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.
Showing posts with label motivation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label motivation. Show all posts
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Friday, October 1, 2010
Playing With Toys
No. Not those kind. Though with my husband gone for a whole year, something like that might come in handy.
Totally kidding.
Sort of.
I got a new laptop.
It is amazing how much easier it is to actually, you know, write. No more eliminating letters created by a psycho keyboard. Or banging the shift out of the shift key to unshift it. Or finding the secret spot on the touch pad so it will quit highlighting everything on the screen.
I think it saved me from falling into the robot pit: I must write. I must publish. I must write I must publish. ImustwriteImustpublish.
I must rublish.
Sometimes I get so wrapped up that I forget everybody needs time to play. Everybody. So my advice for today is: go play with yourself.
By writing, of course.
Write a chapter where everybody breaks into song. Stick characters in a car with a manual transmission so they have to bang the shift out of the gear shift to unshift it. Draw someone in a secret spot where they get away with something ridiculous.
Or get yourself a toy and play with it.
Like a new laptop, of course.
You might find, just as I did, that it can shake you up enough to keep your story from becoming rublish.
Totally kidding.
Sort of.
I got a new laptop.
It is amazing how much easier it is to actually, you know, write. No more eliminating letters created by a psycho keyboard. Or banging the shift out of the shift key to unshift it. Or finding the secret spot on the touch pad so it will quit highlighting everything on the screen.
I think it saved me from falling into the robot pit: I must write. I must publish. I must write I must publish. ImustwriteImustpublish.
I must rublish.
Sometimes I get so wrapped up that I forget everybody needs time to play. Everybody. So my advice for today is: go play with yourself.
By writing, of course.
Write a chapter where everybody breaks into song. Stick characters in a car with a manual transmission so they have to bang the shift out of the gear shift to unshift it. Draw someone in a secret spot where they get away with something ridiculous.
Or get yourself a toy and play with it.
Like a new laptop, of course.
You might find, just as I did, that it can shake you up enough to keep your story from becoming rublish.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
The Sting of a Jelly
I've waited to talk about growing a thick skin to handle rejection for a long time, because usually it comes across as a pumping sunshiney Nike commercial.
When really, it's more like getting stung by a jelly fish.
Which happened to me for the first time today.
My kids and I spent a gorgeous day at the beach jumping over waves...occasionally getting knocked over...sand in all corners of the suits...when I felt a ZIP across my leg that stung enough to make me swear in German. And then each of the kids got zapped, too.
Needless to say, we didn't want to jump waves anymore. I sat on my beach mat to check out the welts on my leg and foot, and they searched the sand at the edge of the water for broken mother of pearl looking shells.
I watched them thinking...that's EXACTLY what it feels like to get a rejection letter.
It bites.
Enough to make you swear in German.
It makes you want to quit playing in the proverbial writing waters.
But eventually, the sting goes away. All it leaves is a little red mark. Maybe a scar. Maybe a spot where your skin is a little thicker.
And eventually, like my kids and I today, you are ready to jump a few waves again. Even knowing that you'll probably get taken out by a jelly or two.
When really, it's more like getting stung by a jelly fish.
Which happened to me for the first time today.
My kids and I spent a gorgeous day at the beach jumping over waves...occasionally getting knocked over...sand in all corners of the suits...when I felt a ZIP across my leg that stung enough to make me swear in German. And then each of the kids got zapped, too.
Needless to say, we didn't want to jump waves anymore. I sat on my beach mat to check out the welts on my leg and foot, and they searched the sand at the edge of the water for broken mother of pearl looking shells.
I watched them thinking...that's EXACTLY what it feels like to get a rejection letter.
It bites.
Enough to make you swear in German.
It makes you want to quit playing in the proverbial writing waters.
But eventually, the sting goes away. All it leaves is a little red mark. Maybe a scar. Maybe a spot where your skin is a little thicker.
And eventually, like my kids and I today, you are ready to jump a few waves again. Even knowing that you'll probably get taken out by a jelly or two.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Fixing the Little Red Wagon
Summer has only started, and my kids spent the whole weekend complaining.
"I'm BORED," came the first whiny voice. "There's NOTHING to do," echoed the second.
So I thought...I'll fix your little red wagon...which is something my Mother used to say to me. Frequently.
Every morning for the rest of their summer break, my kids have to:
1.) Write 300 words. It can be a story, a collection of poems, a letter, or
whatever else they choose.
2.) Read at least 30 minutes.
3.) Complete 1 page of math. They must show their work and discuss their
answers with me.
And for the icing on the cake, I also made them run 2 miles with me.
After the first fifteen minutes of mandatory grumbling about me being the MEANEST MOM EVER since I am ruining their summer break which is, by its own definition, supposed to be a break, they giggled and sang their way through their work. My happy children were happy once more.
And then I had one of those AHA! moments that make you feel really stupid. I figured out why I am mopey, dopey, whiny, irritable, and just sort of bleccchhhhy.
My break from writing has gone on WAY too long. I need to fix my own Little Red Wagon.
So, starting tonight, I'm back to my 300 word a day writing minimum, 2 chapters of reading, and daily research about possible agents that might be a good fit for me.
And I'm even giggling and singing while I do it:)
"I'm BORED," came the first whiny voice. "There's NOTHING to do," echoed the second.
So I thought...I'll fix your little red wagon...which is something my Mother used to say to me. Frequently.
Every morning for the rest of their summer break, my kids have to:
1.) Write 300 words. It can be a story, a collection of poems, a letter, or
whatever else they choose.
2.) Read at least 30 minutes.
3.) Complete 1 page of math. They must show their work and discuss their
answers with me.
And for the icing on the cake, I also made them run 2 miles with me.
After the first fifteen minutes of mandatory grumbling about me being the MEANEST MOM EVER since I am ruining their summer break which is, by its own definition, supposed to be a break, they giggled and sang their way through their work. My happy children were happy once more.
And then I had one of those AHA! moments that make you feel really stupid. I figured out why I am mopey, dopey, whiny, irritable, and just sort of bleccchhhhy.
My break from writing has gone on WAY too long. I need to fix my own Little Red Wagon.
So, starting tonight, I'm back to my 300 word a day writing minimum, 2 chapters of reading, and daily research about possible agents that might be a good fit for me.
And I'm even giggling and singing while I do it:)
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
The Blahs
So recently I hit this wall with a serious case of the Blahs. The kind that consume both my writing life, and more importantly, my regular life of family and kids.
It's not a mid life crisis sparked in people who are nearing...40.
It's the Blahs.
You eat Blah for breakfast. You work for Blah hours doing Blah things for Blah people. You exercise for Blah hours and come home to Blah dinner and watch Blah TV instead of writing because your story is: BLAH.
For me this means one of two things:
1.) My mind is trying to figure out the best way to improve the draft I'm working on.
2.) My story really is Blah and needs to be locked away in the drawer.
Most of the time, it's the first one. Sometimes it's the second.
I'd like to say that when I run an extra 10 miles, or do some wacky body contortion, or have my butt in my chair and stare at my book for two extra hours, that the Blahs fade away like fog in sunshine. But I would be lying.
Usually, it takes time. Because my brain isn't playing some nasty, unmotivating trick on me, it's trying to show me what to do...on it's own terms, in it's own time. So I don't end up with another Lost Story.
Does anyone else out there get the Blahs?
It's not a mid life crisis sparked in people who are nearing...40.
It's the Blahs.
You eat Blah for breakfast. You work for Blah hours doing Blah things for Blah people. You exercise for Blah hours and come home to Blah dinner and watch Blah TV instead of writing because your story is: BLAH.
For me this means one of two things:
1.) My mind is trying to figure out the best way to improve the draft I'm working on.
2.) My story really is Blah and needs to be locked away in the drawer.
Most of the time, it's the first one. Sometimes it's the second.
I'd like to say that when I run an extra 10 miles, or do some wacky body contortion, or have my butt in my chair and stare at my book for two extra hours, that the Blahs fade away like fog in sunshine. But I would be lying.
Usually, it takes time. Because my brain isn't playing some nasty, unmotivating trick on me, it's trying to show me what to do...on it's own terms, in it's own time. So I don't end up with another Lost Story.
Does anyone else out there get the Blahs?
Friday, April 16, 2010
Wishing
“Wishes aren’t that easy. No. They’re filled with pain and strife.
Real wishes have to be that. Or we’d wish away our life.”
When the Snake first said that to Abby in my 2nd middle grade novel, I hated him. Because I wanted life to be easier for her.
And because he was right.
I think of his words every time I'm stuck in a rewrite that’s going nowhere. Every time I receive another rejection letter from an agent or publisher. Every time another military move forces me to say goodbye to my friends, reminding me I’m an isolated writer in a foreign country… again.
Sometimes his words motivated me. Teach another writing workshop in the school. Seek out another critique group. Start a picture book… new play… YA novel. Scoop up letters, pour them into words and make nowhere become somewhere.
Other times his words made me wonder if I was wishing away my life.
So I make a choice every day. I sit at my computer, snap open the lid, and decide if I’m going to be a writer. And every day I resolve that, even if I am wishing away my life, I would rather be doing it by crafting stories than anything else.
I'm not naive enough to believe that, out of the millions of books, I'll write a story that no one has written before. But I am hopeful enough to believe no one has written it like me.
So I wish.
Real wishes have to be that. Or we’d wish away our life.”
When the Snake first said that to Abby in my 2nd middle grade novel, I hated him. Because I wanted life to be easier for her.
And because he was right.
I think of his words every time I'm stuck in a rewrite that’s going nowhere. Every time I receive another rejection letter from an agent or publisher. Every time another military move forces me to say goodbye to my friends, reminding me I’m an isolated writer in a foreign country… again.
Sometimes his words motivated me. Teach another writing workshop in the school. Seek out another critique group. Start a picture book… new play… YA novel. Scoop up letters, pour them into words and make nowhere become somewhere.
Other times his words made me wonder if I was wishing away my life.
So I make a choice every day. I sit at my computer, snap open the lid, and decide if I’m going to be a writer. And every day I resolve that, even if I am wishing away my life, I would rather be doing it by crafting stories than anything else.
I'm not naive enough to believe that, out of the millions of books, I'll write a story that no one has written before. But I am hopeful enough to believe no one has written it like me.
So I wish.
Monday, March 15, 2010
the best husband...EVER
My husband and I frequently have THAT conversation.
The one about what I will do in two years when the kids are a little older and daycare is no longer an issue. The one about my future earnings which will allow me to retire when I'm...85.
We were having that conversation for the ten thousandth time over lunch of pizza, wings, and Diet Coke.
"What do you want to do?" he asked.
I had to think about it. I want the financial security of a job with a steady income. I also want to be a writer. I am painfully aware that the second will not provide the first in any timely manner. The clock on that one is ticking louder than any biological clock created. EVER.
"I want to write," I choked out and washed down with Diet Coke fizz, fully prepared to lay out my plan on how to establish myself and supplement with teaching.
But I didn't have to. He looked at me and shrugged,
"Then do it."
The one about what I will do in two years when the kids are a little older and daycare is no longer an issue. The one about my future earnings which will allow me to retire when I'm...85.
We were having that conversation for the ten thousandth time over lunch of pizza, wings, and Diet Coke.
"What do you want to do?" he asked.
I had to think about it. I want the financial security of a job with a steady income. I also want to be a writer. I am painfully aware that the second will not provide the first in any timely manner. The clock on that one is ticking louder than any biological clock created. EVER.
"I want to write," I choked out and washed down with Diet Coke fizz, fully prepared to lay out my plan on how to establish myself and supplement with teaching.
But I didn't have to. He looked at me and shrugged,
"Then do it."
Monday, March 8, 2010
The Tooth Fairy
My son lost two teeth today. Opposite sides of the mouth, one on top and one on the bottom. Even through the panic of the second tooth, which he believed should stay in his mouth...blood, spit and crackers floating around in a muck pool...huge, gloppy tears welling up to tell me what was wrong, he was thinking about...
The tooth fairy.
And how much he would score with TWO teeth under his pillow.
And I started thinking about rejection letters, especially since I recently received another one. All the email said was...
"Thank you for thinking of me, but I do not feel I am a good fit for this."
Letters like this, even though they are a no, are worth their weight in gold.
In one simple line the agent acknowledges reading your submission and that you aren't what they're looking for, which is really all a working writer needs to hear to set them on the path toward the right agent. Because sometimes, in the midst of unanswered queries and silent no's, a simple acknowledgement is enough to keep you motivated to send out your work.
It's a tooth under the pillow.
And it makes me excited for the future. For the day when I work through some of the muck pool and I score with two teeth under the pillow.
The tooth fairy.
And how much he would score with TWO teeth under his pillow.
And I started thinking about rejection letters, especially since I recently received another one. All the email said was...
"Thank you for thinking of me, but I do not feel I am a good fit for this."
Letters like this, even though they are a no, are worth their weight in gold.
In one simple line the agent acknowledges reading your submission and that you aren't what they're looking for, which is really all a working writer needs to hear to set them on the path toward the right agent. Because sometimes, in the midst of unanswered queries and silent no's, a simple acknowledgement is enough to keep you motivated to send out your work.
It's a tooth under the pillow.
And it makes me excited for the future. For the day when I work through some of the muck pool and I score with two teeth under the pillow.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Setting a deadline
I've started it. Officially. I'm dedicating one more year of my life towards making writing part of my career path. And if, by the end of that year, I don't have something...some positive step such as an agent or a book being considered by a publisher...then I will have to be done.
The good thing is, it has motivated me to do things I wouldn't have done before. I started a blog. I'm nearly finished with my second middle grade novel and I've started a third. I'm starting a new play. I actively enter contests. I critique online and have my book critiqued in turn. I'm financially investing in two conferences. I search out and submit to agents. I contact publishing companies.
I spend as much time as possible, even time I should be spending with my family, or time I should be watching the burning chicken, trying to make it work.
People at conferences, in blogs, in critique groups, etc. say...keep trying...keep working...keep submitting. And I am. I have won some very nice awards and received some very nice letters detailing my skills as a writer.
But the truth is my kids need to go to college.
And I can't do everything...the kids, the career, the dog, and writing, with a deployed husband.
So I have a deadline.
The good thing is, it has motivated me to do things I wouldn't have done before. I started a blog. I'm nearly finished with my second middle grade novel and I've started a third. I'm starting a new play. I actively enter contests. I critique online and have my book critiqued in turn. I'm financially investing in two conferences. I search out and submit to agents. I contact publishing companies.
I spend as much time as possible, even time I should be spending with my family, or time I should be watching the burning chicken, trying to make it work.
People at conferences, in blogs, in critique groups, etc. say...keep trying...keep working...keep submitting. And I am. I have won some very nice awards and received some very nice letters detailing my skills as a writer.
But the truth is my kids need to go to college.
And I can't do everything...the kids, the career, the dog, and writing, with a deployed husband.
So I have a deadline.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
A Good Kick in the...
Today I received my first rejection from an agent. I don't mean a form 'we're not interested because you suck' letter. I mean a real letter...full of very nice compliments telling me I am a good writer...and it was because of her, not me, that the relationship could not continue.
I wrote back and called her a soul crusher.
All in good fun, of course, and it was very clear that I was joking.
Though I was not joking when I first received the rejection and shared it with my family. I said I was fine. No really, I'm fine.
But my husband rubbed my shoulders and snuggled up while my kids tiptoed around, preparing to do battle with that agent person, only to be surprised by how nice she looked in her picture on the website.
My Dad would call it a Good Kick in the A$$, which was something he firmly believed in when we were out of line as kids.
And though I would not have agreed with him while I stared morosely at the computer for two hours losing at Spider Solitaire, today I would say he was right. Because I spent the day searching for agents that would be a good fit for me...knowing that I'm probably going to get many more Good Kicks in the A$$...but also still believing in the stories and plays that I write.
Which is good, I suppose, since right now I'm the only one reading them.
I wrote back and called her a soul crusher.
All in good fun, of course, and it was very clear that I was joking.
Though I was not joking when I first received the rejection and shared it with my family. I said I was fine. No really, I'm fine.
But my husband rubbed my shoulders and snuggled up while my kids tiptoed around, preparing to do battle with that agent person, only to be surprised by how nice she looked in her picture on the website.
My Dad would call it a Good Kick in the A$$, which was something he firmly believed in when we were out of line as kids.
And though I would not have agreed with him while I stared morosely at the computer for two hours losing at Spider Solitaire, today I would say he was right. Because I spent the day searching for agents that would be a good fit for me...knowing that I'm probably going to get many more Good Kicks in the A$$...but also still believing in the stories and plays that I write.
Which is good, I suppose, since right now I'm the only one reading them.
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