It’s easy to become comfortable. And the older I get, the easier it seems. In some areas of life this isn’t a bad thing. For instance when juggling the extra-curricular activities of a family of six, I have no problem steering some kids into activities I’m familiar with—especially if it means fewer destinations for my own chauffeur service.

But in writing this comfort zone can be a very bad thing. While all readers, at one time or another, look for the familiar, writing that stands out is writing that is fresh and original. Comfortable is one thing, complacency is something completely different.

So how do we as writers stop ourselves from becoming complacent on our own writing?

The easiest way is to vary your reading. Sci-fi is my favorite genre, and I could easily slip into reading only that. But more I make a point to read from as many other genres as I can.

However, the best way is to keep trying new things with your own writing. Experiment. Art, at it’s very nature is experimental. If you love to write in the 3rd person, write a few stories—or even scenes—in the first person. Try a genre you sometimes read, but never write. Try a dialogue only story.

I routinely find that if I’m stuck on one story, shaking things up by writing something new—something I never intend to polish and pursue—can get me unstuck in a hurry.

So that’s your assignment for this week. Write something in your Un-Comfort Zone.

A few weeks ago I began a question and answer exchange with my ten-year old son when he asked me if we wrote letters when I was a child. Evidently the question stemmed from a class discussion where his teacher tried to convey to them that the idea of instant communication was very new.

I know from firsthand experience that today’s youth just doesn’t understand having to wait for an answer. The older two are now old enough that they’re starting to exchange phone numbers with friends—and those friends are now calling the house. I’m still one of those old-fashioned types who see no reason to dive for the phone as soon as it rings, nor do I answer every call. If, however, a missed call happens to be one of the kids friends, I know the phone will ring again—almost immediately. It seems their generation is unwilling to accept that someone they want to talk to may be out of reach even for a few minutes.

It goes without saying that this is a direct result from ubiquity of mobile phones and the accessibility of the internet. These children know nothing of going to the library to research a topic—they go directly to Wiki and have an answer within seconds. They know nothing of letting your anger at your close friend winnow away while waiting for them to return your call—instead they obsessively try each of the three phone numbers and two email addresses they have for their friend so they can speak their mind immediately.

By no means are those of us who grew up in a slower time (the 80s for instance) free from guilt on the subject. My sweetie has a cell phone, and during the day is usually close to the house phone as well. When I have a question I am often frustrated with how long it can take to reach her, even if it’s only a few short minutes until she calls me back.

But lost in all this hustle and bustle is the tragedy that we are losing the ability—or perhaps, merely the desire—to measure and consider our words before we use them.

When I was eleven or twelve, a close friend moved away. I lived in South Florida, and he moved to Houston. It was the early- to mid-80s and long distance was still expensive. Email was confined to the geek elite on the primordial internet, and that left us with…the old reliable U.S. Mail. Over the next four years we conversed by letter. Brief, childish, clunky letters at first, built over the years getting less frequent, longer, and much better in quality.

Looking back, these letters were critical, not only in helping me learn to write, but also in learning to measure my words and collect my thoughts before tackling an issue.

I’ll hazard a guess that most of you fall into the same category as me—over the years as communication has gotten more frequent, more intrusive, the level of communication in your life has plummeted.

So right now I’m throwing down the gauntlet to each of you—and myself as well. This week I want us all to write a letter. I don’t care if you sit down at your computer or with a nice pen and fancy paper. But however you choose to write the letter, you must mail it—No Email.

I don’t want to hear any complaints that you have no one to write a letter to. Write a love letter you your better half—I guarantee a letter will have a greater impact than a XOX at the bottom of an email. Take the time to tell a friend—with no LOLs or IMOs—how much you enjoy their company.

Take the time to compose a letter. Consider each sentence. Be profound if that’s the mood you’re in. Don’t ask shallow questions that are merely conversational, because this person won’t read this for at least a few days.

Savor the experience. I guarantee, it will be more difficult than you remember. But it will also be more rewarding.

 
I need a laugh. So I’m bringing back an old idea. I’m asking for you to join me in defining the humor genre. Yes, I realize that Humor isn’t really a genre, but more of a sub-genre of each, but when someone needs a laugh they’re not in the mood for technicalities.

So if someone you knew asked to to recommend a funny read, what would you tell them?

Leave your recommendations in the comment section—along with your reasons—and I’ll update this list as we go.

Humor (fiction)

Perfect Skin, by Nick Earles
Various Titles, Terry Pratchett

Humor (non-fiction)

Various Titles, Bill Bryson

A couple of weeks ago, I had need of an old book—a novel I had read some years back. In my collection finding a specific book is not an easy task. However, the act of searching often yields unexpected diversions. In looking for the book I came across several old notebooks.

I’ve never been one to religiously use notebooks or journals—for most of my writing life I’ve had easy access to a computer—but for the better part of twenty years I’ve usually had a notebook nearby. And over the years I’ve scribbled quite an impressive volume into them. So during my search I took the liberty of browsing through some of my old ramblings.

It’s both exhilarating and humbling to read the stories, the fragments, the scenes, written over a decade ago. Although read is a bit of an exaggeration, as my handwriting is cryptic when read immediately. It’s downright fun to read some of the ideas that flowed from my own pen in response to one prompt or another—ideas that once burned, but faded away for one reason or another.

I did find the book I wanted. And now it and a dozen old notebooks sit on the corner of my desk.

I certainly won’t want for ideas for quite a while.

If you’ve written for more than a few pages, or listened to any writing advice in your life, you are already aware that clichés can drain the creative force from your writing faster than almost anything. But you’ve likely also heard the argument that clichés are cliché for a reason—that what they describe is often true.

The hidden problem with clichés is that when you find it necessary to describe a situation that has become associated with a cliché, you are often left without adequate means of describing it. This past week I came face to face with this dilemma.

I’ve been suffering from a headache for four weeks now. Tylenol, Ibuprofen, and aspirin don’t do a thing. Most days it’s nothing more than an annoyance, but last Tuesday the headache got angry. The escalation forced to to the Doctor’s office to try to find some relief.

As the Doctor began her examination she asked me to describe the headache. It was at this point that I realized that, socially, we rely a great deal on clichés to describe pain. Every phrase I could think of to accurately describe the pain I was in, had long ago become an overused, meaningless cliché.

Were I to tell my doctor that the pain felt like two red hot pokers stuck in my head, she wouldn’t take my words literally. She hears the cliché, and her mind automatically recognizes its overuse and translates it to mean that I’m experiencing a strong pain. But in that moment I truly meant that my head felt like someone had taken a pair of pokers out of a fireplace and stabbed me above the eyes, driving broken bone and searing metal in two straight lines from my brow to the base of my skull, permanently searing the grey matter along the way. At that moment I realized that the red hot poker cliché, became one, because some poor soul was going through exactly what I was going through. At it’s inception it was neither cliché, nor hyperbole, but an accurate, and apt description.

There are a few other pain-related clichés, many of which I’ve confirmed either in the Doctor’s office or in my subsequent trip to the ER. For instance, in the past I know that I’ve said “My head feels like it’s going to explode.” But until I asked my sweetie to wrap her arms around my the crown of my head and squeeze, the ER doctor just thought I was using a well-worn phrase. Because of my use of a cliché, it never occurred to her that I was describing my pain as literally as I was capable of at the time. Rest assured, I will never misuse these phrases again. If for no other reason than out of respect for the poor souls who originally coined the phrases.

In writing we run into the same problem. Sometimes a cliché would be the best way to express a thought, if it weren’t already overused to the extent that it had lost it’s power. Though admittedly, in writing, as opposed to real-life, we have more time to come up with our own, unique way of expressing the same idea.