Inspiration #25

08 May 2013 2 Comments

by PartlyPixie in Inspiration, Marketing Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

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

05 May 2013 6 Comments

by PartlyPixie in unsticking Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

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

03 May 2013 5 Comments

by PartlyPixie in The Novel, unsticking Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

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.

 

Camp NaNoWriMo. Are you in?

03 Apr 2013 12 Comments

by PartlyPixie in Camp NaNoWriMo Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

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.

 

Winter, Compost, and Writing

06 Mar 2013 7 Comments

by PartlyPixie in Philosophical, unsticking Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

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

 

Silence, Resistance, and Arguing with Myself

17 Feb 2013 4 Comments

by PartlyPixie in Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

I know I've been gone for some time. So long that irowboat took pity on me and wrote a lovely little post just to let everyone know I still alive, if not exactly prolific. Or able to spread butter on bread.

I have drafts and half written posts here on my iPad. More of the in my head. But they and other things I want to write remain as they are, either in the limbo of half-written or left as little thought bubbles in the odd hours of the night.

Before I get those posts that are ready up, I wanted to share this dilemma I'm facing in all it's neurotic glory. I tend to keep these kinds of struggles to myself because they are generally temporary and because we have other things to talk about here. But I need to get this part off my chest.

Because I'm not writing – not the way I need to be.

I don't believe in writers block, and even if I did this isn't it. I'm overflowing with ideas.

And yet, I've gone silent.

Silence in writers can be a good thing. It can be a period of reflection, growth, a respite, or just a small glitch that will work itself out.

But like depression, silence that goes on for too long means it's not just a glitch in the program, and it's time to take a good long look at what needs to change.

So now, let's all imagine the little squiggly lines and Vaseline-smeared lens effect of a television flashback, and go back to nearly one month ago. I'd just written my previous post, and was ready to decide what comes next for me.

And I decided to apply for Clarion West.

If you're not familiar with the Clarion workshops, they are intensive 6-weekly ordeals in which only 18 people are chosen per year, and the process seems to go something like: write a short story and have it torn apart, take a break and tear another person's story apart, listen to the instructors, rinse, repeat. All while staying in college dorms and networking and all that kind of stuff.

The instructors are all accomplished writers. This year, my idol and one do my favorite writers Neil Gaiman will be teaching. The workshop is also in Seattle, and if I get in I would have to get there and back, plus miss 6 weeks of work and pony up the $3,600 tuition cost.

To apply, I need to submit either 2 short stories totaling less than 30 pages (this is the recommended method), or a novel excerpt with a three page synopsis. This shoud not be difficult to come up with.

And ever since I decided to apply, I have been able to write a damn thing. Not even a blog post.

I come up with plenty of story ideas, none of which will fit into a 30-page limit. So I give up and turn to my old rough drafts and search for a excerpt and find one I think I can make work.

But it seems like if I really want to get in, I should write a short story. Two.

So I go back to that, and come up with another few thousand words. It seems to be going well.

And then Resistance sets in. Magically, I have suddenly gone out to do grocery shopping, or decided to clean my house, or have lapsed into a 4-hour coma and wake up on my desk with my forehead all wrinkly like a Klingon from my sweater-covered arms.

Resistance is as common as silence, and generally is something to ignore and push past. But once again, if it goes on too long, I think it comes time to reevaluate my situation.

What if I'm reisisting because I don't want to go?

It's a stupid dilemma to have. The chances that I may be one of the fortunate 18 is small, even if I do my best work. Nothing bad can come of writing and polishing 2 short stories or fixing up 30 pages of a novel. Why not just apply and see where the chips fall? Why not just go for it, and trust in the fates to do what is best for me?

First, the Fates have a fucked up sense of humor, and are not to be trusted. The end.

But the advice is sound, why not just do the best I can do, writing the things that I write (the temptation to write what I suspect they are looking for is high – but that's another post), and get on with things.

It all comes down to goals. Specific goals. If I want to merely apply to Clarion, just to see if what I usually write has a shot, I could have done that yesterday, or even last year. I can easily find 30 pages of pretty damn good writing to clean up and send, but that would only fulfill the goal of applying.

If the goal is to get in to Clarion, then nothing but my best will do. I'll have cheated myself otherwise if I don't do the recommended 2 short stories of my best writing to date, polishing and shining them until they are the pinnacle if what I have to offer. And then if/when I don't get in, at least I know that I did myself justice.

My ultimate goal, though, is to be a writer, to publish and write books people like enough to buy and come back for more, maybe even enough that I could quit my day job.

I suspect I don't need Clarion for that. It might help, sure – help with craft and networking and unknown other things. It seems like a side-step, though. The next step to publishing a book is editing and submitting, looking for an agent, getting rejected and trying again. That seems to be how every writer I love and respect has done it.

I don't know exactly what Clarion would do for me. In the accounts of those I have read, they say the most valuable lesson was just sitting down and writing.

I think I've got that one down. After writing 650,000 words in a year, it's now an ingrained habit to at least get out a few hundred words each day, or even to make a few notes. Writing on demand is not a problem.

But no matter what may or may not happen for me at Clarion, one thing is for sure.

Ever since I decided to apply, I have barely written.

That moment a month ago when I put it down as what I wanted was the dawn of stress and struggle and daily arguments with myself over what to do and how to do it. The only relief I can find is when I can for five or ten minutes convince myself I don't actually have to go, or even apply. Then, I feel better.

And because I feel better, I start to write again.

Until I realize maybe what I'm writing Something Promising. Maybe for Clarion…

Aaaaaand I stop writing.

I'm a believe in listening to one's own heart. And I think my Resistance and my heart are on the same page with this.

I don't want to go to Clarion. Even though I haven't even applied yet, even though I probably won't have to worry about whether or not to go because I won't get in, even though the workshop is a dream chance, the kind of thing people risk everything to do and if I do get in I'd be stupid to give up.

I don't want it.

So I'll apply. Because I can; I'll send in an except even though they recommend I don't. I'll pay the application fee and email in my words and move on.

And when I don't make it, I'll breathe a sigh of relief and plan what I'd rather do with $3,600.

Thanks, friends. I'm glad we had this talk.

 

 

 

 

 

The Daunting Rebeginning

20 Jan 2013 9 Comments

by PartlyPixie in 12 Month Reflections, unsticking Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

Time to start again.

http://onedrawingaday.com/category/studio-1482-japan-fundraiser/

I believe it is a rule that we are always lost when we begin.

I have taken the last twenty days more or less off, a rest from the turbulence of the end of last year and the writing of the last twelve months. Time to recover and to remember how to just lay on the couch and watch television or to just read an email or a book. Time to get sick with a cold and shop for a new car to replace the one that died last year, and to realize just how much I enjoy driving fast. Time for new stories to bubble from my imagination, waiting to be told.

And now, now I remember that I am A Writer. And writers write.

How do I write? How do we ever write, how do we take this beast called plot and character, how do we describe the actions of life in black and white markings?

Beginnings are full of awkward abstractions. It is not like the business of my day job, making sandwiches for hungry professionals. With a sandwich, there are limited factors, a set rhythm – choose the bread and cut it apart, spread sauces and cheeses and meat in piles with vegetables and then wrap it in foil and start again.

Writing is like that, if you had to bake the bread for each sandwich, making it with no recipe, and imagine what kind of animal the meat came from before you set it down, if the person eating the sandwich could only taste what we describe in words about the food. And as we hand it over, desperately trying to remember if we described accurately the way the tomato seeds are small and yellow in the gelatin of the fruit pulp and how the addition of cheddar cheese should add some bite to the turkey. Or if that would detract from the point of the multi grain bread.

The beginning is always impossible. We reinvent not only the wheel, but the pen, the word, the practice of hands on keyboard. We must choose what invented mind to tell the story from, we must manufacture emotions and hope that what we think we feel is the same feelings others have. We choose one person to tell from, or several, if we are in the future or the past, and even in the present we must find the color of the drapes that the light filters through in the morning.

It is even worse if we have a clear picture, the half-formed Polaroid, because it all must add up to that feeling we had when the photo developed in our quaking minds. We find a good first line, and want the rest of the melody we write to match that cadence, and when we hit a sour note it jolts us down to our tailbone that we have gone astray. And we are so tempted to quit and let the unwritten story stay perfect in our imagination.

It all feels so impossible, to begin. Especially when we have begun before, and we cannot remember the way back. Because no two beginnings are ever the same.

You see, most mythology has it all wrong. In the beginning, there was not darkness, nor was there the void.

In the beginning, there is always chaos.

And we are the reluctant masters of that chaos. We peer into that squiggling mass of possibility and have the courage to plunge into the uncertainty and the despair and wonder and the feeling of too many worlds all crowding about us wanting to be born from the unknown.

Endless possibility can often look like nothing, and we call the frozen feeling of Too Much “writers block” and we give it power, we write books about writers block (irony), we believe that it is a demon but really it is just a shape in the din of everything possible in the universe waiting to be breathed full of life.

We must remember that the difference between nothing and everything is merely a tilt of the head, a grasp of a new beginning, the willingness to wander lost into a forest with nothing but a small stub of pencil behind our ear as protection and to know that we will be okay, because the hero always lives. Not only do they live, but they are stronger for it.

We must trust the chaos to have more than we will ever need, even when it only looks like blackness, the kind of blackness with sharp teeth hiding inside. But we are not afraid, even if we think we are. We invent the fear too, and so can we invent bravery. Bravery to be bold, to be terrible, to be brilliant, to write that first paragraph and continue on to the last.

And so must we begin. Again.

 

I Wrote Thirteen Novels in 2012. Now what….. and retrospective.

10 Jan 2013 13 Comments

by PartlyPixie in 12 Month Reflections Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

I feel like I am just beginning.

Last year I wrote thirteen novels, 650,000 words, and a handful of blog posts. I started the project with the idea that either I would find out that I am really a writer, and learn what it is to have writing a constant thing that must be done regularly, to have it a habit to sit down and type what I daydream more than I imagine that I might someday write some of it down.

I thought, when I started, that either I would end up a writer on the other side, or I would know that I never want to write again. I thought that when I finally crossed the finish line that I would collapse, feeling like I was full of words and stories I had told, ideas spent, projects behind me like miles of track and I would be the triumphant marathoner.

And I thought that I would feel finished, like I had completed something.

And yet, no. I feel tenuous, green like fresh grass out of a snow drift, fragile and new and so very timid about even sharing these few words. I have written post after post and then deleted them, because they only said what I thought I wanted to say, and yet the old formula does not touch my heart the same way. It is different, the words, the meaning of this life, the things that I want, and the realization of who I am.

I must begin. Again.

I wrote thirteen novels in 2012. 650,000 words of fiction. It still feels surreal, like an object so precious that I must keep touching it to know that it is there. I have to keep saying it to people, to myself. That I did it.

And then the lingering question.

Now what?

Again, there were assumptions. That I would dive immediately into editing what I did, that I would comb through in horror and amazement at what I had written and start to pull it all apart and see what could be made of the mess. I thought I would have used up my ideas, and that I would want only to examine what has already come. And in that assumption, I thought that the value of writing thirteen novels would be in what was produced itself. Again, I find myself wrong.

I'm sure that what I have written has potential; it would be lovely to have some of the stories that I so enjoyed writing be viable. Surely, at least four of five of the books have potential, at least I think.

But like all the other assumptions I made, it is hollow. Like the possessions of a human do not mean anything about themselves in the end, the true value of writing so much had nothing to do with what I wrote, but more in the writing of it, the abandon to write whatever it was within my heart to write and to witness it as a part of myself.

The value came in blogging my adventure and meeting the wonderful people who have been here with me on my journey, it came from writing a guest blog for the Office of Letters and Light, and taking a whirlwind trip to Write Dangerously in San Francisco, riding on the amazing kindness of donations from strangers and friends alike.

The value came in forgetting to worry about who I seemed to be (or simply being too tired all the time to pretend to be anything else). It came in the terror of beginning, and pushing through resistance and old beliefs because there was nothing else to be done but to move forward.

It came in the form of finishing against all odds, in writing a novel in a week, in the incredible support of my parents and friends and strangers who have taken it upon themselves to keep me buoyed up, who comment on this blog and make me smile, and in the act of blogging at all, sharing myself with anyone who wishes to look.

The value came from the steadfast devotion of my amazing irowboat, who would so often turn to me and say not “I love you,” or “You've got this,” but instead “Wordcount” – a demand and not a question, and he even made me an action figure to egg me on. He stayed up nights with me, endless coffee and peanut m&ms on demand, his shoulder always there to lean on, and the constant demand for my wordcount pushing me past exhaustion. I could not have done it without him.

The value came from slowly feeling myself turn into a person, to feel the parts of myself that I adopted to appease those around me become uncomfortable and hang from me like an old coat I don't need anymore. I can feel the solidity of this person I am, even if I am not entirely sure who that is now.

And of course, the value is in having become a much more able writer, a much more confident writer, who is not afraid of putting junk down on the page. And a better writer by far.

And as a bonus to all that and more, I have thirteen novels to edit if I want to. It is all so much to process, and I have fallen into a deep silence since the new year, one of reflection and living and lots of deserved sleep.

And still I keep asking myself:

Now what?

Writing more, of course. I have some new stories to tell, ideas to explore. There is Clarion West to apply for, and writing contests to compete in, and publication to seek.

There is blogging to do – lots of blogging, and catching up on responding to comments and emails since before November, and life and cleaning and all the movies and television I was too busy to watch last year.

And editing, of course. I cannot forget that – the terrifying unknown of editing. Because while last year was valued past the produced work, it should not forget that I want to be a published novelist sometime, and it's a good place to start.

And besides, I have a new irowboat action figure to pester me.

Happy New Year, everyone.

What happens next for you?

 

Month Twelve Reflections: Write Through It, with lists and bad holiday advice

19 Dec 2012 5 Comments

by PartlyPixie in 12 Month Reflections, December, I might not be in my right mind here Tags: , , , , , , , ,

This last month seemed like it should be the easy one, the victorious lazy stumble across the finish line after the marathon has been run.

But I do not know if writing is ever like that, the happy slow jog to the end. I think writing is always something we must remember to keep buoyant, like a raft in the middle of the ocean with a little hole in the bottom. We can stay in that raft a very long time, as long as we remember to bail out the water of life that fills the bottom of the boat, overflows over our boot tops, and makes our feet heavy.

December in particular. There is family to brace ourselves for, presents to figure out, work to keep working on, holiday travel plans, finals in school, parties to attend and hangovers to rue. Even nature gets in on the conspiracy, as the seasons officially turn we are cold where there is cold, wet where there is wet, and heat in places that are backwards (yes, Australia, I am looking at you).

Here, there is a steady mix of snow showers and 20° temperatures, the noses and cheeks shoppers are rosy from the chill as they rush around the outdoor malls, the holiday cheer lost in wondering why anyone would build outdoor malls in a climate known for such extremes. And yet, they shop. They shop despite the other obstacles and the cold or the commute.

Because they have a priority, and they have a deadline, and even if all their Christmas/Kwanza/Ramadan/Hanukah presents come in Amazon boxes, they will get it done.

And so must we as writers, get it done – we must write with the determination of a grandmother with endless funds and a bevy of grandkids to spoil. Even if it is a poem scribbled on the back of receipts, of a quip of dialogue noted on food court napkins, we must remember that writing has a place too. Beyond the holiday lights and the new year fireworks, we will have stories waiting for us, edits to do, competitions to try for, dreams to hunt.

Not even December can take away our little boat, as long as we keep bailing the water out.

This year has not been without its setbacks. I have written through a third degree burn on my hand, two bad colds, a car accident and the injuries incurred, difficulties at work, the death of irowboat's dear cat Felix, a fabulous trip to San Francisco, turning thirty, martial arts classes, multiple assaults of mental paralysis and the grim knowing that I am and will always be a failure. This is the short list.

Just gives me more to write about

And just this month: more stress at work, the terrible news of the shooting in Newton Connecticut, and finding someone had backed up over my car.

But no matter what, there is writing to do. Between arguments with insurance agencies, sadness about my poor old not-pretty-but-I-love-it car, grief over the little lives lost across this country, and disappointment that I am not better caught up with the rest of my life by now.

I must write.

There is only 25,000 words left until I cross that finish line, and I want to have it done by Christmas morning. And I can do it.

If I keep writing through it, let the difficulties play like low background music as I type away.

I have learned this year that nothing, nothing at all, gets to derail us for long. Take a moment, or five, and then work hard and fast and move through the pain or difficulty or frustration. Let all of it fuel the writing, let it fuel ourselves.

Oh, and don't stress so much about shopping for just the right thing. Gifts can be forgotten in a year, but stories last beyond our lifetimes. Write instead and buy everyone an ugly scarf.*

*I accept no liability for the ramifications of following this advice. But I would appreciate any stories that result from trying it.

 

Month Twelve Reflections: Write What You Write

11 Dec 2012 6 Comments

by PartlyPixie in 12 Month Reflections, December, unsticking, Writing Tools Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

We hear about how zombies are over and how fairy tales are in, we hear about agents and we worry about if we can one day sell the thing we have scarcely typed five paragraphs of.

We ought never end a sentence with the word of. Or to. Or with.

We think we should write science fiction because smart people do that, or we should give up on literary fiction because vampires are where the money is (even though some writing magazine just told us the vampire craze is dead – haha dead, get it?), and what if that isn't where the money is and everyone is still stuck on serial killers and zombies after all?

But young adult is where the real market is, right? We should take a class on that, we should join a writing forum, we should have a writing group, except writing groups are bad for originality, or is that reading?

We should not read while we write because it will influence us, or was that we should read as much as we can while we write so we stay fresh?

We should never write cliches, we should only write things that have not been done, we should give up and write whatever, we should cut our teeth on fan fic and not worry about all that pesky character development. Maybe we should skip the publisher for that novel we haven't written yet and go straight to kickstarter, and maybe if we just read the latest magazine article on “5 Sure-Fire Ways to END Writer's Block NOW!” we can finally get started…

Stop

Just stop for a minute.

We are all here because we are writers, we want to be writers, or artists, or creatives. We have a need to express things that are within us, sometimes buried deep from years of shoulds and should nots, or just beneath the surface and waiting to be discovered.

Sometimes they lay like seashells in the sand and beg us to pick them up and hold them, smooth and cold like porcelain, to our ears, and listen.

We will never get to what is inside by reaching for what is outside. We will never be fulfilled as writers, never find that peace we write to seek, if we listen only to the bustle of the world going by, and not the seashell in our hands.

We must write what we write. We must come to the page, the canvas, the world as we are, and no one else. We must dive into our obsessions and burn through them, write into them, explore every unflattering angle and beautiful crevice of the things we cannot stop thinking about.

Whether it is cliche or obscure, if we do it honestly, we will offer the world what we are here to offer. And when we let go and admit to who we really are, the art is a little freer to make, the blocks not so blocked, the time not so long before we can feel the idea giving way and letting us slide into the heart of things.

And if the waves come and take a seashell away, wipe out what brilliant idea we had, it is easier to find another one just as brilliant, just as fine, because we know what to look for.

It does not always come easy.

When I began this year, I thought I was a science fiction writer. I had dabbled with all sorts of things, from some hard boiled crime to short stories dealing with Christian mythology, and of course, my beloved science fiction I thought I was meant to do.

I thought I knew what I wrote.

But what poured out was not expected: vampires, immortals, fairy tales and black magic, a tower that only stands because of the blood poured at it's feet, enchanted swords, underground owl men who tell your fortune in the bones of their pellets, exiled fairies, greek myths and conspiracies, and even more vampires.

I clung on for dear life as I wrote on and on, things I never dreamed I could imagine, anyone could imagine.

I can see the struggle in my early drafts, the fighting with myself, trying to steer the story to normal, all thrown out when the word count was too low, and I had to face myself as I am. I started many months with the hopes that maybe this time I would find sanity, the previous bloodbath of a novel was a fluke, but I was wrong.

I know better now, and I am a better writer. I look forward to what darkness lays before me, what evil deeds will await, what fairy tale I can twist.

I write what I write, it's just easier that way.

Write what you write, live as you live, let the rules that work for you find you.

And spend that money you save on writing magazines on a good pen, or some chocolate, or wine. Whatever makes you happy.

 

Previous Older Entries

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 375 other followers

%d bloggers like this: