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.