Inspiration #25

Every now and then, I choose a passage of wisdom from someone who knows better and much more than I do about writing, life, the universe and/or everything.

Share and enjoy!

“We've been raised with a false belief: We mistakenly believe that criticism leads to failure. From the time we get to school, we're taught that being noticed is almost always bad. It gets us sent to the principal's office, not to Harvard.

Nobody says 'Yeah, I'd like to set myself up for some serious criticism!' And yet… The only way to be remarkable is to do just that.”

~from Purple Cow by Seth Godin

Meditations on Change and Hair Dye

About an hour from my house, there is a place called the Salt Flats; an expanse of desert in a long flat valley, sparkling white with a thick layer of crystal salt, the ghost of a lake that once covered this valley.

If you go there at night, you can see all the stars above, and the wind is cold and dry in your throat, like the ash of prehistoric sea life. In the distance are mountains, purple and eerie. And if you get up and run as fast a you can toward them, they never seem to get closer; it is only when you turn and look back at the blanket and flashlight and thermos you left behind, that you realize how far you ran, that you are now just a spec in the great glittering expanse of nothing, hung between two places like a star.

And you run back, faster than you want to admit, as fast as if all the bogey men of your childhood were coming down out of those distant mountains and calling your name.

Change is like that.

I've done so much, run so far, but sometimes I feel like nothing is different until I look back at who and where I was last year, the year before. Back when I was in the comfort of denial and I'll-do-it-someday. Back in the time when I wasn't stumbling through writing Something I Want People to Read for People Who Want to Read It, back when I was just a wanna be writer, one working too hard at life and being normal to actually do it.

I look behind at the comfort of that blanket on the ground, the comfort of nothing yet ventured–it's so far away–and I want to run back. The mountains ahead are so far away and so cold looking, and I swear the desert is howling for me, calling my soul to Hell. I'm sure all the demons I have ever imagined are waiting in the shadows, hungry, salivating.

But unlike running in the desert, I can't turn back. Those mountains are where I want to be, even if they are still impossibly distant, even if those monsters live and breathe and I have to slay them with my trembling ink-stained hands.

Even if no one likes what I write.

I can't go back. As much as I sometimes wish to, I'm not that person anymore. I need a change, something to remind me every day that I am different, that its ok to move on.

I read once that people who wanted to make major changes in their lives were able to do so easily after merely changing their route to work each day. Change one thing, anything, and life makes room for more alterations.

Enter a box of hair dye, a bottle of wine, and irowboat's help.

Today, I stare at the world from beneath magenta bangs instead of my natural brown laced with early white.

It seems like such a small thing, changing hair color. Reversible, insignificant, superficial.

But that's the point. Life is a series of small shifts, small steps in one direction or another, each step a reminder of the way we want to go, and shuffling that direction.

Novels aren't written in 30,000-word chunks; they are done 5, 500, 1,342 words at a time, each word and sentence and hour set aside for just the purpose another step through the salty netherworld between.

Those moutnains aren't going to get up and walk their demon-infested paths to us. We have to go to them and fight the good fight all the way to the top. And remember not to go back.

Every time I look in the mirror, I'll remember to not look back, to go forward, to be brave, and bold, and loud.

Let the rest of life follow.

 

 

 

 

Distance, where I’ve been, and getting personal

Shadows at the tide pools.

Forgive me for rambling, I'm rusty at this.

I've been away. Away from the blog, away from home, from myself, even from writing.

I needed a vacation.

Irowboat's birthday is in April, and we decided to celebrate with a road trip in my new car to California – traveling to San Francisco and down the coast to Los Angeles, finally ending in San Diego for a few nights before heading home. It was a chance to see friends (including a visit with the fabulous people of The Office of Letters and Light), to eat marvelous food, stare at gorgeous coastlines, and to research some locations for The Novel.

We had an amazing time. There were long walks, speakeasies, The Golden Gate Bridge, winding roads with no cell phone reception, tide pools, ghosts in hotels, caves used by smugglers and pirates of yesteryear, beaches at sunset, books by Douglas Adams on the car stereo, time with each other. And, of course, amazing friends, new, old, and in-between.

There was a day spent glued to television and twitter when bombs went off in Boston, the surreal contrast of our Great Vacation against the horror and fear of the news.

There was an impromptu stop at Monterey Bay Aquarium, hunts for clam chowder on the coast, adventure.

I barely wrote a word.

It gave me distance, this trip. It gave me time in air thick with history and wonder, time in the places my characters know and love and remember. Time away from myself and who I'm used to being.

That distance gave me the chance for all this writing, all this dreaming to change me, and I've returned different. I'm new, born into myself from the new reality of writing, wanting to write, afraid and excited by all I have to learn.

I can't help but think back to last year at this time. I was frightened, troubled that I might not make it. My insecurities lashed at me like tide on sharp rocks, catching me up in waves I thought might drown me. I knew I would never be the same – I could feel it as I wrote myself real. I've been feeling the changes in me, feeling the strain between who I was and who I am yet to be.

This trip, this distance from my everyday, has broken the bond with the past. I'm floating free. I don't know how to do anything anymore, not like I used to. I don't remember how to blog or to write, I have piles of emails to reply to and comments to answer and things I want to write and share here and elsewhere. And a novel to do.

I don't know where to begin. Not even a little. So I begin here, with you.

What is clear to me is that I'm ready to more myself. Here, elsewhere, anywhere. I can feel it, the desire to hold things back. I've given in too often, and fallen silent instead of saying what I wanted to say. But the time for that is over.

Now it's time to get more real, and more serious. Time to do What I Never Thought I Would.

I'm ready for this, whatever this is. I'm ready.

 

I’ve Been Up To Something…

I haven't been around the blog as much as I like lately.

It's because I've been up to things… Several to be specific, but one thing in particular. And I'm excited, and a little bit frightened. And that usually is the best combination.

As I've mentioned a few times, I'm working on one of last year's novels, slated to be self-published around November/Devember (and a lot of you are getting copies thanks to your contributions to my causes).

This novel has taken a lot of research, and along the way I have been collecting snippets and ideas for back story and history of my characters, things that don't need to be in the novel, but are in my head all the same.

And so, I have launched a blog for the prequel of The Novel, and I am using the momentum of Camp NaNoWriMo to get it written (edits take a little longer).

The story is about vampires, about what we become to survive, about love that lasts through changes and separations, about friendship. And it all centers around a girl, found in Ireland, with a destiny to become one of the most feared beings the vampire world has ever known.

Here is my first entry. The rest can be found at cultofthesun.wordpress.com if you want to follow along.

Ireland, 1904

If only she had forever to live, if only she had more than seventeen years to become brave, she might have found the courage.

But she killed him anyway, the vampire.

The stake, carved for her from the rung of a baby's crib, did not go in smoothly the way she hoped. She knelt at his sleeping side, and her arms shook when she raised it above his death-still chest and plunged down at his heart.

His eyes opened, bright with shock, and he scratched at her; his nails dug long channels into the pale terrain of her flesh, across her chest and down her arm, and red bloomed, further staining the torn silk of her gown and mingling with the pooling black blood of the vampire. The scratches burned like when she backed up against her mother's oven, hot with breaking bread.

She did not scream. And she did not stop.

He clutched at her, bucking and writhing, noises coming from his blood-drenched throat. She closed her eyes and pushed harder against the stake, thinking about butchering lambs in the frost, how they made sad, small sounds and steam rose from the blood, caught in troughs for the season's offerings. She felt his ribs break and give way, like branches under heavy boots. His heart did not resist, and when she penetrated it at last, his body shivered and went limp.

She moved away from the bed slowly, wary of him rising again. Distantly, she knew that her bones ached, that her blood ran hot along her skin, that her lip was split and swelling, and worse things had happened–things she could not think on–but she couldn't feel any of it. She sat as far from the bed as she could, back against the wall, fingered the cold shackle around her ankle, and waited for morning.

 

Camp NaNoWriMo. Are you in?

Obligatory crocus spring image

Happy spring!

Before I get too deep in my own thoughts, go sign up for Camp NaNoWriMo. I'll wait.

Yes, you do have time. Camp lets you set your own word count goal, so no excuses. Go sign up.

Because, writers, it's time to bloom again.

It's been a long winter, and now the world is creaking out of hibernation, and I, too, am stretching myself out into the sun after composting the last of winter's lessons into my flesh.

It doesn't matter what we have done before, what last year did or did not hold for our writing.

Accomplishment or failure, we can begin again, with no regard for the past. We can creak our rusted fingers into typing shape, wrench our minds from anxiety of swim suits and middle squishiness, and focus on what matters to us.

The page, the story, the word, the chat rooms, the creativity.

Time to bloom, time to let the words sprout from the gray covering of the old life. Time to write, and write with the joyous abandon of not caring about anything else than how many words an fit into thirty days (or 27 of you start today, like I am).

Camp NaNoWriMo. Are you in? I am.

 

More on the Kickstarter, a gigantic thank you, and a video

A giant, huge, enormous thank you to everyone who has donated to the efforts of making my friend's writing live on. I am sincerely grateful, and the list of free copies of my first novel is growing and making me smile.

Not to mention the one of you so far (I'm looking at you Michael) who is the first to take me up on my offer of an hour of my time. I'm excited to see what I can do for you, and thank you so so much for donating and for emailing me!

Seeing the amazing show of support has done my soul so much good.

This project is very important to me, and I'm far from alone. Earlier today, David's dear friend Ashley Burch of HAWP fame, who starred alongside David in their movie Must Come Down, posted this video.

 

We've gone from $7,000 to $11,000 raised in just a few days, and the more money raised, the more can be done to honor David's memory. So please, please, help. Even if you can only afford $1.00 help Ashley, Kenny, and all the rest of us who knew and loved David see this made real. And in return, I give you my gratitude and a copy of my book, as soon as I'm done.

Thank you.

 

A Short Biography of Grief, and a request for help

I've been trying for months to find the right words, but none can describe David.

Suffice it to say, if I had to choose one person I know—one being in all creation—that the world could not do without, it would be him. David Fetzer, my friend.

He died last December.

I don't know when I met him, exactly. We were just kids then – bonding over our love of acting at a theater camp. We saw each other every summer, but I don't remember the first time we met. He wasn't in my life, and then he was. And he's had some part of my heart some twenty years now.

We grew up, our paths divided. But sometimes, I would see him. At a bar, in a local box office, walking down the street. And each time I got one of his stellar hugs, one of his wide smiles, shared laughter and some crazy stories of his adventures–usually with his band. Every moment with him was like standing in a patch of sunshine.

David believed in art, and in artists. He did everything he could to make the world more beautiful, he wrote and acted and sang and drew.

He spent his life like he knew it would end – he took risks and encouraged dreams and had the best smile in the universe. In his thirty years, he has done more than most do in a lifetime, always wanting to find the next journey to go on.

And now, he's off making some other place more beautiful, leaving us to fend for ourselves.

But he left behind some of himself, something that needs our help. A few short screenplays, left in the care of his good friend Kenny Riches, and Kenny wants to make the scripts into films.

Here is the video for his Kickstarter: The Films of David Fetzer.

I have donated all I can, and I need your help.

They already offer incentives, but this project means more to me than I can express, so if any of my dear readers would be willing to help, I want to offer what I can:

Anyone who donates any amount, please just email me (michelle.tuckett@gmail.com) a screenshot of your receipt, and I'll put you down as getting a free copy of the novel I'll have out by the end of the year.

And if you donate more than $30, I will give you an hour of my time, if you like. I will read and/or edit your writing, write something for you, talk on the phone about anything, give you a tarot reading (I used to do it for a living), tell you anything you want to know about unicorns, read you to sleep…

I'm serious. I'd do anything.

Please help David give us a last flush of beauty on this planet before we release him to his next great adventure.

The world needs it before we go on without him.

Mommy, I'm afraid to die it's sad,

But it won't be that bad

When I'm back with you.”

~Mushman, Eddie's Balloon

 

 

Winter, Compost, and Writing

Writing practice, March 6, 2013

“Today it smelled like recess.

Like the first hope of spring, when the layers of snow peeled back to reveal autumn's debris, the ruined plastic rakes with splintered handles, the tipped buckets half-full of leaves, the inevitable beloved stuffed animal, lost and flattened and mouldering. Like walking to school in sneakers instead if soured boots, mittens left in our pockets, giddy from the lack of weight on our small bodies.

Today it smelled like recess. Like green grass poking through the webbing of last year's leaves and clippings, like tulips peeking from muddy earth, like hackey sack and too-early soccer games and mud-spattered jeans. It smelled like frosty air blowing down from snow covered mountains, the promise that winter was not over, not yet.

But for a day, we ran along the blacktop and smelled the air and kicked at snowmen melted like the wicked witch, stick arms splayed up to the heavens. And if we squinted our eyes, we could almost imagine green things on the trees, flowers to pick, kickball games, and the hope of the long days of summer far in the distance.

Today, it smelled like that. Like hope and renewal, like green, fresh things pushing up from the old compost of yesteryear, like the buried things uncovered…”

 

All writing falls eventually into a winter; a silent time of reflection and deep white drifts of nothingness covering our minds. It is a time to relax, to contemplate, to compost.

In the phenomenal book Writing Down the Bones, Natalie Goldberg describes writing practice as composting our lives, churning memory and senses and thoughts over and over until they become the fertil soil of imagination. And from there, we find the richness in ourselves we seek. And then, we write with that richness of being.

I'm a believer in composting, in following the seasons of ourselves and our writing.

We do not write outside the existence of our lives. We write in the rhythm of living; seeking to dive in and transform the desperate handful of moments we have in the world into something outside of us, something that touches others in the small ways, comforting ways that make the world a richer place to live in.

We need to write—we need to write from deep within, to process and turn through the decayed selves we once were, the memories and smells and emotions and deeper truths to be found within, we need to spring, ever hopeful and green from the remnants of ourselves.

And to use what we have learned, to be who we are, and tell the stories that naturally grow from that fertile ground of our own hearts, and to own those stories without judgement, without reservation or fear or censorship.

Because our stories are the natural consequence of our lives, of our obsessions and pasts and hair color and names and hobbies and sorrows and scars and joys. They are part of us, raw and real and alive. It is important to accept our selves, to churn through our minds in search for what matters, what is ready to be said.

When the silence of winter comes over us, it is time to listen. It is time to churn through our words and memory, to fall deep into truth with ourselves.

And then write what springs green and new from our hearts, as soon as the frost is gone.

Photo credit: irowboat

 

What Comes Now (For Real) a briefest of brief updates

I must be brief tonight, but I wanted to check in with this blog for a moment for a quick update.

Because I finally have A Plan for this year. And I am a happier person when I have things like plans and goals to work toward.

The hand written edits begin...

Second, I let slip yesterday on my Facebook page that I've started working in earnest on the edits and piecing together of last December's novel.

And that I'm going to self publish it this year, either when I'm done or chapter by chapter – I'm not sure yet. But either way, I will have a book to share with you all soon probably pieces along the way, to share and for feedback and for fun.

Third, I still have the remaining entries for June's blog-format novel to tidy and post, and I will get on those (finally).

As well as more content for this blog, because I miss blogging. And I will be more active on Facebook – I've started posting pictures of where I'm writing daily, just for fun. Please feel free come and share your own writing pictures. I would love to have a gallery full of writers writing, the mess of desks and coffee rings and papers and laptops – it would be lovely.

And Fourth, I want to figure out how to inspire more writing and more creativity. There are many wonderful things I have discovered and learned in the last year, but by far the most rewarding is when I hear anyone say “If you can write that much maybe I can do [fill in the blank]“.

And I want to share more. I want to find some way of bringing what I have learned out into the rest of the world. I've played with the idea of a free online class, or with just answering questions, or… I don't know. Maybe no one would be interested, maybe many would.

But I am totally open to suggestions. Really. Please feel free to email me, comment here, anything.

 

I'd love to keep blogging tonight. I have so much I want to talk about, so much to catch up on. But irowboat is demanding that I abandon the computer for the night to watch Batman cartoons and drink beer…

And how can I say no to that?

Cheers.

 

Focusing on the Outcome

I want to be a writer.

Specifically, I want to write and publish books. Books about vampires and fairies and an organization I created called the Wish Granter's Union.

I want people to read what I write, to be inspired by my characters as I have been by other characters. I want to share what I know about life, about history, about people and love and all the other questions I may have an answer to, or at least a new way of asking the question.

And I suspect that you want something similar if you are here. We all want to touch the world in some way, in our own way be it selling things we want to share with the world, making art or music, or of course, writing.

And we need to remember that.

Which is why I have decided not to apply for Clarion West.

This last Saturday I spent eight hours in a martial arts seminar with one if the most incredible teachers alive.

We were practicing evading our opponent in slow motion, and looking for openings between their movements for our attack. We were to move aside or counter their motion, then find which tartet we wanted to hit for the desired effect, in this case putting the opponent on the ground.

I could evade well enough, but every time I started to hone in on my next move, I would get caught up in the method of it (exactly how do I need to grab his knee to make him fall backward again?) and I'd get hit. Start over, I get hit again.

My teacher had to remind me of somehting we've learned before.

“Focus on the desired outcome, not the method.”

We started again. My opponent hit the ground. I don't know what I did exactly, but it doesn't matter. I got what I wanted.

We must focus on the outcome.

It is so easy as writers to get distracted with the waving arms or our opponents. We spend time reading about craft, researching markets, trying to get into classes or magazines, fighting writers block, spending time arguing over the best method for characterization, whether or not to outline before writing (please stop it).

But we can do something different. We can focus on the outcome and trust ourselves to take the necessary actions to get there.

Because when fighting an opponent, we can hit their arm as hard as we want and it won't knock them out. If we want to knock them out, we must brush aside the arm and find a more viable target.

We must find our desired outcome.

Focusing on the outcome is how I wrote fifty thousand words every month for a year, regardless of the time constraints and the moping and internal struggle I went through, I always knew that all I needed to do was move toward 50,000 words. And I had to knock aside a lot of punches aimed my way, believe me.

But I knew what had to be done, and I did it.

And all of this is why I'm not applying for Clarion.

It is an outcome; a goal I could shoot for and a wonderful opportunity for someone who has the desire and need for close instruction, needing the encouragement and environment to learn to write every day.

But it isn't my desired outcome. It is a sideways step, a side mission tacked onto the path I walk. And unnecessary.

I want to write books. I want to publish. That was what last year was about too, about getting the habit of writing and the practice in of writing, continuing, finishing, repeat.

I'm ready, I think, to fly on my own. I'm ready to aim for the ultimate goal, the big one I've been dreaming of since I was very young. I have put in my time learning to write, now it's time to learn to make that writing readable and publishable.

It all comes done to trust. Trust in myself to know what needs to be done to get where I want to go, no matter what obstacles need to be knocked out of the way.

Which brings me to another maxim from Saturday's seminar.

“There is no success in giving up.”

 

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