Joy and Worry

By Susan

My 7-year-old daughter is full of joy. She is one of those people who cracks jokes, sees humor in everything, and seems to surf through her uncomplicated life on one big joyous wave. Sometimes it’s completely exhausting, especially when there are soccer practices and laundry and homework and bedtime to worry about. I often worry about all the other things we are not doing, instead of taking a moment and laughing with her. I choose worry because I am her mother and she chooses joy because it’s fun. Motherhood, as Moms know, is fun. But it’s not as fun as being seven years old.

Writing is like being the mother of a joyful seven-year-old. The characters on the page dance off in different directions, spinning and laughing while you try to pull them back so they have meaning and substance. Sometimes it’s like herding cats. You want your protagonist to repent and change, to complete his character arc, yet all he wants to do is continue on his merry little way without apology. Or your antagonist laughs at you because you cannot think of anything clever for him to do next. And so you worry. Just like you worry about your children. When that happens, writing isn’t as fun anymore.

Writing is supposed to be fun, right? We do it because we love it, because we have to, because it frees us. We nurture our characters, and we fret over little details the same way we dress our daughters on picture day. Yet just like our kids, our works in progress take on a life of their own. They start doing their own thing. If I don’t worry about my novel (or so I seem to think), the next thing I know it’ll be sneaking out to ride around with boys who drive convertibles. It’ll be smoking cigarettes and saying dirty words, leaving me alone, waiting up for it, hoping that it comes back to me. All of this, of course, shows up as procrastination or writer’s block or lack of discipline or just plain lazy, bad writing. That’s when it becomes easy to blame the unruly child I have created rather than take ownership for my own habits. That’s when I worry it’s all garbage. That’s when it’s not fun anymore.

Yet our characters are also much different from our children: we make them kill their lovers or run from the law or get caught up in a tangled web that is not of their own doing. We root for them, and we hope our readers will too. We almost always know they will have a happy ending, unless we kill them first. We want to share in their joy. Then we allow worry back onto the page. At the base of it, when we are worrying about them we are actually worrying about ourselves. Will I get an agent? Will this ever be published? Why am I doing this, anyway?

And so I am trying now, quite mindfully, to release my worry about my characters and about myself, and allow the words to take me where they want me to go. In the process of releasing the rules and writing for joy, I’m finding a clearer voice in my narrative. I like my book a lot more. Sure, there are plenty of unforeseen things I could worry about. Or I can just choose the joy and write for the sake of writing. Why not have fun while I’m here? I’ve created a perfect sentence or two. I’ve drawn beautiful landscapes out of phrases. I’ve fallen in love right alongside my characters and been heartbroken when I wrenched the lovers apart. Now that’s having fun. If I push and pull my characters and tweak the story enough, perhaps I can let my worry go and just enjoy the moment.

If you are famous and tortured by your art, it can be hip to talk about the pain of writing, the blood that flows from your pen, the way you agonize over every manuscript. But for me? My family is my life, my work is my passion, and writing is my fun. And so the destination (being published) doesn't matter as much for me anymore. That's what caused my worry to begin with. I’m deciding to enjoy every minute of my writing journey instead and to just have fun. Like they say, life is all about the journey, not the destination. My writing is much more fun now since I left the writing worry behind.

Besides, I’ll need to save the worry for my daughters.

Back where I began (Sort of)

By Julie

Last week, for the first time in more than 20 years, I visited Denver, the closest thing I have to a hometown.

The main purpose for my stay was a three-day Immersion Master Class taught by Margie Lawson out of her beautiful log home above Denver in Coal Creek Canyon.

The class was a great opportunity to dig deep, one final time, into my current manuscript, to take it apart, bit by bit, and put it back together shinier than it's ever been. I'm still applying what I learned, but hope to be querying again soon.

My visit was also an opportunity to reminisce -- to see some of the neighborhoods I roamed when I was developing my love of reading and writing, and to catch up with not only old friends who influenced the person I am while I lived there, but new friends I've made in recent years via the Internet.

It was bittersweet at times. My years in Colorado were not the easiest ones of my life, but there were also good memories made there, and I recognize that my writing is largely a product of that time.

Driving through Cherry Creek, the neighborhood where I lived while attending high school, was a true test of my memory. Most of the businesses from those years are gone, replaced by trendy shops, offices, and lofts.

Developers had bulldozed the odd little house where I lived with my mother and brother, together with the house next door, the lots covered now by a small, but beautiful condominium complex.

The sign for the one of the original Village Inn Pancake Houses, which appeared in the first novel I attempted to write, still hangs outside the building, but the windows are dark. Perhaps the owners found more opportunity in their suburban locations, but I remember a time when a trip to the Cherry Creek Village Inn was a special treat.

The original Cherry Creek locations of the famous Tattered Cover bookstore serve other purposes now, just as the new store on Colfax formerly housed the Helen Bonfils Theater. I attended plays there as a student on field trips. It was bizarre, but fun to see the comfortable reading nook created from the former orchestra pit. (photo, left)

My hostess for my visit, a friend and fellow writer I met through an online writing class more than three years ago, lives in a neighborhood that used to be an Air Force base. "Back in the day," we had to drive miles out of the way to get to anything on the other side – now you can drive straight through while admiring the modern, multi-use community.

A visit to Boulder, where I spent my late elementary school years, brought an emotional "aha" moment. We parked in a city lot to spend an hour or so at a coffee shop in the Pearl Street Mall for one-on-ones with Margie, then eat dinner at the Boulder Dushanbe Tea House.

My throat thickened when I recognized the Boulder Public Library at the end of the lot -- my safe haven during a time when I'd moved from one part of the country to another and struggled to fit in, which seemed to become my theme, more or less, during my years in Colorado. (photo, right)

The librarians watched me arrive each week, nearly collapsing under the maximum number of books I could check out. They'd ask if I really read all those books, mock disbelief on their faces, but I knew they were delighted I was there. I suspect this influenced my decision to obtain my master's of library science degree eventually.

Strangely, I have no memory of the mountain that forms the backdrop for the building. As one of my classmates said that night, it was probably just wallpaper at the time. It took me completely by surprise.

I could go on, but it might take all night and a day besides to take you on the whole sentimental journey. Instead, let me ask you: What visits have you made to places years later, when they were hardly recognizable to you, yet as familiar as ever? Have these places appeared in your writing? Did you find, as I did, that not only have the physical locales shown up, but also the emotions you experienced during those times? Leave a comment and share if you'd like.

An advertisement for Margie – she teaches various classes online and in person. They're worth the hard work and money invested. I do believe the woman has more energy than anyone I've ever met.

If you take one of her Immersion classes, you might just get to see this view (which I used this week to make a new header for the blog!) on a quick hike to clear your brain from all the hard work you're doing.

Check out her website: www.margielawson.com

Dream a little dream, then wake up and get back to work!

It's funny how often lessons come from the ones we're trying to shape – our own kids. Even lessons about being a writer.

I received this text from my 15-year-old while she was window shopping at the mall. (In other words, she was broke.)

I have on this gorgeous yellow prom dress, and it's twenty dollars ...

Translation: Mom, I gotta have this dress for prom next year. It fits perfectly, and it's cheap! Think how much money and time we'd save by not having to shop for one next spring when I'll need it for sure!

Unfortunately, my response had to be: Too bad prom isn't for a year, and you don't know what life will look like then. :)

My daughter has a sweet boyfriend. He's respectful and brings her home on time. Recently, he ate dinner with us and rinsed and loaded his own plate into the dishwasher. I wouldn't mind keeping him around for a while -- there sure is less to worry about when your daughter has this kind of boyfriend.

Except.

He's a senior this year, she's a sophomore, and there's no telling what can happen in the course of a year when you're an adult, much less a young adult exploring life, love, and who you will become.

My daughter is dreaming of a prom that might never happen, picturing herself in that beautiful yellow dress that could end up gathering dust in the back of her closet. She might do better to contemplate life in the here and now, focusing on the aspects she can actually control and enjoy in the moment.

And this is just a twenty-dollar prom dress. Think of all the money spent on wedding gowns that were never worn. You've read the ads on Craigslist. Wedding gown, never worn. Prom dress, never worn. They're all slightly sad, though we can hope some of these ladies simply found a better dress.

I'm not saying you shouldn't ever plan ahead, and I'm definitely not saying it's silly to try on dresses for the heck of it.

But here's my point. (Yep, this really is about writing.)

Often, in our excitement about becoming novelists, we delve into similar territory. Even while crafting our first stories, we begin researching agents and the market. Research is certainly not a bad thing in itself. An educated writer makes a better client and more marketable author.

But when we lose sight of the real goal – writing the best book we can in the here and now – we can get in trouble.

We begin to pin our hopes on that one agent who meets our dream qualifications. We tailor our story to what that agent's looking for (though it's proven the market can change on a whim, not to mention it's impossible to predict whether what's hot today will be kicked to the curb tomorrow). Perhaps we attempt to become our dream agent's dream client by studying their current authors, reading everything we can find by their clients, and commenting on their blogs.

In other words, we pay a lot of attention to getting an agent when the book's not even finished, and Ms. Dream Agent is just one among many who might be the best representative for our project when the time arrives.

Maybe we're even doing a pretty good job of writing a great book, but we don't begin to think about the next project as we wrap up the earlier one. After all, our first novel's the one agents and editors will flock to publish and promote, the one that'll send us on a twenty-city book tour, right? Can't we worry about that next story later? When we're resting on our laurels and wallowing in all the cash we made off that instant bestseller?

The dress of our dreams could be symbolic for several legs of this exciting, but often puzzling journey. And really, it's just another metaphor we could equate with those age-old proverbs:

Don't put all your eggs in one basket.
Don't count your chickens before they hatch.
A watched pot never boils.

Okay, that last one's a stretch. I asked my youngest daughter if she could think of another example, and she said, "Don't spend your allowance before you earn it?" (Thanks, sweetie, I like that one.)

All I'm trying to say is take your time. If you're new to this journey, put the bulk of your energy into writing the best book you can. Believe me, there will be plenty of time to research and find the agent of your dreams when the time comes.

And don't feel silly if I've described you. After all, how could I write this without learning from experience? I see a finger pointing back at me as I gaze into the mirror, dreaming about my agent crush in my fancy yellow dress.

Photo credit: Gabriela Camerotti/Creative Commons license on Flickr

Signs you MIGHT be a writer

By Julie

Remember the comedian known for his Here's Your Sign routine? Bill Engvall described people who asked questions with obvious answers and then said, "Here's your sign," handing them a metaphorical I'm Stupid sign to declare their status to the general public.

I'm Stupid!

It's easier to identify when to pick up the stupid sign than the writer sign.

In my college days, I became a grocery checker the day I passed the test, sat in front of the register, and began keying grocery prices as I slid items from my counter back into a cart.

After college, I became a welfare eligibility worker the day I walked on terrified legs to the lobby of the Old Courthouse in Abilene and called my first client, a sweet little old man who probably received only ten dollars per month in food stamps, but appreciated the annual conversation with his caseworker.

Years later, as a newly single mom returning to the workforce, I became a customer service rep, at least in name, weeks before I perched a headset over my ears and pressed the call button for the first time to help a purchasing agent order supplies for ophthalmic surgery. And probably long before I learned the correct spelling for ophthalmic.

But when I started writing, I wasn't sure when I could officially give that answer to people who asked:

"What do you do?"

In our uncertain economy, anyone can hang out a shingle and call himself or herself a writer. Literary agents bemoan how query numbers have increased exponentially in 2009. Apparently, when the economy's bad, everyone decides they have a book in them. It's a get-rich-quick scheme, right? Uh huh. Refer back to Pamela's post.

But, seriously, when are you officially a writer?

Is it when you pick up the pen or pull the keyboard snug against your wrists, realizing two decades after college that you really did want to be a writer after all, cringing at all the years you've wasted, but accepting that you probably gained some great material in the interim?

Or when you're sending query letters to literary agents for your First Novel, though you have two or three trunk novels quivering in shame beneath your bed, too embarrassed to emerge ever again?

Maybe it's when you begin calling the novels you're writing by strange acronyms, like LOTH. Or B/O, the Manuscript Formerly Known as LOTH. Or acronyms that make nice nicknames, like St. Woy (my current work in progress).

Maybe the true signs are more subtle.

Maybe it's when your husband pulls the naked checkbook from your handbag to tear off carbons and record your purchases, and he asks, "What's this?" and proceeds to read aloud the first two paragraphs of your current manuscript because you wrote them on the manila backing while you were out and inspiration struck and you had nowhere else to write and thank goodness you only had two checks left.

Or it's when you're in street clothes at the pool in 101 degrees of Texas heat, scribbling in a notebook while the kids swim. You look up at your 11-year-old, bobbing by the side of the pool when you hear her friend ask, "What's your mom doing?"

"She's thinking of phrases she can use for her book and writing them down. Like . . . I can hear the slap of the water against the side of the pool like I've never heard it before . . ." She flings her arms dramatically on slap and never.

"No," you say. "That was last time. This time I'm thinking about Austin."

"Okay, then . . . I can smell the pollution . . . I can hear the traffic . . . I can see the college students as they drink and party . . . oh, wait . . . I can hear the college students blasting my eardrums with the sounds of . . . no, wait . . ." She wrinkles her forehead, and her gaze drifts to the side.

"Pretty close, actually," you say, and her friend regards you like she might regard a new insect species, but they shrug and swim away.

It's likely the moment you see an email from a prospective agent pop up in your inbox. You open it and feel a momentary, painful clenching of your stomach muscles as you read the phrase "Not right for me." Then, you tap the keys to file it away in a remote folder and immediately create another query.

It's definitely the day someone asks, "What do you do?" and you reply:

"I'm a writer."

No dry throat, no flushed cheeks, and no sweaty palms saying you might need an I'm Stupid sign for calling yourself a writer.

No hesitation.