The Writing Life and Other Fairy Tales

Calling All Word Geeks: A Serious Case of Desk Envy

2011-03-08T14:54:00.000-08:00

I admit, I swooned when I saw Linda Gray Sexton's very classy website design. And just look at this desk!

http://lindagraysexton.com/writingcottage.html

This is what I call a dream writing space. The perfect set-up, exquisitely organized. A view that's just gorgeous enough--not so spectacular that it distracts. I don't imagine Sexton keeps it looking this neat every day, but if my desk ever looked this good for five minutes, I'd be happy.

My desk isn't a desk, but a kitchen table refurbished by my sister. I wrote my graduate thesis on this table, so I'm loathe to give it up. Back then, I had a Mac so old its poor little modem couldn't handle the 21st-century Internet.

Nothing remarkable in the tools of my trade: dictionaries, style manuals, day planner, piles of Post-it notes, a jar of pens and markers that don't work, boxes of envelopes and paper clips. Are you asleep yet? If you're still reading, you must be a fellow word geek. I'll get a life if you will.

It's what's over the desk that matters. My wall collage calls me back each day. A calendar I don't write on so that looking at those blank squares lets me dream of what might come. Pretty thank-you cards from editing clients. Striking photos of flowers, torn from old calendars, the subject and the source both reminders of time's passage. And everywhere, butterflies: symbol of rebirth, love, the soul, good luck, or bad omens, depending on whose culture you want to go by. I've taken the butterfly as my personal symbol, and for me it encompasses all of these interpretations, all central to life, and art.

And speaking of life, and art, you just might want to check out Sexton's new memoir, Half in Love. It's brave and important, full of pain and redemption.

I envy her fortitude. And the desk.

Why Read or Write When You Can Just Watch TV?

2011-03-01T15:17:00.000-08:00

You might say I was destined to be a heavy TV viewer: I was named after Marcia Brady. It's just not my fault if the tube pulls me in.

Ah, the carefree days of youth, when I could slip guiltlessly back and forth between reading and viewing. I discovered the Little House books at around the same time I stumbled across the show. That blew my seven-year-old mind: they could make books into TV? Sign me up!

I didn't understand why the TV Pa Ingalls had what looked like a giant perm while the literary Pa had a neatly trimmed beard; or why Screen Ma was always tearing up while Book Ma expressed displeasure with stern looks. I didn't know why the prairie was so hilly and had so many trees. (Finding out that there was no Santa Claus, figuring out what sex really was: these were not the life lessons that crushed my innocence. Learning that almost everything was filmed in California--that's what I've never recovered from.)

I grew up in rural Vermont, at the end of a dirt road. Thank God we had TV, that we could receive those precious signals. (Remember the days of the antenna? The bitter disappointment of the snowy screen?) Thank God we had a great library in town, a short drive away. I took after my mother, an indoorsy woman who spent as much time reading as watching. She'd put down her Agatha Christie novel when it was time for Murder, She Wrote. No hang-ups about switching from page to screen. No embarrassment about planning her day around TV Guide.

Through the late seventies and the eighties, I learned about Social Issues of the Day from TV. Racism, drugs, gay rights, teen pregnancy--the Little House books didn't cover such topics. (The TV series tried, in its super-earnest, unintentionally hilarious way. Remember the black doctor who had to earn the town's trust by treating their livestock before they'd let him treat people? Remember Albert's morphine addiction?) School got around to these topics eventually, but TV got there first.

So I actually didn't grow up to be a dumbass. I did learn to be ashamed of my TV intake as an adult. I read the studies on the ills caused by TV, everything from eating disorders to brain rot. Every time I turn on the tube, a little voice says, You should be reading instead. Or writing. They should revoke your master's degree. Best Buy should have the right to take your laptop away.

One of the great pleasures of turning 40 this year: learning how to tell that little voice to shut the F up.

I read a lot. I write a lot. I watch a lot of TV. It's all OK.

TV isn't supposed to be part of "the writing life." So says Stephen King. Sorry, Stevie, but it's a part of this writing life. At the end of the day, these eyes need a rest. This brain needs a break. Sometimes I need a story that gets told for me, no interpretation necessary, no thought involved. I lose myself in a stupid glossy made-up world late at night and I'm refreshed the next day.

Do I need to take myself more seriously than I already do? Do I need to crawl further inside my own head? I think not. And when I think not, I am not. And when I am not, I am better off for it.

Writing Under the Influence

2011-02-27T12:14:00.000-08:00

I've already admitted to my Starbucks addiction. How else would I find the energy to start a blog? Write a book? Run an editing business? Natter on on Facebook? Maintain personal hygiene?

I wonder how many books have been written under the influence of:

coffee (most?)
alcohol (many)
nicotine (many)
prescribed psychotropic meds (these days? I can't count that high)
illicit drugs (fewer now than in the eighties? or am I being naive?)
new love (virtually none)
lost or unrequited love (some of the best stuff ever)
grief (Joan Didion, I bow to you)

I've tried writing after a glass (or three) of wine. Like all drunks, I thought I'd tapped into genius. Of course, the next day, my genius read like gibberish.

I once wrote a bunch of journal entries on some post-surgery Vicodin. They're surprisingly boring. What I ate for breakfast, how many Vicodin I took at which times, and so on. Other meds? That's another topic for another time.

I've never done illicit drugs. How do you know? Because I'm not skipping over this particular menu item and hoping you won't notice. I've read William Burroughs's Junky (remind me why this is considered a classic?) and a number of lesser-known addiction tales. I'm pretty sure I'm not missing anything. Uppers would just make me write more gibberish, faster. Downers, I don't need.

I don't smoke. I have written poems about new love which I will never try to impose on readers, although they're sort of fun to read in private. I tried writing about a lost love and submitted the piece (brief sex scene and all the trimmings) to a grad-school workshop (yikes). I have learned it's best to write about grief when the pain has had time to mellow; but that's just me.

Are you writing under the influence? Be careful out there.

The semicolon is NOT dead; no way

2011-02-24T11:04:00.000-08:00

Recently, a friend told me over coffee about a business writing seminar she attended; she's my source of info from the regular working world. The seminar instructor informed her group that the semicolon was dead; no more, kaput, finis.

"Dead! Like hell," I sputtered; my macchiato almost came out my nose.

My friend agreed; she too loves the semicolon. I now include several in every email I send her; she appreciates it.

I am addicted to the semicolon; I admit it. Sure, it wreaks havoc with cadence; its overuse clutters the visual effect of a paragraph; I know I need help; I know I am not a) Virginia Woolf or b) living in an age of funky punctuation.

If you tell me not to do something, you're really just egging me on; I'll just do it more; I'll do it until the day I keel over; maybe the semicolon itself will kill me; but what a way to go.

If I have one thought, I've got two; if I've got two, I've got nine; the semicolon quickly marries thought to thought; it's the Vegas wedding chapel of sentence construction.

I spent hours editing semicolons (and colons, and dashes; don't get me started on those) out of my book manuscript; it hurt; sentences divorced; yet I know they are stronger for it. Of course, I kept some in; they may be used in moderation; live on, my punctuating lovelies.

The Boss of You

2011-02-23T14:30:00.000-08:00

The best thing about being self-employed: you get to be your own boss.

The worst thing about being self-employed: you have to be your own boss. (Wild fluctuations in income are a close second.)

I work for myself because I've hated every job I've ever had. Every. Single. One. I love being a writer and editor. It's all I want to do.

That being said, I'm tougher on myself than any supervisor I've ever encountered in the regular working world. I sure as hell never worked this hard for anybody else. I figured if I just showed up and looked busy, that ought to be good enough. And usually, it was. (Sorry if you ever supervised me and you're reading this now. You've been had.)

Whether I'm working on my own writing or editing a client's manuscript, I have to be aware of burnout. There's a point when my brain says "Nuh-uh, you can't make me," and I truly can't type another word.

The sane approach is to stop well before I get to that "nuh-uh" point. I've learned that the hard way.

What this means to you: You're either juggling writing with a regular job or a business. You may feel compelled to push yourself to write as much as possible in your so-called free time.

Challenge yourself, by all means. See what you're capable of. But take it from me: don't be the meanest boss you've ever had. Think of the best boss you've ever had. How did that person help you to be productive? How did that person react when you made mistakes or missed deadlines? I'll bet they were firm but fair, challenging but realistic in their expectations.

Can you be that person for the writer in you?

On Being a Facebook Whore

2011-02-22T13:20:00.000-08:00

Someone recently sent me a message on Facebook, with "You are everywhere!" in the subject line. I thought, Oh mother of crap. I've gone overboard with all of this online stuff. Someone's asking me to please shut the hell up and save some cyberspace for her.

But no. She meant it as a compliment.

Can you tell I'm still a tad uncomfortable about self-promotion? For years, I went the oh-so-serious writer route: got the MFA (which I'll be paying for until my gnarled hands can't write checks anymore), published in literary magazines (which usually pay nothing). It took a while for me to get it through my thick head that the Serious Writer has to promote herself, like any other businessperson.

I now have a website, a Twitter account, and this blog. When I hit the 5,000-friend limit on Facebook after less than a year, I felt kind of whorish, like the chick who'll go home with any guy who buys her a drink. But most of my FB friends are writers. Writers are easy, in the virtual sense. We all want readers. Lots of readers. There can't be enough. We have to network like crazy. Which means friending tons of people and not always remembering their names in the morning. Thankfully, it doesn't involve STDs, though you do have to watch out for viruses of a different sort.

Now I'm strutting my stuff on more Internet street corners than ever. I'd better get used to it, because every day, I learn about some new social networking site I've never heard of, something that's bound to be the next big thing. The next happening street corner. I can't hit them all, but a working girl's gotta be on the move, right?

Wouldn't my mother be proud.

Ow. OW! Admit It. Rejection Hurts.

2011-02-21T14:33:00.000-08:00

I tell my editing clients, "Don't let rejection get you down. Keep at it. It's tough, but you've got to submit widely in order to get published."

I might even say, "You'll get used to rejection. You won't like it, but you'll get used to it."

And I have to practice what I preach. Damn it.

I've just begun submitting queries for my memoir. I'm not supposed to admit this publicly, or so I'm told. But I'm not a well-behaved rule-follower, and I don't mind telling you that this week, I got my very first agent rejection for the book. Polite. To the point. A definite "no."

The serious grown-up professional part of me said, "Hey, no big deal. It's just ONE opinion. Other fish in the sea and all that. You bloody well knew you weren't going to hit it out of the park your first time at bat. Yeah, yeah, I'm mixing metaphors, but you know exactly what I mean. Keep going."

The crybaby part of me blubbered on and off for the rest of the day.

The next day, I decided to start my blog. The day after that, I returned to my manuscript to give it yet another once-over. I kept going.

I'm no stranger to rejection, goodness knows. I've been submitting work to magazines since I was eight. If "adorable" could be a valid part of a writer's platform, I'd include my ode to the four seasons from Vermont Children's Magazine on my CV. If I'd kept all of the rejection slips, I'd have more of a firetrap on my hands than I already do. I record them so that I don't pester the same mag with the same piece twice. Then I focus on the successes.

I've placed some essays after just a few submissions. I sent out one of my best pieces 50 times before I decided to give it a rest. I've kept five pieces in submission at once (this is where having a touch of OCD comes in handy, so you always know what's been sent where, and when). Those little slips of paper used to ruin my day. At some point, I got used to them. I started to see them as part of the deal: I chose to be a writer. I knew it would be hard.

A book is, of course, a much bigger investment of time and effort than an essay. A "no" on the book is never going to feel good. But it's part of the same deal. I can even see myself getting used to it. What doesn't kill you can sure piss you off, but it doesn't kill you. It doesn't stop you unless you let it.

Literary rejection is often compared to romantic rejection, with good reason. Both make you feel like crap for as long as you allow them to. Both make you question what you have to offer. Both are engraved invitations to self-pity. And just as you need only one lover to say, "Yeah, baby, I want you," your essay, story, poem, article, novel or memoir needs one yes. When you get that yes, you forget all about the ones who said no.

So, Ms. Agent, I get it. We're not right for each other, and that's OK. You'll keep going. So will I.

Why You Don't Have to Write Every Day

2011-02-20T17:05:00.000-08:00

If you write every day, great. Having a routine must be working for you.

If you don't write every day, don't kick yourself for it. Please.

Why not? you may very well ask. Isn't that what a writing career is all about--being mean to yourself so you'll develop the thick hide everybody says you need to make it?

I used to believe this, too. Here's why this mentality doesn't work.

First of all, you have a life. You have a job, or you're looking for a job, or you're running a business. You have a spouse or partner, kids, aging parents, and other people clamoring for your attention. You're trying to eat right, exercise, floss, pay the bills, and keep the dirty laundry from taking over the house like a giant stinky monster.

On top of everything, you're supposed to write every day? Says who?

Sure, Virginia Woolf did it. And we all know she had some awfully rough times in her life, but she had one thing I'll bet you don't: servants.

For those of us who aren't independently wealthy, writing every day might not be realistic. Life's demands fluctuate. Sometimes, writing is the furthest thing from our minds--and that's OK. It doesn't make any sense to set yourself up to fail.

This is not just my harebrained idea (although I do have those; stay tuned). This has been my experience. I graduated with an MFA in writing 10 years ago. I've just recently finished my first book. In between the MFA and hitting "save" on my final draft, I worked in retail. I endured a unique smorgasbord of humiliations as a not especially computer-savvy temp. I built my editing business until I was finally able to leave those crappy jobs behind. I moved five times. I lost both parents. I got sick, then well, then sick again, then well again. I kept up my half of a relationship.

No wonder it's taken this long to finish my book, I realize now. But, oh, the mean things I told myself in between: You should write every day, no matter if the roof catches fire. You'll never get anywhere. You're not a real writer.

Sound familiar?

My second point: if you make writing into a chore, another task on that long list in between taking out the garbage and cleaning out the litter box, you'll smother your creativity. I know I extended this book-writing process by months, maybe years, because I didn't make room for life. Tell yourself you can't do it, and guess what? You won't do it. You won't want to.

In the last stages of writing my book, I did write every day. I didn't plan to. I was driven to do so because I knew I was close to the end, and because I'd given myself permission to watch TV instead. It wasn't a chore. Far from it. It was joyful, empowering, exciting. TV just couldn't compete.

So if you're ever going to write daily, let it happen naturally. Give your creativity some breathing room. And give yourself a break.