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.

View number (you guessed it) 700

The site passed view #700 last week, so here is another excerpt. In looking back at old posts, I realized last time was a repeat. Sorry. 
For some context on this next clip: Marc has told off a cocaine colleague who was harassing him about the delivery schedule. He's agreed to fly Maggie to a research station in the rainforest.

Marc was determined to get in the last word, but was left with nothing to say. “You don’t own the plane,” he shouted after the driver. “And you don’t own me!”

Marc pretended not to be jangled by that statement, but he knew the kinds of things that happened to those who disappointed the higher-ups. Taking the heat wasn’t just a figure of speech. He swallowed hard, then as casually as possible, he pulled out a cigarette and under his breath he muttered, “Glad we got this cleared up, amigo.”

Marc had felt compelled to engage in this brief but intense discussion with Mr. Striped Shirt to clarify who was calling the shots. With that done, he now felt compelled to break the resulting tension by engaging in a brief but intense reading session with a Playboy in the hangar’s lone bathroom. He burst through the office door and snatched his most recent issue (now five months old). On his way out he instructed Maggie over his shoulder. “Have your shit loaded in five minutes.” He glanced at the cover. “Okay, ten minutes, or I leave without you.”

True to his word, for once, Marc emerged after ten minutes to check on Maggie’s progress. “You about done, or what?” he asked, checking the scratched face of his Rolex.

"It never occurred to you to help?"

He looked a bit surprised. "Well…no," he answered honestly.

"It would speed things up," Maggie offered.

"What all have you got here anyway?"

She pointed at the boxes in turn. "That one has reference books, and the one beside it has equipment for collecting plant specimens. This one has personal stuff and the suitcase of course-“

"Save it, lady. I just want to know which is the lightest."

"Take your chances." Maggie picked up a box and carried it away.

When he caught up to her, Maggie eyed the Greek letters on the billed cap Marc now wore.

"I remember the TKE chapter on my campus," she said. "Beer-guzzling partiers who couldn't be bothered to find their way to class."

"Yeah, that's us," Marc nodded with fond remembrance. “What about you? You pledge a sorority way back in your college days?”

“It wasn’t the stone-age, and yes, I belonged to Pi Nu Delta. It’s actually an honorary for women in the sciences.”

"Not that I asked." Marc's cigarette bobbed between clenched lips as he spoke.

“You see, I started off in college wanting a career in medicine, but then I also developed an interest in sales and marketing, and I thought, 'This is just too crazy to work.' "

"Crazy," Marc agreed. He set down the crate of books and leaned against the plane. Maggie started back for more of her stuff, talking the whole way, and Marc decided to let her get the last load herself. He tuned her out and just watched her walking over and back. She might be kind of cute if she slimmed down just a little - and if she ever stopped yapping.

Maggie hoisted her suitcase onto the plane with a huff. "So what's a rotten kid like you doing in a tropical paradise like this?"

Marc gave a look of surprise. "I'm not a kid," he informed her. "I'm 21, legal in all fifty states."

"If you're still bragging about it, you're still a kid."

"How long since you were bragging about it?"

Maggie hesitated, but decided to answer. "Seven years, not that it's any of your business."

Marc calculated and concluded that at twenty-eight her bones were not so brittle they would break if he decided to jump them. He struggled to keep a straight face. “Given your medical background, are you concerned at all about catching jungle fever down here?”

“Jungle fever? You mean malaria? I had all my shots before I left.”

“No," he answered, practicing his sensuous stare on her as he moved closer. "I mean that burning feeling in your loins that comes over you when you get out in the jungle, where it’s hot and wet and wild." A strand of hair had fallen over her eye, and he gently reached out a finger to brush it back. He lowered his voice to a whisper, "Don’t you feel it?"

Maggie slapped his hand away and gave him a level stare. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Marc shrugged. “That line has worked before.”

Maggie shook her head. “Are you seriously trying to make me believe that just being in the jungle makes people ... makes them ...”

“Horny as hell, you bet,” Marc informed her, shaking off the sting in his hand. And in response to her skeptical look, he went on. “Hey, they don’t call it the torrid zone for nothing. And there ain’t no shot for that, honey, unless it’s a shot of-”

“I’m sure I’m immune,” Maggie interrupted. Still, she recalled the travel brochures she’d read all used words like “sultry” and “sensuous” and “untamed.”

“Nobody’s immune, sugar,” he told her. “Nobody."

The Internet: Endless Resource or Bottomless pit?

I went back to college in my 30s, just as the whole Internet thing was gaining ground. The first few times I had to research papers online, I would enter a search phrase and open the returns one by one to find that half of them were nothing like what I wanted. I would then notice that my search had yielded 80,000 results. It would take a lifetime just to glance at them all! I remember getting so overwhelmed at one point, I had to go to the ladies' room and have a little cry.

Years later I've acquired some online mastery, but once in a while my poor brain still feels assaulted by the sheer enormity of it all. It begins so simply: I have an idea so I sit down at the keyboard intending to write. Then I need clarification on a word or ideas for a more precise word choice, so I turn to an online dictionary or thesaurus. As I do so I get pop-up ads from outfits claiming they can improve my writing or my saleability. I might break down and open one up, and I wind up registering for an writing webinar that starts in an hour. As I sit through the webinar it reminds me that I promised to e-mail a writer friend regarding a critique of her work. I open my e-mail at the close of the webinar and my in-box is full of notices from online writers support groups or critique circles, editors and countless online articles on – of all things – heightening my online presence. At this point I've already spent three hours of my day online.

I've read these online articles and they say things like “write a blog” so I do that. Then I get e-mails offering to help me improve my blog.

And the writing I sat down to do hours ago? The objective that motivated all this? Lost. I ask myself, “Where does it end?” The answer, of course is, there is no end to the Internet.