic.

Writing a book proposal isn’t fun or easy, but I’ve grown to appreciate the value of the process. It wasn’t that different than creative writing—there were days when it all felt like a big mess that would never make sense, and there were other days when the words flowed, and I could see smidges of progress.

But perhaps more importantly, the process of writing a book proposal demands that we clarify what the book is about, why the world needs it now, who will buy it, and how we’ll reach that audience. It requires spending time with each item in the proverbial disaster closet and deciding what’s junk and what’s worth holding onto. And better yet, what’s worth fighting for.

— BACCA writer Lynn Shattuck grew up in a Southeast Alaskan rainforest and is now a Maine-based writer. She’s a columnist at Elephant Journal, where she writes about grief, parenting and wellness. Her essays have been featured in Human Parts, Al Jazeera, P.S. I Love You,The Fix, Vice, Fabric and Mind Body Green.