Showing posts with label my writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label my writing. Show all posts
Monday, March 11, 2013
Chasing Pennies
We watched him everyday. A chorus of laughter - nervous, boisterous, fake. Pecking the ground for loose change, he seemed unaware of our mocking. Jeans too short and stonewashed, he had obviously bought them at the Salvation Arm; and while it was hip for us to pick up old t-shirts and retro jackets at the thrift store, we wouldn't dare to shop there.
A few of the boys took to dropping their change. Their delighted faces reflecting in the medals pinned to their letterman's jackets. I didn't laugh, but I watched. Day after day, I watched. My social status was tenuous. I was thin, pretty, and I had an unearned bad reputation. There was always a crowd, or the bell was ringing, or a teacher was nearby, so I shut up and watched. Every day I imagined what he did with the change. Did he buy lunch? Did he take it home to his mom? Everyday a lump sat in my throat.
The last day, the boys with the wicked eyes dumped out a barrel of pennies collected either for many days or from many people. I don't care to know which.
They thundered in the crowded hallway, scattering and bouncing across our feet. He sprang at them, darting between our legs, knocking into his audience. He didn't care what we thought. If he heard the laughter, he ignored it. It was a great joke. I wanted to cry.
By all accounts, I am a poor person now. My family and I live a lifestyle based on our ideals and goals, and it doesn't pay much. For years I looked at that memory and hated myself for staying silent. I've silently raged at those boys for ten years. I now know two things about the boy who chased pennies. The first is how he felt - to be so poor that there was no pride left sometimes. The second is that he was smarter than us. He wasn't caught up in the glory or the drama, and if people are going to throw away money, someone else, someone who deserves it, should have it.
I'd like to think by the time my children are adolescents, money won't be such an issue and that our ideals when coupled with determination and work will yield fruit. But no matter what, I will have succeeded in my life, if my child will bend down to help a boy chasing pennies.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
HOPE
The other day as I forced myself to use the elliptical at the gym, I watched the news. I don't often watch the news. I gave it up after I started to get a little neurotic after 9/11. I keep up to date through online sources where I can filter my experience a little. There's something so doom and gloom about the if-it-bleeds-it-leads journalism of televised news, and the other day was no exception. I lost track of the number of stories about people shooting their wives or children, setting fire to their homes, engaging in standoffs with the police. And then I came home and my husband told me about the man in Rome who shot himself in front of tourists after yelling out the terrible things that happened to him because of the financial crisis in Europe.
All the stories shared something in common: despair. Rampant, oppressive, paralyzing despair. It's every where these days - the lingering effect of an economic collapse and the product of an uncertain future.
I know all about despair. I know how some nights you don't sleep until your body physically shuts down from exhaustion, because you are stuck in a cycle of self-recrimination. How you lie awake and try to pinpoint where it all went wrong, curse yourself for your mistakes and foolish choices, and wonder how you will ever crawl out of the hole you're caught in. I know what it's like to wonder if your children would be better off with other parents. To wonder if you will ever give them anything more than the love you can muster up when you are caught in the clutches of hopelessness. I know what it's like to wonder if you would be better off dead - to wish you were, believing it really is the only way out for yourself and your loved ones.
Two years ago I quietly asked my husband to apply for food stamps, because we just couldn't feed our children anymore on our own. It was one of the low points, and it sent me spiraling into despair. I retreated into myself. I stopped meeting the eyes of the cashier at the grocery store, because they knew what that card was, and because I felt inferior to everyone. A little over a year ago my husband and I sat in front of a judge, declaring bankruptcy, after unsuccessfully trying to climb out of the crippling consumer debt that had tripled while he was unemployed. I was so embarrassed that I couldn't even tell my dear friend why I needed her to watch the kids that day. I couldn't tell her that we couldn't make all our bills, even though she knew we were living on an hourly wage of $12.
One year ago I tearfully explained to a debt collector that no, not even McDonald's was hiring when she suggested I suck up my pride and get to work. And even though I knew I was applying for jobs and sewing baby items in a desperate attempt to make ends meet, her admonishment stung. Mostly because, as many of you know, even if I landed a job, I was unlikely to be able to pay for childcare, and because there was the bitter edge of truth in her accusation. Part of me could not accept that I, as a college graduate with advanced degrees, could be in this situation.
A year ago I decided to adopt a different spelling of my name in case I got published, because then my past sins wouldn't follow me and condemn me to more failure.
But this story as a happy ending, as good stories are wont to do.
Not long after we applied for food stamps, I got a call from my mother-in-law that changed my life. Not in an exaggerated, immediate way. It changed my life in ripples so small and insignificant that I didn't realize I was being carried away until it was much too late to chicken out or to punish myself. She thought I should write a book, which was something I always talked about doing, but had not. I thought she was crazy. I had a new baby. A beautiful girl that brought me so much joy, but left my heart aching, because I'd brought her into a life of poverty. And a three year-old. I did not have time to write a book. I was doing other things. I like to say the reason her demand worked was because she knew I'd have to prove I could do it, but honestly I think it played into my cycle of self-recrimination. I already believed myself worthless and now a call from my mother-in-law proved she thought I was, too. I know that's not what she meant, but despair is a funny thing. It warps everything like a funhouse mirror.
I would never own a home.
I would never pay off the student loans. I couldn't even hope to make a payment.
I would never have a car that had air conditioning or door handles.
I would never show my face at a reunion.
I would never call up an old friend.
I would never send my children to college.
I would never be certain if there would be a meal on the table.
But I thought perhaps she had a point, and since everyone told me I'd never make a living as a writer, I felt I had nothing to lose.
So I started to write a book, and, at the risk of sounding cliché, it saved me. A lot of people think of me as a whirlwind success, but getting past myself and allowing myself to write was one of the longest and hardest experiences of my life. When you are caught in despair, you are caught in the attitude that you deserve nothing. Writing was entirely selfish, and I struggled for many months before I took up the challenge to write daily in November. But a funny thing happened when I started to write, I got outside of myself. I went other places, even if only in my mind. That selfish thing reminded me that it was okay to need and want things. Very slowly, a sense of worth bloomed, blossoming at long last into confidence. The only proof of which was in a tiny, little things - chatting with the cashier at the store, making a friend, pitching my book. By the time I sat at that bankruptcy meeting, I was thinking of a fledgling manuscript I was editing and wishing I had brought it to work on.
I pinned my hopes on writing. Not just financial hopes, but the hope that I could still become the person I dreamed of being. There's a saying "it's never too late to become what you might have been." And, dear readers, it isn't.
If you are reading this, then you probably know that all those hopes culminated into something that changed my life. An agent. A book deal. A career. But really it's more than that. I sleep at night. I still fuss over money and bills and budgeting, but I no longer wonder what I can sell to put food in my children's mouths. I'm no longer ashamed to run into an old friend or visit my alma mater. I meet people's eyes again. I smile more.
Now that the cycle of despair is broken, I can see how much it paralyzed me with what-if's and should-have's and might-have-been's, abating only long enough to allow me to punish myself emotionally and psychologically. Now I look at my pen name and laugh a little at myself for being embarrassed and scared, but cherish it for reminding me who I am. I finally understand that yesterday is gone and all I can do is live in the present and spend each day moving forward. I still have moments of panic and fear, but I'm far enough away from despair that I can take stock of my life and see my reality.
Right now I'm watching someone else I like very much go through something similar, and other people I like very much have come out of the woodwork to lend more than well wishes - many of them have admitted they are facing similar issues. I want to hug them all, and I want to whisper in their ears as they sleep so that it might stick in their unconscious: Keep moving forward. It will get better. Hope. Hope. Hope.
Sadly, that's not possible, and it's even a little creepy.
Mostly I want to send them hope, that tiny fledgling bird that asks so much help from you with no guarantee that something won't break the fragile creature mid-flight. I want to give them that thing that makes them come alive - that allows them to keep believing, but I cannot. I can only offer an "I understand, and I'm here," but know this, those of you facing despair, you can do this and it will be spectacular.
And in the meantime, trust the words of Emily Dickinson:
"Hope" is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—
And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—
I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.
* As much as I love this poem, I disagree with it a bit. Hope does ask a lot of you, so much that it's easier to despair. But hope will always be the smarter investment.
All the stories shared something in common: despair. Rampant, oppressive, paralyzing despair. It's every where these days - the lingering effect of an economic collapse and the product of an uncertain future.
I know all about despair. I know how some nights you don't sleep until your body physically shuts down from exhaustion, because you are stuck in a cycle of self-recrimination. How you lie awake and try to pinpoint where it all went wrong, curse yourself for your mistakes and foolish choices, and wonder how you will ever crawl out of the hole you're caught in. I know what it's like to wonder if your children would be better off with other parents. To wonder if you will ever give them anything more than the love you can muster up when you are caught in the clutches of hopelessness. I know what it's like to wonder if you would be better off dead - to wish you were, believing it really is the only way out for yourself and your loved ones.
Two years ago I quietly asked my husband to apply for food stamps, because we just couldn't feed our children anymore on our own. It was one of the low points, and it sent me spiraling into despair. I retreated into myself. I stopped meeting the eyes of the cashier at the grocery store, because they knew what that card was, and because I felt inferior to everyone. A little over a year ago my husband and I sat in front of a judge, declaring bankruptcy, after unsuccessfully trying to climb out of the crippling consumer debt that had tripled while he was unemployed. I was so embarrassed that I couldn't even tell my dear friend why I needed her to watch the kids that day. I couldn't tell her that we couldn't make all our bills, even though she knew we were living on an hourly wage of $12.
One year ago I tearfully explained to a debt collector that no, not even McDonald's was hiring when she suggested I suck up my pride and get to work. And even though I knew I was applying for jobs and sewing baby items in a desperate attempt to make ends meet, her admonishment stung. Mostly because, as many of you know, even if I landed a job, I was unlikely to be able to pay for childcare, and because there was the bitter edge of truth in her accusation. Part of me could not accept that I, as a college graduate with advanced degrees, could be in this situation.
A year ago I decided to adopt a different spelling of my name in case I got published, because then my past sins wouldn't follow me and condemn me to more failure.
But this story as a happy ending, as good stories are wont to do.
Not long after we applied for food stamps, I got a call from my mother-in-law that changed my life. Not in an exaggerated, immediate way. It changed my life in ripples so small and insignificant that I didn't realize I was being carried away until it was much too late to chicken out or to punish myself. She thought I should write a book, which was something I always talked about doing, but had not. I thought she was crazy. I had a new baby. A beautiful girl that brought me so much joy, but left my heart aching, because I'd brought her into a life of poverty. And a three year-old. I did not have time to write a book. I was doing other things. I like to say the reason her demand worked was because she knew I'd have to prove I could do it, but honestly I think it played into my cycle of self-recrimination. I already believed myself worthless and now a call from my mother-in-law proved she thought I was, too. I know that's not what she meant, but despair is a funny thing. It warps everything like a funhouse mirror.
I would never own a home.
I would never pay off the student loans. I couldn't even hope to make a payment.
I would never have a car that had air conditioning or door handles.
I would never show my face at a reunion.
I would never call up an old friend.
I would never send my children to college.
I would never be certain if there would be a meal on the table.
But I thought perhaps she had a point, and since everyone told me I'd never make a living as a writer, I felt I had nothing to lose.
So I started to write a book, and, at the risk of sounding cliché, it saved me. A lot of people think of me as a whirlwind success, but getting past myself and allowing myself to write was one of the longest and hardest experiences of my life. When you are caught in despair, you are caught in the attitude that you deserve nothing. Writing was entirely selfish, and I struggled for many months before I took up the challenge to write daily in November. But a funny thing happened when I started to write, I got outside of myself. I went other places, even if only in my mind. That selfish thing reminded me that it was okay to need and want things. Very slowly, a sense of worth bloomed, blossoming at long last into confidence. The only proof of which was in a tiny, little things - chatting with the cashier at the store, making a friend, pitching my book. By the time I sat at that bankruptcy meeting, I was thinking of a fledgling manuscript I was editing and wishing I had brought it to work on.
I pinned my hopes on writing. Not just financial hopes, but the hope that I could still become the person I dreamed of being. There's a saying "it's never too late to become what you might have been." And, dear readers, it isn't.
If you are reading this, then you probably know that all those hopes culminated into something that changed my life. An agent. A book deal. A career. But really it's more than that. I sleep at night. I still fuss over money and bills and budgeting, but I no longer wonder what I can sell to put food in my children's mouths. I'm no longer ashamed to run into an old friend or visit my alma mater. I meet people's eyes again. I smile more.
Now that the cycle of despair is broken, I can see how much it paralyzed me with what-if's and should-have's and might-have-been's, abating only long enough to allow me to punish myself emotionally and psychologically. Now I look at my pen name and laugh a little at myself for being embarrassed and scared, but cherish it for reminding me who I am. I finally understand that yesterday is gone and all I can do is live in the present and spend each day moving forward. I still have moments of panic and fear, but I'm far enough away from despair that I can take stock of my life and see my reality.
Right now I'm watching someone else I like very much go through something similar, and other people I like very much have come out of the woodwork to lend more than well wishes - many of them have admitted they are facing similar issues. I want to hug them all, and I want to whisper in their ears as they sleep so that it might stick in their unconscious: Keep moving forward. It will get better. Hope. Hope. Hope.
Sadly, that's not possible, and it's even a little creepy.
Mostly I want to send them hope, that tiny fledgling bird that asks so much help from you with no guarantee that something won't break the fragile creature mid-flight. I want to give them that thing that makes them come alive - that allows them to keep believing, but I cannot. I can only offer an "I understand, and I'm here," but know this, those of you facing despair, you can do this and it will be spectacular.
And in the meantime, trust the words of Emily Dickinson:
"Hope" is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—
And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—
I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.
* As much as I love this poem, I disagree with it a bit. Hope does ask a lot of you, so much that it's easier to despair. But hope will always be the smarter investment.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Friday Five: Movies for writers
Last night a scene from Wonderboys was stuck in my head after getting stuck in a purgatorial pit of doom, and it got me thinking. What writer am I most like in that movie? I'm feeling a bit blocked like Professor Tripp, but I'm not caught up in the geneology of horses, so that's good. I use to have red cowboy boots like Hannah, but also I'm a bit naive still like dear James. Hopefully, Robert Downey, Jr. will come around and steer me in the right direction.
This got me thinking about writers in movies in general, and thus the Five Movies for Writers (when I got to thinking about this, I had way more than five, but alas).
1. Wonderboys - I love this movie. I love how it nails the academic and writing worlds. I love the memorable lines and characters. Every writer should watch it. From imdb: An English Professor tries to deal with his wife leaving him, the arrival of his editor who has been waiting for his book for seven years, and the various problems that his friends and associates involve him in.
2. Romancing the Stone - Joan Wilder getting out from behind her typewriter and having an adventure of her own. Who couldn't love that? What writer didn't want to bundle up a manuscript and take it to your editor over drinks? From imdb: A romance writer sets off to Colombia to ransom her kidnapped sister, and soon finds herself in the middle of a dangerous adventure.
3. Her Alibi - There are some awesome 80s writer movies, but this one takes the cake because it has Tom Selleck. From imdb: A writer of BAD detective novels is in full writers' block. He pretends to be the alibi of a beautiful woman who was arrested for murder at first thinking her innocent, but as she shows more and more interesting abilities (such as knife throwing) he begins to doubt his first assessment.
4. In the Mouth of Madness - For you horror movie fanatics, what if your book had a bigger effect than you imagined? Also one of the most original horror movies I've ever seen. From imdb: An insurance investigator begins discovering that the impact a horror writer's books have on his fans is more than inspirational
5. The Shining - I'm pretty sure an entire manuscript of "All work and no play makes jack a dull boy," would land you in Slushpile Hell. From imdb: A family heads to an isolated hotel for the winter where an evil and spiritual presence influences the father into violence, while his psychic son sees horrific forebodings from the past and of the future.
This got me thinking about writers in movies in general, and thus the Five Movies for Writers (when I got to thinking about this, I had way more than five, but alas).
1. Wonderboys - I love this movie. I love how it nails the academic and writing worlds. I love the memorable lines and characters. Every writer should watch it. From imdb: An English Professor tries to deal with his wife leaving him, the arrival of his editor who has been waiting for his book for seven years, and the various problems that his friends and associates involve him in.
2. Romancing the Stone - Joan Wilder getting out from behind her typewriter and having an adventure of her own. Who couldn't love that? What writer didn't want to bundle up a manuscript and take it to your editor over drinks? From imdb: A romance writer sets off to Colombia to ransom her kidnapped sister, and soon finds herself in the middle of a dangerous adventure.
3. Her Alibi - There are some awesome 80s writer movies, but this one takes the cake because it has Tom Selleck. From imdb: A writer of BAD detective novels is in full writers' block. He pretends to be the alibi of a beautiful woman who was arrested for murder at first thinking her innocent, but as she shows more and more interesting abilities (such as knife throwing) he begins to doubt his first assessment.
4. In the Mouth of Madness - For you horror movie fanatics, what if your book had a bigger effect than you imagined? Also one of the most original horror movies I've ever seen. From imdb: An insurance investigator begins discovering that the impact a horror writer's books have on his fans is more than inspirational
5. The Shining - I'm pretty sure an entire manuscript of "All work and no play makes jack a dull boy," would land you in Slushpile Hell. From imdb: A family heads to an isolated hotel for the winter where an evil and spiritual presence influences the father into violence, while his psychic son sees horrific forebodings from the past and of the future.
Thursday, June 02, 2011
The more things change
I have to admit that over the last month, walking into a bookstore or library has been different. I've always felt at home in those places, like a warmly welcomed guest, but now there's a different sense of belonging. Others have read my book, people who take books from manuscript to a tangible item. Now I feel like I'm part of those shelves.
Mandy Hubbard told me that when I get my ARCs someday I will put them up on the shelf and stare at it. I can only imagine how I'll feel then.
So keep writing, my friends, the payoff of having a finished manuscript is hard to describe.
And don't forget to enter my contest, which closes tonight! Lots of good stuff: books, critiques, gift cards.
Mandy Hubbard told me that when I get my ARCs someday I will put them up on the shelf and stare at it. I can only imagine how I'll feel then.
So keep writing, my friends, the payoff of having a finished manuscript is hard to describe.
And don't forget to enter my contest, which closes tonight! Lots of good stuff: books, critiques, gift cards.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Wherein I ride a camel
Yesterday, my uncle, a former zoo keeper, took us to the Blank Park Zoo in Des Moines, Iowa. We got to the have lots of fun with the kids, but when my son asked to ride a camel, I balked. I had to go to the bathroom and I have a fear of riding animals due to a traumatic experience riding a horse when I was little (I got caught in a tree and the horse kept going). So I did what all moms do, I told my husband he had to ride.
But after a bathroom break, and watching my 4 year-old ride a camel like a pro, I remembered a promise I made to myself to try new things. After all as a writer, you never know when it will come in handy to have ridden a camel. So I shelled out $5 and rode the camel, and I'm glad. I don't foresee characters travelling by camel at this point, but now I know how to describe it.
First of all, they have a wide gait as well as wide hump. My first thought was "OMG, get me off this thing. My hips are not meant for this!" Straddling the hump pinched a nerve, and I was listing to one side. But I bucked up and scooted around until I was comfortable. And yes, I held on for dear life. Whereas my son was letting go and waving with a huge smile, I was clutching the restraint.
My guide told me camels do run as fast as horses, which I'm struggling to imagine. I would definitely fall off, but a more seasoned rider can do it. And they're fairly gentle.
There you go. I took one for the team, and I think it will only require one visit to the chiro.
But in all seriousness, don't forget to get off the computer and experience life occasionally. I think it will make you a better writer!
But after a bathroom break, and watching my 4 year-old ride a camel like a pro, I remembered a promise I made to myself to try new things. After all as a writer, you never know when it will come in handy to have ridden a camel. So I shelled out $5 and rode the camel, and I'm glad. I don't foresee characters travelling by camel at this point, but now I know how to describe it.
My guide told me camels do run as fast as horses, which I'm struggling to imagine. I would definitely fall off, but a more seasoned rider can do it. And they're fairly gentle.
There you go. I took one for the team, and I think it will only require one visit to the chiro.
But in all seriousness, don't forget to get off the computer and experience life occasionally. I think it will make you a better writer!
Monday, May 16, 2011
The invisible woman
For the last two years, I've felt invisible. I'm a stay-at-home mom in the midwest, and it seems like people walk right through me sometimes. The man who nearly runs over me and my kids at the crosswalk. The lady who butts in front of me to check out at the library. But not just them, I've treated myself like a welcome mat, keeping my eyes down as I checked out at the store, mumbling hellos to kind strangers. I'm not sure when this happened I use to be bombastic and passionate.
It felt like I was disappearing into the roles of wife and mother. Always thinking of someone else, spending every spare dime on the kids, waiting on my husband's schedule to make plans, and doing laundry every waking moment. There was no time for me. In February, I confided to my mother-in-law that I felt invisible.
Deciding to get serious about writing was about more than finishing or publishing a novel, it was finding a way back to me. Writing was my time, and I soon realized how precious it was. Without it, I faded back into the drudgeries of the day to day. As I wrote more frequently, I found myself chatting with the check-out lady, making eye contact with that rude lady trying to cut me in line, and I'm more likely to yell at that guy speeding through the light (even if he can't hear me). My coffee shop knows me as that writer who comes in, not as James' mom or Josh's wife. While I was out with my mother at an art show, an artist asked if I also was painter like my mom, and I said, "No, I'm a writer." The artist thought it was very cool, and secretly, so did I.
I'm a writer. My words are mine. I've created worlds and people. I can share that with whomever I choose. Someday maybe even the world. My mother-in-law called last week and said, "I have something to tell you. You're not invisible anymore."
No, I'm not, and I feel the difference.
Don't let anyone tell you writing isn't important or bully you to worry about marketability or publishing. Don't be torn down by people in your life who don't understand why you want to write. Make it your priority, because ultimately writing is yours. No matter how many people read it, you are the writer alone. It's not an imposition on anyone to give time to yourself.
Mindy over at Writer, Writer Pants on Fire recently posted about an excellent book, Women Who Run with the Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estes. I haven't read the book in ages, but the quote Mindy included really spoke to the guilt I heaped on myself for wanting to write:
There are always going to be chores and responsibilities and an endless stream of laundry to get lost in, but take care not to turn invisible. It's more than okay to want something for yourself. It's normal. It's healthy. It's necessary.
It felt like I was disappearing into the roles of wife and mother. Always thinking of someone else, spending every spare dime on the kids, waiting on my husband's schedule to make plans, and doing laundry every waking moment. There was no time for me. In February, I confided to my mother-in-law that I felt invisible.
Deciding to get serious about writing was about more than finishing or publishing a novel, it was finding a way back to me. Writing was my time, and I soon realized how precious it was. Without it, I faded back into the drudgeries of the day to day. As I wrote more frequently, I found myself chatting with the check-out lady, making eye contact with that rude lady trying to cut me in line, and I'm more likely to yell at that guy speeding through the light (even if he can't hear me). My coffee shop knows me as that writer who comes in, not as James' mom or Josh's wife. While I was out with my mother at an art show, an artist asked if I also was painter like my mom, and I said, "No, I'm a writer." The artist thought it was very cool, and secretly, so did I.
I'm a writer. My words are mine. I've created worlds and people. I can share that with whomever I choose. Someday maybe even the world. My mother-in-law called last week and said, "I have something to tell you. You're not invisible anymore."
No, I'm not, and I feel the difference.
Don't let anyone tell you writing isn't important or bully you to worry about marketability or publishing. Don't be torn down by people in your life who don't understand why you want to write. Make it your priority, because ultimately writing is yours. No matter how many people read it, you are the writer alone. It's not an imposition on anyone to give time to yourself.
Mindy over at Writer, Writer Pants on Fire recently posted about an excellent book, Women Who Run with the Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estes. I haven't read the book in ages, but the quote Mindy included really spoke to the guilt I heaped on myself for wanting to write:
“I've seen women work long, long hours at jobs they despise in order to buy very expensive items for their houses, mates, or children, and putting their considerable talents on the back burner. I've seen women insist on cleaning everything in the house before they could sit down to write... and you know, it's a funny thing about house cleaning... it never comes to an end. Perfect way to stop a woman. A woman must be careful to not allow overresponsibility (or overrespectability) to steal her necessary creative rests, rifts, and raptures. She simply must put her foot down and say no to half of what she believes she "should" be doing. Art is not meant to be created in stolen moments only.”
There are always going to be chores and responsibilities and an endless stream of laundry to get lost in, but take care not to turn invisible. It's more than okay to want something for yourself. It's normal. It's healthy. It's necessary.
The invisible woman
For the last two years, I've felt invisible. I'm a stay-at-home mom in the midwest, and it seems like people walk right through me sometimes. The man who nearly runs over me and my kids at the crosswalk. The lady who butts in front of me to check out at the library. But not just them, I've treated myself like a welcome mat, keeping my eyes down as I checked out at the store, mumbling hellos to kind strangers. I'm not sure when this happened I use to be bombastic and passionate.
It felt like I was disappearing into the roles of wife and mother. Always thinking of someone else, spending every spare dime on the kids, waiting on my husband's schedule to make plans, and doing laundry every waking moment. There was no time for me. In February, I confided to my mother-in-law that I felt invisible.
Deciding to get serious about writing was about more than finishing or publishing a novel, it was finding a way back to me. Writing was my time, and I soon realized how precious it was. Without it, I faded back into the drudgeries of the day to day. As I wrote more frequently, I found myself chatting with the check-out lady, making eye contact with that rude lady trying to cut me in line, and I'm more likely to yell at that guy speeding through the light (even if he can't hear me). My coffee shop knows me as that writer who comes in, not as James' mom or Josh's wife. While I was out with my mother at an art show, an artist asked if I also was painter like my mom, and I said, "No, I'm a writer." The artist thought it was very cool, and secretly, so did I.
I'm a writer. My words are mine. I've created worlds and people. I can share that with whomever I choose. Someday maybe even the world. My mother-in-law called last week and said, "I have something to tell you. You're not invisible anymore."
No, I'm not, and I feel the difference.
Don't let anyone tell you writing isn't important or bully you to worry about marketability or publishing. Don't be torn down by people in your life who don't understand why you want to write. Make it your priority, because ultimately writing is yours. No matter how many people read it, you are the writer alone. It's not an imposition on anyone to give time to yourself.
Mindy over at Writer, Writer Pants on Fire recently posted about an excellent book, Women Who Run with the Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estes. I haven't read the book in ages, but the quote Mindy included really spoke to the guilt I heaped on myself for wanting to write:
There are always going to be chores and responsibilities and an endless stream of laundry to get lost in, but take care not to turn invisible. It's more than okay to want something for yourself. It's normal. It's healthy. It's necessary.
It felt like I was disappearing into the roles of wife and mother. Always thinking of someone else, spending every spare dime on the kids, waiting on my husband's schedule to make plans, and doing laundry every waking moment. There was no time for me. In February, I confided to my mother-in-law that I felt invisible.
Deciding to get serious about writing was about more than finishing or publishing a novel, it was finding a way back to me. Writing was my time, and I soon realized how precious it was. Without it, I faded back into the drudgeries of the day to day. As I wrote more frequently, I found myself chatting with the check-out lady, making eye contact with that rude lady trying to cut me in line, and I'm more likely to yell at that guy speeding through the light (even if he can't hear me). My coffee shop knows me as that writer who comes in, not as James' mom or Josh's wife. While I was out with my mother at an art show, an artist asked if I also was painter like my mom, and I said, "No, I'm a writer." The artist thought it was very cool, and secretly, so did I.
I'm a writer. My words are mine. I've created worlds and people. I can share that with whomever I choose. Someday maybe even the world. My mother-in-law called last week and said, "I have something to tell you. You're not invisible anymore."
No, I'm not, and I feel the difference.
Don't let anyone tell you writing isn't important or bully you to worry about marketability or publishing. Don't be torn down by people in your life who don't understand why you want to write. Make it your priority, because ultimately writing is yours. No matter how many people read it, you are the writer alone. It's not an imposition on anyone to give time to yourself.
Mindy over at Writer, Writer Pants on Fire recently posted about an excellent book, Women Who Run with the Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estes. I haven't read the book in ages, but the quote Mindy included really spoke to the guilt I heaped on myself for wanting to write:
“I've seen women work long, long hours at jobs they despise in order to buy very expensive items for their houses, mates, or children, and putting their considerable talents on the back burner. I've seen women insist on cleaning everything in the house before they could sit down to write... and you know, it's a funny thing about house cleaning... it never comes to an end. Perfect way to stop a woman. A woman must be careful to not allow overresponsibility (or overrespectability) to steal her necessary creative rests, rifts, and raptures. She simply must put her foot down and say no to half of what she believes she "should" be doing. Art is not meant to be created in stolen moments only.”
There are always going to be chores and responsibilities and an endless stream of laundry to get lost in, but take care not to turn invisible. It's more than okay to want something for yourself. It's normal. It's healthy. It's necessary.
Friday, May 06, 2011
Part 1: I Demand You Write a Book
Part 1: I Demand You Write a Book
Part 2: How WriteOnCon Changed My Life in Less than a Week (coming 5/9)
Part 3: Announcing the Agent (hopefully coming 5/10)
I'm going to preface this by saying, I still have not made a decision about what agent I will go with as I'm waiting to hear back from a few, but Monday is the deadline, so I thought I could write this part of the story.
Let's start at the beginning - a very good place to start. I always meant to write. Abandoned manuscripts litter my past; most of them no longer than a few pages. I thought I'd write in grad school, but, um, that was so not possible. Fast forward to last June and a telephone call from my mother-in-law.
After she asked about the kids (I had a 2 year-old and a newborn at the time), she dropped this bomb on me:
"I demand you write a book."
Color me flabbergasted. Hello! I had a baby and a toddler, and I already wrote a successful parenting blog. I was totally offended. But she knows me too well. Her comment really ate at me. So, just as she planned, I started to write a book.
I never got past 50 pages with it, and those 50 pages were rewritten several times. My husband began to tease me that my obit would read: "Author of the 20 most promising first chapters ever written."
And then in August inspiration struck, and I wrote one page - a prologue that remains pretty much in tact to this day. And then a few days later tragedy struck. I dumped an entire glass of water on my mac and fried it beyond repair. Thankfully I had sent the prologue to a friend, but I no longer had a way to work. I worked on my husband's PC while my baby slept and wrote 15k of a very different version of the novel, but it wasn't working, so I stopped writing.
Then I heard about NaNoWriMo, I thought: "I'm going to do this." I told my husband and he agreed to help. On November 1st, I started on page one. At first I worked at night with my daughter asleep on my lap, typing one-handed well past midnight. Soon I decided I needed to go out to work. I started going to the library and using the public computers and my flash drive. I had to work in seventy minute increments because of the time limits, but I pressed on and on November 30th, I crossed the 50k finish line. And yes, I cried.
***My awesome CP just reminded me to add that my mother-in-law bought me a new netbook for Christmas to show how proud she was. It's purple and awesome. She's awesome.
The next thing I did was print it out and start to read. It. Was. A. Mess. The dialogue was good but everything else sucked. There was no world building or character development and the plot was fuzzy at best. Thankfully I have awesome critique partners who brainstormed a lot with me. By the the beginning of March, I had a finished second draft. It was better but still lacking. I built more and fleshed out. The pages of that hard copy look like they're bleeding. I drank a lot of coffee (I now have a Starbucks gold card). I finished it around April 15th. What a great day. I sent it off to my critique partners, and printed it out for my husband to read.
And then on April 22nd, I did something that would change my life....
to be continued...
Part 2: How WriteOnCon Changed My Life in Less than a Week (coming 5/9)
Part 3: Announcing the Agent (hopefully coming 5/10)
I'm going to preface this by saying, I still have not made a decision about what agent I will go with as I'm waiting to hear back from a few, but Monday is the deadline, so I thought I could write this part of the story.
Let's start at the beginning - a very good place to start. I always meant to write. Abandoned manuscripts litter my past; most of them no longer than a few pages. I thought I'd write in grad school, but, um, that was so not possible. Fast forward to last June and a telephone call from my mother-in-law.
After she asked about the kids (I had a 2 year-old and a newborn at the time), she dropped this bomb on me:
"I demand you write a book."
Color me flabbergasted. Hello! I had a baby and a toddler, and I already wrote a successful parenting blog. I was totally offended. But she knows me too well. Her comment really ate at me. So, just as she planned, I started to write a book.
I never got past 50 pages with it, and those 50 pages were rewritten several times. My husband began to tease me that my obit would read: "Author of the 20 most promising first chapters ever written."
And then in August inspiration struck, and I wrote one page - a prologue that remains pretty much in tact to this day. And then a few days later tragedy struck. I dumped an entire glass of water on my mac and fried it beyond repair. Thankfully I had sent the prologue to a friend, but I no longer had a way to work. I worked on my husband's PC while my baby slept and wrote 15k of a very different version of the novel, but it wasn't working, so I stopped writing.
Then I heard about NaNoWriMo, I thought: "I'm going to do this." I told my husband and he agreed to help. On November 1st, I started on page one. At first I worked at night with my daughter asleep on my lap, typing one-handed well past midnight. Soon I decided I needed to go out to work. I started going to the library and using the public computers and my flash drive. I had to work in seventy minute increments because of the time limits, but I pressed on and on November 30th, I crossed the 50k finish line. And yes, I cried.
***My awesome CP just reminded me to add that my mother-in-law bought me a new netbook for Christmas to show how proud she was. It's purple and awesome. She's awesome.
The next thing I did was print it out and start to read. It. Was. A. Mess. The dialogue was good but everything else sucked. There was no world building or character development and the plot was fuzzy at best. Thankfully I have awesome critique partners who brainstormed a lot with me. By the the beginning of March, I had a finished second draft. It was better but still lacking. I built more and fleshed out. The pages of that hard copy look like they're bleeding. I drank a lot of coffee (I now have a Starbucks gold card). I finished it around April 15th. What a great day. I sent it off to my critique partners, and printed it out for my husband to read.
And then on April 22nd, I did something that would change my life....
to be continued...
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Making the cut
I've talked about it before, but I wanted to revisit the issue of the delete button. I recently joined an awesome forum for working on queries and one thing I'm noticing is a tendency toward verbosity. Put simply, people use too many words to express a simple idea. This is a problem literature has always encountered (60 pages on gutting a whale, seriously?), and as someone who studied the early novels of the 18th century, I can tell you that editors and agents have really helped in this regard.
The most common mistake I see is people writing a complex sentence for a simple idea. People do this for many reasons. In my past life as a Composition instructor I found many of my students were trying to mimic more complicated sentence structures to sound more formal. While it's important to understand how to construct sentences, don't undervalue a simple statement! Don't use 20 words when ten will do in your queries or your manuscripts. Other times the author is using passive voice, which adds wordiness to the sentence. And still other times, the author is telling us about the book or analyzing it (if you see heart-warming or fast-paced, cut it!).
The same rules apply to MSS and queries
1. Be succinct
2. Use active voice
3. Show don't tell
Happy Writing!
.
The most common mistake I see is people writing a complex sentence for a simple idea. People do this for many reasons. In my past life as a Composition instructor I found many of my students were trying to mimic more complicated sentence structures to sound more formal. While it's important to understand how to construct sentences, don't undervalue a simple statement! Don't use 20 words when ten will do in your queries or your manuscripts. Other times the author is using passive voice, which adds wordiness to the sentence. And still other times, the author is telling us about the book or analyzing it (if you see heart-warming or fast-paced, cut it!).
The same rules apply to MSS and queries
1. Be succinct
2. Use active voice
3. Show don't tell
Happy Writing!
.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Chasing Pennies (Reflection)
We watched him everyday. A chorus of laughter - nervous, boisterous, fake. Pecking the ground for loose change, he seemed unaware of our mocking. Jeans too short and stonewashed, he had obviously bought them at the Salvation Arm; and while it was hip for us to pick up old t-shirts and retro jackets at the thrift store, we wouldn't dare to shop there.
A few of the boys took to dropping their change. Their delighted faces reflecting in the medals pinned to their letterman's jackets. I didn't laugh, but I watched. Day after day, I watched. My social status was tenuous. I was thin, pretty, and I had an unearned bad reputation. There was always a crowd, or the bell was ringing, or a teacher was nearby, so I shut up and watched. Every day I imagined what he did with the change. Did he buy lunch? Did he take it home to his mom? Everyday a lump sat in my throat.
The last day, the boys with the wicked eyes dumped out a barrel of pennies collected either for many days or from many people. I don't care to know which.
They thundered in the crowded hallway, scattering and bouncing across our feet. He sprang at them, darting between our legs, knocking into his audience. He didn't care what we thought. If he heard the laughter, he ignored it. It was a great joke. I wanted to cry.
By all accounts, I am a poor person now. My family and I live a lifestyle based on our ideals and goals, and it doesn't pay much. For years I looked at that memory and hated myself for staying silent. I've silently raged at those boys for ten years. I now know two things about the boy who chased pennies. The first is how he felt - to be so poor that there was no pride left sometimes. The second is that he was smarter than us. He wasn't caught up in the glory or the drama, and if people are going to throw away money, someone else, someone who deserves it, should have it.
I'd like to think by the time my children are adolescents, money won't be such an issue and that our ideals when coupled with determination and work will yield fruit. But no matter what, I will have succeeded in my life, if my child will bend down to help a boy chasing pennies.
A few of the boys took to dropping their change. Their delighted faces reflecting in the medals pinned to their letterman's jackets. I didn't laugh, but I watched. Day after day, I watched. My social status was tenuous. I was thin, pretty, and I had an unearned bad reputation. There was always a crowd, or the bell was ringing, or a teacher was nearby, so I shut up and watched. Every day I imagined what he did with the change. Did he buy lunch? Did he take it home to his mom? Everyday a lump sat in my throat.
The last day, the boys with the wicked eyes dumped out a barrel of pennies collected either for many days or from many people. I don't care to know which.
They thundered in the crowded hallway, scattering and bouncing across our feet. He sprang at them, darting between our legs, knocking into his audience. He didn't care what we thought. If he heard the laughter, he ignored it. It was a great joke. I wanted to cry.
By all accounts, I am a poor person now. My family and I live a lifestyle based on our ideals and goals, and it doesn't pay much. For years I looked at that memory and hated myself for staying silent. I've silently raged at those boys for ten years. I now know two things about the boy who chased pennies. The first is how he felt - to be so poor that there was no pride left sometimes. The second is that he was smarter than us. He wasn't caught up in the glory or the drama, and if people are going to throw away money, someone else, someone who deserves it, should have it.
I'd like to think by the time my children are adolescents, money won't be such an issue and that our ideals when coupled with determination and work will yield fruit. But no matter what, I will have succeeded in my life, if my child will bend down to help a boy chasing pennies.
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