Archive for writing
20 minutes a day
Posted by: | CommentsMy friend Amy over at Crunchy Domestic Goddess came back from BlogHer ’10 with a renewed interest in something you’d assume every blogger is interested in: Writing. She lamented, tongue in cheek, in her “frequent” blog posting, and challenged her readers to join her in a quest to write for 20 to 30 minutes a day. Publish or not, just write it, she said.
I’d love to join her. Twenty minutes a day doesn’t seem like much of a time commitment to do something I actually love to do.
The problem is my focus. I used to go through life thinking, “That’s a blog post!” Lately, not so much. The health issues, which I’m sure you all are a little sick of reading about, have been my main focus in my life, let alone in my blog. Other things that are getting a little of my attention don’t have a place here, because of my fear about who reads this (such as employers).
I’ve been writing for six minutes, and I’ve come to a dead stop.
I’ve recently thought about just retiring this blog, saying to hell with it, I had a good year of focused writing. Then I remember that I haven’t really been myself in a while. Those synthetic hormones, I tell you, are like being taken over by an alien. It’s a different breed of alien than the one that takes over during the “season.”
I haven’t been myself to the point that I’m wondering who that self is anymore. Who is she? What does she want? What doesn’t she want? What will heal what’s still broken inside her?
I got an email from my birthmother last night, in which she apologizes for not being frequently in touch, and says she’s like a flood that spills her energy out without purpose or direction. We have that in common, kind of, because I tend to send floods of energy in one direction or another until I’m dry. I don’t know how to keep anything in reserve. That’s probably why I’m on my couch at 11 am on a Friday. I have a double ear infection and sinus infection, and I can’t remember the last time I actually felt this ill.
Steve and I are in counseling, seeing Judi’s husband Mike because he uses Terry Real’s “New Rules of Marriage” as a guideline for therapy. We’re there, partially, because of my losing my mind (and myself) to the synthetic hormones. We’re there because we’re in what Mike calls “phase 2″ of a relationship: a lot of information and not a lot of love.
We love each other. Most days I’m in love with him. But we’ve gotten really good at pushing each other’s buttons and hurting each other. We want to stop this behavior. Mike also says, “You marry your unfinished business.” Which means that if we were to break up, then get into a new relationship with others, we’d end up with them (eventually) right where we left off with each other. So we’ll stick to it, learn some new skills. Last night, I said to Mike & Steve that I think Steve’s childhood experiences (let’s call it Hell on Earth) bubble up and wreak havoc in our relationship, and that if this is to work, then Steve needs to work on cleaning out and healing some of that crap. It triggers him. I’m working on my own stuff with Judi, and I’ll do some more work with Steve & Mike in our sessions.
Speaking of which, today with Judi I’m supposed to bring a list of things I wish my mother would say to me so we can role play. Um, shit. I’ve put it off like crazy. Maybe something like, “Lynn, I’m sorry I am a narcissist, and that I made you, throughout your life, do everything you could do to win my love because being you wasn’t enough on its own. That’s my crap, and I put it on you. It was wrong. You are good enough to love just as you are, even if you live by a van by the river.”
What does this have to do with writing 20 minutes a day? Well, I just wrote for 20 minutes. Basically, a brain dump, but there you have it. Sometimes I have to clear the cobwebs to get to anything good.
The 11,898,672nd writer to be stymied by fear and self-doubt
Posted by: | CommentsWhen I was a senior in high school, I completed an application for a Scripps scholarship. I had been editor of my newspaper and worked as a stringer for a local weekly, and my journalism teacher urged me to apply for that prestigious award. As I was getting ready to mail the forms, my mother said to me: “There are thousands of other kids just like you out there mailing this application in. I don’t want you to get hurt, so don’t get your hopes up too high.” I thought about what she said and realized she was right. I couldn’t compete.
I’ve always wondered what would have happened if I would have believed in myself enough to mail that packet–if I would have won. I’ve won things since: beauty pageants and writing contests and jobs, for example. However I’ve always gone for the safe bet. For what seems achievable without too much sacrifice.
Lately, I’ve been reading blogs of literary agents and editors. It’s been on my mind for years now to write a novel. But not just to write it–to sell it, for good money. I’m not naive. I understand that everyone and his sister wants to write the great American novel and thinks s/he is capable and talented enough to do it. And maybe lucky enough, because from what I’ve read lately it seems that luck and persistence are perhaps more important than talent and training and capability.
I don’t know that I have it in me.
I can write the book, that I know, but I don’t know if I have it in me for what comes after you write it. Meaning, the query letters to agents, and the revision based on other people’s visions of what your story is, and the waiting. Of course, the rejection is what really motivates me to get started: One agent, when asked if a writer should give up trying to get representation for a novel after 30 or 40 rejections, replied that no one should give up or do serious revisions until their rejection pile is several hundred high. Wow, makes me want to jump right into that game.
So, am I afraid of the work (aka lazy), or just petrified by self-doubt? (I know, I know. I am officially the 11,898 672nd writer to be stymied by fear and self-doubt.)
A few weeks ago I talked with a woman who is at work on a novel–her fifth. “I can write them but I don’t seem to be able to sell them,” she told me. I’m sorry, what? You’ve written five novels? And none of them have sold? Why, I wanted to ask her, do you continue? But I already knew the answer: because she has to.
Which makes me wonder: Do I feel so compelled to write this long story that’s in my head about Jessie and Danielle and making family out of what you find that, on my deathbed, I’ll regret it if I don’t? Or am I remembering my proclamation in my Senior AP English class that I would one day be a famous (and rich) novelist.
I know that Jessie and Danielle want their story told, because they tell me so. Yes, I hear voices, which used to freak me out until a therapist told me that 35 is awfully old for schizophrenia to manifest, and suggested that the voices are characters who need me to give them life. That’s when I started writing short stories again.
While Jessie and Danielle’s story feels of utmost importance to me, I don’t want it to be my freshman effort.
I want it to be good. Scratch that: I want it to be excellent, and acclaimed. Those are big-word shoes to fill. I want it to sell, and for real money, and have a contract that includes marketing and blah, blah, blah and get on Oprah for having the biggest debut novel of the year.
(I tend to set incredibly achievable goals for myself as well.)
Maybe I need a starter novel, a trial run with a story that I don’t care so deeply about. It’s like when you’re learning to paint a room: You start out with walls not so many people may see, in case you completely screw them up. I don’t want to screw up Jessie and Danielle’s story. Or, maybe, once again I’m being stymied by my own self doubt and could choose to power through it.
I’ve been thinking about picking up another story I started where it left off–the handsome Brad Garrison coming to Lissie’s arts organization’s rescue with a large donation. I could turn it into a romance novel to build up callouses. Muscles, even. On second thought, this option could be the easier road, one that I’ll regret taking later. (Oh shut up, Mr. Frost. I know you’re right.) Tackling Jessie and Danielle’s story is a bigger stretch for me, and it’s been a long time since I’ve stretched myself.
Maybe I should stop reading the agents’ blogs, because doing so is making me seriously consider that I can’t compete. Because, if you recall, I don’t want to write a novel. I want to SELL novels I’ve written. Perhaps now is a good time to live in a land of fantasy and competing offers.
I’m finally in a relationship with someone who will give me the room and support I need to do the work I’ve always wanted to do. My mother no longer rules my life and my brain. My ability to do, or not to do, rests squarely on my shoulders with no one else to blame.
What’s stymieing you? And what are you going to do about it?
