inspiration

I just read a blog  by Chip MacGregor titled Metaphors, Collaborations...and a Story.

Chip is a literary agent, and I read his blog regularly.  I learn about the craft of writing, strategies for earning a living while and through writing, tips on setting up the business of writing, and publishing.  Though I wouldn't know him nor he me if we crossed on the same street, I think of Chip as a first name friend which is a little odd but also oddly okay with me and Chip as well, I imagine.

Today, it was the story that got me.

I don't think many writers come to this lifelong and often lonely work without a certain amount of idealism.  We want to make a difference, point to a new way of perceiving, shift, even for just a moment, the paradigm from what seems current to what seems possible.

Reading the story of how Sherwood Anderson mentored others, how his choice to invest in others influenced a whole century of writing, makes me feel a little melancholy with awe.  I'm fairly certain he didn't plan to have such an impact.  He was more likely just passing on what had been given to him.  Paying it forward to use a more modern turn of phrase.

I am grateful that there are others who are answering the call to mentor new writers. 

Chip MacGregor, for example. 

comments?

I love to read blogs, particularly writing and publishing blogs.  I like reading about the experiences of other writers, and I particularly like learning the tricks of the publishing trade.  Publishing is an alien world to me, and I have come to appreciate the openness with which many literary agents and bloggers share their expertise with publishing hopefuls like me.

I don't, however, like to comment on blogs.

It isn't because I have nothing to say.  I have plenty of thoughtful, reflective, funny, engaging, and even wise things to say (as I tell myself when I am dreaming about writing).  Yet as every true introvert knows, once you enter the crowded room, even if the crowded room looks like 235 comments from other readers, your well-prepared ideas and reflections leave you standing open-mouthed.  

One of my favorite blogs, Write To Done, had a guest post earlier this week from the A-List Blogger Club, a group of blogging experts who have formed a club to mentor new blog writers.  Guest writer Mary Jaksch of Goodlife ZEN offered readers a scholarship of $20 a month to join.  All that is required is to write a response in the comment section that convinces the A-List Blogger Club that you are one of the top five people who deserve it.

How loaded is that?  First I have to believe I am good enough (who ever believes that?).  Then I have to enter that "crowded room" and push past my natural tendency to quiet myself, to listen rather than speak.  All this before my response even begins to pass whatever invisible hoops the A-List Blogger Club has in mind when selecting the scholarship recipients. 

I'm not complaining here.  As a blogger, I so appreciate the very few who have commented on my words.  I go back and read them again and again, so I can only imagine how encouraging it is to those who get so many comments.  Good for them, I say.

I'm just trying to think through the resistance.  My solution today is to just write my thoughts here instead, and to seriously consider just paying the fee and joining the club.  I bet they can help.

A very wise young woman once told me that the best way to work a room is to go to one person at a time and start a conversation.  Maybe I'll try that too.

And I just want to point out that this is the first time I have ever named myself as a blogger.  Just saying ... progress slips right up on us when we aren't looking.

the value of community

I am an author.

I am an author, a writer who has not written for a month.

There is a blank page.  It is patient. It never beckons or berates.  It waits for words.

I circle and touch and retreat and forget and remember and circle again.

It waits ... I rationalize.

I got a job.  A great job.  A job that makes me smile as I drive the 40 miles one way each day to get there.  A job that is only part-time (supposedly) and should give me plenty of time to write.

I've been busy with other things also.  My grandson thought it was a great idea to have a cookout one Sunday after church.  This idea became a weekend ritual for the grandchildren ... swimming in the pool and pouring themselves out of the water to feast on hotdogs, fresh cucumbers and cantelope from the garden, and cupcakes. 

These things take time. 

Time from writing.

I don't think busyness is the culprit here.  I think instead the difference may be that my writing group has not met in a month.  Not since our author reading in fact, and I miss them. 

I miss thinking about writing after hearing interesting, curious events described in their stories each week.  I miss the sense of having a deadline to finish a story.  Not that anyone in my writing group cares if I miss a deadline, but because they so appreciate what I bring to our reading table and encourage me to bring more.  I miss the conversation before and after our meetings, and I miss thinking about what each of them might bring next to educate, entertain and inspire.  Will it be an adventurous sailing story?  Or an unexpected epiphany teased from the memory of one's past?  Or simple entertainment in the telling of interactions with plants, animals, and human beings in yards, homes, parking lots, road trips, nail salons and myriad other settings? 

Thankfully, my writing community is reuniting again this week.

Shhh ... it feels a bit like a secret we shouldn't tell, but we are gathering again this week to receive copies of the first printing of our new book, Scenes from the Rear View Mirror.

We are authors, and we have written a book, the first of many we will publish either in partnership with one another or individually as we continue to follow our writing dreams.

I look forward to seeing the completed book, but most of all I look forward to seeing these women who by chance became my writing partners.  For this community, I am beyond grateful.

i am an author

Friday night, I attended my first author's reading.

And I was on the program as an author.

Let's just sit with this a moment.

Okay, so it was a gathering of my Creating Memoirs writing class members and their families and friends.  And, yes, we were reading stories that we wrote as students in our class.

Still, for the first time, I felt like an author.  I introduced myself as a writer.  I read my story with confidence, and people clapped when I was finished.  Isn't that what happens at author's readings?  One of my fellow writing colleagues noted how powerful it is to name things, and I agree.

I am an author, and I am blessed.

i've been writing

I think I may have found my genre.

And perhaps my voice.

Each week as I attend this new memoir writing class, as I listen to the stories of others, and as I write my own stories, I feel more and more settled, content, directed, home.

I think that it is entirely possible that the reason I have been struggling so much with writing fiction is because what I really want to write about is me.

I find this revelation a little funny and slightly egotistial.

Am I that self-absorbed?  Is my ego so large that I think others might be interested in reading about my life?  Do these questions come as truth?  Or do they come from the "one" who has haunted my every pursuit with taunts of "Who Do You Think You Are?".

Well, as they say, the proof is in the pudding, and the "proof" is that since I've started this class I have rewritten two stories and written first drafts of two new stories.  This is a watershed experience compared to the laborious albeit dedicated progress I was making before discovering this genre.

And my writing group's response to my first story was that it was "poetic".

I like this. 

I like the writing.  I like the encouragement.  I appreciate my teacher, Tonya McGue, who has given her time to nurture small voices like mine.

Selah ...

writing memoir

I began a class on writing memoir yesterday.

The best part of this is that for the first time, I have "gone public".  I have joined a group of writers, most of whom thank goodness have about the same amount of writing experience. 

It felt good.  It felt good to meet others who yearn to express through the written word as I do.  It felt good to think about hearing their stories and perhaps to share a few of my own.  It feels good and scary to know that I am now on a timetable with a certain amount of accountability to others.

We are assigned the task of writing one story each of the eight weeks of class. 

This is really going to pick up my pace.

This means I am going to have to put my inner critic in timeout while I write.  I wonder about this as it seems to be my biggest obstacle to writing - the steel rod that holds me captive.

So far I have managed to waste my entire first day, thinking furiously about all of the things I could write without writing the first word.  I am feeling somewhat courageous at this point that I am here at least, that I am confessing.

But thinking about writing is not writing

Margaret Atwood says that "writing has to do with darkness, and a desire or perhaps a compulsion to enter it, and, with luck, to illuminate it, and to bring something back out to the light."

I certainly understand the darkness - the fear, the resistance.  I also understand the compulsion - the obsessive thinking, the circling, the short plunges into the darkness only to dart away again. 

Illumination is the hope, is my hope.

the snowflake method - step three, sort of

I started using The Snowflake Method with the usual exuberance that often comes with my new ideas.  I thought, "I will chronicle my use of The Snowflake Method, sort of like the movie Julie and Julia, and then I can build up a strong base of interested readers and eventually this will become a novel which can then become a movie, and ..."

As a writer, I am certain you are quite familiar with the fantasy, yes?

However ... by Step Two, I realized that I don't really like this kind of structure so much, and so I skipped it.

This morning, I determinedly decided to try Step Three which is to answer a series of questions regarding the motive, goal, conflict and epiphany of each character and then write a short one paragraph summary of each character.

I found the process somewhat painful, BUT it was also quite helpful.

I completely changed the motive and epiphany of my heroine.

I began to understand other main characters more completely.

I began imagining scenes and dialogues as I thought through the motives and conflicts of the characters.  These I wrote quick notes about as I am certain they will be explored later, in full detail, as part of this process.

I did NOT write a one paragraph summary of each character yet.  My mind began moving too fast to slow down and think with full sentences.  This is okay, because Step Four is to expand each sentence in the summary paragraph to a full paragraph.  I can do both of these at the same time, which I will do ... eventually.

I worry that I am being contrary and even worse, disrespectful to Mr. Ingermanson's Snowflake Method.
http://www.advancedfictionwriting.com/art/snowflake.php

I don't mean to be.

I'm guessing that other writers maybe struggle with structure also, even though we all know it is important.  It is the same quirky resistance that often keeps me from befriending the unwritten page at all.  My way of getting through it is to bargain with myself, and in this case, Mr. Ingermanson. 

I wonder how others do it?

rejection

I received my first rejection.

I immediately called my good friend who is a poet, and her response was, "YAY!"

"Huh?"

"Your first one is over," she said.  "Make a file.  There will be more, a lot more."

She told me about a well-known author in the area who proudly displayed a whole box of rejection notices as a teaching tool in his creative writing class.  His point being that as writers, we must learn to be thick-skinned about rejection.

"Yes," I responded, thinking there is something very odd about this.

I wonder about a writing community that has learned to wear rejection like a badge of honor.  Is there some defense mechanism in this?  Display proudly so as not to be sad?  Cry?  Doubt?  Give up?

I feel disappointed.  I poured my heart into those 1200 hundred words, so much so that I wondered if there were any words left in the universe when I was finished.  Which of course I have since learned there are - plenty more - but that's another post.

I want to cry.  I am entertaining a certain amount of doubt ... actually a great deal of doubt.

But give up?

This is not an option.  I am beginning to understand after all of these years that a writer simply writes.  This is why after so many times of "quitting" for various reasons, I keep PICKING UP MY PEN AGAIN.

Later when I relayed the news to my husband. he said "GREAT!  You should frame it."

"Yes," I said but with less confusion.

I will frame it but not as a badge of honor.

I will frame it as a reminder that a writer writes, not because she wants to be published (though honestly she does ... so VERY much) but because she must write.

the snowflake method - steps one and three

Okay, I admit it.  I am struggling with The Snowflake Method.  There are too many rules.

There.  I said it.  I don't like rules very much.  I'm always trying to figure our how to get around them.  In a nice way, of course.

I did do Step One, which is to write one sentence that summarizes my novel.  Then I broke the rules again and wrote the second paragraph.  Then I had to do some research on the history of the setting.

Finally, I looked at Step Two - expand the one sentence summary to a full paragraph that describes the story set up, three major disasters, and the ending of the novel.

How in the world do I know that yet?  I only have a setting, the first two paragraphs and one character in mind so far!  This is where my knowledge of creating character and plot fails me.  I suppose I can try to think up some possible conflicts and a potential ending, but how can I really know what those are until I start writing and get to know my characters?

I realize I sound whiny right now, and I am.  Clearly I did not read ahead to learn what I was setting myself up for when I chose this method over others.

I do figure this writer, Randy Ingermanson, knows a little bit of what he is talking about, so of course I begin doubting myself, because the issue must be about some fault in me, which leads me to a whole host of other psycho-social issues that we won't go into here.

This is where I usually get stuck, and just stop writing.

My husband, Bill, pointed out this circular process I get myself into just this weekend.  I was telling him that I couldn't write because I am spending all of my time thinking about what kind of jobs I can do to support myself while I am writing.  He pointed out to me that when I was working and able to support myself, I couldn't write because I was always thinking about work. 

"Just write, babe."  This is his mantra to me.

Okay then.  Instead of quitting, I am just going to be okay with not doing Step Two just now.  Instead of quitting, I am going to move to Step Three which is to write a one page summary sheet of the major characters in the novel, including:

 • The character's name

• A one-sentence summary of the character's storyline

• The character's motivation (what does he/she want abstractly?)

• The character's goal (what does he/she want concretely?)

• The character's conflict (what prevents him/her from reaching this goal?)

• The character's epiphany (what will he/she learn, how will he/she change?

• A one-paragraph summary of the character's storyline.

This is a LOT of rules ...

I may choose another tack which I am learning many writers use which is to outline the first few chapters, write them and see which characters introduce themselves to me.

I really like this way better.  It suits my propensity to get around the rules, but I do recognize that discipline is a part of the writer's work, so I am going to give this Step Three a try.

It's going to be a looong, windy process, folks, which perhaps ... I hope ... is the point.

first steps and breaking rules

I've already broken the rules.  I have written the first sentence of my novel without outlining as The Snowflake Method recommends. 

Isn't that just how it goes.  The moment you commit to something solid - a method, a path, a choice - another part of you counters, tests, questions, and sometimes overrides your best laid plan.

It is a good first sentence.  It will grab the reader's attention, and it sets the tone for what I imagine the rest of my novel will say.  I woke up with the seed of it.  I washed dishes thinking about it.  I swept and mopped floors too.  Finally, I sat with the blank page until it came.

The first sentence of my novel.  It only took me about an hour to write it.

I am smiling and unashamed of my contrariness.

But I am not throwing the baby out with the bathwater.  I am still going to work on The Snowflake Method. 

Step One.  Take an hour and write a one-sentence summary of your novel.

i am going to write a novel

I am going to write a novel.

It will probably take me ten years to write it.

I'm being dramatic, both because I'm mainly a dramatic person and because I know nearly nothing about writing novels.

So I will just have to teach myself.

I have started researching this, and of course, there is a lot to learn on the internet about writing. I found one site that suggests The Snowflake Method to outline my novel. Apparently outlining a novel is key, though there seems to be a fair amount of folks who just sit down and write. I have tried just sitting down and writing and I often get lost, so I am going to try The Snowflake Method, designed by Randy Ingermanson, who calls himself, "The Snowflake Guy."

http://www.advancedfictionwriting.com/art/snowflake.php

I think this is funny for some reason.  Maybe I am just giddy at the idea of committing to this process.

I am going to write a novel, really.

the steel rod - two

The steel rod returns.

I am caught like a spear-stabbed summer trout immobilized in its migratory path, words scattering, mind darkening to despair, fingers trembling above waiting keys.

I name this killer of creative pursuit and it releases a little, a small vibration as shoulders fall, chest muscles relax, and the heart opens.

And from the heart the words leak.

I want to cry with sheer relief at the curtailment of certain dread that nothing exists above the steel rod.

Meantime, my good friend writes at her school of fine arts, receiving encouragement and instructions, while I sit alone receiving lessons from only that which has no name.

I must press. There can always be edits. Always.

Another deep breath. The trout escapes with a wiggle and a thrash, swiftly swimming upriver, eager to tell the rest of the story.

making my first submission

I made my first submission today.

I pushed "send", got up out of my chair, went into my bedroom, looked at myself in a full length mirror, head to toe, and laughed ... deep belly laughter. It was the best feeling.

"1200 hundred words, baby, and it only took you a year to finish!" I said with a smile on my face and with total acceptance.

If you ever wonder how many words a writer really writes, here you go. 1200 words - 12 months - 100 words a month - 25 words a week - 3 or 4 words a day.

Of course, 12 months to FINISH a 1200 word essay doesn't really translate to "I only wrote 3 or 4 words a day for a year."

But some days it is the best I can do, and I am learning, sloooooowly, that writing is not about numbers but whether the hand ever picked up the pen or the fingers touched the keyboard.

separating dirt from poppy seed

I've been reading blogs lately, mostly to reassure myself.

What I am learning is that blogs are a disciplinary tool. Blogs keep writers accountable. Blogs measure how much we have written.

Or not written.

The little counter that displays how many posts are in a month gives me a push when I have no push left. I'm also learning that other writers struggle just like me. There are months when there are many, many posts and other months when there are only one or two.

I think this is because we get on to other things.

For example I have "gotten on" to reading other blogs which of course takes time that I could spend writing.

But it all seems to work together. I read a blog this morning by Geoffrey Philp in which he lists The Top Ten Things Writers Should Know. Here's a link:

http://geoffreyphilp.blogspot.com/2007/07/top-ten-things-every-writer-should-know.html

Now I don't know Geoffrey Philp ... yet ... but I liked what he had to say. For example, #6 is "Read", and I love to read. Reading is usually what makes me think about writing. Usually arrogant thinking like, "I could do that."

There is a story in Women Who Run With Wolves, an amazing collection of teaching fables and essays by Clarissa Pinkola Estes, about a little girl on a quest who is assigned an impossible task of separating dirt from poppy seed. She works very hard, late into the evening, exhausting herself so that she finally just sleeps the deepest sleep, uncaring anymore about what she must achieve.

And when she awakes, the work is done. There are two large piles: one dirt, one poppy seed.

Mysteriously, I think writing might be like this. At least I am beginning to catch a glimmer of understanding.

fear and consequences

Last night I visited "ponderful lessons", a blog I created six months ago and that I have not written in for three months.

I have not written in it for three months because I was afraid.

I have not written in it for three months because I did not think I had anything to say.

But I discovered last night that I did have something to say, AND I liked what I had to say.

This self-doubt is the bane of writers.

I became so afraid of not having anything of interest to say and of not being able to say it well, that I let a now uncountable number of ideas pass right on by.

That I could have written about.

And that readers MAY have enjoyed reading about.

This I must remember ...

the steel rod

I come to this page with a steel rod in my chest.

It feels cold and unyielding as though if I bend at all I will pierce my entire being and I will exist no more.

It keeps me from breathing.

It keeps me from writing.

But as they say, a writer must write, so I will bring this steel rod with me to this page and write until it softens.

Until it begins to let me breathe again.

I will recognize this steel rod as a temporary un-friend I must disengage from every day.

It hangs on as if to let go means death.

And it does mean death.

Death to the un-writer that is me.

picking up my pen again

I have left everything I think important behind me, except writing. I left a secure job to start a business I could not care less for. I left dreams. I left ideals. I left myself, though I suspect the me I left behind was only an illusion.

I have never been more afraid in my life.

Or more alive.

What if I discover after having given up on all that is familiar that I don't really like to write either? What, more frighteningly, if I discover that though I love to write, I am simply no good at it?

I hear stories all the time of people who have dreams only to discover that they don't have the aptitude or talent to carry their dreams forward. For example, I can't really sing, even though my daddy convinced me in my formative years that I had the most beautiful voice of the ages.

But I keep returning to these blank pages. It is the only place where I really feel as though I am doing what I am supposed to be doing. Oh dear God, let me remember and be comforted by these words!

Because I see no road here, no apparent path.

And I have responsibilities ... to myself, to my husband, to my children.

"Just write", says my husband Bill, a man of few words who ponders the deepest thoughts I've ever encountered.

It really is that simple.

And so I am picking up my pen again, remembering the words of Louisa May Alcott:

"Far away there in the sunshine are my highest aspirations. I may not reach them, but I can look up and see their beauty, believe in them, and follow where they lead."