I am Not That Writer...

Another, more famous, rejection letter.

There is a clear plastic bag that once held a quilt.  At some point, the bag became the home of short stories, and a scrap of paper or two with the names of publisher written in neat letters.  There is a rejection letter or two.  That clear bag houses much more, though.  It is home to a forgotten dream. 

I have to remind myself...I am not that writer. 

That writer was my grandmother.  Her stories are not my stories, although there are certain words or turns of phrase that we both share.  Her stories suffocated in the plastic bag.  Whether they were tucked away in frustration, or if life simply got the better of her intentions...I will never know.

Every day I work on my book.  Some days I make my page count, and other days I work through plot points in my head, or in long messages to fellow writers who offer feedback and encouragement--things that I am certain my grandmother never had.  She never talked with me about her writing; she treated it like a childish fancy to be tucked away from the bright light of the "real world"--almost as if she were ashamed of it.

Perhaps she was.

The words are meticulously typed.  The pages are yellowed and starting to crumble, the edges are curled.  I wonder if she ever pulled them back out once she had tucked them away....  Did she ever read them over again, looking for some value or truth in the worlds and people she created?

Did she write late at night, like I do?  Or early in the morning before the sun had chased away the night?  Did she write even when the laundry chastised her for neglecting it and dishes piled up in the sink?  Or did those around her chastise her, instead?  Did she tuck the stories away of her own accord, did she abandon them, or were they wrestled away from her?

More than once, I have sat at the dining room table and struggled to make my daily word count before loading the dishwasher or tidying up the living room.  I have tucked children in bed and reminded them that their bedtime is when I follow my dream; I remind them that adults have dreams, too...that dreams are what make us individuals.  I have reread my pages with a critical eye, and wondered if anyone cares if I finish...or rather, anyone other than me.

Stifled dreams...

I wonder, at times, if I am following her down some long-trodden path that will end up in a plastic bag of suffocated dreams.  These are the days that I have to remind myself...

"I am not that writer."       

To Kill a Deadline

This is the quote that has sustained me the past few weeks as the realization dawned on me that there was no way that I could get the book finished before my fortieth birthday.  It should still be completed and available on Amazon by the end of the year—just not by the end of July.  I have fought against this truth for a couple of weeks.  I had hoped that getting the new computer might be able to push things forward.  And it has, but there is still only so much time in the day. 

To be honest, for a day or two I felt like a failure.  I typed furiously and logged several thousand words each day.  Then yesterday…I hit the wall.  I was exhausted—mentally and physically.  Then I realized that this deadline was of my own making, and it was within my power to un-make it.  If it takes me a few more months to create the book I want, a book I can be proud of, then so be it! 

This revelation was helped along late last night when I was absorbing some or other television show about Harper Lee and wallowing in my writer’s guilt.  (Luckily, I recorded the show so I could watch it when I am less sleep deprived and guilt-ridden.)  The program mentioned that Harper Lee had finished To Kill a Mockingbird and it was with a publisher and they were working on editing, etc., but that it spent TWO YEARS in rewrites.  Yes, you read that right…even after actually having written the book, Harper Lee spent another TWO YEARS rewriting, tweaking, polishing, wordsmithing and otherwise honing the book to perfection.

Two years.  Two….years…

Suddenly my few extra months does not seem so insurmountable.  So, if you’ll bear with me, I will take the time I need to likewise hone and wordsmith.  And if I hear a familiar whoosh swoop past while I am typing, at least I can take comfort in the fact that I am in good company.

Writer's Guilt...and 149 Pages

This is one of those days when I feel like a fraud.  I wonder If you are really a writer, why didn't you write at all this weekend?  Writers, well...they actually write.  Ouch.

Yep.  I did not write Saturday or Sunday...not a bloody word!  I helped the kids decorate Valentine's Days boxes for school, I made a huge trip to the store with my mother-in-law and sister-in-law to stock up on food in case the winter weather became something impressive and fearsome (it didn't...it was pathetic...but, hey, at least I got my cabinets filled up!). 

I watched too much television (which I rarely do at all, much less to excess). 

I ate too much (and this at a time when I am entered in a "Biggest Loser" contest at work...more because I could really use the $400 prize rather than out of any real desire to become smaller). 

I did not write.  I was not productive.  Full stop.  No excuses.  (Just lots and lots of "writer's guilt").  [NOTE:  In an effort to avoid writing, I just went so far as to google "writer's guilt"...nothing.  Perhaps I am the only one who actually feels guilty when I go more than one day without having written something of substance.]

So, taken as a whole, I am assuming that I am still at "That Part of the Book."  (For more information on the pit of despair that is "That Part of the Book," please refer to Neil Gaiman's Pep Talk here.)  I am between 1/2 and 3/4 of the way through the first draft...so that seems about right.  "That Part of the Book" is a dark, dark place to be.  It seems that the only time I can force myself to sit and write is over my lunch hour at work...which is something at least, but not nearly enough. 

I suppose to should be grateful that it is not something more serious...like Writer's Block, or a Lost Manuscript (please hold on a moment while I knock on wood frantically).

Ok.  So apparently I need a self imposed deadline.  Something more short-term than the whole "year" thing to spur on some serious writing and get me back on track.  Fair enough.  I can do that...what about...hm..."I must write15 pages before the end of the day on Friday."  But wait.  There needs to be a consequence.  I need some incentive to actually get it done.  I will have to ponder this. 

On that note, if you happen to have any suggestions of possible consequences for failing to write my page count, feel free to leave them in the comments.  Maybe I should post some paragraphs...or a chapter...of what I am working on.  Perhaps some of my handwritten pages, or notes, or maps.  Or a picture of me writing, in my jim-jams, not wearing any make-up.  [Note:  In the interest of not wanting a lose any of my Followers, especially when people are just starting to "follow" me, perhaps the whole "no make-up" part is not the wisest idea...]  But I am open to suggestions, so comment away!

Also, in the spirit of continuing to share more of my current work-in-progress, I shall offer the following:




A slightly creepy, but ultimately rather intriguing, cairn.

 Enough procrastinating, already!  I will now sharpen my pencil, grab my lunch, and hole up at the corner table in the office break room so that I can try to get words on paper.