Category: Writing

Because Virginia Woolf Said So

Halfway through clean up

“A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.”                 ~Virginia Woolf

Years ago when we moved from the city to this bigger house in the suburbs, I appropriated one room for myself. It was to be an office space, although I had no idea what I needed an office for because I didn’t have a paying job. Over the nearly ten years we’ve been at this address, my office has moved locations three times. It has been situated for the last six or so years down the hall from our bedroom in the smallest room in the house. It’s located over the garage. It’s freezing in the winter (like “use a space heater or wear mittens” freezing) and ungodly hot in the summer. But, it has a cute little window seat that I made a cushion for, a full-size closet I can cram all sorts of stuff in, and eastern exposure sunlight, which makes it bright and cheerful in the morning.

The first thing I did when I moved my crafting supplies into that space was to have hubby install a keyed doorknob. I planned to keep the boys from pouring permanent ink onto the floor, super gluing themselves to something, or ending up in the emergency room after messing with one of my sharp, paper-cutting implements. There was something so awesome about having a space I could lock up and keep private too. It was my own little oasis. That was the plan, anyway. Instead, what happened is that my private room became a catch-all for the kids’ school artwork, printed photos, birthday and holiday gifts that needed to be stored and then wrapped, and packing/shipping supplies. During the holidays, the room gets trashed by my whirling dervish behavior. Between the holiday cards, the gift wrapping, the treats for neighbors and teachers, and the scrapbooks I give as gifts, I find I can no longer even walk in there by December 25th.

So, I lock the door and ignore it…for about four months. Sometime in April, I cautiously peer in there to remind myself what I’m up against. Then, I quickly close the door and lock it again. Sometime in May I remember I am soon going to need a hiding place when school lets out for summer, and I begin the dreaded clean up process I’ve been avoiding. Today, though, as I began the cleanliness assault on my space, I was honestly excited about it because I’m not just cleaning up my crafting mess. I’m setting up my writing space too. I’m giving myself a room of my own, just like Virginia Woolf told me to, so I can write this work of fiction that is bubbling in my brain.

My office always had two desks. One was to be for crafting and the other was to house my laptop. I’ve never actually used the space that way, though, because the writing desk has been perpetually littered with, well…for lack of a better word…crap. Not anymore. Today I am turning over a new leaf. My writing desk will be for writing. I’m setting up files for my research and notes. I’m putting up my favorite inspirational quotes. I’ve dusted off my hardcover dictionary and thesaurus. I’ve hung my college diplomas to remind myself that I’m plenty capable of this. I’m ready to kick some creative ass. I’ve got a little money. I’ve got a room of my own. I’ve got some inspiration. What else could I possibly need?

I’m thinking wine fridge. I bet there has been some research done that shows that wine helps the creative process. And, chocolate too. It might be a good idea to toss a little chocolate in my wine fridge. I’m certain those two things will improve my creativity. I think I’m finally going to get a handle on the perfect office for me. And, I’d bet cash money that Virginia would approve.

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Stranger Things

The reason I now have an excuse to stay home and write.

“It’s not who you are that holds you back but who you think you are not. Judging yourself is not the same as being honest with yourself. You are capable of great things.”

A friend posted this quote on her page today. I can’t stop thinking about it. Oh, how guilty I am of this transgression against myself. I all too often judge myself harshly in the name of being honest with myself. I am a person who learned early on that it’s better to prepare for the worst so you’re not disappointed than to hope for the best and fall flat. It’s such a sick, self-defeating attitude, one I’m sure that has kept me from stretching outside my comfort zone and achieving more for myself on occasion.

I had a conversation with a friend recently that bothered me. We’ve known each other a long time and, as with most long-term friendships, we’ve both changed over the years. I realized as we were talking that my friend was somewhat disappointed in me because I have made choices that have kept me from becoming what I had sworn when I was younger I would become. In his mind, I’ve settled and am not living up to my full potential. (Sorry. I sounded like an episode of Lego Ninjago, there.) I first felt insulted, then angry at him for judging me, and then sad because there is a definite part of me that knows on some level he is right.

I have spent many years selling myself short. When people would ask me what I do I would tell them I’m a stay-at-home mom. I would say it apologetically, convinced that my position made me unworthy of interest. When they then reacted according to my own boredom with my situation, I’d become indignant and hurt that they were not interested in me. But, honestly, how could they be interested in my life when even I wasn’t? I was judging myself for my own perceived failure to achieve a successful career, and then I was projecting my frustration onto them. They were simply following my lead. Staying at home with my sons was a choice, a choice I would make again because I like knowing that I am their go-to person. I don’t think I could have handed them over to anyone else. I don’t think it’s in my nature. I am where I am because I chose this path. So, why do I expend so much energy feeling bad about what I am not and what I have not achieved in terms of a career?

Instead of feeling bad about not having a paying career right now, I need to look at things differently. I have the freedom to stay home and work on the book I always hoped I would write someday. “Someday” just became today. And, instead of depressing myself with the enormity of the task of writing and publishing a book, I’m going to put on my best Tony Robbins and imagine myself on a book tour, signing copies of my story. Why not? Stranger things have happened. Hell… my husband, who has had infinite faith in me from the very beginning, has already started discussing what we should do when the royalties start coming in. Now, that’s the kind of positivity I should get behind. 😉

 

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Unstuck At Last

It’s always darkest before the dawn.

“Everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.” ~Sylvia Plath

A couple years ago, I had a flash about a story I might like to tell. I just could not figure out how to do it. What person should I use to tell it? Should I tell both points of view or just one? How could I tell the story of a lifetime in bits an pieces and still tie it all together? How far would the characters go? How would it all work out? I became trapped in the quagmire of questions. I could not get unstuck.

So, I made some notes, tossed the idea on the back burner, and waited for the rest of the inspiration to come to me. I waited two years. It did not come. This weekend away from my family, I knew I would have time to revisit this with a clear head and no obligations. Late Friday afternoon before meeting a friend, I pulled out the laptop and resurrected my notes. I thought they might look different to me after all this time, so I looked at them. Actually, I stared at them until I went cross-eyed. Nothing. I could not stop over thinking the logistics of the story I had already mapped out in my head. They were killing me. I gave up, closed the laptop, and went out with my friend.

Then, an incredible thing happened. After a couple Moscow Mules, I began to get unstuck. My brain opened up and started entertaining possibilities instead of stopping at road blocks. The ideas started to flow. I spent most of yesterday thinking about the conversations that had happened the night before to jumpstart the creativity.  And today, with nine uninterrupted hours in the car driving home from Utah, I brainstormed. I got out my iPhone and took voice memos. When I stopped, I took notes. Suddenly, I felt confident that I could say what I needed to say. What had bogged me down, it turns out, was a lack of imagination. With my background in professional and technical writing, I’ve not traditionally been allowed to change details or move a story around. But, I’m not that person anymore. I’m free of those fetters. It’s my story. A fiction story. I can make up whatever I want. 

I’m certain there will be other things that will stop me in my tracks throughout this process, but after this minor  breakthrough I feel I can handle any additional challenges with a different perspective. If I get stuck again, I will go back to my muse for inspiration. And, if that fails, I’m heading to a bar because I think another couple Moscow Mules might fix me right up.

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The Ugly Truth About Writers

Little Cottonwood Canyon

Tonight as I was talking to my friend, Tracy, her wonderful husband Shane tolerating our chatter with the patience of a saint all through dinner and beyond, she asked me if I found writing “easy.” People rarely ask me about writing. I’m not sure if it’s because they already read my blog so they feel they already know how it’s going or if it’s because they’re afraid I will bore them with details about proper grammar. Either way, the question took me by surprise.

I told her I’ve now written for over 150 consecutive days, which is a personal record. I never thought I could do it. And, what started as a rather nondescript goal of publishing something online every day has turned into an excuse to practice writing. And, that’s what I am doing. I am practicing it.

Writing has never been easy for me because I am highly self-critical. The act of putting words on paper or text on screen is easy, but that’s not writing. Writing is the continual revision of work, the search for the best turn of phrase, the quest to discover the perfect quirk for the main character, the non-stop pouring out of your heart for the world to see and judge. This blogging I’ve been doing has been slowly allowing me to discover my own voice as a writer. This, it is my deepest hope, will lead me to write down one of the books I’ve been formulating in my head for years. On scraps of paper and in shoddily marked folders on my hard drive exist pages of notes with ideas, phrases, character sketches, and book titles. Somewhere in that information is the book I will write. It may get published or it may not. But, I know I have a book in me somewhere.

Not everyone who can write is a writer, but every serious writer I know will honestly tell you that writing, though rewarding, is exceedingly difficult. I have often said that all writers are tortured artists, not because we’re all a bunch of lost souls, drowning in vodka bottles and fumigating ourselves with chain-smoked cigarettes. We’re tortured souls because writing done correctly is torturous. It’s a non-stop process until you either collapse with satisfaction or simply can no longer stand to listen to yourself talk and so finally decide to shut up. So, do I find writing easy? Not particularly. But, out of all the difficult things I have done, writing is the only one I enjoy suffering through. Maybe the truth then is not that writers are tortured souls but rather that we are masochists.

 

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I Was A 98 Year Old Author

One stack of books I am working my way through.

“We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit.”             ~Aristotle

I feel like a kid in school again. There is so much I need to do if I want to realize my goal of writing a major work. Yesterday, I spent a long time in Barnes and Noble in the Writing section flipping through books on every conceivable aspect of writing and publishing. I looked through books with ideas, books about the process, books about writing every possible genre, books about self-publishing, and books about finding an agent. I sat on the floor thumbing through pages becoming more and more overwhelmed with every passing second. The amount of information is astounding. I could spend a lifetime reading about how to write a book and never even write a book. It made me question if I was insane for imagining I could do this. I left the bookstore with four books, two about writing and two about feminism, a headache, and a hole filled with doubt in the pit of my stomach.

When I got home, I opened up one of the books, A Novel in a Year by Louise Doughty, and started reading. Ms. Doughty offers 52 weeks of exercises designed to break the unconquerable task of writing down into bite-size bits. It is filled with useful advice on writing and practical exercises to “help writers develop confidence and style.” Yep. That sounds like something that might help me. I’m, more or less, starting at ground zero right now. I could use all the advice and practice I can get. The first exercise was simple. She offered a sentence for us to complete. I turned my sentence into a paragraph and felt reasonably pleased what I had written. Funny how the fear of writing goes away when you write instead of merely thinking about it, preparing for it, or talking about it.

And so I’ve decided to look on this as a journey, not a destination. The goal is to publish, but the timeline is flexible. If I work constantly thinking that the only way I will be successful is when I actually publish, then I’m unduly stressing myself out. I am on a path, not a racetrack. Every time I write, I learn something about myself through my emotion, my choice of words, the mere act of putting thoughts on paper (or a screen). I do mean to publish, but if it doesn’t happen until I’m 98 that is fine. If I write repeatedly from now until then, I might just turn myself into an excellent 98 year old author.

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Fasten Your Seatbelts

I feel like today is the first day of the rest of my life.

“If you do not change direction, you may end up where you are heading.”         ~Lao Tzu

You know that thing? The one you’ve always thought you should do but it seemed so daunting, so arduous, so clearly out of left field that you couldn’t bring yourself to attempt it? Well, I’ve made a decision about that thing. I’m going to do it. Today I started the wheels in motion and now there’s no turning back. Everything I’ve done up until now has led me to this point, and that’s how I know this is what I am supposed to do.

Today I made a commitment to myself to start writing with an end-goal in mind. For as long as I can remember, I’ve known I would eventually try to write something “real” and, by “real,” I mean publishable. Yes. I publish these words on my blog on the Internet, but I’m talking about something more substantial, like a book of some sort. Yes. I have a bound Master’s Thesis collecting dust on a shelf at Illinois State University, but that’s not the type of book I’m referring to either. I’m talking about something even more substantial than that 80-page paper. The idea has been germinating in my head for a year and I’ve been rolling it around on my tongue to get used to the sound of it, and today I decided I can’t put it off any longer.

On the advice of a friend, I’ve registered for a one-day, informational seminar and networking opportunity for current and prospective authors. It’s going to be my jumping off point, the official launch into my future. And, I can’t tell you how much I am filled with terror right now, facing the thing I wasn’t sure I was brave enough to attempt. Whether I will walk away from this event with useful information or merely with the experience itself, I’m taking a step in a direction I’ve been meaning to head in for a while. It could be a bumpy ride. I sort of feel like I’m in that incredibly creepy, psychedelic scene from the original Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, the one where Willy Wonka sings about not knowing exactly where they’re going. For a while there, the passengers are nervous and fearful, but I figure if they came out of the tunnel just fine, with Willy Wonka at the helm no less, then I should be fine too.

 

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All of Me…Sort Of

The dog-faced girl...one of my many personas

Today hubby and I went on our first “long” training ride of the 2012 bike season. Our friend and fellow Guido’s Goon teammate Bill (we ride together in the MS150) convinced us that riding 40+ miles on this unseasonably pleasant and uncharacteristically not windy day would be a good idea. Although I wasn’t thrilled with the suggested itinerary because 1) I didn’t really feel like riding at all, much less 40 miles, and 2) I hadn’t made it over 19 miles since I started riding on the bike trainer a month ago, I caved because even though I hated to admit it I knew I could handle it.

As we rode along, Bill was talking to me about my blog, which he actually reads. He mentioned that he’s learned a lot about me by reading what I write. I thought about this for a few seconds. Then I made the most ludicrous statement I’ve made in a while.

“Truth is that I consider myself to be a very private person.”

Now, Bill was riding in front of me at that point so I couldn’t see his facial expression after I said that, but I imagine he was fairly amused by my comment. Because…seriously? Who publishes a blog because they’re intensely private? I write about my life, my family, my struggles, my neuroses, and my fears, and I put it on the Internet. I must be certifiable to think I’m private or reserved at all.

For the rest of the ride, I tried to discern what part of me is private if I’m publishing my life on the Internet. If I look at it solely from that angle, I’m not private in any way. So, how is it possible that I still believe I am? Here’s how: I write for myself. Every entry I publish is simply an attempt to figure out what is going on in my busy mind, a way to find some measure of peace. I never write about things I consider to be truly personal and private. There are numerous things in my life I would never discuss on my blog. I write about the human condition or about topics that amuse me. Finally, I suppose I feel private because I forget that people might actually read what I write. I don’t publish to be read. I publish to put a period on my work, to finish what I start, to put it out there and move on.

I know it seems crazy to imagine that I maintain some level of privacy in my life when I toss it onto the Internet but, honestly, I don’t know if it’s possible to know me by reading the sum total of what I spew on a blog either. Perhaps that’s why I still feel protected, safe, and private. My blogs are all me, but they are not all of me.

 

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Can I Get an H, Pat?

All consonants are important, even if they're voiceless.

Joe is in the 4th grade and has graduated from those cheesy book reports that are mostly art projects designed to drive parents insane (you know…dioramas, mobiles, puppets….seriously, teachers?) to true, written reports this year. Joe is a solid C student in language arts. He reads quite well, but his writing and spelling are, well…let’s go with interesting. Still, he’s been doggedly determined to learn to write on his own so we’ve set him loose to see what he can come up with for his book reports. For the most part, we’ve been pleasantly surprised with his reading comprehension and his ability to retell the story for his reports.

Today I got quite a shock, however, when I proofread his written report for his latest book, Danny the Champion of the World by Roald Dahl. We’ve been on a Dahl kick at our house. Joe’s read James and the Giant Peach, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, The Fantastic Mr. Fox, and The BFG. So far he has refused to read Matilda because (and I quote) “It’s about a girl.” At any rate, as I was reading the text of Joe’s report this time, I became a bit concerned.

“Joe….what do you mean by ‘He ran away to poach peasants’?”

“He went off into the woods and poached peasants,” he responded, as if I was crazy for not understanding.

“What do you mean by poach?”

“He gets peasants and eats them.”

“He eats peasants?”

“Yeah. He eats them.”

“Peasants?”

“Yes. Peasants.”

“Like he cooks them up and eats them?”

“Yes,” Joe replied, obviously becoming exasperated with my idiocy.

Was my son honestly telling me that this library book that I had selected for him was a book about people ingesting other people? I know Dahl’s stories are highly imaginative. In James and The Giant Peach, James’s parents are trampled to death by rhinoceroses in pastoral England. Then, James takes a trip from England to New York in a giant peach filled with a cast of bug characters who are all the size of an adult human. Dahl’s stories make me wish I had known the right drugs to do while I was in college. But, I still could not imagine a children’s novel in which Dahl creates cannibals who hunt and eat peasants. That seemed like a bit much, even for him. Joe and I went round and round until I finally grabbed the library book and began scanning it for evidence of cannibalism. Then, I found the word that might clarify the entire book report.

“Joe…were Danny and his dad poaching and eating birds?”

“Yes. Peasants are birds.”

“No, Joe. Pheasants are birds. Peasants are people”

“I know that,” Joe replied. “I knew they were eating birds. There were pictures of the birds. I just forgot that there was a difference between peasants and pheasants.”

“Big difference, Joe. At least your report makes more sense now. I was a bit uneasy picturing Danny and his dad feeding peasants sleeping pills stuffed in raisins and then watching them falling out of the trees.”

Joe had a good laugh about my mental image of poor, country folk dropping from the sky only to be then being picked up and subsequently cooked by gypsies. But this little miscommunication proves how delicate and complicated the English language is. One missing “h” and suddenly a simple hunting expedition takes a sinister turn. It’s miraculous that any of us learn to understand and communicate with the English language. There are myriad rules and then just as many exceptions to those rules. Take the suffix “ed,” for example, which can sound like “ed” (tainted), “d” (cleaned), or “t” (walked). For a native speaker, these distinctions are somewhat natural because we’ve heard them repeatedly. But, to a non-native speaker learning English, there is nothing but obfuscation. And, don’t even get me started on our punctuation rules, which can turn “Let’s eat, Grandpa” from a nice invitation for your grandfather to join you for dinner into “Let’s eat Grandpa” and somehow we’re back to cannibalism.

At the very least, today’s book report exercise reminded me to cut my kids some slack as they muddle their way through phonics and language arts in grade school. I have a master’s degree in writing and I still regularly have to research correct language and usage rules. I tell you, though, I am going to start being a bit more careful around Joe. If he could mistake pheasants for peasants, who knows what kind of breakfast he might cook up for me on Mother’s Day?

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Drinking Lattes by the Sea, Mamacita

A true friend knows it's totally okay to get you a mug like this.

I got this mug last night from my friend Heather. I’m not exactly sure what the occasion was. She simply said, “It had to be done.” She was right. What makes the mug is that the somewhat vulgar sentiment is put into a heart shape. Nothing is as sweet as a heart with the word motherf@#*er in it, right?

I love that Heather knows me well enough to know that I would appreciate this mug and not find it offensive. On the contrary, I had my latte in it this morning and I will continue to do so every day until the writing wears off and the mug is just plain white (at which point I’ll probably start wondering where the hell I got the plain white mug from). But, what makes this gift unbelievably special is the thought behind it. I honestly believe Heather wants me to write like a motherf@#*er. She wants me to pursue my passion and pour my heart into it. She is with me as I travel down this writing road with its potholes, speed bumps, and unpaved sections. She’s also with me when the highway runs smoothly and we’re cruising with the top down, enjoying the sunshine on our faces. She’s the Louise to my Thelma, and we’re about to have an adventure of epic proportions.

Don’t worry, Heather. I’m not about to give up on writing. I’m going to keep writing like a motherf@#*er. And, I’ll make sure I write a better ending for us than Thelma and Louise got.

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Thirty Days

A portion of books containing my own handwritten work

“A writer is somebody for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.” ~ Thomas Mann

Well, I did it. Today marks my thirtieth consecutive day writing this blog, just as I promised myself I would do. This entire endeavor started because, although I’ve held paying jobs as a writer and editor in the distant past, without a current, paid writing job I’m not comfortable telling people I’m a writer. I somehow thought that if I made an honest go at it I might legitimize the act itself. If you tell someone you’re a writer, they assume you’re a journalist or novelist and they ask you about what you’re writing. But, if you tell them you publish a blog, they assume you’re not really a writer. So, I’ve just kept quiet about it. And, the truth is that I never thought I could commit to writing every day. Even when I kept a journal I never managed to write in it daily. I’ve always found reasons to deem it impossible. Either there wouldn’t be enough material to write about or I wouldn’t be able to find the time or I’d simply get tired of the act of doing it. But, here I am thirty days later with thirty completed entries, proof of being able to write consistently. Huh. Who knew?

Now none of this is to say that I’ve been thrilled with every entry. I haven’t been. It hasn’t been easy. My perfectionist tendencies vexed me. There were days when a 400 word entry took me 4+ hours, and I still wasn’t satisfied with it . On a couple days, it got down to a few minutes before midnight before I squeaked in a post just under the wire. I’m sure there are typographical and even grammatical errors in some entries because occasionally I could not bring myself to care for another millisecond. I still stuck with it, though, and that is something.

I’ve learned quite a bit about myself and about the process of writing through this thirty day experiment. I’ve learned that I am capable of follow through, even when the going gets tough. I’ve learned that inspiration can come from the most unlikely little tidbits of life. I’ve learned that I don’t have to love everything I write; not every published morsel needs to be one I treasure. I’ve learned that writing is a process and, like life, it’s about the journey and not the destination. I’ve learned that there are actually a couple folks who read my words and appreciate them. Most of all, I’ve learned that there’s no point in denying something that is innate. I’m a writer. My desire to write is a gift. So, I’m going to keep on writing. Not because I’ve challenged myself to but because I’m a writer. It’s what I do.

 

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