Okay, so I’ve had the kind of crazy weekend that makes me want to lie down for a few days just to absorb it all.  Major shifting of patterns and stuff.  Some good, some bad, but all for the greater good, I think. 

So it started last Thursday when I had my session with Joely Black, The Most Excellent Writing Coach, who is not only the most generously supportive coach on the planet, but who can also do a kick-ass Cartman impression. 

Anyway, we’re having the session, and she asks me if I want to talk about my characters, which is pretty great, really, because she lets me lead the sessions.  If I want to talk about characters, that’s what we talk about, but I can also choose to talk about plot, or writing, or other blocks I have.  She’s flexible, and that makes me think I can be, too. 

But, my intention was to talk about the idea of identity and how I think I need to change–or maybe reframe–how I approach my writing and how I think of myself as a writer. 

Instead, I heard myself say, “Yeah.  I want to talk about my characters, but I want to say something that’s really hard, so give me a minute.” 

There was a soft and supportive “Okay” on the other end of the line. 

I took a deep breath and I began to tell her what I’ve been thinking lately regarding my characters and my process, mostly that I just need to write the scenes that I’m interested in first, and trust that the rest of the story will unfold from there.

For several months now–I know.  I’m slow.  It’s all good–I’ve been thinking that I need to sit down and write the really important scenes, the scenes that gave me the idea for this book in the first place, the scenes where my characters come up against their greatest fears, or find out some awful secret or whatever.  There’s really only a half dozen or so of them, but they’re the scenes that really pull me to the story. 

And I’ve been thinking that maybe I should just trust that if those are the scenes that gave me this story idea in the first place, that they’ll take me where I need to go to tell it. 

But I haven’t allowed myself to write them.  I mean, I won’t know the details!  I won’t know what to write!  I’ll have to change stuff later!  I’ll get it wrong! 

And so we get to the heart of the matter–I can’t get it wrong.  I can’t make a mistake.  Ever. 

And because the stakes are so high, and because my childhood bar for excellence is so ridiculously unattainable, “getting it wrong” means “getting it anything less than perfect.” 

I can’t delete stuff.  I can’t do it the Wrong Way.  I need to do it right the first time. 

Part of the reason that I’ve been ignoring this niggling thought at the back of my head is because I really think that this is my process, not just for these few scenes, but for the whole book.  Dive into the scenes I care about and before long, the other scenes will crop up.  I’ll write those, and before I know it, I’ll have pieced together the entire story, the whole book, just from those first few scenes. 

So why am I not doing that? 

Because if I jump in and it doesn’t work, I’ve got nothing left.  I’ve got nothing left to fall back on. 

I’ve tried every other process on the planet.  I’ve read a hundred books on how to write, which is both enormously helpful and incredibly damaging.  I’ve learned a lot, including lots of ways to avoid listening to myself.  If I do whatever someone else tells me to do and it doesn’t work, then I have someone to blame.  Then it’s not me who’s completely fucked it all up. 

And I’m in the middle of telling Joely all of this when I realize something else:  the reason I’m telling her this now is because I want her to tell me that this way is The Right Way.  I’m telling her that I think I need to start with these scenes that I love and somehow trust that the rest of the book will follow because I want her to validate it for me. 

Then I realize that Joely might not know what’s right for me.  Even with all her experience and brilliance, even with seventeen books and all her self-awareness and writing talent, and the fact that she knows more about Buddhism than anyone else I’ve ever met outside another religion major, she still doesn’t know what my process should be. 

And that’s when things finally clicked into place. 

And I said, “You know, I think I told you all of this because I wanted you to tell me that it was Okay for me to do this, but you know what, Joely?  (clears throat and coughs) I…I don’t care what you think.” 

There was silence for about half a second. 

And then wild cheering and applause from Manchester.  “Yaaaay!  You’re there!  You’re getting it!”  And then we laughed together and she cheered for me some more and I rested my head on my desk because slaying dragons is exhausting. 

And I’m just trying to settle into this idea.  I know I should probably just start writing, but it’s hard.  I’m taking it slow.  And really, I don’t have a lot of time right now.  I’m slammed with website work.  It’s funny, I start opening myself to my writing and my process and all of a sudden, my website business is taking off. 

It’s good.  I’m beginning to believe that things are going to be Okay, even if I don’t yet know what Okay is going to look like. 

I’m excited about this week.  I don’t have a lot of time, but I’m going to treat myself to writing those favorite scenes.  Did you hear that?  “Treat myself.”  That’s what it is.  I might not write the whole book this way.  This might not lead to more scenes.  I may write these few and the rest will just fizzle out, or I might write myself into a big, black hole, but that’s okay.  I’m just not going to worry about that right now. 

Right now, I’m just going to write what I want to, what I care about.  And I’m going to do it as well as I can.  And next week?  Well, I’ll worry about that next week.

Posted by Diane under the writing life on 04/7/09
15 Comments »

Status: Steadier this week.  I’ve tackled some big dragons.  This is actually something I wrote a couple of weeks ago and I’m just now feeling like I can post it.  (And I just posted this and saw the length–whoa.  I should probably apologize, but you know what?  I’m just not going to.  My space.  My writing.  My stuff.  I only post every other week anyway.  Break it up into chunks.)

So, if you’ve been following my blog at all, you know that I’ve got a rock, and lately, it’s been changing.  So many people have come by to chat with it or talk to it that it thinks it gets to talk, too, which of course pisses me off.  

Here’s the thing:  It’s not the perfectly shaped egg that it used to be.  It’s …collapsed somehow.  It looks more like a rock.  A rock that’s been through a tumbler.  It’s got some angles and flat places, but they’re tied together with all these soft, rounded corners. 

And the teeth …well, the teeth are still there, but they’re softer, too.  They’re not metal anymore.  And since they’re so tiny, they look a bit like peach fuzz.

And that’s something else.  It used to be really pretty–beautiful, in fact.  It was all glossy and sparkly and perfectly formed and just really, really gorgeous.  But now, with all the awkward edges and the fuzz that strangely resembles mildew, it’s ugly.  Gross.  Really, really repulsive. 

But, that doesn’t much matter to me, because I hated when it was beautiful, so I don’t like it any more or less now. 

Because I know why it’s here. 

See, I’ve got some Stuff.  And it’s not all my stuff.  Some of it was handed down to me.  Some of it was done to me.  Some of recent.  Some not.  And a couple of months ago I had a really nasty realization:  I realized that I couldn’t write because I couldn’t forgive myself for not being perfect, and the bad part was that I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself for not being perfect until I’d forgiven Those Who Had Hurt Me. 

Yeah.  Not gonna happen. 

But, I tried.  At the very least, I was finally able to see TWHHM with some compassion and understanding.  Miserable people do miserable things.  That’s just how life is. 

But the only reason I was able to do that was because I promised myself that I could keep the resentment.  I was able to forgive because I promised myself I’d never have to forget.  I could acknowledge that they were bitter, miserable, unhappy people.  And I could let go of some of the anger and pain.  But the resentment?  No way.  I promised myself I could wrap that around me like swaddling.  It would hold me up and keep me together.

And then my rock showed up. 

And told me that I’d have to let the resentment go.  That scared me.  And then, a few weeks ago, it pissed me off.  A lot.

During a meditation, I ran out into the field where my rock sits with my inner critic, which startled them both because I usually don’t go out there.  I’m only a guest, after all.  And I dragged that rock out from under that tree and into the middle of that field and I started looking for the biggest, heaviest branch I could find so that I could beat the shit out of it and make it leave. 

And I started shrieking, “I hate you!  I don’t want you here!  I didn’t invite you here!  This wasn’t part of the deal!  I don’t have to do anything.  I get to be resentful!  And pissed!  And I want you gone!  And if you won’t go, I’ll damn well run you off!” 

And when I found the branch I was looking for, I turned back to my rock, expecting to find it cowering against the grass, or maybe already gone because it could see how serious I was. 

But it wasn’t scared.  It wasn’t trying to hide or flee.  It was just sitting there in the grass where I’d dragged it, looking up at me and blinking. 

I didn’t even know it had eyes. 

I raised the branch over my head.  “Do you see?  Do you see me?  I hate you!  I can’t have you here any more!  And I’m going to drive you from here if it kills me!”  All I could feel was my own hatred and resentment. 

And it just blinked at me. 

Then, it sent a quiet little voice to me in my head, “That’s okay.  You can hit me with that branch.  I’m a rock.  I can take it.  And I know you need it right now.  And that’s okay.  You’re okay.” 

I stopped, but I gripped that branch as tightly as I could.  I know a sales pitch when I hear one.  I didn’t back down. 

Until it said the next thing to me. 

“You can hit me all you want.  I can take it.  But I’m just going to stay here.  And you can hit me for as long as you want.  What you’re doing is really hard.  And you have a right to be angry.  So, I’m just going to take it.  Because I can.  And because I still love you.” 

And I simply broke. 

I collapsed to me knees on the grass and the branch fell away.  I bent over and I started to cry.  And I couldn’t stop. 

I stayed that way on my mat in my office for a long time, sobbing into my hands. 

A while later, I felt brave enough to look up.  My rock had moved closer to me.  I turned my hand over and it crawled up into it.  I lifted it up to my face where I could get a good look at it. 

It just looked back.  It was still ugly.  Fuzzy and mildewy and imperfect.  And I kept waiting for the reproach.  For the acknowledgment that I’d fucked up big time.  For the judgment.  But it just sat there. 

So finally, exhausted and broken, I said, “Okay, so what are you trying to tell me?  What wonderful bit of wisdom are you here to share?  Please just tell me so I can get it over with.  I can’t take this any more.” 

And it blinked at me.  But it said nothing.  And eventually, after a moment, it slowly turned around and turned its back on me. 

A horrible sense of dread that this wasn’t over–that even after all of this self-work, my damn rock wasn’t going to help me out at all–swamped me.  All my fear and insecurity came rushing back.  “Wait!  What are you doing?  I’m here.  I’m listening.  Just fucking tell me already.” 

I waited. 

But my rock didn’t move.   

“Look at me!  I’m here.  I’m doing the damn work!  And I can’t heal unless you talk to me!  What the hell do you want?”  By now, I’m crying again.  “Please.” 

It turned around again, giving me it’s full attention, but still not speaking.  Eventually, I got the distinct impression that it was saying, “Are you done?” and looking at me like I was a doofus. 

Finally, at a complete loss, I sniffled and said, “What?” 

It blinked at me again and slowly, like it wanted to make sure I got it this time, it turned back around and faced the field. 

For the first time since I’d run out there, I looked up. 

And gasped. 

It was beautiful.  The sky was a vibrant, gorgeous blue, and the sun was shining so brightly that I was surprised it didn’t hurt my eyes.  Everything shone.  The grass, the trees, the lake in the distance all seemed to sparkle and shine with color.  Even my inner critic was looking up, Milk Duds momentarily forgotten. 

I sat there for a long time and watched it.  I felt delight and wonder.  Somewhere in the back of my mind, it registered that it had been a long time since I’d felt those things, a long time since I’d given myself permission to just be happy. 

Slowly, everything began to fade back to normal.  It became simply another field again.  And I’d almost missed it all because I’d been so wrapped up in solving my own anger and resentment.

I looked down at my rock in my hand and saw it looking up at me.  That little fucker was smiling.  I tried not to, but I couldn’t help it.  I smiled back. 

I lowered it back to the ground and it made its way back to my inner critic.  I was astonished to see her lower her hand to the grass and help it up onto her shoulder.  As far as I knew, they’d never even acknowledged each other.  But apparently, now they were friends. 

That’s how I left them.  My inner critic, perched on her favorite root, looking down into her box of Milk Duds, my rock sitting on her shoulder, looking at me and smiling. 

I waved at them and left. 

And I suppose that that entire experience was very profound somehow and should have left me with some kind of brilliant insight, but all I really feel is shaken and unsure, like I’m walking across an ice rink in sneakers.   I don’t know how to live without the swaddling of resentment and anger.  I don’t know what’s going to hold me up or keep me together. 

Maybe my writing.  Maybe me.  Maybe all of you.  I guess we’ll see.  Thanks for being here.

Posted by Diane under fear and writing on 04/1/09
12 Comments »

I know that, from time to time, I make some grammatical mistakes.  I start too many sentences with “And” and “So.”  I have tense issues.  I use the wrong pronouns.  And sometimes, sometimes, I even use the wrong “their.”  There are three to choose from.  It’s going to happen. 

And if this matters to you, then you should unsubscribe immediately because here at Outdriving My Headlights, we value story–your story, my story, the stories we’re sharing with each other.   

“But you’re a writer,” I hear you saying.  “Isn’t grammar important to you?  Don’t we need grammar to be able to communicate?” 

Well, yes, we do.  That’s true.  The better we can wield the tools of grammar, syntax, vocabulary and spelling, the better we can craft our story. 

But here’s my problem:  when we’re all standing in line at the post office, tentatively chatting each other up to pass the slowed-to-a-crawl time, and the lovely lady in the green dress begins to captivate us with tales of her family’s recent safari in South Africa, you do not stop her to correct her pronoun usage. 

I mean, you understood that she meant that her daughter and her were left on the bank by the boat, right?  You didn’t think she meant her daughter and a lawn chair?  Or her daughter and an eggplant? 

I didn’t think so.  So why are you correcting her? 

a) You’re insecure enough to judge the sweet, well-traveled lady who was brave enough to share her story with you.
b) You’re selfish enough to not care that you’ve made her uncomfortable.
c) You’re a jackass.
d) All of the above.

And so here’s my point:  if you’re already understanding the story, if you’re already communicating, and you’re still correcting grammar, then your primary goal isn’t to improve the communication at all.  It’s to assert your own superiority and draw attention to yourself. 

This provokes me to start a movement–a movement against the Grammar Police.  This is for everyone I’ve ever met in my life who has stopped me right in the middle of my story to say, “No, it’s whom,” for all the writers I’ve known who use the rules of grammar to judge others so they can feel better about the fact that they’re not published, for that dumbass in the post office for stopping the nice lady’s story because I wanted to hear what happened with the snake and the sunglasses and now I’ll never know.  

If you’d like to join my movement, consider yourself a member.  We shall call ourselves The Grammar Mafia.

To all the Grammar Police out there, here is our letter to you. 

Dear Grammar Police,

We see you.  We’ve met you.  We know you. 

You correct your grandmother at the Thanksgiving table.  You scoff at the television.  You laugh at “supposeably.” 

You judge us by our typos.  You use silly words like “masticate” and “utilize.”  You never use “lie” when you mean “lay.” 

We are not impressed. 

We are not impressed by technical knowledge spewed out by rote.  We do not value the judgment of others and we do not care for your self-righteous superiority.  We believe that meaningful human communication depends more on honesty, transparency, and earnestness than on the correct conjugation of “to swim.” 

As long as communication is made with respect, kindness, and a genuine willingness to share, we will honor it.  We will value it.  We will reach out to it so that it can bring us closer together, regardless of whether or not someone says “less” when he/she meant “fewer.” 

And if you show up here with your judgment and superiority, we will fight you with Tommy guns loaded with self-acceptance and tolerance.  We will bootleg compassionate curiosity.  We will beat clever metaphors to death. 

Consider yourself warned. 

Just know that we are out here, waiting on you to out yourself at a party when someone says “irregardless.”  We won’t take kindly to your grammatical suggestions.  We will stand up for everyone who has ever made a silly mistake because they were caught up in the story. 

And (in the Godfather voice, lightly scratching our chins) we just might make you an offer you can’t refuse. 

Seriously yours,
Diane “Bugsy” Whiddon-Brown
Head of the Denver Outfit
The Grammar Mafia

Posted by Diane under just for fun on 03/16/09
25 Comments »

Status:  Really not in the mood to write today.  Feeling a bit chewed up and spit out.  Which I suppose makes today’s topic fairly ironic. 

Okay, so this talk from Elizabeth Gilbert has been circulating the tubes for a couple of weeks now.  If you haven’t seen it, it’s worth a look.  She talks about a different way to think about creative genius. 

Watching this really got me to thinking about writing, and how hard it is, and how often it feels like a flogging. 

She mentions how many authors have died by their own hand, either deliberately, or by the slow deterioration caused by constant self-abuse.  It should come as no surprise that some of the greatest writers of our time were alcoholics.  Dorothy Parker, Oscar Wilde, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and so many of the great writers in the early part of this century were drunkards as much as writers. 

And I’m not above it.  I know for a fact that the words flow more quickly and easily if I’ve had an extra glass of wine or a long conversation with my friend, Basil Hayden.  I know that alcohol quiets the inner critic, as does any other vice that temporarily reduces cognitive dissonance. 

There are lots of explanations for this phenomenon.  Anne Lamott talks about the warping that occurs when one person spends so much time in their own company, inside their own head. 

And we’ve all read the books and articles, and gone to the workshops where they tell you that you can’t just write anything, you have to tap into your inner most stuff, your core.  That’s the only way to write well, to write what people will want to read, what will resonate with them.  So, you can’t just sit down and do it by rote, like it’s analyzing a balance sheet, you have to turn yourself inside out and put what used to be wrapped tightly around your bones onto the blank page. 

That’s enough to fuck up anybody.   

Here’s the beauty of what Elizabeth Gilbert says.  She argues that the reason all these artists are going crazy is because they feel the complete and utter burden of creation all on themselves.  She suggests that perhaps there’s a better way, a way that includes a psychological construct to carry the burden of creative genius, in other words, a muse.

She refers to the ancient Greeks and Romans and their belief that creative genius happened outside the author or artist.  The artist was simply the vessel. 

And it immediately made me think of my muse. 

Yes, I have one.  Now, for those of you who know me, this should come as no surprise because you know I have an inner critic, a rock, and a field where they both like to sit.  What you might not know is that my muse is occasionally out there with them. 

Now, my inner critic showed up in my life first.  And I’m convinced that I gave her this beautiful field to sit in because I was trying to show her love and attention so she’d lighten up on the That’s Not Good Enough Talk. 

One day, I noticed that I had a muse as well. 

She has this long, flowing hair and a really pretty summer dress that sparkles.  She kind of looks like a hippie fairy godmother. 

She usually hangs out in the forest that runs alongside the field.  I don’t look over there very often, though.  I keep it in my periphery because it’s got a whole Fire Swamp thing going on.  I don’t know what she does in there, and I don’t care to know.  Mostly, I just leave her alone.

In fact, the only time she ever shows up is when I write something particularly brilliant. 

I’ll have this great epiphany and think, “Yeah!  I’m awesome.  I can totally do this.  I’m a writer.”  And she’ll suddenly appear over my shoulder and say, “Mm-hmph,” really quietly, just to let me know that the idea was hers and not mine. 

Which always seemed rather obnoxious to me, but after watching Elizabeth’s talk, I realized something.

Maybe she’s just trying to help. 

Maybe all this time, she’s been telling me that I don’t have to take it all on.  Maybe I don’t have to feel so responsible. 

Elizabeth made the point that all we had to do was show up.  Just show up and let go. 

I like that.  That way, the only thing I’m responsible for is attendance. 

I don’t have to write the Great American Novel.  I don’t have to write the next Twilight.  I don’t have to write a book that’s going to make all the bestseller lists next year. 

I just have to show up. 

I think I can do that. 

And I’ll come prepared. 

Do you hear me, Muse?  I’m here.  I’ve got tea.  I’ve worked out so that I feel healthy and ready to sit and churn for a while.  I’ve had a good breakfast so I feel nourished and energized.   

And I’ve got a pristine white screen in front of me, just waiting for words. 

Present.

Posted by Diane under the writing life on 02/25/09
19 Comments »

Okay, so I was talking with an acquaintance of mine the other day, trying to tell her about how cool my blog is and how much I enjoy Twitter.  I happened to mention something about my “friends” online, and she freaked out. 

Her:  Well, it’s not like they’re really your friends. 

Me:  Um, yeah.  They kind of are.

Her:  Well, I mean sure, you have stuff in common with them, and you like them, but they’re not your friends.

Me:  (silently)  Well, what the hell is your definition of “friend”?

But I didn’t say that.  I just murmured something to her and went on about the conversation and then got the hell off the phone. 

Then, I started thinking about my friends In Real Life, the people I knew in law school and from before.  People I’d talked to, shared with, leaned on.  People I’d had drinks with, people I’d bail out of jam, like if their car didn’t start in the morning.   

And I thought about what most of those people said to me when I told them I wanted to become a writer.

“A writer?“ 

Like I’d said “car thief.” 

Them:  What on earth are you going to do with that?

Me:  Um, write books?

Them:  What makes you think you can do that?

Me: ?!?

And if I mentioned writing romance?  Forget about it.  My “friends” have said everything from “Well, I won’t read a romance novel, but if you ever write a real book, I’d read that,”  to  “Well, good for you.  I mean, somebody’s got to write the trash, right?”   

Oh.  My.  God. 

Oh, and I’ve heard every Fabio joke in existence.   

They just don’t get it.  They don’t understand why I want to be writer.  They certainly don’t understand why I quit law school to do it.  And to write romances?  Or some other vile form of genre fiction? 

“Not something worthwhile, like Angela’s Ashes?” 

Um, no.  Writing is hard enough.  I don’t need to write a story that makes me want to snort my printer toner. 

So, when I actually joined a writer’s group, I was elated because I thought these people will get it.  They’ll get me.  They won’t be like my judgmental friends.  They’ll understand my love of writing and words.  They’ll read all the time like I do.  And they’ll be just like me!

Or not. 

I should have realized that my expectation was a little off when I went on a retreat with my critique group and one of them actually bragged about how it didn’t matter how you dressed for an agent interview at a conference, to which they all nodded and made disparaging remarks about all the poor losers who actually wore suits to conferences, like it would make a difference in their careers. 

All I could think was, I wore a suit to Conference, because this is my job.  And if you don’t think an agent is judging you for wearing a muu-muu to your interview, you’re crazy.  And, If you’re saying that about them, what the hell were you saying about me?

I’d never felt so alone in my writing career. 

It really, really hurt, because writing is hard enough, but trying to do it in the midst of a toxic critique group, or all by yourself, is almost unbearable. 

I’ve been trying to reconcile myself to that.  To writing alone.  To being the only person like me.  Someone who genuinely wants to write, who sees a critique group as more than a social gathering.  Someone who wants other people to do this with so I don’t feel so crazy and so I have someone to root for, to cheer for, and who can maybe cheer for me, too. 

And not just when I get published or get The Call, but when I simply manage to write another page, another day.

Then I started this blog, and my heart began to give way, because I began to meet so many wonderful, beautiful people who seemed to be just like that. 

Then I spent an evening on Twitter.  (At some point I’m going to have to write about the Awesomeness that is Twitter, but this post is already long enough.) 

So, anyway, it was about three in the morning my time and I started chatting with the awesome and always interesting Seth Simonds and I found out that he’s a writer, too.  He read my  previous post, and we laughed and talked about how difficult it all is, and when I asked him what he writes, he said, “Freelance pays for the food that fiction causes me to cry into” and I laughed hysterically and sent him a big, empathetic, internet hug because I could so relate. 

Then I thought that maybe I needed to stop wasting time on Twitter and get back to my work when he sent me this DM (reprinted with his permission): 

“You know the feeling of standing right beside somebody and having them reach out and take your hand with a firm squeeze? The feeling of facing the “oh shit, who knows what’s next” but being okay with it because its somehow turned into a sort of team effort?

Empathetic hugs aside, I hope you can get a sense of the hand clasp. ::there::  I write thousands of words each day and I bleed for them. But I’m constantly learning more about myself.” 

I read that.  And then I read it again.  And one more time.

And something inside me slowly unfurled.  And I realized … 

I’m not alone anymore. 

Because there are people who get it, people who get me.  And they’re wonderful, beautiful people who are here with me while I’m trying to do this crazy, insane thing. 

People like Joely, Chris, JoVE, Stacie, Emma, Gina, Mary, Eileen, TheGirlPie, and Leah, and so many more of you who don’t always comment, but who lurk, or chat with me on Twitter. 

And, of course, Seth. 

And even though you all are probably not going to show up tomorrow if my car breaks down, you’re here with me now.  You understand the fear and angst involved in the creative process.  And you can lean on me, even while I lean on you, too.  

And I think that makes you guys the coolest friends of all.

Posted by Diane under writing and support on 02/18/09
26 Comments »

So, I’ve had a hard few weeks.  (And I’m really waiting for the week when I don’t start a post that way, but for now, well …that’s where I am.) 

Anyway, I’ve been away.  I’ve had a few of my patterns show up to wallop me, and so I’ve been hibernating.  And I’m still tired.  So tired.  My body effectively shut down last weekend, and even though it was almost certainly food poisoning or some kind of stomach flu, I couldn’t help but feel like I was being told very loudly to Slow. Down. 

And so I’ve drawn inward.  I’m licking my wounds.  I haven’t tweeted, I’ve barely emailed.  I’ve worked, but I’ve written next to nothing.

And then Chris Brogan wrote a post a couple of weeks ago that bothered me.  He talked about writing, his process, and how he basically writes all the time, even if it’s in his head.  He talked about he’s always reading or writing, whether it’s books, blogs or Twitter.  He’s apparently always writing words.  Because it’s so freakin’ easy. 

And that pissed me off.  Because for me, writing isn’t something I can just do all the time.  It’s not easy. 

It’s a bloodletting. 

It’s exhausting.  And it hurts. 

Now, the writing in my head thing, I’ve got down.  I do that all the time.  I’ve been doing it all my life. 

It’s  the putting it on paper that gets me.  The translation of thoughts to words that flow down my arms and out of my fingers onto the blank page is where I stop dead. 

Because the blank page is where I go to fail. 

Yeah.  At least with fiction.  Research papers, case briefs–I rock those.  And essay tests were always a dream come true.  Because all I had to do was be someone else.  I just took whatever the professor gave me and reflected it back to them.  I’m ridiculously good at that.  It’s not something I’m proud of. 

But where my writing came to a grinding halt was where I needed to be myself–my fiction, blog entries, even letters to friends.

Then someone told me that writing is all about discipline.  And when the chips were down, I simply needed sit down and do it. 

I wanted to flick him in the forehead. 

Because I’ve got discipline.  I got into law school.  (A good one.)  I’ve made straight A’s.  (And not just in the third grade.)  I’ve started my own business.  I do yoga every day.  And I always, always eat my vegetables. 

But I just can’t write all the time.  Three hours and I’m tapped out.  Four and I have to lie down for a nap. Because writing isn’t about discipline.  It’s about self-care. 

One more time for the cheap seats: Writing isn’t about discipline.  It’s about self-care. 

You cannot force yourself to write, or at least to write well.  Writing (and I believe, any creative endeavor) is about kindness to yourself, the gentle release of perfectionism, extreme self-care, and a tremendous pair of hairy cahones for boldly risking creating crap. 

And that?  Well, that I’m just not so good at. 

But, self-loathing?  Suck-it-up talk?   “Get Off Your Fat Ass” and  “You’d Better Do This Right Now or You Will Be a LOSER the Rest of Your Pathetic Life” lectures?  Hell, I could teach a class. Maybe even a whole damn conference.  But that stuff just doesn’t help. 

And that pisses me off, too. 

Because no one ever told me that.  No one ever said that not only was I allowed to take care of me, but that I was supposed to.   In fact, until I read Anne Lamott, no one even told me that I was going to be Okay.  It was all news to me. 

And all this crap makes me think of my rock, and all the resentment that I’m holding onto.  I imagine it’s not going to get easier until I can release some of that.  And that pisses me off, too. 

Apparently, I have issues. 

I may deal with a few of them next week.  We’ll see. 

In the meantime, I’ll just try to remember that someone great and beautiful told me that I’m going to be Okay, even if I have no idea what Okay is going to look like.

And I’ll do the best I can.  Even if that’s only another hour of writing tomorrow …

Posted by Diane under fear and writing on 02/6/09
27 Comments »

I’m going through some pretty big Stuck right now, and I don’t think I’m quite ready to write about it.  I might eventually talk about it here.  I might not.  I’m still trying to figure out my relationship to this space and what I want to write about here and what I want to edit out. 

(I know you can’t believe that I’ve edited out anything so far.  I have.  It gets much, much messier.  You might want to duck.  Seriously.) 

But, while I’m working through some of my Stuff, I thought it might be fun to do something a little lighter today.   

Here’s my thing.  I love Milk Duds.  I lurve them.  They aren’t duds at all, but little chewy drops of chocolate wonderfulness.  And I almost never eat them. 

I feel guilty if I eat more than three at a time, and since I can rarely justify paying seven fifty for three Milk Duds at the movies, I glance at them longingly through the glass case, sigh, and then head toward the theater with my bag of roasted pumpkin seeds tucked away in my purse. 

But I miss Milk Duds.  They were my favorite candy growing up. 

I hadn’t had them in years, and hadn’t really thought about them other than a longing glance through the movie theater case, until my Inner Critic showed up. 

One day she just …appeared.  I looked up and there she was.  And while I was busy trying to introduce myself and be polite, she just reached out and snatched a box of Milk Duds from me that I didn’t even know I was holding.

How rude. 

But that’s her.  She’s rude.  She snatches what she wants.  And she has no respect for social niceties. 

She’s also impossible to please.  She has ridiculously unattainable standards, and she’s extremely judgmental. 

But here’s the thing:

She’s also the source of my discipline and my strength. 

When I’m all broken inside and I simply can’t write another word, and I want to crumple up on the floor from the hopelessness of it all and can’t, I look down to see that she’s propping me up, her little arms pushing on my butt to keep me standing. 

She’s tiny but she’s tough. 

And I realize that the only reason she’s so hard on me is because she actually believes that I’m awesome and wants to make sure I do my best. 

That’s pretty hard to argue with. 

So, we’ve worked out a truce–she promises to go easy on the That’s Not Good Enough talk and I keep her in free Milk Duds.  Lots of them. 

I have to keep a tiny closet full of them for her because they mostly keep her distracted from me. 

And she loves them.  She sits underneath this huge oak tree beside this gorgeous field (I don’t know how she got that kind of real estate, but she must have hit the market just right) and she chews on Milk Duds. Most of the time. 

Even though most of my writing is pretty bad, clichéd, boring, and/or poorly grammartized, every once in a while I write something SO incredibly stupid that her head snaps up, she stops chewing and starts shaking her finger at me. 

And I have to stop writing, and reach over and stroke her hair and tell her that I know that it sucks, but that it’s okay that it sucks right now.  Now’s not the time for editing.  Now’s the time for the creative process and that’s simply not her job. 

She doesn’t like that (she’s such a control freak), but she puts up with it when I tell her I’ll call her when it’s time to edit.  And then I thank her for loving me so much that she wants to keep me safe, and I pat her on the head.  And when she nods and goes back to chewing, I can get back to work. 

And just so you realize that I’m not actually crazy–or that if I am, well, then I see it–I know that I’m really talking to me.  I know that she’s just a way for me to be patient and compassionate with myself. 

But, talking to her is the only way I can hear.  If I just tell myself all that self-acceptance, love-yourself crap, it just ends up sounding so Stewart Smalley that I want to puke.  What-ever.  Love yourself.  Go easy on yourself.  You’re okay just how you are.  Blech. 

But, another person?  Someone who’s trying to help me?  Well, that just gets my tender heart all big and fluffy.  And I pay attention. 

It also occurred to me that since so many of you know her, you might like to meet her.  Here’s her pic:

I found her at this site.  She was just waiting for me to draw her.  I love that she has a red pixie cut, purple eye-shadow and a sword. 

She’s like, all fierce and stuff. 

I should probably give her a name, or at least ask her what hers is, but I’m afraid she’d just tell me to call her “The Queen.”

I don’t know if you can see her over here, but she’s actually put down the Milk Duds long enough to wave at all of you. 

Okay, that’s enough craziness for today. 

One day, I might just tell you about my Muse who eats Twizzlers…

Posted by Diane under fear and writing on 01/27/09
19 Comments »

Here’s where I show what a noob I am:

I like memes. 

I do.  I know I should probably be in a program or something for it, but I actually think they’re sort of fun.  And yesterday, Louise Ure from the Murderati did one that I thought was pretty cool, and so I’m jumping into the meme pool myself. 

20 Random Things About Me: 

1. I didn’t see snow until I was twenty-six.
2. When I took snowboarding lessons in Colorado. 
3. And broke my arm falling off the ski lift. 
4. I still like the snow. 
5. But, now I don’t snowboard.  I ski.

6. While doing research for a romance novel, I flew a WWII pilot-training plane in San Diego.  I did loops, crazy-eights, and rolls, and I didn’t even throw up. 

7. I love snow and cold weather, mostly because I get to wear a scarf. 
8. I’m happiest when it’s in the twenties. 
9. My favorite thing to do in that weather is walk the entire length of Navy Pier and see what the ice is doing on Lake Michigan. 

10. I think that Fall Out Boy’s Infinity on High is the greatest album of all time, followed closely by the Indigo Girls’ Swamp Ophelia and Jimmy Buffett’s Coconut Telegraph. 
11. But my favorite background music for work time is a football game.

12. My parents almost named me Penelope.

13. The most beautiful place I’ve ever been was Nijo Castle in Kyoto, Japan during November.

14.  I eat one piece of dark chocolate every day.  My favorite kind is laced with hot peppers. 
15. If I were on Death Row, my last meal would be a toasted peanut-butter and banana sandwich, plain potato chips, and a hefeweizen. 

16. I hate brushing my teeth.  Hate.  It.  The sensation of having my teeth polished at the dentist’s office drives me up a wall. 

17. The best food I’ve ever eaten was in Paris.  Doesn’t matter which meal.  It was all incredible. 
18. The weirdest food I’ve ever eaten was a vegetarian meal in a Japanese temple in Mount Koya, Japan. 
19. There was a strange white biscuit like thing in a clear sauce.  When I bit into it, sweet, purple stuff oozed out.  I’ve never been so delighted.  To this day, I have no idea what it was.  Vegetarian food takes all the scary out of fun food surprises.

20. My favorite movie of all time is the Wonder Boys, followed closely by the Shipping News, and The Paper.  They’re all about writers.  I wonder what that means …

If you’d like to meme with me, consider yourself tagged.  If you’re fed up with memes, then just write another blog post filled with your wonderful self.  See you on the internets…

Posted by Diane under just for fun on 01/21/09
4 Comments »

So, I’m working on a really cool little project that’s important to me, and to do it, I’ve been browsing some amazing photography from Todd Smith Photography, and I’ve been gathering quotes for writers. 

It’s been fun.  Along with contacting some of my favorite people for permission to use some of the great things they’ve said, I also spent most of the evening last night looking through my personal collection of quotes for writers, and it left me all warm and fuzzy, like I’d just spent time with people who understand me and my crazy desire to have a life filled with writing and words.  Since it was so nice for me, I thought some of you might like to read some of them, too. 

Here are some of my favorites:

“I can fix a bad page.  I cannot fix a blank one.” - Nora Roberts

“Write hard and clear about what hurts.” – Ernest Hemingway

“One of the few things I know about writing is this: spend it all, shoot it, play it, lose it, all, right away, every time. Do not hoard what seems good for a better place in the book, or for another book; give it, give it all, give it now.” - Annie Dillard

“There are three rules to writing fiction.  Unfortunately no one knows what they are.” – Somerset Maugham

“There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.” - Leonard Cohen

“Regret eats the soul.” - John Dufresne

“I don’t want to mess with your head, I want to mess with your life. I want you to miss appointments, burn dinner, skip your homework. I want you to tell your wife to take that moonlit stroll on the beach at Waikiki with the resort tennis pro while you read a few more chapters.” – Stephen King

“I have decided, on reflection, it is best just to remember that sometimes the magic really works.” - Terry Books

“Believe in yourself and in your own voice, because there will be times in his business when you will be the only one who does. Take heart from the knowledge that an author with a strong voice will often have trouble at the start of his or her career because strong, distinctive voices sometimes make editors nervous. But in the end, only the strong survive.” - Jayne Ann Krentz

“The quickest, easiest way to produce something beautiful and lasting is to risk making something horribly crappy.” - Chris Baty

And my personal favorite, by the wise and wonderful Eleanor Roosevelt, “Do one thing every day that scares you.”

I am, Ellie.  I’m writing.

Posted by Diane under just for fun on 01/15/09
11 Comments »

So, last week I had a Big Realization about me and all my Stuff.  I’m not ready to talk about the specifics, yet.  Mostly, it’s just some deep-rooted self-acceptance struggles and fear of being judged that’s been around since my childhood.  Big, ugly, scary stuff.  And after the realization, I had an experience I wanted to write down here.  It’s a little goofy, but I figure this needs to be a place where I can be a little goofy, so I’m letting it rip. 

Last Thursday, I had a private session/call with Destuckification Expert, Havi Brooks, and when I told her about my Big Realization of Ugly Stuff, she asked me what it looked like.  I had an instant picture of an egg-shaped, black rock about the size of my fist.  It was hard and heavy, like granite, but it had a uniform sparkle, like graphite or hematite. 

I didn’t like anything about it, but the sparkles bothered me the most (which is weird because I’m kinda girly and I like sparkly things.) 

Anyway, Havi started to do her Magic Yoga Awesomeness thing and she started talking to my rock.  I listened to it taunt her, and I wanted to hurl it off the balcony, but eventually I began to relax.  

When I looked up at it again, it was a little smaller, and most importantly, the sparkles were gone!  It was just this perfectly smooth, glossy black rock. 

I was much relieved, and told her many nice things.  I gave her hugs, petted Selma, and after some more work, she took her duck and left. 

On Friday, I was feeling very enlightened and proud of myself for all my Hard Work, and I sat down to talk to my rock again feeling very certain that I’d get it to haul ass away from here by Sunday, at the latest.  (That should have been my first clue that I was in trouble.) 

So, I sat down to meditate and took a look at my ugly rock again and the first thing I noticed was that the sparkles were back.  This made me very uneasy.  I almost got up and ended it right there, but I was like, “Hey, you held this thing in your hand yesterday.  You can do this.”  So, I took a step closer, and another. 

By then, I was terrified, but I knew that it was all just virtual meditation stuff and I was perfectly safe sitting there on my yoga mat in my office, so I took another step.  This was the closest I’d ever been to it by myself.  Taking a deep breath, I leaned down to look at those little sparkles, and that’s when I realized …they were teeth.  Teeth! 

You know how a jellyfish has those little hooks?  Teeth like that.  But metal.  All crazy sparkly all over my rock. 

I was horrified.  And the more horrified I got, the brighter and sparklier it got. 

I’ve never had a meditation end so fast.  I got the hell out of there and fixed myself a warm cup of my favorite tea and swore I wasn’t going back into my office until I’d banished that thing from there forever.  

And that’s when I realized the next awful thing:  that’s what the teeth were for, to protect it from me.  It knew that I wanted it GONE and it wanted to stay. 

As soon as I had that revelation, I almost dropped my cup on the kitchen floor.  No way.  NO WAY was I letting that vicious, nasty thing in my office, in my space where I work. 

That space is sacred to me.  I don’t let anything in there that’s not nice.  I don’t even let piles of paper build up, and do you know what I do to dust? 

No freaking way.  Swear to God, I will quit writing before I make friends with that thing. 

I made that declaration loudly and with much emphasis to the universe.  Satisfied with that, I sat down at the kitchen counter, sipped my tea, and waited, because I could feel the universe raising an eyebrow and saying, “Are you done?” 

Me: Hmph.  I’m not doing it. 

Universe: It just wants to be acknowledged. 

Me: It has teeth!  That little fucker has teeth and it wants to sit in my office.  I want it OUT OF THERE.

Universe: You know, you weren’t all that fond of your inner critic at first, either.  And you let her have her very own place under her very own tree. 

Me: That’s different.  She doesn’t have teeth!  Why do you think she eats Milk Duds? 

Universe: (silence)

Me: I’m not doing it. 

Universe: (more silence)

Me: I’m NOT.

Universe:  (more silence)

Me: Shit. 

So, I tried to figure out what to do.  And it wasn’t easy because this felt different than what had happened with my inner critic.  What had helped me make friends with her was realizing that she was really trying to help me.  She’s a sweetie.  She’s a complete bitch, but she’s a sweetie at heart, so it was easy to cut her a break. 

This thing?  This thing is nasty.  And mean.  And awful. And I don’t like it.  I’m talking really ugly, self-loathing stuff here, people.  And it’s not trying to help me out at all. 

(Actually, in my brief moments where I can be rational, I’m pretty sure why it’s here and I’m pretty sure it IS here to help me and keep me safe, but it hasn’t told me that yet, so I don’t really know.) 

And you know what?  I don’t want to know.  And, since I don’t have to face my fear, I don’t care to know. 

But it seemed that I needed to find a way to be with it without it getting me. 

So, fine.  Instead of making friends with it, I sat there at the counter and drew up some ground rules.

First, I asked my inner critic if it could sit with her under her tree.  She just shrugged.  (I love her.  Nothing bothers her.) 

So, I let it crawl over there next to her and then I drew little lines all around it in the grass and told it in no uncertain terms that it was Not To Move from that place.  It can sit over there and sparkle all the hell it wants; it just can’t move around. 

But it can stay. 

I think we’ve reached a truce. 

That was five days ago.  I still yell at it from time to time, just so it knows how resentful I am that it has invaded my space.  It seems to be less menacing and a little less sparkly, but I’m sure as hell not going over there to find out. 

And, in typical fashion, all the other places where I’m harboring resentment in my life have risen to the surface, and I know I’m going to have to deal with them before I can deal with my rock, and since I’m not ready to do that either, I yell at them, too. 

All in all, it’s been a pretty loud few days, which is hard for me because I’m a pretty quiet, happy, cheerful person.  No, really.  I am. 

But I’m simply not ready to be all enlightened about this.  I’m ready to be mad and resentful.  And you know what?  That’s okay.  For today, and maybe tomorrow, and maybe the next several months, I get to be angry and resentful and unenlightened about My Stuff.  It’s big, and scary, and I get a huge plaque with my name on it just because I’m even allowing it to be here.  Yay me. 

Maybe later when I’m not so pissed off I’ll try talking to it again.  We’ll see.

Posted by Diane under fear and writing on 01/13/09
27 Comments »