Okay. I'm giving up on worrying, just like I gave up on guilt. Both practices are totally non-productive, as a wise man once told me. They serve no purpose except to steal any joy that might come. I'm not into allowing anyone or anything to steal my joy (it's such a rare commodity!)
The fourth of July has come and gone, the fireworks have fizzled out, and I am back at my keyboard. Writing has been more challenge than joy lately, but as I said, I simply refuse to allow the joy I take in the written word to be pilfered by my own insecurities. As of yet, I am an unpublished novelist, but I have been published: Raving Dove, Raphael's Village, EXIT 109, and others. True. I've been published mostly as a poet, but I've sneaked in a few essays and short stories. My days as an AGENTED and PUBLISHED novelist approaches. I refuse to have any doubts.
One day, readers will stumble across this blog and discover that ALL writers have insecurities, fears that their work doesn't come up to muster, and doubts that they'll ever see their name on a book jacket. I sound bold and confident here, but just a few short posts ago, I was wallowing in the quagmire of desperation. Comes with writing territory, I suppose. Keep up with me folks. Better days are coming. More words, more hope, and more works in print. Persistence wins the game, not that runner who shows well out of the gate but loses advantage in the long haul.
Keep smiling. Keep sending up skyrockets, and don't spare the word count!
Monday, July 5, 2010
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Okay! Okay! So I need a job!
It's summer, and the university where I work during fall and spring semester doesn't give adjuncts summer work. What does that mean? It means summers suck, at least, financially. No worky-no earny-no earny-no buyee (That didn't come out just the way I wanted it, but you get the drift!)
I did pick up five weeks of work, teaching through a special program for disadvantaged high school students. I love the program and the kids, but it IS only FIVE weeks of work out of four months. Every summer, I tell myself, "You've got to get a real job." BUT every summer, I procrastinate because, darn it! I like to teach almost as much as I like to write. So what if being an adjunct means that I make very little money compared to other people who have MA's. So what, if I get no benefits from the state, and I have to pay for on-campus parking. So what if I spend Christmas vacation sweating it out as to whether I'll get a contract for spring! So what if public school employment possibilities are as dead as post secondary jobs! Teaching? What am I doing?
I'll keep teaching. That's what I do, but I also keep hoping that writing becomes my job and teaching is just my hobby. That's why I can't believe I let myself get so far down that I couldn't write. If anybody's out there, if anybody's reading this: DON'T GET THAT FAR DOWN! (That's right. I shouted.) Writing gets under your fingernails and embeds itself in the pores. It becomes as much a part of the writer as blood and bone. To punish myself by not hitting the keyboard is as bad as Van Gogh cutting off his own ear (an event whose validity recently became a subject of debate)!
I write. Writing is as much therapy as production. Remember that. Remember me, and for Heaven's sake, send me job suggestions! :D
I did pick up five weeks of work, teaching through a special program for disadvantaged high school students. I love the program and the kids, but it IS only FIVE weeks of work out of four months. Every summer, I tell myself, "You've got to get a real job." BUT every summer, I procrastinate because, darn it! I like to teach almost as much as I like to write. So what if being an adjunct means that I make very little money compared to other people who have MA's. So what, if I get no benefits from the state, and I have to pay for on-campus parking. So what if I spend Christmas vacation sweating it out as to whether I'll get a contract for spring! So what if public school employment possibilities are as dead as post secondary jobs! Teaching? What am I doing?
I'll keep teaching. That's what I do, but I also keep hoping that writing becomes my job and teaching is just my hobby. That's why I can't believe I let myself get so far down that I couldn't write. If anybody's out there, if anybody's reading this: DON'T GET THAT FAR DOWN! (That's right. I shouted.) Writing gets under your fingernails and embeds itself in the pores. It becomes as much a part of the writer as blood and bone. To punish myself by not hitting the keyboard is as bad as Van Gogh cutting off his own ear (an event whose validity recently became a subject of debate)!
I write. Writing is as much therapy as production. Remember that. Remember me, and for Heaven's sake, send me job suggestions! :D
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Might-Moan-Again
It seems that moaning about my sad state might just have worked, ergo I might just moan more often. (Wow! That's a nicely alliterated sentence, if I do say so myself.) Anyways, after the moan, I found 1536 words, some not-so-evaporated editing skills, and two new chapters in my series. Not bad for someone who wanted to go to a cliff and beg God to have the rocks fall on her. See...it can happen. A writer who felt like she had no words left can find those words lurking in the most unexpected places.
The way I see it now is that anyone who's thinking about suicide should write a suicide note, then sit, read, and think some more. First question: Who the hell would care that I was dead? Second question: How long would they care? Third series of connected questions: Did I play the lottery this week? What if my numbers won and *gulp* I had already checked out? Would the undertaker find the ticket in my pocket, collect my winnings, sell his establishment before my service, and end up on MY beach in the Caribbean? Fourth series of connected questions: Hey! Wouldn't that dead lottery winner/undertaker thingy make a great plot line for a novel? Should I write the novel or let that damned undertaker take something else that belonged to me? That undertaker! Who does he think he is? (But I digress.)
See how it works? (Not connected to the above series of questions) Get sad. Okay. Everybody gets sad, and it's okay to be sad unless that "long barrel of despair" lasts longer than three weeks. (If it's that long-lasting, it's time for the doc and the happy pills. Depression, serious depression, is a serious matter with serious consequences unless taken seriously. I mean that!) The best solution for sadness that I've discovered is madness, not insanity but true anger. Don't be mad at others because the only person that can make you happy is YOU. There are no knights in shining armor, no surprise visits from previously unknown billionaire parents, no magic (other than the perfect sunset), and no one to snap your suspenders but you. In this case, ME.
So...after the previous blogged moaning, I thought about what I always told my clients: "It's not the hand you're dealt in life. It's how you play your cards." (I'm sure that I'm not the first person to use that line, and so I bow to the original purveyor of that great wisdom.) I looked at my recently dealt hand and then asked for four cards. Quite a risk, huh? Well, I didn't get a Royal Flush, but I picked up at least a pair and am still in the game. I got some employment for July, only July, but hey, a month of salary is a month of salary. Know what I mean? When I flick the switch on my wall, I like to have the lights come on. Bills are bills and, as hard as this is to believe, people actually expect payment. Just saying.
The way I see it now is that anyone who's thinking about suicide should write a suicide note, then sit, read, and think some more. First question: Who the hell would care that I was dead? Second question: How long would they care? Third series of connected questions: Did I play the lottery this week? What if my numbers won and *gulp* I had already checked out? Would the undertaker find the ticket in my pocket, collect my winnings, sell his establishment before my service, and end up on MY beach in the Caribbean? Fourth series of connected questions: Hey! Wouldn't that dead lottery winner/undertaker thingy make a great plot line for a novel? Should I write the novel or let that damned undertaker take something else that belonged to me? That undertaker! Who does he think he is? (But I digress.)
See how it works? (Not connected to the above series of questions) Get sad. Okay. Everybody gets sad, and it's okay to be sad unless that "long barrel of despair" lasts longer than three weeks. (If it's that long-lasting, it's time for the doc and the happy pills. Depression, serious depression, is a serious matter with serious consequences unless taken seriously. I mean that!) The best solution for sadness that I've discovered is madness, not insanity but true anger. Don't be mad at others because the only person that can make you happy is YOU. There are no knights in shining armor, no surprise visits from previously unknown billionaire parents, no magic (other than the perfect sunset), and no one to snap your suspenders but you. In this case, ME.
So...after the previous blogged moaning, I thought about what I always told my clients: "It's not the hand you're dealt in life. It's how you play your cards." (I'm sure that I'm not the first person to use that line, and so I bow to the original purveyor of that great wisdom.) I looked at my recently dealt hand and then asked for four cards. Quite a risk, huh? Well, I didn't get a Royal Flush, but I picked up at least a pair and am still in the game. I got some employment for July, only July, but hey, a month of salary is a month of salary. Know what I mean? When I flick the switch on my wall, I like to have the lights come on. Bills are bills and, as hard as this is to believe, people actually expect payment. Just saying.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Everything Old is New Again
I've not been well...not so much physically as emotionally. My writer's muscle keeps freezing, storylines keep evading me, and I'm looking down the long barrel of despair. Job. Economy. The heat of summer-yet-to- come. Whatever the reason, I've been struggling. Oh, I have moments, moments when I jump back on that keyboard and gallop away, but they've been few and far between. Let's face it. I haven't even blogged since March and it's now the end of May.
I tell myself that I'm just in a slump, that the world will tick my way someday, and I'll get going. BUT the world never ticks my way. Hell, the world never really ticks anybody's way. It took months for me to realize that I had to wind my own clock, so to speak. Time doesn't wait, but it can sure leave you behind if you're not careful.
This blog is supposed to be about writing, about my efforts to write the great American novel. Well, whether my book (books in my case) will ever see the light above the printing press, I don't really know. I know there are stories in me: scary stories, romantic stories, suspenseful stories, and stories about ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances. I know they're all there, waiting for my fingers to begin the rudimentary canvas on which each will be painted. (You guessed it I'm getting to another BUT) ...but...my dreams have gotten pressed between my health and my economic circumstances. Some are completely gone...shot to hell...others are still there, like that last tiny light just before the cigarette is pushed against the bottom of the ashtray.
I write this here because I've come to believe that no one reads it anyway. Some of my friends used to drop by and give me a boost/comment, but since I've been so slow to post, they've found other places to comment. Who can blame them? I can't say that I won't ever finish the two book series. In fact, even in this great, deep funk, I actually did some edits, starting from the beginning and reading through again. (I like the book, but then again, I'm not an agent.)
My computer was new in 2002. It's not so new anymore and it, like its owner, is showing its age. I've been getting lots of blue screen/disc errors and I've tried to back things up as much as possible, but soon and very soon, the old Gateway is going to give up its ghost. When that happens, I'll have to travel to write, and in order to travel, I have to have gas money. I'm hoping to finish at least the first book in the series before the thing goes "Ker-Plow", but who knows? The way my luck's been going lately, I'll probably do something brillant, then the screen will go blank, and it'll all be lost. (Knock on wood that that doesn't happen!)
Well, I'm going to stop complaining. I'm down to my last four cigarettes, and I've got the urge to chain smoke.
I tell myself that I'm just in a slump, that the world will tick my way someday, and I'll get going. BUT the world never ticks my way. Hell, the world never really ticks anybody's way. It took months for me to realize that I had to wind my own clock, so to speak. Time doesn't wait, but it can sure leave you behind if you're not careful.
This blog is supposed to be about writing, about my efforts to write the great American novel. Well, whether my book (books in my case) will ever see the light above the printing press, I don't really know. I know there are stories in me: scary stories, romantic stories, suspenseful stories, and stories about ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances. I know they're all there, waiting for my fingers to begin the rudimentary canvas on which each will be painted. (You guessed it I'm getting to another BUT) ...but...my dreams have gotten pressed between my health and my economic circumstances. Some are completely gone...shot to hell...others are still there, like that last tiny light just before the cigarette is pushed against the bottom of the ashtray.
I write this here because I've come to believe that no one reads it anyway. Some of my friends used to drop by and give me a boost/comment, but since I've been so slow to post, they've found other places to comment. Who can blame them? I can't say that I won't ever finish the two book series. In fact, even in this great, deep funk, I actually did some edits, starting from the beginning and reading through again. (I like the book, but then again, I'm not an agent.)
My computer was new in 2002. It's not so new anymore and it, like its owner, is showing its age. I've been getting lots of blue screen/disc errors and I've tried to back things up as much as possible, but soon and very soon, the old Gateway is going to give up its ghost. When that happens, I'll have to travel to write, and in order to travel, I have to have gas money. I'm hoping to finish at least the first book in the series before the thing goes "Ker-Plow", but who knows? The way my luck's been going lately, I'll probably do something brillant, then the screen will go blank, and it'll all be lost. (Knock on wood that that doesn't happen!)
Well, I'm going to stop complaining. I'm down to my last four cigarettes, and I've got the urge to chain smoke.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
At It Again
Neither snow, nor hail, nor dark of night, or (in my case) disease shall stay the writer on her appointed keyboard. Yes. It's me again, and I'm sort of writing once more. Mostly, I'm reading, and from my perspective, that may very well be the best way to spur inspiration. My friend Gini Koch's new book Touched by an Alien comes out on April 6th, and by the time I get through all the Patricia Cornwell I'm reading, I'll be up-and-at'em for Gini's effort.
My effort, the big book that turned into two books might even turn into three if Gini gets her way. I'm not sure, but hey, I could do worse I suppose. My main character lives to be 104 years old in my story, soooo it could work. I'm still leaning toward two spans: younger woman then older woman. I'm not sure I won't to talk about the middle-aged woman. I'm having enough trouble with that myself.
Every time I say "middle-aged" I think of Spencer Tracey. The Hollywood folk threw him an enormous bash when he turned fifty. Tracey was throwing back a few drinks with his friends when one raised a glass and said, "Welcome to middle-age." Another so-called friend smiled, downed his Scotch, and responded, "Middle-age, hell! Who lives to be a hundred." Tracey took it to heart and stalked sullenly away. I'm not quite as sensitive as Tracey, but I don't really expect to live to be a hundred.
As for the book...I've come to terms with one of my many flaws: the tendency to rush the story. I think I rush partly because I can see the finish line, and I want to make it there, at least with this one. It's well over 125000 words all together. :) Hey, there was a time when I only wrote poetry (some of which can be viewed in the on-line magazine Raphael's Village which contains a lot of good reading. I recommend it.) and poets don't usually write 125,000 words. Know what I mean?
Anyway, back to the reading, the writing, and the hoping that this time I can slow down and let my characters catch a breath between scenes. There is something to be said for a quiet walk by the creek.
My effort, the big book that turned into two books might even turn into three if Gini gets her way. I'm not sure, but hey, I could do worse I suppose. My main character lives to be 104 years old in my story, soooo it could work. I'm still leaning toward two spans: younger woman then older woman. I'm not sure I won't to talk about the middle-aged woman. I'm having enough trouble with that myself.
Every time I say "middle-aged" I think of Spencer Tracey. The Hollywood folk threw him an enormous bash when he turned fifty. Tracey was throwing back a few drinks with his friends when one raised a glass and said, "Welcome to middle-age." Another so-called friend smiled, downed his Scotch, and responded, "Middle-age, hell! Who lives to be a hundred." Tracey took it to heart and stalked sullenly away. I'm not quite as sensitive as Tracey, but I don't really expect to live to be a hundred.
As for the book...I've come to terms with one of my many flaws: the tendency to rush the story. I think I rush partly because I can see the finish line, and I want to make it there, at least with this one. It's well over 125000 words all together. :) Hey, there was a time when I only wrote poetry (some of which can be viewed in the on-line magazine Raphael's Village which contains a lot of good reading. I recommend it.) and poets don't usually write 125,000 words. Know what I mean?
Anyway, back to the reading, the writing, and the hoping that this time I can slow down and let my characters catch a breath between scenes. There is something to be said for a quiet walk by the creek.
Friday, January 15, 2010
BACK IN THE SADDLE AGAIN
Okay. I've been gone for months; that's true. You see, I had another stroke, not the usual TIA, a CVA (bleeding into the brain). All in all, it set me back, but speaking of back: I'm back in the saddle again. I'm not writing new stuff, but at the urging of a friend, I am revising again. As a matter of fact, it's not so bad. At first, I couldn't quite get the hang of it, but writing is like riding a bicycle, I suppose. I just hopped right in there and finally, after long suffering efforts, I'm at the revision of the last novel.
As far as I can tell, I'm actually making sense, or rather, the novel is making sense. I put in a few extra words this week (like 1,000) and next week I might get a few more in. The absence from craft hasn't been bad for me. I'm seeing things I should have seen earlier and my excitement at the effort is growing stronger.
For those of you who might actually read this: Thanks. And for the others, the ones who don't take a look at my site...:P
As far as I can tell, I'm actually making sense, or rather, the novel is making sense. I put in a few extra words this week (like 1,000) and next week I might get a few more in. The absence from craft hasn't been bad for me. I'm seeing things I should have seen earlier and my excitement at the effort is growing stronger.
For those of you who might actually read this: Thanks. And for the others, the ones who don't take a look at my site...:P
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Seriously Dry Spell
Okay, so I haven't written in weeks. I know. I'm the one who keeps saying, "Write. Write. Write." But nowdays, I can't. I want to, but nothing I write makes it past that lovely, little key called 'delete'.
I've written rougly 5000 words within the last two weeks, all of which are now floating somewhere in the digital cosmos of the forgotten and deleted. Nothing works for me. No short story. No poem, and certainly, no novel. :( Woe is me, to coin a phrase.
I am now seeking encouragement. I need a writer's-soul hug, a kind word, or maybe an agent. Anyone listening?
I've written rougly 5000 words within the last two weeks, all of which are now floating somewhere in the digital cosmos of the forgotten and deleted. Nothing works for me. No short story. No poem, and certainly, no novel. :( Woe is me, to coin a phrase.
I am now seeking encouragement. I need a writer's-soul hug, a kind word, or maybe an agent. Anyone listening?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
