Bird by Bird

A book I read last year, Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott, said to keep writing. Write every day. Write every thing. It's all going to be crap in the beginning. But write it anyway. I'm telling myself this today because I can't seem to get any words out. I was excited to sit down and write tonight. It was something I was looking forward to. But now that I'm here I'm reminded, writing is work.

Magical thoughts don't just fly out of your brain because you've decided it's time to do the work. This is the normal life of a writer. Learning how to write when you aren't inspired.

So here we go. The timer is set for one hour.

[Maleficent Review]

Time!

An hour later, I have a nearly complete review. A lot of it started out as bullet points. And I rearranged entire paragraphs and rewrote every sentence three times. What did I learn specifically from writing this review while completely uninspired? Bullet points are a great starting point.

After I got three bullet points down, my opinionated personality kicked in and started supplying the commentary. The more I wrote, the more I wanted to write. When the hour was up I didn't really want to stop. At this point, I still need to pull up a quick search to find out how the movie did in the theaters. I remember it wasn't a great turnout, but it also wasn't terrible, but numbers speak louder than a vague recollection. Once I collect that data, I can read through it again for a final edit and then I'm ready to post.

What are your experiences with writing when you're just not in the right frame of mind? How do you get past “writer's block?”

My First Reading

It's the fourth writer's group meeting and I've finished my first draft of the picture book/short story I've been working on for a month. The last couple of scenes were like slowly yanking out my own teeth with pliers, but I got it done. I'm exceedingly proud of myself for finishing a draft even if it is a child's book.

After we write for an hour, we go around the table talking about how we're doing and what we learned and what we need advice on. Today, I leap in to go first because I can't shut up. I'm in between wanting to rip out of my eyebrows in frustration and gleaming with pride.

The biggest issue I face is whether to turn it into a chapter book or rewrite it as a picture book. The word count is more than double the limit for a picture book. I'm too descriptive and I know it, but I can't help myself. I like living out the story through the eyes of my characters.

They ask if I'd like to read any of it. Since I've already mentioned the "dark moment" to them that poses a dilemma of age appropriate writing, I read that one paragraph aloud. This is the first thing I've read out loud to this group. Ever. I will never forget the apprehensive expressions they all wore after I read the last sentence. This is a children's book? Their verbal response confirms the silent shock on their faces. I have written a grim fairy tale.

I am not ashamed. It feel like I should be, but I'm not. When I get home, I do the dishes. Then sit down to email all three of them the rough draft before the task escapes me (and before I start feeling self-conscious about it). I research Grimm's Fairy Tales. Based on the word count range in those tales, my story does have a category.

Since I still have the images of a picture book in my head, I make a plan of attack to write a "Disney" version that might be easier to sell. Everything I read about writing a picture book tells me that it needs to be 1,000 words or less. The Brothers Grimm did not follow this rule. Cinderella, Snow White, even Hansel and Gretel, all pushed the 3,000 word mark.

Later, I'll edit the first draft and see if it has a place in the world. If not, I'll buy a pretty bound book of Grimm Fairy Tales and slip into it's binding a story untold.

Coffee Shop of Horrors

I'm sitting in a Dunkin Donuts reading my iPad with a yellow jacket pummeling itself into the window next to me. There are no other available tables and I've closed my coffee for fear of attracting more attention.

There's a newspaper at my left, but if I miss I will scream like a little girl and then flail with the newspaper until it's dead. I don't want to make that kind of scene. I'm in a nicer town in Connecticut. Default option "Kill it! Kill it now!" is out. Instead I shrink in my chair and pretend my heart rate doesn't resemble a job interview.

Losing track of the flying insect, I find myself more agitated. Is it on my head? I scratch my head periodically. Reaching up catches my transparent reflection in the window making me jump. I have a whole hour before I can drive five minutes down the street to pick up my husband from work.

Several other little bugs have been detected in my paranoia and take up residence next to my head on the glass. After ten minutes of writing, I'm relaxing and that's when the striped offender reappears bobbing along the window. He is still trapped in this sweets factory with me.

In my head, I announce "I'm done!" as I flinch again. Throw my iPad and phone into my bag and don't bother to put my coat on. Outside I can enjoy my Dunkaccino in the safe 40ºF weather. But I don't get up. I blame my addiction to the internet. It makes you do irrational things.

Forty-five minutes left. The territorial dance continues. If only that bug knew the weather outside, it would sit down, shut up, and enjoy the coffee. Why can't it just find a nice lump of sugar somewhere? I would dump sugar on the window ledge right now if I thought it would work. I can share. Not my coffee, because that would just be too tempting to wait until the unsuspecting wasp crawls inside the cup. I'd shut the lid, shake it up, and drown it in the syrup. I'm a heartless, honey-loving hypocrite.

Half an hour to go. I've researched yellow jackets and determined they are of no use to me. They produce no honey and don't pollinate very well. Still don't want to be the only maniac flailing in the shop. My shoulder muscles are aching from the tension. The fruit flies keep me company while the bee is at large across the room again. Maybe he found the sugar or a syrup spill. I should wash the table and the windowsill, and the walls. The cab of the car is getting more enticing even though the evil bee hasn't touched me once.

There's a spider on the outside of the window pane. You're on the wrong side, I think, even though he has his own smorgasbord. Then the bee whizzes past my face towards the line of patrons. When did you get behind me? If I use the bathroom now, I can hold it for another hour and a half till I get home, right? Uncertain. I've consumed a lot of coffee in the past five hours.

My reason for being in this house of horrors surfaces next. I came in here to use the internet, which I can no longer concentrate on. Writing does not require the internet. Conclusion: I don't need to be here. You've won this round foul trespasser.

In less than a minute, I'm packed up and out the door just in time for ten kids to walk in. I check the ground to make sure I didn't step on the lady bug trying to escape this wretched place when I came in. I'm clean. I pass a ball of lint that looks like locus on the sidewalk. Other than every creepy crawly being on my mind I've escaped with minor psychological effects, but as I open the car door and step in I realize I forgot to pee.

On Being Bold

The other day, I told someone they were being a dick. I said it to their face. And I don't regret it. It felt both exhilarating and uncomfortable. I was both pleased with myself for confronting them with my feelings and appalled by my insensitivity. I then proceeded to spend hours questioning whether I did the right thing or something wrong. What I could have done better? Who I should I apologize to? And whether or not I'd do it again because that really determined whether or not I should take the whole thing back.

In the end, I told myself to stop sulking, pick up a book, and get over it. It happened. Although I approached it poorly, I would not be apologizing for WHAT I said. But if it came up I would apologize for doing it in front of others. That was rude of me. But I wasn't going to let their douchebaggery continue in front of me. I just couldn't stand by watching it any longer. I had had enough. And I wasn't going to take that kind of crap in the future either. I demand more respect than that. And I expect more from my friends. And if I didn't consider you a friend, I wouldn't have wasted my time telling you that you were acting like I douche bag--I'd just ignore you till you went away. I don't waste my breath on people I don't deem worth it.

Why am I talking about all this? I grew up around passive aggressive behavior. My household was full of little jabs that aren't outright directed at anyone most of the time, but it made others feel like shit without the outlet to fight back because of the indirect nature of the comments. I picked up this type of behavior too. It's very easy to pick up and almost impossible to get rid of. I've been aware of it for about 10 years now. I'm still trying to learn how to be assertive and lose the snide remarks when I'm grouchy.

Now, swinging the other way is so hard, that we often over shoot our goal with the sheer force we use wrenching ourselves out of the ditch we were trapped in. In this case, I over shot my goal of assertiveness to the point of being confrontational. Definitely not my goal, but I still count it as moving forward. Here's why:

When my husband and I started dating, I told him if had relationships fail due to lack of communication on my part--I tended to want to run and hide instead of talk about my feelings. (I was already doing phenomenal just by telling him this and it was only because I was working on changing this about my personality that I was able to share it.)

So we decided that it would be better to be confrontational with each other--if we could find no other way to express ourselves--than to say nothing and not communicate altogether. It was never our goal, but it was still better to yell at each other once I. A while than to risk losing each other due to never talking about our feelings. (And that happens far more often than you might realize. Whole marriages end because one or more parties chose to stop talking about their problems with each other.)

So it is with this attitude that I now approach any relationship I value. Is this a good plan? Probably not. But I know what it's like to live as a "people pleaser." I know what it's like to be unhappy all the time because I never stood up for myself. And I know what it's like to regret never speaking your mind.

After years of weighing the balance, the scale tips in favor of truthful over like-able every time. I'd rather someone hate me for who I am (someone who is a little abrasive), then like me for someone I'm not. Trying to be like-able to everyone you meet is a losing battle and one that I don't have time for. Life is too damn short.

I guess I'm also saying, if you've ever known me long enough (say maybe a couple of years), you know I step on toes every once in a while. And you know I'm not nice about it. But you know that I love you. Because we wouldn't still be talking and sharing our thoughts together if I was afraid of what you'd think of me. <3

Labor of Love

Last night was both one of the most exciting experiences of my life and one of the most peaceful. I count the birth of my best friend's daughter as the most incredible day of my life since my wedding day and honeymoon.

I was very apprehensive about being there at first. But once I arrived, there was no turning me away unless it was to get her dinner the second her little one was born. (It ended up being breakfast and she had it waiting before the baby was even out.) I was afraid of the whole process before. I don't really know how our bodies work down to the nitty gritty. Sex Ed was so long ago and primarily geared towards teaching you not to get pregnant at an early age or catch HIV. They succeeded in that regard. But I digress.

I was never comfortable with how the female body works. I wanted kids, but would almost prefer to adopt just to avoid the unpleasant business of popping one out down there. The idea of carrying the baby wasn't the problem. It was fear of the unknown.

After this experience, I can honestly say I feel there's nothing to be afraid of anymore. I am not intimidated by it any longer. If my best friend can do it, so can I. Thank you, Marcy, from the bottom of my heart for that experience.

Swimming Upstream Both Ways

I want to write every day, but there are so many other things I want to be doing too. How do we deal with this? How do we progress in our crafts when we have too many crafts or hobbies? I’m still trying to decode the secret. Somewhere in life’s encrypted rules there must be instructions for this, right?

Until we find it [and I expect a prompt message if you already have the answer], let’s look at our options. We can (1) aimlessly wander and hope we end up somewhere decent. We can (2) take aim and plot a destination and try not to get “distracted.” Or we can (3) take aim and plot a course along the way with deadlines and benchmarks leading to our desired destination.

The greater majority of us aimlessly wander around for a while hoping to get somewhere magical. I know I did. I wandered because I didn’t know what I wanted. I spent many years being tossed through the air like a tumble weed, never really getting anywhere. To this day, I only understand pieces of what I want. A home, a family, and to do the things I love. I even spent one summer soul searching what it IS that I LOVE. Imagine how ridiculous that felt; I was almost 25 years old.

In the end, I determined that music and writing were integral parts of who I am. I am not happy without both of these elements in my life. Years later, I still have people trying to get a “which one could you not live without” from me. The answer is neither. I wasn’t kidding when I said, I need them both. To live without music feels like my soul shriveling up and to never write is like losing your voice and your hope.

I use to write poetry. One day, poetry no longer filled the need inside me and I began writing lyrics. None of those lyrics have been put to music, and I sometimes wonder if they’ll be like my poetry—lost in the past. But the past paved our path to where we are now. Those bricks laid in poetry and unsung lyrics mark the direction for my future.

Lately, I hear the little girl inside me rising up and saying, “Write the worlds in your head. I’m tired of this place. I want to go somewhere new. You should come with me.” And I just can’t tell her, “no.”

Thankfully, with age comes some degree of wisdom. I’ll not be tossed about on a ship I cannot steer. I will commandeer this vessel and mark our course. My little one deserves new worlds and unknown adventures and stories never told. I’ll give them to her and to all who wish it. The child within us sees the vast map of stars pinned down to the tabletop, while the rest of us see a schedule and work for the coming year. The journey will be as tedious or as wondrous as we make it. What shores will you find yourself on this New Year?