When a Writer Can't Write by Shirley Wetzel

I was born in Comanche, Texas, but I soon got bored and hopped a train bound for Key West three weeks later, accompanied by my mother and big sister. My dad was in the Navy, and we bounced around the country, finally settling back in Texas.

I started writing as soon as my fingers could hold a pencil, and have never stopped. Most of what I wrote was for my own amusement, but a few years ago I decided to get serious and started submitting personal essays, historical stories, and such to magazines, newspapers and anthologies. To my amazement, I sold most of them. My first love, though, is mystery. Last fall my first mystery short story was included in A DEATH IN TEXAS, published by L&L Dreamspell. I love to travel, and have seen a lot of the world, including Thailand, where I lived for two years, Guatemala, where I worked on a Highland Maya archaeological excavation, Turkey, Peru, and various parts of Mexico. My current work in progress is a mystery titled A Death in Comanche, and it's been in progress a loooong time. I write book reviews for overmydeadbody.com, and sometimes for Mysterious Morgue. My blog address is http://swetzel.wordpress.com


When a Writer Can't Write
By Shirley Wetzel


Back in 1996, when I first began to attempt to become a published writer, I started a mystery called A Crime in Comanche. I was going to call it Comanche Moon, but some other Texas author bet me to it, and even though titles can't be copyrighted, I figured it was best not to compete with Larry McMurtry. I started out like gangbusters, sitting down at work (sorry, boss) every morning, putting my fingers on the keys, and letting them fly. I used some of my colleagues to base my characters on, with permission (mostly), and they waited eagerly every day to see what new delight had poured out of my brain. I quickly discovered a problem. While the beginning wrote itself in the proper place – at the beginning of the book – other chapters showed up out of order. After several months, I had a beginning, an ending, and a bunch of chapters that went somewhere in between. The book came to a screeching halt. I just couldn't figure out how to pull it all together, so I put the pages away and worked on other things.

I took writing classes, read, read, and read some more, all kinds of books, dissecting each one to figure out what to do and what not to do. I read books by my favorite authors, mainly authors who wrote the kind of books I wanted to write. I devoured books on writing and tried to learn from them how to get my act together. When I felt bad about my lack of stick-to-itness, I found solace in learning I wasn't alone.

Mark Twain, one of my heroes, had this to say:

"As long as a book would write itself, I was a faithful and interested amanuensis and my industry did not flag; but the minute the book tried to shift to my head the labor of contriving its situations, inventing its adventures, and conducting its conversations I put it away and dropped it out of min mind. The reason was very simple … my tank had run dry; the story … could not be wrought out of nothing."

Mark understood! It wasn't my fault, it was the book's fault! I found another quote to support my theory, from Howard Waldrop:

"When I was a young guy just starting out, I'd find I couldn't finish a story. Then I figured out the story wasn't ready, so I waited until it was ready and then I wrote it." 

I recently found a small journal with this quote on the front page:

"My muse is like the Texas weather—long spells of drought and despair followed by days of wild, uncontrollable outpourings from the skies." - Shirley H. Wetzel, 24 June, 1996

That's just how it had to be for me, it was obvious. I wrote several essays and articles just that way, and they got published. When my novel decided to finish telling itself, it would do so. Right? No, of course not. My writer friends told me the first thing to do was "put butt in chair." Sit there and write, whether I felt inspired or not. Get something on the page, anything, bad or good, just keep going until you work through the block. I do try, but as Farley Mowat, whose work I do not know, said:

"...[I]f someone tells you writing is easy he is either lying or I hate him."

I acquired some discipline, overcame my inherent laziness, and wrote. I participated in my writing group, got inspired, wrote two short stories for anthologies, a family history, a historical article. Then life smacked me right in the face. My father died, my mother is not doing well, and I have a health problem that is chronic, progressive, incurable … life sucked big time in the past year, and the future is uncertain. So what do I do? I write. Not short stories, not my long-overdue mystery, but blog posts about how life can really suck, because that's where my head is now. When I sat down to write this post for dear Kaye Barley, I didn't know what I was going to say, maybe something about writer's block. I just sat in the chair and put my fingers on the keys, and I don't know if it's good or bad, but it's something.

In searching through my quotes file for inspiration, I found the perfect ending for my story. It applies equally to writing and to life.

"I wanted a perfect ending. Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next. Delicious ambiguity." -Gilda Radner -actress and comedian (1946-1989)

Maybe my novel will decide it's ready to be finished, or maybe I'll write another one about something completely different. Or maybe I'll decide to give up fiction writing and do what I do best, essays and historical articles and family histories. I might give it all up for now and go take care of my mother. I might join a clinical trial and help medical science find a cure for what ails me. I don't know what will happen next, but whatever it is, while it's happening or when it's done, I'll write about it. I am a writer, and that's what writers do.

The Kindest Cut by Shirley Wetzel

I was born in Comanche, Texas, but I soon got bored and hopped a train bound for Key West three weeks later, accompanied by my mother and big sister. My dad was in the Navy, and we bounced around the country, finally settling back in Texas.

I started writing as soon as my fingers could hold a pencil, and have never stopped. Most of what I wrote was for my own amusement, but a few years ago I decided to get serious and started submitting personal essays, historical stories, and such to magazines, newspapers and anthologies. To my amazement, I sold most of them. My first love, though, is mystery. Last fall my first mystery short story was included in A DEATH IN TEXAS, published by L&L Dreamspell. I love to travel, and have seen a lot of the world, including Thailand, where I lived for two years, Guatemala, where I worked on a Highland Maya archaeological excavation, Turkey, Peru, and various parts of Mexico. My current work in progress is a mystery titled A Death in Comanche, and it's been in progress a loooong time. I write book reviews for overmydeadbody.com, and sometimes for Mysterious Morgue. My blog address is http://swetzel.wordpress.com


The Kindest Cut by Shirley Wetzel

I always wanted to be a writer, someday. All through my school days, college years, and working life I wrote essays, poems, and stories, then filed them away, waiting for the day when I really became a writer. I won contests, impressed the kinfolks with my recording of family stories, and amused my friends and co-workers by writing short stories, usually mysteries, using them as characters. Decades went by, and still I was not a writer, according to my personal definition. I took writing classes, thinking this would finally qualify me to be a "real" writer. I studied writing markets, read numerous "how to be a writer" books, and read voraciously, especially the books of successful writers that I admired. What I did not do was submit anything. It was just too frightening to send my darlings off into the cruel world, where surely they would be summarily rejected and I would be exposed as a no-talent hack. No, someday I would be ready to join the fray and take my chances – just not yet.

There was one market I wanted to break into over all others. Back in the day when newspapers were still worth reading, the Houston Chronicle had a Sunday magazine that featured personal essays pertaining in some way to Texas. I read each essay carefully, even typed them out to get the rhythm of the pieces I liked, and thought "I can do this!" I wrote my own essays, then put them in a drawer. Not yet …

Finally my fiftieth birthday loomed on the horizon and I realized, ready or not, it was time to fish or cut bait, do or die, publish or perish – just do it.

And I did. I pulled out my favorite piece, the story about my aunt and uncle, a love story with tragedy and triumph that illustrated the strength of the human spirit and the power of love. I polished it until it gleamed, put it in an envelope, said a few prayers and incantations, and sent it on its way. A few weeks later my stamped, self-addressed envelope showed up in the mailbox. It was too thick to contain only an acceptance letter. With trembling hands, I opened it, trying to steel myself for my first rejection. At least I'd tried!

I pulled out the manuscript, looking in vain for the form letter I knew must be there. Had it been so awful the editor didn't even bother to do that much? Then I looked at the first page and saw hand-written notes in the margin. The editor, Ken Hammond, had obviously taken the time to read every word. It was a rejection, for sure, but by the time I finished reading his encouraging, helpful and kind comments I felt anything but rejected. He said that the story was heartfelt, beautifully written, but just not quite what he was looking for. Best of all, he encouraged me to try again, and enclosed the writers' guidelines. He didn't say "who do you think you're trying to fool," or "don't bother me with this tripe again," or any of the other awful things I had feared. He thought I was a writer. And just like that, I knew I was one, and I began acting like one.

I took that essay and shortened it and re-worked it, submitting it to a column in the newspaper called Among Friends. A couple of weeks later I was checking my e-mail, browsing through countless spam and boring work memos, when I came across one from the Chronicle. The editor liked my story, and because my uncle was a World War II veteran and that was part of my essay, she wanted to run it in the Memorial Day issue.

As soon as the essay was published, I started getting calls from friends and neighbors and every relative in the area telling me how much they liked the piece. I even got a few calls from total strangers complimenting my story – I had FANS! This author business was heady stuff. I started submitting more of those pieces that had been gathering dust in the bottom drawer, and writing new ones. Some were accepted, some were not, but it was all grist for the mill.

That was several years ago. I still drag my feet, still fear rejection, but I no longer doubt that I AM a writer. There was one big disappointment, however.

I kept submitting essays to State Lines, and Mr. Hammond kept turning them down, always gently and with encouragement to try, try again. Finally the day came when he said "this is it, I like this one, if you can just tweak it a bit I want to print it." I think he was just as happy as I was that I was finally achieving my dearest goal. It wasn't even one of my more heartfelt family tales, but the story of a girl, a gun, and a squirrel named Squeaky. Mr. Hammond said he didn't usually print stories about animals, but there was something about this one … A few weeks later, I got a letter from him. I tore it open, expecting it to be the final acceptance of the story. My heart sank when I read his words. The Chronicle was "undergoing changes" and the Texas Magazine was no more. He apologized for not being able to print my story, thanked me for my submissions, and wished me well in my writing.

I was disappointed, but did not give up. I wished that I could thank Mr. Hammond for his gentle and positive rejections, and one day I got that chance.

It turned out that he lives near one of the members of my writers' group. I told her my story, and she brought him to the launch of our anthology, A Death in Texas, which contains my first published mystery short story. I gave him a copy of my essay.

A few weeks later, he sent me an e-mail:

Dear Shirley,

What a personal and emotion-touching essay you wrote with "The Kindest Cut." As I read it, I found myself hoping that essay would be printed in State Lines, even though I knew it would not be. That's a tribute to your skill and honesty.

As for your kind words about my rejections, thanks you. …You are a writer, indeed …

Ken Hammond