What I Know For Sure

Write what you know.  I can't count how many times I've read that phrase.  As overused as it is, there must be something to that piece of advice.  I decided to follow it. 

What is it that I know right now?  I know how to fail at a marriage.  I'm pretty damn good at it, actually.  I've failed twice, which is above average.  I don't mean that in a whole, "poor me" way.  It just is.  So, I am writing about that very thing. 

Writing about something that is deeply personal is a little weird, though.  I spend most of my time editorializing what I tell others.  I could rant and rave about the same themes, but in the end it gets a little old.  Instead I self edit what I say to others, as many people do.  Everyone has a filter.  Sometimes, that filter needs to be a little more robust.  In writing a story, I am able to take off that filter and explore the thoughts that I dare not say out loud, for fear of sounding a little off my rocker.  In writing, there is no judgement.  I can explore themes of hurt or longing and not be labeled. 

The experience has been freeing.  In life, I tend to try to see things from another's perspective.  I tend to compromise, which can be good, in the case of resolving a dispute.  It can also be bad, in the case of compromising one's beliefs or happiness.  By removing my filter and allowing myself to freedom to express what is mine alone, I have been able to see things clearly and achieve peace.   
 

Craftsmanship

One of the alarming things I'm learning about myself through this project is that I really do need some sort of external pressure to complete...anything, apparently. I've always been more task-oriented than goal-oriented, particularly if the tasks were set by someone paying me a salary. As much as I like to say I'm self-directed, the reality is that I'm only that way when I'm on the clock.


I had decided, sort of, that one of my goals this year would be to try to complete a novel by October 31st, which would then free me up to churn out a potboiler during NaNoWriMo. It seemed more than achievable - if I could write a crappy novel in a month, as I have for past NaNos, than surely I could write a good book in ten months.

It turns out, writing, regularly and with care, is really, really hard. I've never had to do it before; in the past I could churn out papers, essays, and stories quickly and with minimal effort.

Now, though, I'm putting a lot more care and work into it, and it's going at a snail's pace, to the point where it's borderline disheartening. It's hard work, and I'm really trying at it now in a way that I never had to before. Proofing, refining, doing outlines and timelines and character backgrounds; researching buildings and towns and professions. I know I can write well; I know I have a handle on the art of it. What I'm learning, painfully, now, is the craft of it. Like any other trade, I need to develop and hone my skills in ways that are not apparent on the surface, and the only way I can do that is through experience.

So it's been a slow go lately for me, but I'm glad that I'm sticking with it. It'd be easy to cheat, or quit, or pretend I lost interest in the project altogether, but I feel I have a bigger responsiblity now. Now just to Jen, my partner in crime, but to me; to achieve this goal I have set for myself. Not just to know that I can do it, but to believe that I will do it.

What flavor am I?

For years I daydreamed about being a writer.  One such manifestation of my dream was that I was a freelance writer for a magazine.  Last week I looked into what it would take to be a freelance writer.  The world of freelance writing is pretty vast.  There are postings for blog writers, marketing content, web articles, and product reviews.  I was amazed at how many different types of freelance assignments there were.  I also quickly discovered that there was global competition for these jobs. 

I decided to give it a try.  I answered an ad for someone to write biographies for the artists signed with a particular record label.  The person who posted the ad had a computer mishap and needed help in writing her articles.  I contacted her and submitted a bid, which told her how much I would charge, how much work I could take on, and when I would finish the job.  I discovered that many of these writing jobs paid barely more than minimum wage.  After an hour and a half of my time, she said that she would accept my bid contingent on writing a sample bid, which took me another hour and a half.   

In the end I didn't get the bid.  Given the rejection rate of writers and other artists, I didn't take it to heart.  However, I did gain some insight.  In the business world, time is money.  But in the world of art, money isn't everything.  Many of the people who were awarded projects were from overseas where the dollar stretches further.  Given this climate, it is clear that freelancing would only augment my income and enhance my resume.  It wasn't the dream I had in mind.

I think this was an important exercise in defining myself more as a writer.  I was able to delineate what I would and wouldn't do.  The more I write and dig into this process, the stronger my voice is as an artist.  Creating something with a better awareness of the marketplace will hopefully give me perspective so that I can write with relevance.  At the very least, it gives me understanding so that I don't feel like a bumbling idiot.  Now the next time I dream, it can be a little more specific.     

What's the saying about good intentions?

A couple months ago I was daydreaming and thought the idea would make a good story.  I developed the story by asking myself, "How did these characters get in this situation?"  Then I wrote, not caring if it were good or bad.  I just wrote to get the words out.  I'm about 100 pages into it, and it feels wrong.  I can't make the connections.  The more I develop the book, the outcome is so far removed from the original idea.  It's clear, in my mind, what I need to do.  I need to keep the original idea for later, and finish the new story. 

What happened with this story echos real life.  Starting out with best intentions, only to have something go wrong, and end up trying to fix it.  Nothing is beyond fixing.  In the end, I think the newly fixed outcome will be better than the original intended outcome.  At least, that's the thought that keeps me going.

I'm writing...now what?

I've been feeling a little accomplished lately, so I decided it was time to squish my high spirits.  Actually, I decided it was time to research next steps.  The squishing of my spirits was a unfortunate yet inevitable side effect.  I wanted to get published.  So, I read articles from writing organizations and writers to see what their advice to me was.


Each article detailed the long and arduous road of getting published.  It told of a struggle that lasted years.  It detailed the hundreds of rejections.  It told of project after project that would never know an audience.  Writing is not for the faint of heart and I was starting to become faint. 

The writers also had conflicting pieces of advice.  Just do it.  Don't just do it- practice then do it.  Write what comes naturally.  Think outside of your comfort zone.  Use natural language.  Use thought provoking language.  By the end of the night, I thought my head would explode.

In the end, none of it mattered.  I spent a day reading what someone else's ideas on writing were.  I had hoped for inspiration by people I admired.  There were very few articles that achieved that end.  So, I ended up back at the beginning, which isn't necessarily a bad thing.  In the end, I know what I know and that is that I'm a writer.  Whatever profession I hold, I'm a writer.  My identity as a writer goes beyond a paycheck, beyond what's on my business card.  Writing is what I do.  Right now it's what I do for fun.  Hopefully it will become something that will be shared with others.  I just need to keep doing it. 

symmetry

My co-worker's mother passed away earlier this month. She was in her late eighties, and had been ill for quite some time, so it was not unexpected. I tried to write a few times this week about other things, but I am sad for my friend, and remembering my own mother's terminal illness, and my fingers are not interested in typing other stories just yet.

He returned to work a few days ago, and we had lunch together his first day back in the office. My co-worker is a born raconteur, and had spoken about his mother, a fierce first-generation Italian-American. I never met her, but liked her a great deal based upon his stories.

He told me how she had been lucid almost until the end, determined to go on her own terms, without regrets. She dictated her guest list and visiting hours personally those few final days, and participated eagerly in planning her memorial service, including the menu. While discussing menu options a few days before her death, she casually mentioned how much she liked the cookies from a bakery on the east side. An errant thought for the dessert table, and then she moved on to insist that no chicken be served.

Her son remembered, though, and drove two hours to this bakery to get her the cookies, which cost $18 a pound. The day he brought her the cookies was the day she was finally unable to eat solid food. Undeterred, she put the box next to her bed so she could smell and admire them, doling the cookies out to favored guests.

One of the last things she told him before she died was how the smell of the cookies brought back a childhood memory, long forgotten. On rare occasions, her father would take her on the long drive to this same bakery, and purchase the same cookies. He sketched the story so beautifully that I could see it in my mind; the little dark-haired girl, in her dress and mary janes, so excited to spend the day alone with her daddy on the long drive to the bakery; their special time together. My co-worker's cookies were more than a gesture of thoughtfulness for his dying mother; for that moment, he gave her her father back.

The Inner Critic

Somewhere on this journey, I have transformed.  When we started this reverse book club, my goal was just to write.  It didn't have to be good.  It just had to get done.  I was out of practice and needed to get into a routine.  Writing was something that was important to me, and I let other people's priorities and schedules push it aside.  So the goal was to just do it.  Write.  I didn't self-edit.  I didn't think "this isn't good enough".  Surely these were signs that I wasn't a "real writer".  Somewhere along the way, I started self-editing.  I hone and re-hone and hone yet again the things I create.  The self-criticism feels good.  Being engaged in the process feels good.  Writing, and subsequently editing feels good.

My sister encouraged me to watch a clip of Elizabeth Gilbert speak at the TED Conference.  She spoke about the pressure to create something good.  Sometimes the pressure of doing something well can prevent one from doing something at all.  She encouraged her listeners to let go of that pressure.  Your job is to create.  She speaks of the muse or the genius as being an external thing.  Its job it to inspire.  Thinking about writing, or creating art, in this way helps take the pressure off so she can get back to the task at hand.   I encourage you to check out the speech:   http://www.ted.com/talks/lang/eng/elizabeth_gilbert_on_genius.html

If life is about balance, it would follow that writing is about balance.  Striking the balance between getting your work out of your head and into a tangible thing, and honing the creation into something better.  Create something without editing it to death:  that's the challenge.