It happens every spring

 We've all heard that "in springtime, a young man’s fancy turns to love," but I'm talking about something else here.

All through April and sometimes May we slog along under grey skies, cursing biting winds and raw temperatures. Intellectually, we grant a grudging acknowledgement that spring will have to arrive sooner or later. Spiritually, we’re not sure we believe it. And then one day the sun breaks through, plants come to life and we soak up the beauty, smugly thinking, “I knew all along that things would work out.”

Just two weeks ago I shared on this site that my job had been eliminated and that I would soon be out of work. Some days things looked very bleak indeed. Thinking this might be my chance to finally realize a writing career, I dutifully sent out submissions. Intellectually I knew you can’t get a yes if you never ask the question, but spiritually I wasn’t sure a yes would ever come.

Then on Monday I got the call: “We read your script, we really like it and we want to publish it.” Yes! Yes! I got my yes! Luckily, a few unsuspecting co-workers were nearby for me to hug and shake and scream at. Otherwise, I might have exploded from sheer excitement.

So for all you aspiring authors out there, I wish for you this springtime sort of moment. After a long, harsh winter of rejections, I wish you “Yes.”

Excuses, Excuses

I remember an episode of Donahue (who out there is old enough to remember Phil?) in which the guests recited a list of excuses for not having sex with your partner tonight ... set to Gregorian chant. Was it funny? Funny enough for me to remember all these years later, so yeah.

Every author or would-be author has a list of excuses for not writing: too busy, too tired, too damned uninspired (Rhyming! That’s even better than Gregorian chant!) Here are a few excuses I’ve relied on over the years:

·  Age 20: From the lips of John Irving’s character T.S. Garp, “Nothing’s happened to me yet – I have nothing to write about.”

·  Age 25, during a stint as a local news reporter: “I write all day at the newspaper – I have no creative energy for extracurricular writing.”

·  Age 30, as a wife and mother: “I have a job and two kids to look after – I have no time to write.”

·  Age 40, starting a new career in education: “Teaching and coaching drama suck up all my artistic oomph – there’s nothing left.”

·  Age 45: “I’m going through the change of life. [Yes! I went there! I have played the menopause card!] It’s got me too depressed and lethargic to write.”

·  In my childhood, my youth, my middle-age, my … well, you get the picture: “Other people are so much better at it than I am – I can’t compete.”

I could make myself or my readers feel guilty with stories of authors who had all these excuses … I mean ‘reasons’ … to not write, but who got the writing done anyway. We’ve all heard about people who worked grueling hours and raised a large family and still managed to crank out bestsellers. But that’s their story. This is mine.

      My kids are grown and my job is no more. A woman only goes through “the change” once, and I have done gone and changed. At this stage, I no longer care who’s better than I am – I can finally focus on how good I can be. There’s nothing to distract me. Maybe I had to have all my horses shot out from under me before I got down to work.  Time to roll up my sleeves and get ‘er done.

Will Write for Food

I’ve been wondering lately (I’ll explain why in a minute): how many jobs does the average person have in a lifetime? A woman in my building is retiring this year after 42 years there. She spent her whole career in the same job, working for the same organization. One career, one job.

Since my first job in college 32 years ago, I’ve had no fewer than sixteen jobs, making for an average of a new job every two years. The longest so far was seven years, the shortest, I think, was about six months. Ten I’ve quit for something better or because I was moving away, never because it was so awful I had to leave. Twice I’ve been laid off. Twice I was unjustly fired – and of course, those hurt the most at the time. Twice I was let go because I deserved it, and that hurts more to admit now.

The first job I remember ever wanting was a writer. That was in first grade. Forty-odd years later, it’s again (or still?) the job I want most. My mom said the surest way to start hating your hobby was to make it your job, which effectively scared me out of attempting a writing career. “Write for enjoyment, but to make a living give yourself something safe to fall back on.” Good advice, I suppose, but I wonder now if it kept me from working at the writing.

Now my job has been eliminated, and I find myself again in the unhappy position of looking for work. I’m leaving a position after seven years, feeling like I was just starting to get good at it. But I learned something valuable in all these jobs: I used to believe being good at something meant something you didn’t have to work at. I’m finally coming to understand it’s something you’re willing to work at. Am I willing to put in the work it takes to become a successful writer?

I think I’m about to find out.

Does this plot line make me look fat?

“Do I look fat in this outfit?”

Woe to the husband or boyfriend on the receiving end of that question. We know all too well that all too many women don’t want an honest answer. I admit that if I heard my better half blurt out, “Honey, you look like the broad side of a barn,” he wouldn’t hear anything from me for a day at least. Still, if I could go out looking better in a different outfit, I would like to know.

And yes, this does have something to do with writing.

I had polished a certain passage until it shined, and finally I felt courageous enough to share it at a recent writers’ forum. After some encouraging murmurings from the group, the young woman to my right timidly raised her hand. “The way you have the character positioned in the first paragraph - is that even physically possible?” I looked back at what I’d just read aloud. She was absolutely right.

How did I miss that?

That’s the question every writer asks about what they’ve crafted – indeed what every person asks about their day-to-day endeavors: There’s a blank spot in that paint job; There’s a typo in that memo; There’s a thread dangling from your jacket.

How did I miss that?

If you’re never asking that question, it could indicate that you’re not taking enough risks, not trying to live up to your potential. We must be made to ask that question from time to time, and that’s what a writers’ group can do for you. They can be the friends who feel safe in saying to you:

“Actually, that sentence is a little too long.”

or

“No, that narrative doesn’t suit you.”

or

“That dialogue doesn't coordinate with your historical setting.”

These are the people you trust to say, “Try something else … and be beautiful instead.”

Write Across Nebraska

In a newspaper article on why there’s a need for a writers’ forum like ours, I was quoted as saying, “Non-writers don’t understand.” My husband blanched when he read that. “It makes you sound kind of snotty.” Then it was I who blanched at his comment, but only because he was right. Though it wasn’t my intention at all, I now worried that readers would interpret the remark to mean that I considered non-writers incapable of processing the deep and complex concepts that writers deal with. What I was actually trying to say was that non-writers simply don’t care.

Anyone with a hobby knows on some level that it just doesn't interest other people on the same level. If it did, they’d be participating in it too. I try to listen politely when my violist friend expounds on performing folk versus classical music; likewise with a crafter friend who extols the virtues of 2-ply versus 3-ply sewing floss. But I just can’t get excited about those things as they do.

In the same way, when writers lament an exposition that’s just not getting off the ground, or a character who won’t adhere to our plot line, most people’s eyes glaze over. But these topics keep writers talking and keep us writing.

This very entry is a case in point. I'm writing it as part of an event called “Write Across Nebraska,” in which writers all over the state commit to writing over the weekend. They turn in a word count and the Nebraska Writers Guild tallies the total. It’s all done online and all based on the honor system. After pounding out a thousand words or more, the writer receives nothing more valuable than a certificate stating that they reached their word-count goal. I can see most of my non-writer friends shrugging their shoulders and saying, “What’s the point?”

At the risk of sounding sacrilegious, that’s a little like asking, “What’s the point of going to church? Can’t you pray by yourself? Can’t you read the Bible (or the Koran, the Talmud) at home?” Yes, you can, and yes, you should if you want a rich spiritual life. But there’s something about being in the presence of like-minded people, even if you’re not talking about your common interests, even if you’re not talking at all. It helps just to know they’re out there.

I arranged for local writers to meet at the public library for the event, and it made a real difference for me. Had I been home and on my own, it would have been too easy to quit. Midway through the day, I did wind up alone for a time, and was about to pack it in. Then a couple fellow writers showed up, and I got a second wind.

Realizing that at this moment there are others laboring toward a goal like your own makes you more committed to your task, it inspires you to keep on track, and brings you closer to your destination. And by the way, I surpassed that 1,000 word goal, coming in with a grand total of 1798. It was a good day.

1-800-SEE-PAGE

Traffic seems to be moving at a steady pace, with another hundred views every couple of weeks.
In honor of my 800th view, the next installment of EV (from pages 20-21) appears below.
As always, I would welcome comments.

She girds her loins with strength

and makes her arms strong.

She perceives that her merchandise is profitable

Proverbs 31:17, 18 (RSV)

Once they were airborne, Maggie was struck with the notion that God was punishing her for being too talkative over her life. Lately it didn’t matter whether she was on a commuter plane or a 747 or even this little two-seater, she wound up beside the nut who wanted to talk - about himself.

“So what did Paul say about me in his recommendation?”

“Truthfully, it wasn’t exactly a recommendation. He just mentioned you is all.”

“Well then, what did he mention about me?”

“Your name, Marc. He mentioned your name and nothing else.” And like a fool, she thought, I took a word from a near stranger as some sort of sign. “Doesn’t matter, though,” Maggie continued, stretching and yawning. “I had you pegged inside two minutes.”

“Oh really? Do tell."

"Well, you’re cocky and you’re lazy without the build or the looks to go with it.” She started to apologize for her bluntness, but decided he didn’t deserve it. "That means you come from money. Money that’s obviously slipped away one way or another. How am I doing so far?”

He glanced over at her with surprise and annoyance, but he admitted, “Not bad.”

“At your tender age, it’s not likely you’ve already lost it in bad investments, so my guess is that mummy and daddy disowned us over, oh, let’s see, what was it? Maybe they had to foot the bill for one too many fights at the old frat house? Got a girl in trouble, maybe - a girl they didn’t want to welcome into the family? Or did they just get tired of bailing you out of jail, replacing your smashed up sports cars-”

“Okay, yeah, you’re pretty close, close enough. You’re good at this.”

Maggie shrugged. “You’ve got ‘college drop-out’ written all over you.” It crossed her mind that he might have lost his money through an expensive drug habit, and maybe he was paying it off by delivering the stuff he used. She’d read somewhere that one in five people in Colombia was involved in the cocaine trade, at least indirectly. She decided she didn’t want to know where Marc fit into those numbers, and was glad when he changed the subject.

"Well then,” he said, “I'd have to say you have ‘graduate school’ written all over you."

Grudgingly, Maggie nodded. “Not bad for a guy who normally thinks with his nether regions. As I was saying before, I got licensed as a physician's assistant, and then got a degree in business...”

Marc started wagging his head to the rhythm of her voice as she ticked off her list. “Did I ask you for your résumé?”

“ ...I had a couple of summer internships for various agencies. One was in Ecuador, running a lab for the VISA program and…”

“I don’t remember asking for your résumé -”

“…then I got this sales position with Worthington Pharmaceuticals. I logged three thousand miles for sales calls last year, and the profit margin for my division went up twelve percent. My goal was to be head of sales before I was forty.”

“Gee, and I thought we had nothing in common. I myself handle pharmaceutical sales of a sort.” He delivered another grin. “Non-prescription strength."

How can I miss you if you won't go away?

I really enjoy my career in education, but teaching is an intense occupation psychologically and physically. By the time Memorial Day rolls around each year I am really ready to take a break from students, grading, lesson plans – all of it. But long before the fall semester begins, I'm missing my kids, my colleagues and the stimulation that the job entails. I return to the classroom refreshed and reinvigorated.

In a related vein, every summer my husband goes out of town for about ten days on business. It is hard on me to take over the many tasks he takes charge of around home, and it's much harder on him to work the long hours of this temporary job. But this little time spent apart is just enough to make each of us appreciate the another.

Similarly, I often get the question, “How do you deal with writers block?” My first line of defense is to take a break. When you feel like your characters aren't cooperating, that the plot is hopelessly tangled, and the words just won't come, oftentimes the best thing to do is walk away. It may be for an hour, it may be for a day, it may be longer. (In composing this entry, I've taken three mini-breaks of a minute or so.)

Let me clarify I'm saying to take a break from that particular piece. It's advisable to keep that writing part of the brain moving with other projects.

The inevitable question is, “What if I never return from that break?” and I admit that is a risk. My personal advice is don't let more than a couple of weeks go by before you at least look at it again. In completing Earthen Vessels, I sometimes put the work away for a year or more. I don't know if that works for everyone, but I think that's the way it had to be for me.

Almost without fail, with a sufficient separation from the work, the knots in your plot will unravel, the phrases will flow again, and your characters will call out to you, demanding to be heard. It brings to mind the old children's rhyme:

Little Bo Peep

has lost her sheep

and doesn't know where to find them.

Leave them alone

and they'll come home,

wagging their tails behind them.