When I lived in Ohio, I had a large black and white framed photo similar to this one hanging above my desk.  It made me feel tall, strong, and capable.  It’s such a striking image; a woman alone, deep inside a dark forest.  She stands calm but alert, her hands behind her back, listening, discerning, waiting.

My idealized writer-self.

Sitting down with the keyboard beneath my fingertips, I’d close eyes and let myself enter that forest with all of its mysteries.  I’d imagine my stories slowly coming towards me, like a wind they’d tip the trees towards me and the answers to all of my plot questions and character motivations would tumble down into my psyche.  I’d open my eyes and there they’d be, like gifts for the brave soul who knew who how to wait. And listen.  And be alone.

 

Unfortunately, I didn’t write too often at my desk.  But I sure did linger over that photograph every time I walked past it.

When we moved and finally managed to have most of our belongings relocated, I felt differently about the photo.  I pulled it out of the box, held it up, looking at it in different kinds of light and just couldn’t find anything redeemable in it.  It felt negative, lonely.  Instead of the powerful woman standing there, I couldn’t help but focus on her being completely by herself in a potentially dangerous environment.  It felt threatening instead of inspiring.  “Let’s get rid of it,” I said.  So we did.

Looking back, I think my fears of stepping firmly onto my writing path were bubbling up and projecting themselves all over the photo.  Poor thing.  It deserved better.

This past week was challenging.  So much has changed in my life.  Both my parents and my sister’s family moved in August (to Arizona and Texas, respectively.  Not exactly short trips).  My parents retired and left Ohio, a place I was pretty sure I’d never live again, but still it feels like my home.  My roots are there.  The Cleveland area is in my blood and I fight for it like a dog fights for a bone.  Scrappy determination.  With no home to go back to now, I feel wobbly, unsure of exactly where I belong.  Somehow my parents moving left me insecure and filled with self-doubt.  I’m questioning my abilities.  I’m pining for relationships I can count on, invest in, take refuge in.  It’s not easy; I’m ambitious and complicated and insanely curious.  I’d love to meet more people with big dreams and the motivation to at least explore them.  Sometimes I feel like an alien for pursuing a goal that isn’t easily achieved or explained.

I finished my on-site contract work and have started my own IP consulting and development business full-force, while giving my novel the space and time it needs.  I’m happy about that and I’m doing some really good work with a lot of exciting potential.  Hub and I have been attending all sorts of events for writers and illustrators, slowly carving out a life that has more of what we want in it.

But gosh, during the days, especially late in the week, I feel so freakin’ lonely.  I find myself puttering around the house, writing, worrying, obsessively checking email.   When my husband gets home, I talk his ear off.  I hang on him too much.  I get irritable because I’m annoyed with this aspect of myself.  I know it can be common among writers, but that doesn’t give me much comfort.  How does someone who is stimulated by ideas and conversations and people deal with such long strings of time on her own?  I’ve felt this before, years ago when I left my job to freelance.  The pangs of loneliness reared their heads and I bolted back to the job-world.  I don’t want to run away again, for the safety of a life I don’t care enough about.

This is the part of the post where I’m supposed to explain the answer I’ve found, the solution to the problem.  But I don’t have one.  I’m confused by my needs for space, alone-time, and independence…and my competing needs for social engagement, collaboration, and play.  I feel pulled into parallel directions that don’t ever meet in the middle.  I worry that I have a defunct creative gene; one that makes it near-impossible to get my work done because I can’t deal with the isolation.

My gut says this is just another phase in the journey, an obstacle to overcome on the warrior’s road.

It’s a tough one.

“We work in the dark – we do what we can – we give what we have. Our doubt is our passion and our passion is our task.” – Henry James

 

Weekends In New England–Take 2

I wrote this several weeks ago, but lost a bit ol’ chunk of it.  I’ve decided to go ahead and post it anyway because…well, because why not?  

I have a love/hate relationship with New England, always have since I moved here to start school at Boston University a few years ago (no need to mention how many “few” is).  Since our move to Providence this past summer, I’m tipping more towards the “love” side of the scale, but it’s tenuous.  Winter is coming, any moment could bring me face-to-face with one of NE’s perpetual angry and rude personalities, and the sports teams here leave much to be desired (it often feels like there’s a big wall around Red Sox/Patriot/Celtics fans…unless you were born here they don’t seem to want you).  But back to the “love” side…

This past weekend was a perfect New England weekend.  The weather was gorgeous; low sixties with a benevolent sun and a cool breeze.  The trees shimmered with a magical array of oranges, reds, and yellows.  People seemed happy and optimistic, eagerly sipping their pumpkin lattes and content to wear a thick hoodie or zip-up jacket.  All around us was the smell of goodness.

Jorge and I went to a great event called The Rhode Island Festival of Children’s Books and Authors.  Only $5 got you into the all-day happening, where you could hear various accomplished writers and illustrators talk about what they do.  For the second time in less than 3 months, I was THIS CLOSE to Norton Juster.  I listed to Gail Carson Levine.  I discovered a new author, Deborah Wiles.  And I got to see hundreds of kids stay in their seats, excited to be in the presence of some of their favorite authors.  How cool is that?

I walked away from the event with a sense of hope, a feeling of joy for wonderful life can be.  You know what I heard more than anything else in the day’s presentations?  I heard passion for the work.  PASSION.  I heard people saying they suffered for what they do.  But still they choose to do it.  I heard people saying they think kids are worth the struggle the work demands.  And I heard kids saying “yes,” we are worth it, and we know it, and thank you for seeing it.

There’s too much not caring in the world.  Too much resignation.  Too much looking away from situations that demand intervention.  Where are our voices?  Where is our passion?  Where are we when we turn away from something that matters to us, deep down inside?

On this weekend in New England, with the leaves tumbling down and sun shining bright, I was grateful to hear so many voices raising up in honor of their passions.  I can’t wait to hear more.

It’s A Book

You know what I love?  Books about writing.  They have this mysterious, magical way of making me feel like I’m not just reading about writing…I’m somehow writing, too.  Look at me, I’m learning by osmosis!  All of this wisdom and experience pours out of each page–especially when it’s an author I adore and respect and know a thing or two about his or her story.

Like Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird.  I’m reading it again for the umpteenth time, just a few pages before I go to bed.  I’m quickly becoming an e-reader/iPadder, but not with this one.  My copy is weathered, given to me by a friend in New York City who had made her own marks and notes, underlined favorite pages.  I’ve added my own so it feels like this interesting little tete-a-tete between myself, my friend, and Ms. Lamott.  I have so few writer friends–something I’m working on–that these kind of experiences fill me up and inspire me to keep on going, keep on fighting the good word fight.

There are many reasons to love Lamott.  She’s smart, funny, and a bit naughty.  She’s Christian without being one of those annoying religious souls who seem to feel that everything in life is wrong.  She’s open about her flaws.  She gives good advice, suggestions that are actually implementable.  All this and she has an excellent grasp of the craft.

Damn her!

At the same time, I’m re-reading Joan Anderson’s A Weekend to Change Your Life.  I’ve read most of her books, a few times through.  This isn’t exactly a writing book, but it is about weeding out the stuff in your life that no longer works and carving out space for that stuff that does.  When I mention reading Joan’s books to others, I get odd looks; her audience tends to be women in their forties and fifties; women who’ve  raised their children, come to a crossroads in their marriages, may be experiencing menopause, have ended one way of life but are unsure how to begin the next.

I’m in my early thirties.  I’m still carded when I ask for a drink. I’m close to being a newlywed.  We have yet  to bring a child into this world.

In other words, I’m not exactly Joan’s typical reader.

But I am in-between “lives.”  And this isn’t the first time.  I tend to greet this in-between place more frequently than I care to.  It’s true that I have a sense of where I’m going…I’m writing, more and more each day.  I’m creating schedules and routines that support my choices, not hinder them.  I’m moving forward.  However, I still have that sense of being in an odd, slightly stuffy limbo.  Friends around me are getting promotions, having children, crossing the six-figure salary mark.  Despite following my heart and my dreams, I feel like I’m going in the opposite direction of my peers.  I’m jealous of the big houses they’re buying, envious of how settled they look in pictures, confused by same-aged friends who already have three children.  I know it’s worthless to compare my path to others’, but …

I can’t help it.

It’s not even that I want those same things (and it’s not that I don’t either, in case someone out there feels like giving away a house).  What I do wish for are more tangible signs of my success, something to hold up, wave around, and say, “hey!  I’m not just over here napping all day.  Yeah, I left the mainstream behind, but that doesn’t mean I’m not working.  Really hard. Yes, really!”

Alas, written pages don’t do the trick.  Non-writers just look at them cross-eyed, hands grappling for their Blackberries and Outlook reminders.

These books calm me down, remind me that I’m not like everyone else for a reason.  That I have to use that difference. They remind me that isolation and periods of confusion are normal for artists; in fact, they nourish us.

Both Anne Lamott and Joan Anderson act like salves for my jealous heart.  They console me and tell me that the writer’s journey is not linear.  They suggest that I slow down, listen, love.  They give me hope.

God, I love books!

“For some of us, books are as important as almost anything else on earth. What a miracle it is that out of these small, flat, rigid squares of paper unfolds world after world after world, worlds that sing to you, comfort and quiet or excite you. Books help us understand who we are and how we are to behave. They show us what community and friendship mean; they show us how to live and die.”
― Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life

Growing up and “growing on” are inevitable. The great loneliness is that people don’t know who they are—they tend to resist their changes and then miss the rewards of the second journey in the process. Now is the time to first look back and then befriend—not berate—the person you are becoming. “Toss off the bowlines, pull up the anchor,” as Mark Twain states, for it is high time to embark on that second journey. I guarantee it will be the adventure of your life.

-Joan Anderson

Ups and Downs

It’s been an up and down kind of week.  The Up:  Some good writing found its way to the page, rejoice!  I worked my way through a complicated emotional scene and felt myself let go and commit to the characters and their feelings.  I’ve noticed that I have a recurring habit (I know “recurring” and “habit” are essentially redundant, but I say “recurring” because the “habit” doesn’t rear itself all of the time.  Explanation complete.) of diving deeply into my characters, only to back off right at the moment when I need to take one more last plunge.  Understanding that tendency feels huge; now I can recognize when I’m doing it and course-correct.  I’m finding, too, that taking that “final plunge” into the emotional waters moves the plot forward in places where I’m struggling with “what happens next?”  Not the major plot points, but the smaller ones.  The subtler shifts in story.

More Ups:  I found  a new coffee shop.  It’s a little vegan bakery and juice bar with a nice selection of loose leaf teas, slow-pour coffee, and shots of wheatgrass.  Plus free wi-fi, refreshing lime green walls and teak furniture.  I sat in there yesterday for a good 3 hours or so, and this is where the breakthrough happened.   I’m a curious soul and I consistently need new adventures–even if that adventure is simply trying a new cup of joe. Or coconut chai tea. Lucky for me, Providence is packed with all kinds of coffee shops, from hole-in-the-wall joints with loud locals to sleek, modern, student-heavy enclaves overflowing with dairy-alternatives.  I’m so glad we moved here.

The Downs:  The world lost a lovely soul too soon, too fast, and too unfairly.  A close friend’s girlfriend passed away quite suddenly and the news broke my heart.  I’m so sad today.  And scared because no matter how much control you try to exert over this life, you never completely get it.  The people we love can be taken from us at any moment, with no regard for how little we want it happen.

Dealing with Death just never gets easier.  At least not for me.

I have to get back to writing…until next time, remember to make this life one you’d want to live.

Felicity, She’s So Wise

OhmygoshIdon’twanttowritetoday!  Jeez, that felt good.  I really don’t want to write, I’ve been avoiding it for hours which is unfortunate….especially since the past few weeks I’ve been a rockstar (or at least an open mic star at a local coffee shop) with my routine.  Getting up, eating a good breakfast, making coffee. Going to Blackstone Boulevard and walking for an hour or so.  Observing my negative, self-directed thinking.  Replacing it with encouraging, you-can-do-it language.  Coming home, tinkering around the house for a bit and then sitting down and starting.  The pages are adding up, plotlines coming together, self-confidence shooting upwards.  I’m pretty darn proud of myself.  Plus, I’ve managed to fit in challenging freelance work, seeing friends, tending to the demands of life in Rhode Island.  So today, to feel like I’d rather stare off into space for another few hours, or throw another load of laundry in the washer, or just veg out in front of the TV, well, that’s awfully disappointing.

(Note to self:  Remember the initiative to go easy on yourself.  Self-flagellation is unnecessary, self-kindness more compassionate and more effective.)

(Second note to self:  It’s fine that “notes to self” feel crazy.  You’ll get over it.)

I’ve been watching Felicity on Netflix..remember that show?  It was on while I was in grad school…or at least that’s when I watched it (I think I only caught a few seasons).  Friends of mine were obsessed with it and demanded we watch.   I know I looked forward to those evenings with my girlfriends, goofing around, getting worked up about Ben and Noel, spending 20 minutes deciding what we wanted to order for late-night study grub (Ah, to eat 10pm Pad Thai again, with no on-the-scale ramifications).

Watching the show is soothing.  It kind of draws me into this pool of contemplation and emotional acceptance of the quirky things we all do. That I do. That I did.  Felicity isn’t rocket science, but the characters are thoughtful, complex, and mostly good-intentioned.  They’re trying to find themselves, their voices in the world, what they really want.  Don’t laugh, but it almost feels like a spiritual experience.  Okay, now I’m laughing. It’s absurd.  Nonetheless, I watch an episode and feel more connected.

This morning I watched the second episode from Season 2…Felicity and Ben are dating, without any expectations or commitment.  Ben’s “not ready” for all that.  Felicity tries to convince herself that this is okay, but it doesn’t take long before she feels stifled, as if she’s only expressing a part of herself.  I love this exchange she has with him after realizing she just can’t have a shallow relationship:

Felicity (to Ben): The truth is, I can’t be with you like this. I know I said that I could, but I just can’t compromise myself like that. I mean, I’m an emotional person. I feel things, and I need to be able to get upset and talk about how I’m feeling. That’s who I am, and I can’t change it, and I don’t want to. And the thing is, you knew that. You knew it, and you still pursued me. Because you want something with me. You just aren’t strong enough to have it, which in a way makes you a coward. And the saddest part is that one day, you’re gonna wake up and you’re gonna realize what you missed and it’s gonna be too late.

 

As I thought about writing today (note:  thinking about writing is not writing), I kept thinking about Felicity and Ben’s exchange.  I thought about the people who pursue people or experiences or goals, but back away from them because they don’t want to encounter too much challenge.  I thought about how often I witness people compromising themselves for the sake of someone else or for the simple fact that they don’t want to deal with the ramifications of their true feelings.  I thought about the times I’VE done that, and how I’m glad they’re few and far between…and how when I’ve realized I’ve compromised that I gather up my cojones and change my behavior.  I thought about how we, as writers, simply can’t compromise ourselves.  Our writing deserves commitment; it deserves for us to be brave and bold and persistent.  Our writing asks us to break up with Ben, even if he seems so close to what we really want.  (Seriously, I have to be on my way to an award…I just compared authentic writing to breaking up with a WB character! SCORE!)

Perhaps that’s why writing isn’t coming easily today and I’ve chosen to blog over tackle my story.   I recently I didn’t speak up when I wanted to…when I should have.  Now I’m disappointed in myself.  The situation was nothing dire or extremely serious, but I felt myself biting my tongue for the sake of avoiding confrontation.  I compromised, and not in a good way.  I told myself I was just being accepting of others opinions and actions; the truth is I WAS being accepting of others opinions, just not of my own.  And I regret that.  I deserve the same understanding and freedom of expression that I uphold for those around me, right?  Yes, RIGHT.

All I can do now is forgive myself, move on, and promise that I won’t let myself down that way next time.  I’ll try again.  Just like I’ll write again. Maybe even I’ll do it right now…

Swimming To The Other Side

I came across these lyrics today; 
a song we used to sing during our weeks 
participating in A.S.P, 
the Appalachian service project. 
Something like Habitat for Humanity, 
it's an amazing program that helps shelter 
those in need in rural Appalachia. 
I learned so much working on those homes, 
talking with families,taping up drywall. 
The words to this magical little song 
float through my head every once in awhile 
but I never could find the full lyrics or a recording. 
Thank you, Spotify! 
Thought I'd copy 'em here because they have a lot to say 
about life, faith, 
and our common connections. 
Oh yeah, and the life of the writer.... 

SWIMMING TO THE OTHER SIDE
{Refrain}
We are living 'neath the great Big Dipper
We are washed by the very same rain
We are swimming in the stream together
Some in power and some in pain
We can worship this ground we walk on
Cherishing the beings that we live beside
Loving spirits will live forever
We're all swimming to the other side

I am alone, and I am searching
Hungering for answers in my time
I am balanced at the brink of wisdom
I'm impatient to receive a sign
I move forward with my senses open
Imperfection, it be my crime
In humility I will listen
We're all swimming to the other side 

{Refrain}

On this journey through thoughts and feelings
Binding intuition, my head, my heart
I am gathering the tools together
I'm preparing to do my part
All of those who have come before me
Band together and be my guide
Loving lessons that I will follow
We're all swimming to the other side 

{Refrain}

When we get there we'll discover
All of the gifts we've been given to share
Have been with us since life's beginning
And we never noticed they were there
We can balance at the brink of wisdom
Never recognizing that we've arrived
Loving spirits will live together
We're all swimming to the other side

Braving The Truth

I like this dude.  I like his look, I like his messy hair, I like his scruff.  Mostly, I like his T-shirt.

Such a simple message.  So damn difficult when it comes to our stories, the stories we know we must write, we’re called to write.

Readers–yes, all one of you–fear not, I have returned from the SCBWI conference.  Your partner in wading through the murky waters of finishing a novel is back: and she is stronger, wiser, smarter, and more inspired than ever before.

Well, at least she is INSPIRED.  But the rest of those words have panache so I’m using ’em.  Get over it!

Crikey, that was one amazing trip.  For those of you who enjoy name-dropping, here are a few:  Judy Blume, Norton Juster, Gary Paulsen, Laura Halse Anderson, Richard Peck…all were in attendance.  Plus more literary luminaries.  Yes, more!  It was a smorgasbord of delectable words, art, and stories. Just being in the conference room felt like being bathed in warm enlightenment.  You’re sitting there, letting the water do its thing, and the next thing you know, you’re clean.

Every writer and illustrator who spoke had an important message or question:  Judy Blume: It’s okay to not know what you’re doing, just keep going.  Laurie Halse Anderson:  Will you dare to disturb the universe (inspired by T.S. Eliot, of course).  Richard Peck: If children do not see themselves on the page early on, they will go looking for themselves in all the wrong places.

Gary Paulsen:  Jack London didn’t know “shit” about trapping, dogs, or survival.

I’m not sure if my brain is busy processing all of these profound messages, or if the time change from LA to Providence is messing with my biorhythms, or if I’m just suffering from post-conference malaise, but I am EXHAUSTED.  And a tad melancholy.  Not to mention hopelessly sedentary.  I’ve caught myself sitting here, staring through the wall several times this morning.  It would be embarrassing if I wasn’t alone.  P90X is calling my name, but I’m pretending my ears are clogged.

The past two nights have been poor sleeping ones.  I lay down, tired, and unfortunately stay that way.  The tired doesn’t translate into rest.  My brain keeps whirring.  Good thoughts, mostly.  I’ll have pops of understanding or memories; “wow, I met Norton Juster.  The Phantom Tollbooth inspired my 9th grade play.  Eek, that was, like, 15 years ago.  Jeez, I heard Judy Blume.  I remember checking Forever out of the library at least a dozen times.  Man, I’d love to have coffee with Gary Paulsen–does he even drink coffee?  I love that he just slapped on his hat, came to the conference, and talked about what’s wrong and what’s right.”

Underneath the insights, it feels like something else is going on.  All those thoughts don’t lead to melancholy-ness.  I was hoping that blogging would help uncover the source, but alas, it hasn’t.  Let me give it one more minute…

Ok, I might have something…it might have something to do with the t-shirt…

And since truth-telling is important here, I’ll admit.  I left the screen and came back about a half-hour later.  My sins are purged.

My manuscript snippet was nominated for an award at the conference…pretty cool.   This is the first external sign I have that I’m on the right track with the all-new and improved Freckles.  I wasn’t expecting it AT ALL–in fact, when I sat down for my critique I was armed and ready with pen and paper to quickly take notes on everything that’s wrong with it.  The critiquing editor did have some notes (good ones, too) but she mostly was very positive. And she made the nomination.  I was shocked.

Now I’ve got to get back to writing.  Writing is hard.  The truth is hard.

My story is about a twelve year-old girl who’s faith is tested when a schoolmate is kidnapped.  We discussed this in an earlier post, I know.  It’s the crux of this whole thing, so admonish me for repeating myself and then let me continue, hm?
While the characters and the circumstances and the plot twists are fiction, the feelings are true.

And Jesus, they don’t feel very good.

When I was younger, a girl I  knew was kidnapped.  The entire community got involved, doing everything they could to bring her home. Her mother was on Oprah.  Her story was on every news outlet.  I thought for sure she would be brought home safely.

But she wasn’t.  A few months after the kidnapping, her body was found, dead, in a ditch on the side of a road in Ohio.  I remember the “breaking news” alert on the TV when I came home that day.  I remember how wrong it felt in every inch of my bones.  I remember how heavy I felt, like my entire spirit had come crushing down to earth.

“Ohio girl killed.”

I wanted to be lifted back up to the place where life is light and questions are answered. But it never happened.

Not every child experiences it in the same way, but the moment when you realize that the world is not always fair, that there is in fact something very evil that exists among us that you do not have control of, is a moment that changes you forever.  You can’t look back.

I’m not talking about evil as a religious entity; I’m talking about the very dark place that DOES exist in some humans.  A place that some of us choose to go into and never come back.  Maybe it’s easier to think of these individuals as sick or aberrant or sociopathic; That keeps them further away from us, more distant and less real.

But they are real.

I never stopped thinking about that little girl, but I did eventually put most of the raw feelings away.  Until, that is, my friend Andi was killed in Iraq.  She wasn’t in the military; she was working for an NGO, paving the way for democratic processes.  She was on her way to a meeting when her caravan was ambushed, bombed, and mostly destroyed.  She was destroyed.  I found out the same way I found out about the little girl; I came home from work and saw her face on TV.

“Ohio girl killed.”

All those feelings came spewing out, uncontrollable, like  an avalanche.  WHAT THE HELL IS THIS WORLD ALL ABOUT WHEN INNOCENT PEOPLE CAN BE TAKEN FROM US?  What the hell is God doing up there, making pancakes and watching MadMen?

Why do we keep fighting for good when some days the bad guys win anyway?

When I was a kid, desperately trying to do the right thing, be a better person, I so wished there was a book in which someone told me the truth: Despite everything, sometimes awful, terrible things will happen.  You will not understand.  You will feel hopeless.  You will be pissed off and lose faith and no magic words will make it all better.  And that’s okay.  Question it all and keep trying.  There are no easy answers, in fact, there may not be any answers at all.

I hope with everything I have that I’m writing that book.

I’m terribly scared I’m not.

Hey Hey, LA

In just a little over a week, Jorge and I will be leaving for our first SCBWI (Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators) conference in Los Angeles.  I’ve been a member of SCBWI for several years now, but have had very little interaction with the group–partly because my attempts to get connected have not been met with great success, and partly because those attempts have been spotty.  This is the biggest event we’re participating in associated with our true ambitions…besides maybe college.  Instead of a vacation on the beach, we’re choosing to lay down money on the registration fees, airline tickets, hotel, and food for what ultimately amounts to a work trip.

God, I’m excited.

Some amazing authors and illustrators are expecting to be present…Norton Juster (The Phantom Tollbooth was the inspiration for one of my favorite Odyssey of the Mind plays), Laurie Halse Anderson (I honestly haven’t finished Speak, but not because it isn’t amazing.  Just wasn’t the right time for me), Jon Scieszka (The Stinky Cheese Man and other Fairly Stupid Tales), and many more.  Agents and Editors will be there, too…and so will my excellent writing coach Esther Hershenhorn.  I am so looking forward to meeting her and talking shop.

Because I didn’t major in creative writing or go for an MFA (the world needs more writers with a business degree, dontcha think?) or maybe because I just haven’t extending myself to the right people, I have very few friends in the writing field.  And by few, I mean none.  This certainly doesn’t help my feelings of isolation when I’m at home, writing (or not writing but thinking an awful lot about writing).  I would really love to have more people in my life with similar goals and dreams.  I mention this because it’s going to be pure joy to be around so many people in LA who care about children’s literature.  Oh, I’m sure there will be some strange birds (I’ll report back, don’t worry) but there has to be a few kindred spirits there, too.

Working in corporate cultures for so long has made other worlds a little hazy for me.  You mean everyone doesn’t say things like “Let’s circle back on that…moving forward, we need to ensure we’re ALL champions for the brand.”  Or, “Let’s dig into why consumers aren’t responding to the campaign?”  I’m looking forward to more meaningful conversations.  I hope I’m not disappointed.

In other news, I’ve wrapped up my contract at The Corporation.  More time to write–more time to sweat and agonize and hope I can pull this thing off.  Operation: Finish The Book is ramping up into full gear.

Pray for me.

“So many things are possible just as long as you don’t know they’re impossible.”
— Norton Juster (The Phantom Tollbooth)

 

If The Story Fits, You Must Commit

I’ve lived with this feeling for such a long, long time.  I wonder if the sheer weight and density of it will suffocate me in my sleep one night.  It’s that deep knowing that I MUST get this story out coupled with the crippling sense that I don’t know how.  I’ve had this feeling so long that I frankly don’t even know if its true.

My blogging here has been nothing less than sporadic–just like my work on my book.  I simply have not committed.  Have I made progress?  Yes.  Am I moving in the right direction? I think so.  Have I made that necessary psychological shift of saying–this is what I’m here to do and I will not let other things get in the way?  No.  I want to.  But wanting does not make it so.

This blog is not meant to be perfect, or polished, or even all that readable.  It’s for me to detail my writing journey, warts, scars, blood and all.  It’s the place where I can forget about structure and plot lines and voice and all that stuff–which I LOVE but is also a source of self-flagellation when I get them wrong–and just let the words flow how they may in the moment.  Nothing too scary about that, right?  So why don’t I find myself here more often?

Because writing that comes truly from me–be it free form flim flam or structured prose–is not a purely intellectual process.  In fact, it’s probably 75% emotional for me…and my emotions run deep.  I’m sitting here now just thinking about it and my stomach tightens, my throat swells from the stone that’s found its way there, and my brain slows down.  I just stared off into space again.  God, what makes this process so intense??  I’m a pretty happy person on a day to day basis–why should I turn away from the relative ease of normal living for the life of writer?

A writer’s mind seems to be situated partly in the solar plexus and partly in the head.  ~Ethel Wilson

There’s a shitload going on in my solar plexus.  Please do not take the “shit” part of that statement literally.

I’m writing a book about faith–the story hits on why we have it, how we lose it, if we can get it back.  It’s about faith in God, in life, and maybe most importantly faith in ourselves.

 

Heavy stuff for kids.  Heavy stuff for anyone.  Writing about it tests MY faith.  And there are so many darned layers of my faith–faith in my ability to write at all, faith in my own talent, faith in reasons and people, faith in a purpose, faith that events in my life don’t mean that life is inherently meaningless or malevolent. I want to kids to know it’s okay to question things like religion and God or no God and to question the adults in their lives–and I want them to know that they can have faith even when very, very bad things happen.

So when my own faith feels tenuous, flimsy…I hear “you’re a fake” jockeying around in my skull .  And there I am again–knowing I have a calling, a gift, but not knowing how to share it if I can’t keep my arms wrapped tight around something solid.

Faith is a tricky bugger.  Strangely it gets more slippery the more you dive into its murky waters.  Kind of like committing to a relationship–the good stuff, the stuff that connects you and opens you and heals you is the stuff that can also shake you to the core.  Faith isn’t absolute; it’s more like a car.  It’ll take you places, let you feel the wind in your hair, move faster than you can without it–but there’s always a chance of an accident. The choice is to keep driving and take those risks or sit home and keep your world small, safe, and predicatable.

 

My story is not going away.  And beyond this story, I can feel that there are many others that will not be easy.

I’m going to have to make the commitment.  I’m just not sure how to get beyond the “I’ll do it” and actually move into “I’m doing it.”

Scary.

The hub is gone at his Master Art Class.  Our furniture still hasn’t shown up (we’re on week three) so I’ve got a week of empty-loft living.  How did I handle night one?  By zooming up to Connecticut for a sleepover with sis and family.  I looked around at all that nothingness (furniture-wise, and other human-wise, I mean.) and determined I needed a few things on Friday night:  1.  a couch.  2.  tv.  3. company.

This is going to be a great week of writing–right?  All this time to myself means I can spend long, caffeinated hours in the many cozy, quirky, and wi-fi rich coffee shops of Providence.  Jorge is spending a whole week mastering his illustration and storytelling skills with people like Adam Rex so I can dig in and get better, too.

My corporate contract is coming to a close in July.  Scary.  How I love that steady paycheck.  However, if you’ve been following this blog (all zero of you) then you know darn well this was always the plan.  Operation: Finish The Book means…actually writing the book.  Creating a lifestyle that lets me do that.  Contracting was supposed to be a way of making connections so I could freelance afterwards.  And it seems like that is quite possible now–I’ve had several key relationships offer freelance work and how did I react?  Disappointed. I fell back into that desire for stability and routine–routine dictated somewhat by outside forces.  I want the full-time job. But not really.  I’m 33 years old and I have not yet defeated that overwhelming feeling of dread when too much is uncertain.  All my prayers and meditation and yoga and reading writing advice books have not yet proved fruitful.  So here I am staring the indie life in the face and I’m pee-my-pants terrified.  Again.  Dribble….

I’m in one of the coffee shops now, back in Provi.  This one’s called The Edge–no free cuppings offered here. It’s less polished than Blue State..old brick-colored floors, chipping paint, crumbs on the floor.  More of an artsy, devil-may-care attitude than the clean, socially hyper-conscious academic vibe of my previous writing locale.  I like it, though it’s a little on the depressing side I must admit. Maybe “the edge” is a personality thing-y’know, the edge of sanity and depravity.

Anyway, I’m here and using this blog entry to warm up for some BOOK writing.  I’m playin’ it cool, not letting that pit on my stomach feeling take over.  Just sit here for awhile, let the muses take over, see what I’ve got at the end.  No stress.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

“The secret of life, though, is to fall seven times and to get up eight times.”
— Paulo Coelho (The Alchemist)