Writing = Life

Writing equals life. 

No, really, it does. If you are a writer, you will know this... or, at least, you'll know it as soon as you read through this explanation. You'll think to yourself (because who else would you think it to), Writing is totally like life, just as she says.

Here's how they are alike:

1. Life gets overwhelming, especially when you see the piles of stuff you have to do. If you start working on the tasks though, allowing yourself the occasional bathroom break or trip to the grocery store, life is a whole lot less overwhelming. 

Writing is the same. Write a little bit--even a page--and suddenly a whole novel, play, or essay becomes that much more doable. The key is to get started and just do it.

2. People will criticize the way you live all the time, telling you all the things you should be doing in your life, along with all the things you should NOT be doing. And some of their advice will be really good, some not so good, and some downright awful. How can you tell the difference? The easiest way is to weigh each piece of advice against who you are, what you believe in, and what you want to be. Reject the advice that has no appeal, but humbly accept the stuff that helps you live better.

Writing is the same. In fact, let me just take this previous paragraph, replacing living with writing, and you'll see: 

People will criticize the way you write all the time, telling you all the things you should be doing in your writing, along with all the things you should NOT be doing. And some of their advice will be really good, some not so good, and some downright awful. How can you tell the difference? The easiest way is to weigh each piece of advice against who you are, what you believe in, and what you want to be. Reject the advice that has no appeal, but humbly accept the stuff that helps you write better.

3. Life is a journey, not a destination. It's not about where you end up, but how you get there, and the process itself should not be torturous. If you hate ever second of running, you wouldn't run, so spend your time being joyful and finding adventures that elate and inspire you, not that make you miserable. It's why we don't work 120 hours a week. Forty is plenty. We need the other hours to do what we love.

Writing is the same. Yes, there may be parts that are harder or less enjoyable--like marketing your book (if you're an introvert) or revising (if it seems tedious)--but treat those ickier parts like the "work" parts, and always mix in some of the fun stuff, the writing exercises or activities you really enjoy. If you hate everything about writing, then you should go find another activity. Go surfboarding, or kite flying, or paint. Life's too short to be utterly miserable.

4. Life isn't perfect. It's practice, and every day you can get just a little better if you work at it. Got depression? You have ways to lessen its effects. Got an arm in a cast? It's in a cast now, but it will heal? Did your last significant other dump you? He/she was probably a big jerk anyway, and you can use this time to heal, figure out your role in the failed relationship, and do better when a better person comes along. It's all about practicing, and while practicing will never make perfect, it will make you stronger, smarter, and happier.

Writing is SO the same. No perfect writing exists, nor does the perfect writer. Practice, though, can go a long way. Every hour spent writing, even if its spent on a manuscript that will never been seen by anyone, is not a waste. Each step builds your skill, teaches you something, and brings you that much closer to changing the world, one reader at a time. 

5. Your life can inspire others. Even people with short lives--brave kids with cancer, young people in car accidents who donated their organs--inspire us with their bravery and sacrifice. A person's life affects other lives deeply, and yours can too. Live your life as an example, live your truth bravely, and others will be changed from knowing you.

Do I have to say writing is the same? Writing is an intimate form of communication with another individual, and your writing can change things. It can change your own attitude, it can change the minds of readers. It can change the world. 

So get out there and live. Write. Speak. Listen. Share. Do great things. 

Change the world.

Drawing Manga--Starting from Scratch

Oh, dear, sweet Jesus, it's been too long since I blogged!

Somehow I don't think readers think it's okay to hear from a blogger once a year, so I know I've been lame, lame, lame.

No excuse. I freely admit I've been utterly lame.

Unfortunately, in my ambition to see another version of my books in print, I've discovered another way I am totally lame: drawing.

Now, I used to be an artist. I really did. I especially loved watercolors, pastels, and pen and ink. But I am woefully out of practice (rather the same way I'm out of practice with the piano for at least the last two years). I want to create a manga version of one of my novels, though, so I'm trying to get back to it.

But I'm awful.

No, truly. I've read studies about the learning continuum, which contend that at the beginning of learning a skill, people have an unrealistic idea of how good they are... but as they learn more, they become far more aware of how much they don't know, how much they cannot do, and their perception of their skills lowers astronomically.

That's kind of where I am in many of my activities. Oh, I'm very good at some things:

1. Teaching
2. Sewing
3. Zumba

I'm somewhat good (developing) at some things, mainly because I practice them, though I am all too aware of my limitations with each one:

1. Writing
3. Parenting

I'm wretched at other things (because of not practicing them), and thoroughly discouraged about whether I'll ever be good at these:

1. Drawing
2. Playing Piano
3. Singing
4. Marketing myself

I'm woefully and hopelessly incapable of learning some things:

1. Gracefulness
2. Lack of bias in politics
3. Charisma
4. Confidence

The first section includes three activities I practice constantly (though sewing is far easier than teaching). They have immediate rewards, too. Teaching and Zumba have daily rewards, mainly stemming from students and their positive response to classes. Sewing gives rewards in the form of finished products, like costumes, clothing to wear, quilts, pillows, and other lovely things. These immediate payoffs mean I have more motivation to keep working on them.

With the second list--including the writing and parenting--I work at these constantly, in so many ways, but I'm only good enough to have figured out just how much I still lack in skill. Not being really good at them makes me sad, especially since both are so important to me (parenting especially). Still, because both are so important to me that I continue to work on them, despite how often they give me nothing in return.

The fourth list I've just resigned myself to not being good at (and living with my limitations in a peaceful way despite how clearly I see my own shortcomings). As I tell myself, though, I can't be perfect, and these are the daily reminders to me of how little I am.

The THIRD list is the most crucial one, though, and the hardest one to face. These three activities are all meaningful to me, but I am all too aware of how terrible I am at each one. Will they ever become something I am good at? Or will I work and work on them only to realize that they belong in list #4? At this point, I don't know.

What I do know is it's time to face them--and to start the practice that might someday make them perfect. Starting with the drawing.

I'll keep you posted on how it goes. I might even post some scanned copies of some of my drawing attempts (even the lame ones) so that you can see how awful I am.

What about you? What would you put on each list?

Publication... at Last!

Good things come to those who wait. 

Of course, they don't always come. And bad things come to those who wait, too.

Good things come (eventually) to those who work at it. Yup, that saying functions better for me, and it gives me hope that no effort towards my goals is ever wasted. Now, as I'm working on my fourth novel in the YA fantasy series about a boy who can see inside, well, almost everything, the first book in the series has been picked up for publication.

Honestly, I hadn't tried to send the book out until this year, mainly because every time I read through it, I found a hundred more changes to make. Some writers urged me to self-publish, and I might have done so had I felt it was ready. I finally started sending it out this January, when I could read through it and just enjoy it, without restructuring, rewriting, and shredding.

I've made changes since then -- including changing the main character's name to Joshua (since the Maze Runner series had Thomas center-stage) -- and I've read through four sets of galleys, each one taking me a step closer to the final version. The editing is all over now, though. The book is final.

The thought of that is both daunting and exciting, but I'll explain all that in a future post.

Here's the cover:

Cover art courtesy of Black Rose Publishing

The book comes out August 9, but it's already available for pre-order (10% off) through the publisher at their website:

ORDER THE GHOST PORTAL

If you'd like a signed copy, you can pre-order those, too. Just post me your e-mail, write me at shakespeare824 at hotmail.com, or find me on Facebook (Cheryl Carvajal), and we'll make that happen.

More details to come... including a few excerpts... to stay tuned.

Not Writing... RUNNING!

In my long-standing quest to avoid wasting my time writing, I've been working steadily on my house, painting rooms, ripping down wallpaper, sanding, buffing, replacing door knobs, etc.

But that wasn't enough for me. I also started back up running. And this morning I ran a 10K. In less than an hour and a half. Okay, so that's not fast. But I'm still doing everything I can to NOT WRITE.

How about you? What are you doing to keep from working on that novel in your second desk drawer? Have you taken up scrapbooking (always a time suck)? Decided to start a family? Decided to re-start a family? Moved three times in a year? Started up a charity dog kennel? Removed the paint from your fence? 

Unfortunately for me, my evil half also signed up for NaNoWriMo, so I'm stuck during the month of November. Damn you, evil half! Now I have to work on my sixth novel. Ugh.

Practicing Walking

My parents always told me a story about what I did as a baby. While other babies they knew were pulling themselves up on the furniture, taking a few practice steps in front of them, showing off day by day as they improved their skills and learned to walk, I didn't.

They wondered whether I was going to walk. EVER. How could I ever move from crawling to walking if I never tried, they wondered. 

What my mother finally realized one night, though, after she'd put me in my crib for the night, is that I WAS walking. I had probably been practicing for weeks. But, for reasons she could not fathom, my little baby self had waited until she was alone for the night. My mother only discovered this because she heard the springs in the crib creaking after she had put me to bed. She swung the door open, catching me in the act of walking around the crib, practicing.

Thanks to livescience.com for the use of this picture!

The next day, found out, I simply walked in public. No tentative steps. No falls. Just walking. 

I cannot possibly explain why a baby would be self-conscious enough to practice walking before she did so in front of a crowd, and in many ways today I am far less self-conscious than I used to be. 

Except when it comes to writing.

I have several friends who are writers--poets, playwrights, novelists, essayists--and nearly all of them have, at one point or another, urged me to work towards publication. I tell them that I am doing exactly that, only my writing isn't ready for publication yet. 

"That doesn't matter," one poet told me. "It's good enough." 

Good enough. When imagining what I want readers to say about my work, "good enough" is not exactly what I am hoping for. I could self-publish, but I am pretty certain that the weaknesses in my writing would remain in the published work, a glaring reminder that my writing has not fully developed yet. 

Just this week I was reminded of the pitfalls of self-publishing. I bought two books by two different local authors. One, a YA book, was an okay read... but only an okay read. The plot was complete, loose ends tied up at the end, but it was too predictable, too neat, and not well written. I have no problem with simplicity in language, but I detest simplicity in thought, and it suffers from that. 

The other book, also at least partially self-published (I read the publisher's website), is, frankly, brilliant. It's by Paul J. Bennett, and it's called a Fall of Sparrows. Superb book so far, better than many Civil War era books I've read. It's meaningful without being preachy, descriptive without being overbearing... and I could go on gushing. What's sad, frankly, is that it's not a traditionally published book, distributed nationally. It would speak to many readers across the country, not just local readers here in southern Georgia. 

These two books give me a good idea of where I am in this process. My writing has come much farther than the writing in the first book. My characters are more complex, the plot lines and writing far better. However, my writing isn't as good as Bennett's. It just isn't. 

And that means, as much as I hate it, I need to keep practicing. The world is going to just have to wait longer (and I am just going to have to remain patient with myself) until my walking/writing is good enough for public consumption. Other writers might be able to blow readers' socks off, but, even in my mid-forties, I have a slower learning curve. I will just have to keep on keeping on, and hope that I eventually develop into the writer I wish to be. Back to the crib now, for a little practice. Maybe someday you'll see me walk/write for real.

This is me, only I'll be writing. Thanks, wanttobeababy.com!

Too Long

It's been too long since I've seen some friends--Cherilyn, Susan, Paul, and a host of others…

And it's been too long since I've painted anything I'm proud of… I've finally painted something, but it is sort of lopsided. Okay, it sucks. And it's been forever since I've really painted consistently.

It's been too long since I've played piano. Once a week is not enough by far, and once a month is pathetic. So my piano adherence lately has been pathetic…

But it hasn't been too long since I've worked on my novel. Worked on it yesterday, as a matter of fact, and I'll be working on it all afternoon while I sit with my hubby, who will be getting his weekly chemo. I've made time for writing for well over a month now, and I won't stop.

In fact, I hope to find even more time to devote to writing.

So, if you see only a few posts from me, it's because I'm working on my novel, or my play, or my poetry.

Or maybe because I've finally sat at the piano again. *sigh*

On Chemotherapy and Being Alone

Richard begins chemotherapy Monday.

And he's tense. And that means I'm tense. But as much as I can sympathize with him, and even though I'm driving him to it, sitting with him, and driving him home, he's really alone.

I'm not getting chemotherapy. Just him. Honestly, I feel as if I shouldn't even be writing this, like it's not my story to tell, for I'm not the one living through cancer. I'm just holding his hand, encouraging, and driving around a person who is living through it.

No matter how much we share, and no matter how much I want to help, Richard is alone. Utterly. I saw the horrible room where he'll sit each Monday and be administered his Gemzar through a port under the skin of his right chest area. I saw patients sitting there the day we toured, sitting and waiting, hooked up to machines filling them with their own particular brand of poison.

Now that I think of it, the room is pretty big, though… and those other people are going through what he's doing. Some of them have probably gone through it more than once.

So when we're sitting in that room Monday afternoon, I hope Richard will find others to talk to besides me… people who can help him feel less alone. People who can touch him through their words. People who bring their hope with them to chemotherapy, who bring their smiles, who bring their fears, who share these, so that Richard can hear, can bring his own thoughts, and can even encourage others.

Maybe then he won't be so alone.

Taking Myself Seriously

I bet millions of people have checked out this blog in the MONTHS since I last wrote on it. And then they left.

Yup, they read the title, realized I was serious about this whole not writing stuff, and left.

I don't blame them.

One could say that I took my own words too seriously. Yup. I seriously decided I wouldn't write anymore (dammit!) and seriously took steps to make sure I didn't.

But one would be wrong.

You see, I didn't write here because I didn't take my writing seriously. I had decided NOT to be serious about my writing. As a result, I didn't write. Day after day, night after night, opportunity after opportunity, I let the voices in my head talk my out of writing.

Not anymore.

I vow, from this day forward, to take my writing seriously. Seriously, I do. I changed my profile. I quit my job. I have been slowly weeding all sorts of distractions out of my life to make sure I have room for writing, to make sure I have time to take writing seriously.

So, if you've checked back here a few times, come again. I'll be here. And if you just happened on this blog by chance, come back.

Or don't. Either way, I'm seriously writing.

Making Time

You don't have time to write. 

I know you don't. Neither do I. 

That's because time doesn't hand itself to me. It just floats by, and I wander around NOT doing the things I want to be doing because of other have-tos. 

And yet I don't. I make time for exercise. EVERY DAY. Sometimes 2 1/2 hours of it. Sometimes more (I do take off the occasional day, but not very often). 

I do make time to teach my kids. LOTS of time. I make time to play on the computer in the mornings. I make time to read, even if it's just a half hour before bed (but it's usually more). I would make time for writing if I made it a priority. 

Sounds like it's time for a list. I'm brilliant with lists--they are part of my daily life. I keep a book of them around me at all times. But this is not a daily list. This list is an expression of what is most important to me, judging by what I do. IN ORDER. And it shows why I don't write enough.

1. My children and their schooling.

2. My job at the Firehouse (must keep it!).

3. Exercise.

4. Cleaning my house.

5. Reading.

6. Paying bills.

7. The hubby (isn't it horrible that he's so far down the list?).

8. Artistic pursuits (writing, painting, drawing, sewing, cooking, piano, everything).

THIS is why I don't write. I put it last on the list. I am more likely to take out the trash or wash my car than write! Ack!

What the list should be…

1. My children and their schooling.

2. The hubby (sorry I don't keep you here).

3. Exercise (have to keep it here for health reasons).

4. My writing.

5. Other artistic pursuits.

6. My job at the Firehouse.

7. Cleaning house.

8. Paying bills and other necessaries.

9. Reading.

Now I just need to print this out and follow it! 

Can you re-prioritize? If you did, what would you change?

Pulling Teeth

I did manage to write a little yesterday. Okay, I revised, but given that I'm changing verb tense throughout the novel, AND trying to make it into what it should be at the same time, I'm practically re-writing it.

But I don't have much time to write at this point. Homeschooling is taking every free moment I have (unless it's 6 a.m, and the kids are still sleeping, which is why I can write this entry). Getting my kids to DO THEIR WORK is about as difficult as getting myself to face this novel for the umpteenth time to make it better.

So everything in my life is dragging. And the stress that results is about to kill me. I looked in the mirror last night and thought THIS is the year I get my gray hairs. No way around it, not with this stress.

Could I send the kids to school? Yup, but it wouldn't work. I've tried that. It was nearly as time-consuming, between working all afternoon and late into the night with my daughter on work the school had brushed over, and going to face the principal and teachers when my son was acting up, acting out, or just refusing to participate in anything classroom-related. And then standing over him to make him do the make-up work that he refused to finish in class.

*sigh*

I'd rather be at the dentist.

In a bit, I'll have to start the long day again… my one-person fight to help my kids find something to love about school, to get them to take responsibility for their own tasks, to teach, to find any time for myself, to find joy in the moment, in the day, in the year.

Taoism specifically describes the "way" or "flow" of one's life. If one is following the natural "way," or "tao," one feels calm, one finds the tasks run smoothly, one has a sense that all the pieces fit together.

And that suggests to me that I am not following the natural flow of my life, for I feel as if I'm wading upstream, the stream is at flood stage, and I'm dragging a semi-truck that someone has tied around my waist. And I'm making no progress at all.

How do I find the correct path? I feel like I've been off the right road for so long that I will never find my way back.

I have no answers. I had hoped, with morning, that they would come--any of them--but I wait in vain.

*sigh*

What's the Worst that Could Happen?

If I don't write, the world won't come to an end.

Will it?

Besides, the laundry needed doing. I'm only finishing the last load this morning because I spent more time on it yesterday than I did on writing. I had the afternoon--and I was planning to write, really--but then I realized I had the whole week's lesson plans to do.

Now that the internet is working on my work computer, I have a mass e-mail to send out. And arts classes to plan. And vendors to e-mail. And I still have to fold the last two loads of laundry. And teach class.

And I'm sure I can think of other things to fill my time with instead of writing. Let's see, there's "take a nap," in case I'm the slightest bit tired. I could also "unload the dishwasher," even though the kids can do that on their own. And "nag kids to do their homework" should take up at least an hour or two. If I don't take the time to nag them, I won't really feel like a mom. I can't write down "paint," though. Too creative. I have to put that at the bottom of the list, along with "sew." Wouldn't want to get any actual MAKING done today. Better to feel the day is a complete scrap.

*sigh*

As long as I put writing at the bottom of the list--along with music, art, and any other creative pursuits--it won't get done. And then I'll never finish a project. And I'll never have to face critics. The pressure will be off.

But I won't be a writer. Or an artist. Or a costume designer.

I guess I better get to work. The REAL work, too. Not sweeping. Not laundry. Writing.

Snarky Voices

Some people have their own cheering section. You know these people. Perhaps you are one of these people, but you'll never admit it. These are the people who go out for American Idol and insist to the world that they are the best singers EVER. And they stink. Absolutely stink. But they have no understanding of singing, or what it takes to sing well, and cannot hear how horrid they are.

These are the ones who don't understand why they don't just "get" grades they want. Why don't people see how smart they are? Why don't people recognize their brilliance, and all rally behind them because they are, simply put, AWESOME? These people are frustrated when others don't simply agree with them. After all, they are ALWAYS RIGHT.

Hubris. Gotta love it.

I think it spreads around a lot more than we are willing to admit.

But then, I wouldn't know. I'm so far from hubris it's amazing I'm still trying. Sure, these self-assured people can get annoying, but it would be nice to BE one of these people, if only for a day.

I got the snarky voices instead. The critical ones who don't stop talking even when I relax at the piano keys. Who grumble even when I actually do make some headway on my novel revisions. I'm wondering more and more whether I am just schizophrenic, if these voices are a manifestation of my own insanity.

All I know is they won't stop talking, and they don't say anything nice.

Where do they come from? Every corner of my life. Every stray negative comment. Sure, I can block them out, but not completely. I can argue with them, or take action despite their derision, but I still hear them. That is why I am ultra cautious about what I tell others. I don't want to contribute to their own voices… at least not the way I contribute to my own.

But I will continue to fight them. I will keep writing, keep painting, keep drawing, and keep writing, despite all they say. I will never give up.

Wake Up, Stupid

It's 6:08 a.m., the time of the day when I seem most able to write.

Not because I'm brilliant at this time in the morning. No... but at this time all I hear is my grandfather clock ticking, and everyone else is still sleeping. The hubby has been quite obliging lately, elbowing me to get up by 4:15 each morning (as if he's dreaming that I'm sleeping through an alarm I didn't even set), so I've had time to catch up on e-mail, pay some bills, and even do a Sudoku game up to this point.

So I'm awake, I guess. But not really.

How much are we really awake during the day, anyway?

It's a basic question, not too complicated. How much do we pay attention when we are driving, for instance? I drove right past the library on Tuesday, then drove right past the post office Wednesday. If I'm on auto-pilot in the car, when I probably pay attention most, what am I doing the rest of the day?

The truth is, I'm distracted. I have thoughts racing through my head--fears, too--and lately they are keeping me from enveloping myself in the present moment. Even as I counsel my daughter about math or nag my son about his homework, I'm fearing the future if they can't grasp the concepts I'm teaching. Even as I write this (or work on novels), the voices I mentioned earlier (in a post two days ago) creep into my consciousness, slithering around until what I would like to write is a jumble.

I feel like I'm half awake, only half aware, and it's not a good feeling.

My kids are only half-engaged, too. They are brooding through their assignments, most of their brain energy focused on the moment they will get to play video games. But that is the whole problem. Their lack of focus means that homework is five times harder and takes five times longer to do. And that means they are literally finishing up their final piece of it right before bed. No video games for them!

So last night I took it all away. No TV, no video games, no computer for the time being. Until they can focus, their only outlet will be physical activity...

That has to be my rule, as well. No TV, no video games, nothing but physical activity until I really throw myself into this novel. (I have to get the physical activity, or I will go completely crazy, and crazy is no way to write--or is it? Hmmm... must think about that one.)

IF I revise at least a chapter AND/OR spend at least an hour on my novel today, I get some TV or other fun time. If I don't... well, then I get diddly squat, as I'd say to my kids. We've all got to wake up, get our work done, and earn the play time at the end of the day.

If you have advice for me, advice to make me wake up, to stop putting off my writing, please let me know!

Stop the Voices!

Courtesy of michi2004 (freepik.com)

The voices keep coming. It took them no time at all to grapple with my brain cells, yanking and yanking as they pulled out connections, added confusion, and debilitated my writing...

My daughter has them, too, but only when it comes to math word problems. She just took a test, missing all but one word problem at the end of the exam, though her overall grade was pretty good.

I looked over the test with her yesterday. "I see your brain shut off right here."

"Yup," she agreed. "I hate word problems."

"Why?"

"I just can't do them." She had just repeated what the voices told her, and she and I both knew it. We've been working on what I call "Math Therapy" for a few weeks now, practicing over and over what she is going to say every time those voices crop up and tell her You can't do this.

"What were you supposed to say to them?" I ask her.

"Shut up." This is her talking to the voices, not to me, of course.

"That's right," I tell her, nodding.

But then I face my novel, again. The one I had started to revise before my laptop's hard drive blew up. The one I was really turning into something brilliant. Before the great big bang. Before it was all gone.

And the voices come back as I am revising. You'll never get it back the way it was, they say.

"Shut up. I'll make it even better."

You can't even remember how you moved sections of it around. 

"Shut up!" But I couldn't stop listening. The voice was right. Everything seemed jumbled.

It's not going to work.

The voices continued, creepier and creepier as the minutes passed. I made it to page eight, sweating like a pig by the time I gave up for the night.

But I'm going back, voices and all. If my daughter can face word problems day after day, I can do this too.

Really Not Writing--UNTIL TODAY!!!

You know this already. This is not new information.

I'm not writing.

Nope, haven't written a page of anything in weeks!

A shocker. Yet again, I've filled my life with everything in the world I possibly can to keep myself from writing.

I could blame the kids for needed to be home schooled. (Okay, I'm one of those weird moms who pull their kids out of school and then torture them with whiteboards, essay assignments, Latin, Astronomy, and all sorts of odd subjects inside my own house.) It takes a lot of time.

I could blame my stupid hard drive for developing "mechanical failure," meaning that all info on it once it's crashed becomes completely inaccessible except to the CIA. It certainly punched me in the gut, especially once I realized that I'd e-mailed only my finished novels to myself, and not the latest revision of my ghost story (which I was halfway through editing), nor--*gasp*--last year's NANOWRIMO novel all about mermaids. It was like I'd never written it.

But the truth is, these are all excuses. If I don't write, it's because I have chosen not to. It's my own damn fault, and no one else's. If I really wanted to write, I would have written.

Now that I've accepted responsibility, it's time to write.

No, really. I'm going to write. I wrote here, didn't I? My first entry since LAST APRIL, people! Jeez! And it's only going to get better the more I write. And easier.

So I'm writing. I have one more blog entry to do, on my other site, Creative Arts Anonymous, and then I'm off to start my funeral novel (all about dead people and a funeral director...). And I will make time for writing EVERY SINGLE DAY. WITHOUT FAIL. I will put writing on the top of my list every day, not the bottom.

With my new external hard drive in hand, ready to back-up everything, I will succeed and restarting, at returning to what I truly love to do, without fear, without regret, without anything holding me back.

And I will get it done.

Just Give Up

You know it's hopeless.

So just give up already.

You've been trying for weeks to lose weight, but you've eaten just enough cookies to negate the extra walking you've been doing. But you can't give up cookies FOREVER. So just give up. Go on. Accept that you'll always have that stomach, just the way it is. All those Biggest Loser contestants have different chromosomes than you do.

So give up. Quit trying.

And it's not like you'll ever get a real job again. Why the hell are you even wasting your time applying? Just suck it up, keep the job you hate. Don't bother with college. Years from now, it's not like you'll suddenly have a job you like. Why even try? Just go home and watch TV. Take your mind off your crummy life.

But accept that it's crummy. And it always will be. So give it up already.

Why are you still working on your goddamn novels. They all suck, and even if they ever don't suck, even if you finally get them where you want them to be, it's not like the publishers out there will ever read them. Or at least it will take time--years maybe--and that's too long. Better to use your time eating your way through three pints of ice cream than working on those stupid novels. At least ice cream tastes good. Okay, sure, there are some really good parts to that novel. Yeah, sure, you might actually have fun writing all that crap. Or even revising it, if you're a complete lunatic. Just don't think, for one minute, that it's going to get you anywhere.

So give up. Just give up.

Like anybody gets anywhere just by working at it. Sheesh!

Being Means Doing

It took me years to call myself a writer.

Now I can use the term in public--without that weird clog in my throat I used to get trying to make the words come out--but I'm still a fraud. I say, "I'm a writer."

But it isn't true. A writer, above all, writes. Notice the present tense. Better yet, make it present progressive: A writer is writing. Currently. Right now. Putting words on a page, revising, creating worlds and characters, designing suspenseful and meaningful plots, enjoying the Lego-like building and destruction that children enjoy.

A writer is planning query letters. Reading scenes aloud to hear the dialogue. Arranging words in their best order for poetry. Perhaps even finding a rhyme or two (though that's rarely me).

I have a friend who is a painter. She told me, "I try to make painting a priority--try to spend at least three days a week painting."

I asked her, "You get three days a week in? That's impressive."

She frowned at me, thought a bit, and said, "No, I get about one day every two weeks." Yet she is far more of a painter than I am a writer.

I do write. A little. I am writing this blog entry. I write a poem here or there. But mostly I just grade essays. Mostly I do laundry and dishes. Mostly I write business letters for my other jobs, assess journals for my classes, prep for teaching. Clean my house.

But I don't write. If I have a few minutes of free time, I go play piano. Hell, I even paint more than I write. I go to play rehearsal. I watch TV, even if I hate everything I watch. I fill my hours with tasks I dislike, instead of pulling back, taking days here and there just to write.

I still can't figure out why I do it, but I do it nonetheless. And until I start writing again, I'm not a writer.

Maybe someday I will be.

Why Do I Listen to Myself?

I have given in at times...

I've backed away from a challenge when people suggested I wasn't good enough to do something. I've held back from trying when I knew no one expected me to make it.

But I've also proven people wrong so many times. I wasn't supposed to marry my hubby--it wouldn't work, my family said--but we're about to celebrate 20 years of marriage. I was told not to try being a teacher (it wouldn't suit me), yet I've managed to get three degrees in English and teach for nearly as many years as I've been married. And I'm a good teacher. I'm interesting, I'm effective, and I'm fair but tough.

I've learned to ignore what people say. They are too quick to give up on me, to likely to be skeptical about my abilities, too likely to brush over me, dismiss me, ignore me.

But then my own inner voices come... and they tell me the same things... and I don't ignore them. I let them shove me down, pull me back, shiver me into a corner. I back away from challenge. I hold back, I keep quiet, I shut myself up entirely.

Why? Why do I listen? Why don't I slap those nasty voices into next week (oops, there's a bad pun), toss them in the trash where they belong, wash myself free of them in the shower, letting them go down the drain and disappear for good?

Better yet, why don't I try to SHOW them? I do this with outside people, but I don't challenge my own voices. Why don't I just see this as a challenge?

It's because they are me. They are my caution, my tact, my defensive mechanisms. These same voices keep me from saying stupid or mean things out of anger. Sometimes shutting up is the best choice, and I'm grateful when they help me make it, too.

I can't just chunk them out a random window. They are as much me as the determination, the work ethic, the sensitivity, the everything of me. But they need to go to their room sometimes, and let me work. They need to leave off. They need to go take a nap or something so that I can get back to writing without them screaming at me.

Wow. They're listening. I'm amazed. I can see their shoulders hunching a little in shame. I can see their sad looks. Their off to their rooms to think about what they've done. Are they giving me the day off? I sure hope so. I could use the afternoon for writing. Without their looking over my shoulder.

Now I'm off. If they pop their heads out, I'll just glare until the heads disappear. If they start grumbling, I'll turn on the radio to drown them out.

Maybe I should turn on the radio NOW.

Not So Philosophical

Sometimes I find it hard to think when everyone around me is screaming.

The amount of trauma drama all around me right now astonishes me. And I believe most of it is invented, self-inflicted, self-wounding. People raging all around at each other, then keening loudly because everyone has abandoned them. People taking everything personally. People harming each other, then wondering why others seem so ticked. What could the matter be?

Tough life.

Thank God I don't have to live it. Not because the swirling waters around all around my ankles, but because around my ankles they can't sweep me off to drown. I have to choose to walk into the deeper water.

I don't choose to. And I won't choose to.

Life is just life. It's good and bad. People are kind and cruel. But I have a choice. We all do. My choice is to do what makes me happy, avoid the trauma drama, and help my kids keep their equilibrium, too. So this morning, with the world falling all around me, I'm at peace, knowing that I have not lost my mind. I can calm the waters all around me, give my kids a chance to swim in the warm water, and have a glorious, sunny day.

Despite the trauma drama.

Hurdles

I'd love to start working on my Mermaid novel again.

I really would. But I have two syllabi to finish... and they need to be finished NOW. Class starts Monday for one, Tuesday for the other.

My little devil voices have been whispering... "Why not just get part of it planned, and then you can plan out the rest as you go?"

I'm no fool. I haven't been teaching 20 years for nothing. If I don't plan it out now, I'll be scrambling mid-semester to get it done, and then I'll have papers that need grading, other projects pending, and God only knows what else.

You see, the syllabi seem like hurdles right now... and they sort of are... but they are self-imposed. I could do what the voices say, but I'd be putting off more planning, starting the semester without a crystal clear idea of where the semester will end up, setting myself up for panic later.

And I don't like panic.

Same with novel writing. Only once have I written a whole draft of a novel without planning it out meticulously. And my next "revision" of that novel will mean scrapping 75% of it, minimum. It means more work for me in the long run, not less.

That's why I plan. And that's why I'm off to finish those &%*#(@ syllabi, to save myself a world of time later.

Anything you're in the midst of planning?