#i use em dash because i went to school and learnt how to write

[littlemissmeggie]

Hi! Do you have any writing advice? I have many ideas I would like to make into stories but I don't know how or where to start

hi mouse! i’ll see what i can do... i’m going to put it under the cut so i don’t clog up everyone’s dash with stuff they may not care about. (scroll to the bottom if you just want the short answer.)

my first suggestion would be to make a list of your ideas if you haven’t already. i like to physically write a lot of stuff so i have notebooks that i use for lists, ideas, inspiration for scenes and dialogue, research, and outlines. but if you’re not like me—i think most people aren’t but i’m not sure—make a google doc (or whatever word processing program you use). add to your list whenever you think of a new idea. it helps me keep my mind clear so i can focus on what i’m doing. (sort of like dumbledore with the pensieve, if you know harry potter.)

now, this next suggestion is what i do but i know not everyone does so you might try it and find it’s not helpful or necessary. i write outlines for all of my fics, even my shorter oneshots (not usually drabbles because they tend to be shorter, spur-of-the-moment type things). 

sometimes, as with my most recent fic, it’s just a basic idea of the plot—niall and his boyfriend of six years recently broke up so he decides to take cooking classes because his ex was always the one to do the cooking and now he wants to be able to take care of himself and not feel like he’s dependent and incapable of living on his own. he meets harry at the cooking classes and they become friends. as they spend time together at their classes, he realises he has a crush on harry. they start going on “adventures” outside of the cooking school. insert a little drama in the form of niall’s ex showing up at his flat while harry’s there. harry and niall eventually start dating for real. then i sort of filled in the blanks as i went along, like why niall’s ex broke up with him; what harry and niall’s “adventures” were; what happened when his ex showed up, including the things he said, how harry reacted, etc.; and how their friendship turns into a romantic relationship. i often discover things as i go along, like the fact that harry’s been stood up on every date he was supposed to have and that niall always felt a bit closeted because of his ex’s internalised homophobia.

and sometimes i end up writing really long, incredibly detailed outlines. the outline for my narry model!au started similarly to the one above. but then i started to expand on everything, asking myself questions—why didn’t harry want to meet niall? why was niall initially hesitant to meet harry? why was harry so insecure? how do harry and niall finally meet? and on... often, i’ll find that doing a character profile/background helps me discover things about the character, their personality, how and why they behave the way they do in the fic, etc. i feel this process helps me avoid plot holes to the best of my ability and brings the story to life by creating more three-dimensional characters and not flat characters.

research anything you feel will help bring the story to life. i can’t tell you how many parts of london, dublin, and holmes chapel i’ve explored via google maps. i’ve learned more about the modelling world than i ever thought i would need to know. i know where restaurants i will never go to are, what their menu is, what the decor looks like.

as for the technical side of writing—grammar, punctuation, syntax—i am always reading blogs and websites to improve my skills. how do i correctly punctuate dialogue? what’s the difference between farther and further? lie vs. lay? how about any more and anymore? when do i use an em dash (which i overuse for sure but don’t try to take them away from me!) and when do i use an en dash? what are the different points-of-view and how do i successfully use them? how do i write time in fiction? (like, literally. do i write 1:00 or one o’clock? the correct answer is the second.)

tl;dr take your idea and figure out where you want to start, where you want to end (even if that’s just “happy ending” or “sad ending”), and the basics of how you’ll get there. jot it down (or type it, whatever works for you), even if it’s just a few sentences, so you can remember what you want to do. go as in-depth with an outline as you want. or don’t if you find that doesn’t work for you. but whichever route you go, try to expand and explore your plot, characters, everything. (and if you do write an outline, don’t be afraid to change things as you go if you feel they don’t work. i often find something develops differently than i’d originally planned. i then go and revise my outline to adjust for the changes.) 

challenge yourself. learn as you go and grow. push yourself but not too much. take a break if you are stressing too much.

write whatever you feel comfortable with—don’t try to write smut if you don’t want, don’t try to write angst just because you think you should (i’m terrible with angst), don’t try to write 120,000 words if you feel you’re happy with 6,000—and don’t just try to “give the people what they want.” write for yourself.

and most importantly, have fun! 

i’m sorry if this is too much. i hope i didn’t overwhelm or discourage you. this is just what i’ve found works for me and has helped me develop my writing and skills over the last three years. i always had a good understanding of the technical aspects but it’s improved over the last few years. my first fic was, i believe, just over 6,000 words, took me a month to write, had a very simple one-paragraph outline, and was nowhere near as detailed as my current fics are. i love it because it was my starting point (and is pretty cute, if i say so myself) and it’s encouraging to look back and see how much i’ve grown and learnt and how my style has developed.

please don’t hesitate to ask me more questions (though i’m hardly an expert). or tell me to fuck off if you read this whole thing and you’re like, “what the fuck, meggie, this didn’t help at all.”

xo💕

[lighthouseofthewanderess]

Language

(Noun): alphabets strung into words, strung into sentences, that differ from region to region.

As a senior writer in an advertising agency, it would be a joke that English never came easy to me. Every day I play around with em dashes and window words, answering grammar questions for my team of 15.  In fact, my family doesn’t come from an educated background. My grandmother didn’t get schooled. My mother, whom you’ve seen braving new lands, was a merit student in all her classes, conducted in our native tongue -- Tamil. It wasn’t until she went to the US that she really picked up English, spoke it fluently, and introduced some of my very first words in the ‘global’ language. Pen. Paper. Words. Never was it with the 26 characters, but always 216 … until I had to change. So yes, it’s irony that I’m writing all this in English. The news about going to the US to live with my mom didn’t hit me. There were too many things going on in my life, things I would later understand were toxic and abusive. I call this part of my life the ‘repressed memories’ and chant to myself that, that’s all those years were. When my father learnt my mother wasn’t going to be the cash cow for his family, his anger flared more than ever. In a haste, he dragged me to the men’s barber and got my thick, black (albeit unkempt) hair cut off at one go. I now looked like a boy.

“Why did all my hair go?” I asked him on the way back home.

“That’s what they look like where your mom is. This is the style there. You have to dress like this and not speak a word in Tamil.” I nodded and let it go. I would regret my short hair once I got there, but this one is about the funny language called English.

On my first day of school, in the school’s carpark, my mom spent a good hour talking me through the absolute essentials. You see, learning a language theoretically and never finding the need to speak it for the base purpose of communication is a flaw in education. That’s why even though I understood commercials on TV, and read hoardings, I wasn’t inclined to make a sentence in English in my head. And that’s also why my first Spoken English class was happening right now.

“Don’t say toilet. Say restroom. I need to use the restroom.” she made me repeat that sentence for a while, stressing on words with me.

“When someone smiles at you, smile back but not too wide.”

“My name is Priya. I am from India.” Gosh. It all sounded dreadful. My knees were weak, I could feel them even without standing up. Did I really have to go to school? Yup, you have to.

I waved bye and watched my the car slowly make its way out. My stomach knotted up. It was going to be a very long day. I looked around me. Why didn’t others have short hair, I have been sorely lied to. And what’s with the pink and blues? America is so weird. I will never forget the first sentence I had to utter. I had to go pee. Usually, I just stand up and teachers in India assume you want to go to the loo. They will shoo you off. No words required. I stood up following the same logic. Didn’t work; she just looked at me blankly. As I tried to recall all the words my mom used earlier, I suddenly went blank. There was something about ‘use’ and ‘toilet’. Wait, no. She asked me not to say that. It had ‘room’ in it. But it felt so wrong, a toilet isn’t a room. It’s a toilet! I decided to walk up to the teacher and whisper the words instead. On the way I was still turning words around in my head. When I got there, I was still blank. I needed to say what I had to. I panicked and said, quite loudly “I want toilet!”.  What a funny language. There it was. The wave of insecurity and shame because I couldn’t express myself in a ‘required manner’. Because people from India speaking in English was too funny, no matter the situation. The class cracked into laughter, all 11 faces gleefully guffawing while I was still waiting for my answer from my teacher. She pointed to room within the classroom, and walked away. Hey, at least I got my point across. That, in my eyes, was what communication was about. A few minutes before heading back out, I gave myself a pep talk. This wasn’t going to happen. Ever.  

“They don’t know any better. I am going to learn this stupid language and get past this.” This was 100% true. Unlike me, they have never known any other language to get confused in the first place. It’s always been easy because this is their native tongue. I am the one who has entered their space and therefore I am the one who must adapt. There is no point being ashamed; this is who I am and when I master this other language, I’ll be better than them.

Unapologetically, I went about my second grade class. I looked at their lips when they spoke; sometimes they spoke too fast and especially too loud when with me. Possibly because they believed an increase in decimal was directly proportional to an increase in my understanding. Wrong. I created a bubble and put myself in the middle. For a year, I will not hear what they have to say about me. I am not what this phase may make me look like. I was so stubborn with my attitude that my teacher called for a private PTA meeting. My mom duly came, expecting funny stuff. The number of episodes we’ve had and why she finds it funny is a must-tell story. (Mental note: save for later)   “You daughter…” the teacher hesitated. “...she has trouble adjusting to classes here.” I never understand why they say every negative thing like it may break a person. Just rip the bandage, won’t you? My mom smiled and moved her chair closer.

“That is expected. It’s not even been a month. Can I know what trouble you’re referring to?” thickly accented, but accepted. Sitting next to her, I felt like saying. “Well, here’s my spokesperson. Say what you want to say now.”

“Priya is… I’m sorry to say… embarrassing herself a lot. She puts her hand up for all the questions and answers them all wrong. She jumbles her words and the other students aren’t mixing with her well.” Embarrassing. I tasted the word. I got stuck with the Rs. Probably because here you roll them a lot and I wasn’t used to it yet. The teacher droned on the minute my mom chuckled at translated it to me.

“I would like to move her back to 1st grade. Your Indian system is a year early anyway, she wouldn’t lose a thing.”  When my broke that sentence down for me, I was annoyed. Here’s a woman whose only job is to teach me, and she’s brushing off her responsibility. I could be her pet project, her star student if she succeeded. What a loser.

I looked at her and asked slowly “You. Embarrassed?”

“What? No my dear.” she was red and shocked. How can some seven-year old be so cocky.  The rest of what I had to say I told my mom because I couldn’t find that many words to express.

“Priya says that she’s not a bit embarrassed or hurt with the way the class and you treat her. She would like to stay in your class.” I smiled proudly. Now it’s a challenge. I’m gonna stay here and take my revenge on this poor soul. I would -- I was interrupted by a change of events.

“And as her mother what I’m saying is, I’m taking her out of your class. Not because you requested. But because this attitude shows what you lack in a teacher that my daughter needs.

Have a great day!” My mom signaled to me and we left; we weren’t stopped.

I wouldn’t understand what my mom meant with that one line till I actually moved grades and met my first real teacher - Mrs. Rodgers. She was such a kind soul -- even thinking about her now makes me think of warmth and bunnies (don’t ask me why).  She had three children, all girls, who also studied in the same school as me. Unlike the other teacher, Mrs Rodgers didn’t call on me in class to answer; well knowing I wasn’t ready yet. Instead, she worked on my confidence. She picked out the little things I did do really well and praised me in front of the class. She took me out on weekends with her daughters and got them to help me speak casual English. Gonna. I wanna. Waterr. The more I hung out with them, the more I walked around the corridors hoping to bump into someone and start a conversation. She enrolled me in spell bee and I made it to the top three.  I remember some of the things Mrs. Rodgers used to tell me.

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to talk this fast. I know some of us do and you want to get out everything in your head before they walk away. But remember, no one is walking away from you. Hold their attention. Speak slowly and clearly. They will stay.”  How did she know! Is this what makes people teachers, reading children’s hearts? When I finished my first grade (all over again), there was a whole family that was proud of me. Now when people saw me, they didn’t see an awkward Indian girl. They saw a fully, adapted-to-environment individual, with her own history. In Mrs. Rodgers I found a second mom, and never wanted to let her go. We would learn later that she had cancer and the last time I met her was the yellow, happy phase before things started to go down. She quit teaching the very next year to look after her health. Mom and I talk about her, to this very day.

“If we decided to keep you with that other teacher, if we were just a year late, we wouldn’t have got Mrs. Rodgers. Angels keep crossing our paths, right ammu? And always at the right time.” Couldn’t deny that, I got super lucky with this teacher. A lot of what I understood about American schooling was set by her. She was a great example of how teachers shape and influence the decisions a child makes, once an adult. I can’t get thank her enough for standing by me when the rest of the class was singling me out. And that’s when I learnt the power of standing by someone. It changes so much. I told myself I will do what Mrs. Rodgers did for me the next chance I get. And it did come, more quickly that I expected.

Marico was a Spanish exchange student who joined my second grade class. He had a square face, two missing teeth, and was super shy. When he spoke English, I found a bit of me in him. It was thickly accented, words tripping over each other, trying very hard to be real and be understood. I spoke to my teacher, got my seat moved next to his. We giggled over words others didn’t find funny and sat during recess with nursery books. By the end of the year, he had a whole class who was proud of him. Marico was the one who put the word into my dictionary with his own meaning. Language: Words you borrow from the place you’re in to communicate what you feel. Another set of words for your mind and mouth to get used to, to express in a way others understand. How true. Language isn’t what you pick up to fit in with the others, it’s what tool you use to make sure they understand you.