Today I Won

Did you know that today I won a pizza, found the secret to wrinkle free skin AND can get larger breasts???

Now that's a lucky day.

I love reading the subject lines from the emails in my spam folder. They crack me up. All the lines read the same, screaming out:

You are special.

You have won.

You want this and you didn't even realize how vital it was to your existence until you saw this email.

Well...maybe. Pizza and wrinkle free, sure. The breasts...I'm fine with what I got.

As a writer, I think it's easy to fall into the trap of needing to hear someone say you are special. And good. Some form of acknowledgement that putting your heart, your work, your missed family time that you can't get back...in short, your life...into something is going to pay off. That, in some way, you will win in the end.

And I, being perpetually unhappy with most of what I write, find it very easy to look to someone else to tell me what I haven't told myself.

Over the last year, I wrote a story that I like. It is different. I would even say special. Parts of it are good. And today, I sent it off to an editor. A very cool editor who might not even be a good fit for this book, but that I would love to work with someday.

So today, except for the pizza...and the wrinkle free skin...and the breasts...

I won.

Dry Spells

The dreaded dry spell.

The time we feel shriveled, bloated, wrinkled beyond belief, unable to produce anything worth anything, all the while feeling unbelievable pressure to do something.

Sort of like...having a period for the rest of your life.

This is what you sign up for when you decide to write: Heat waves. Flashes. Tears. Moodiness. The 'don't even think of touching me' lack of desire. Semi-psychotic behavior that has no true physiological basis.

Only it's not on a monthly schedule and there's no menopause to free you from it happening over. And over. And over.

But I think dry spells are good for us. And I don't think they're dry at all.

Sure you might not be putting thousands of words on the page a day. Or have any flashes of inspiration. Your semi-psychotic behavior might drive you to rewrite the same chapter forty times and then burn the pages in some ceremonial expulsion of demons. You'll probably do a little bit of crying. And 'have a happy period' will have NOTHING to do with fixing the punctuation in a sentence.

But you will be taking things in.

You will find yourself listening to things you might not have heard otherwise in your rush to get words on the page.

And without that...you wouldn't have anything to write.

Sa Whomped

I've been pitifully lacking about writing in my blog since returning home from the States. I will give you the equally pitifully excuse that I'm busy. Beyond busy.

Sa whomped.

But in between a boy throwing colossal tantrums, a girl full of middle school drama, a pouting, neurotic dog chewing off his nails, and a car that can go but doesn't stop, I do try to make an occasional foray into re-writing my second novel.

I've got writing goals. I've got ideas. I've got desire. I even have a plan.

What I don't have is time. Which is sort of irritating, because I had time all summer when I didn't know end from up about my story.

I'm ready to go, go, go with rewrites. But when I'm forced to one very slow 30-60 minute nightly session, I want to toss myself on the couch in a drama moment. Or chew off my nails. Or throw a tantrum and whomp the sa out of something.

Because I want to finish my book.

I realize that since I'm now...older, I don't really get to act this way. But am I the only person out there, writerly or otherwise, that has such a problem with patience?

Going to the Grocery Store

I have a pretty embarrassing secret to tell. It's sort of pathetic. No, it's really pathetic. But I don't mind if you laugh at me because I frequently laugh at myself.

So here it is:

Sometimes I go to the grocery store so someone recognizes me.

We've lived in our new home for slightly less than four months, and I only know two people outside of my family: the neighbor next door, and the lady who carries out my groceries.

Now I could tell you all sorts of true facts about communication barriers since I don't speak German, record cold spells that kept everyone buried in their homes for months, and my own sort of pleasant but somewhat antisocial personality...but it would all ring like some lousy excuse. Because the truth is, I haven't tried very hard to meet anyone.

You can't make excuses like that about your writing. Not if you want to be good, anyway.

You have to do more than go to the grocery store. You might even have to attend a conference.

I don't usually enjoy conferences. I definitely cringe at the money it costs to attend. I'm really uncomfortable in forced social situations.

But I can honestly say I've learned something extremely valuable at every single conference I've attended, and I try to think of them as an investment toward the retirement of my label as un-agented, un-published author.

What are you doing to get past your excuses?