My Snowflake Method Meltdown (and That Time I Butchered Spanish at an Interview)
I've started writing a YA fantasy novel—or at least attempting to plot one.
Learning a writing craft for the first time is a grueling process. Mainly because whatever you think you know usually ends up being wrong.
I've invested in the highest-recommended craft books, studying them daily, taking notes, and trying the exercises.
My favorite is "How to Write Your Novel Using the Snowflake Method" by Randy Ingermanson. This craft book is crafted as fiction, and I get lost in the story of Goldilocks, the Big Bad Wolf, and especially Baby Bear.
You may be wondering, "What is the point of this? "(I don't blame you.)
I shouldn't share this with you, as it makes me look as amateur as I am. So go easy on me.
But the first part of the Snowflake Method is to create a one-sentence summary of your novel.
I started writing it, and inevitably, my mind drifts (as it usually does) back to an interview with Air Canada in 2009.
Air Canada was offering open interviews for flight attendants, and I was so excited to have a chance to fly with them. I flew to Toronto and stayed in a very sketchy hostel overnight within walking distance to the conference center they were holding interviews in, with my scratchy cardigan and tighter than I should've had, on a black skirt.
Much to my delight, I made it through the first round of interviewers and found myself in the second round, which was to explore my ability to speak a second language. I lived in Guatemala in 2005 for six months, managing to speak conversational Spanish. I do not have an ear for languages, and to this day, I wonder how much I was just saying, "I live in San Pedro El Alto," or "Can I use your bathroom, please?"
My second interviewer only evaluated my language capabilities. It had been four years, but I still had some conversational Spanish I could use in emergencies like this one.
Writing my one-sentence novel summary feels shockingly similar to that moment.
I stare at the flashing keyboard, waiting for inspiration to strike me. No dice.
I stared at that poor Air Canada employee, waiting for the moment I could comprehend what he was saying. I distinctly remember clumsily saying, "I lived in Guatemala for six months, and I used to be able to speak this okay."
To this day, I don't even know how I made it to the next round of interviewers.
Feeling like you don't have the answers or are failing makes many of us want to run and hide. We don't want to feel embarrassed, lesser, or like one day someone will hand us an award that says, "World's Number One Failure." It makes us want to quit.
I never dared fly back for those final interviews with Air Canada. I had excellent excuses: It was too much money to fly to Toronto again. I'm a student, and I can't give it up anyway right now. Or, the best one—they would just interview me here if they really wanted me.
When we want to quit, we convince ourselves of all kinds of things. We want things to be easy.
As writers, we find ourselves in the written word. In the clicking of our keyboards. The dreams that captivate us through the night. But so many of us expect learning to craft a novel to be easy if you're good.
I'm so thankful that authors like Steve Laube, Randy Ingermanson, James Scott Bell, and Bob Hostetler are brutally honest about how hard it will be.
They don't deceive us. They call us to get over it, strap in, step up, attend conferences, join critique groups, buy and study craft books, and seek advice.
They call us to adjust our perspective and reevaluate our attitudes about what writing a novel really looks like.
When I read their words, I wish I had sought them earlier—I could have been repeatedly told that good things are worth fighting for and trying for and that being good at something doesn't mean it will be easy.
So, enough of my rambling.
Back to my one-sentence summary of my yet-to-be-developed work in progress. Because this time, I'm not giving up. I'm flying back for that final interview, even if the answer is no.