Last week my best friend dragged me to see The Lucky One. She insisted I had to see it (insert drooling here). While I haven’t read a Nicholas Sparks book in a long time (don’t get me started), I love the movies based off his books. Who doesn’t swoon over A Walk to Remember and The Notebook? I wasn’t sure we would make it because it was the last week the movie would be played at our theater and, well, I have a baby permanently attached to me. My friend ignored my excuses and took me (baby attached) to see it. I’m extremely glad she did and I may owe her forever. Because after the movie, I came home so inspired…I outlined half of my novel rewrite.

Publishers, prepare your offers.

Something about the movie, hit me at exactly the right time in the perfect way. I could blame it on Zac Efron (okay, maybe a little) but really, I blame it on the movie being full of the things that get my my muse’s attention. Rain, beautiful green settings, water, a gorgeous house. Not to mention a hero any woman could fall in love with (insert drooling here as well).

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For the past two years I have been the proud mother of a talkative and rambunctious daughter. Some people ask me how I can take care of her all day and still manage to get so much writing done. For the past two weeks I have also been the mother of a precious and hungry newborn. Some people ask me how I can get back to writing again so quickly. I don’t know if I have an answer to these questions that will work for everyone but I do have an answer that works for me.

Being a mom to two kids under two years old while running a business, running a household and running circles around my dreams means most of my days are spent juggling. While in the middle of making breakfast, I’ll get a phone call, which will lead me to writing something down so I can make another phone call in between flipping eggs and pouring milk into a sippy cup. Then it’s in and out of the shower while I deal with toddler tantrums and try to keep her from tearing the house apart. I brush my teeth as I make the bed. Almost every hour of every day sees a task on each hand while balancing another on one foot.

But I can’t do that with writing.

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Last month I posted about being a new writer and the challenges we face emotionally with the daunting task of completing a first novel staring us in the face. I wish I could say after we do that, it’s all smooth sailing from there on out, but the truth is, it’s only the beginning. Sometimes the only thing scarier than the impossible (I wrote a novel) is too many possibilities (now what?). Because the question that comes after you’ve accepted you’re a writer is, “What am I going to do about it?”

I remember the very distinct shift I felt when my first draft freedom disappeared and the reality of how little I knew about novel writing settled around me in it’s place. I felt suffocated by how much needed to be fixed and how much I had yet to learn. And the question of whether or not I really wanted to go down that road. I had every right and every reason to continue simply writing for myself and my closest friends, but like you, I knew that would never be enough for me. I had something to share with the world.

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If you’ve written even a couple of stories in your writing life, I’m sure you’ve, at one time or another, lost sight of your story. It happens to me all the time. I’ll have an incredibly clear vision of what my story will be, but once I’ve been writing for a while, my story takes twists and turns I didn’t plan on and before I know it, it looks nothing like I originally thought it would. Sometimes this is a great thing but other times, it stops me dead in my tracks. What was I trying to say again?

This recently happened to me with my NaNoWriMo 2010 novel. I completed the novel, gave it some time to rest, read it again, and then when I set my mind to improve it and give it more depth, my characters became people I didn’t recognize, the mood of my story shifted and my original passion for what I set out to accomplish faded. I got stuck.

I’m stubborn. I tried to break through the block by doing exercises and reading writing craft books but no matter what I did, nothing clicked. Finally, I made the difficult decision to set it aside for a while.

Giving It Time

As hard as it was, I think it’s the best decision I ever made for the story. Ever heard the saying, “can’t see the forest for the trees?” I was trying so hard to make something happen that I was no longer listening to the story or the characters, only my own mind telling me what “should” be happening to make things more interesting. Of course, none of those interesting things felt true to the story.

In an age when producing and quick turn around times are paramount, it can be scary to step away from a story for whatever reason. I want to be a published author as much as the next writer, but here’s what time away from my story gave me:

I came back to my original vision. All those extra subplots and new characters I was trying to force weave into my novel fell away and the characters that first inspired me to write this story were the only ones left standing. The romance between them is what I want to write and anything I add should supplement that, not take over.

My excitement returned. I love this story. Everything about it. All the frustration and anguish of trying to mold it into something else was ruining my passion for it. Time away has renewed my energy to the point that I’m bursting to pick it up again.

I knew it mattered. I’ve walked away from stories and never returned to them. It’s one of the most difficult things to do as a writer–to let your hard work stay hidden in a drawer. That’s why time away is a tough decision to make. But coming back to it made me realize how much this story meant to me and now I’m ready to do whatever it takes to make it shine.

I found some new insights. Time creates new perspective, more knowledge of the world and of life, and more understanding of writing craft. How could that not mean new ideas for an old story? What I can bring to my story now is what makes me sure I will take it to the next level and I can’t wait to make that happen.

Starting Anew

I’ve finally gotten to a point where I’m ready to get started on my story again and I can’t wait to bring all my fresh excitement to it. I could have continued to force myself to write. I could have lined my story with characters and plots that didn’t really fit. I could have started sending it out even when it didn’t feel quite right, but I didn’t. I trusted my instincts and gave myself the opportunity to grow to fit my story instead of trying to make my story something it wasn’t.

Are you stuck on your story? Could time and a new perspective be what it needs?

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For writers, ideas are prevalent when we open our minds to them. Every time we come into contact with another human being, watch a TV show or movie, read a book, or let our minds wander, ideas pour in whether we realize it or not. And for every story that is told, there are a thousand other ways it could have been told–a thousand more ideas.

Sometimes I’ll even sit down with the intention of coming up with an idea that is unique (or as unique as any idea can be in this day and age). I’ll hook up with my brainstorming buddy to flesh out these concepts and turn them into what I hope will one day be stories. Sometimes they work out and sometimes they don’t. By this point, I have enough failures and successes under my belt to understand which of these ideas will evolve into something readable and which ones won’t. I’ll tell you what I’ve discovered.

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I can usually tell within the first hour of waking up how the rest of my day will go. If I start off the day in a great mood, it fuels my productive energy and I carry that feeling with me throughout the day, helping me plow through my to-do list and prepare my mind to write. Unfortunately, a sluggish mood will also hang around and can be harder to derail. Everything will move at a snail’s pace and even if I do finish my work in time to write, I usually don’t have the focus. I may put my butt in the chair and type a few words, but every one of them feels forced and uninspired. And, worse, on the days I don’t write at all, it feels like a day lost.

But it doesn’t have to be that way. Recognizing an unproductive state of mind and being committed to stopping in it’s tracks can be a challenge but it can be done. On the days I’m feeling sluggish, only one thing can save me from a wasted day: inspiration. And, hey, a little inspiration never hurt anyone on a productive day either, did it?

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A few weeks ago my mom stayed for an impromptu dinner at my house. Even though we live fairly close to each other, it’s difficult to get together as much as we’d like with our busy lives and all. When we do get together, there’s a lot of catching up to do. Mostly I talk about my family since taking care of them is where my pride lies. Sometimes I’ll tell her a bit about my work. Oddly enough, even though writing is a huge part of my life and claims an hour or two of my time each day, I never bring it up. I guess I’ve been so trained over the years that my family isn’t really interested. I’m sure you’re no stranger to the lack of eye contact when the topic of your latest story comes up.

But then something wild happened. My mom actually asked me about my writing. She said–and I quote–”So are you working on anything right now?”

At first I was so startled I actually had to stop and think about it. Am I working on anything right now? Well, yes, of course I’m working on something right now. Hurry, thing of something interesting to say!

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Chapter 7

On Sunday, I woke up early and went out to the stables. The fresh air forced me out of my stupor after Saturday, which I’d spent alone in my room, submitting to the headache from too much wine, and too much thinking. About Sam. About how I felt for him. About what he’d said to me.

I said good morning to Moonlight and led her out of her stall to the wash rack. I needed something to keep my hands busy. My mind had replayed his words over and over since Friday night, yet I still hadn’t managed to make them stick.

You shouldn’t look at me like that.

How could I not?

I tried to focus on the warm water in the bucket as I filled it with the hose, watching it swirl and bubble, but it was no use.

He knew.

At first I’d felt embarrassed. It wasn’t that I’d been very good at hiding my feelings. I knew they were written all over my face when he was around, or even if his name was mentioned, but I hadn’t expected him to come out and acknowledge it like that. How long had he known? Had I been making a fool of myself trying to hide it?

And then, to have him confirm what everyone had been telling me—what I’d wanted to deny from the beginning. I shouldn’t feel that way about him. I was too young for him. At least, that’s what I assumed he’d meant. Had crossed his mind too?

No. That was wishful thinking.

Still, his eyes told me something different. And his words. “Shouldn’t,” not, “don’t.”

“Good morning,” came a voice from behind me. I turned and narrowed my eyes to see Tyler standing there, his hat clasped in both his hands at his chest.

“Good morning,” I said, the usual early chipper in my voice absent today.

“Can I offer a hand?” Tyler asked.

I shrugged. “You don’t have to,” I said, but Tyler placed his hat back on his head and reached into the bucket to fish out a sponge.

We washed Moonlight in silence for a while and I listened to the sound of Tyler’s steady breath. His presence comforted me when not much else could. I hadn’t forgotten what he’d said but his calmness made it easy for me to ignore it.

“That was quite a party the other night,” he said.

My heart fluttered and I took a deep breath to steady it. Apparently he hadn’t forgotten either. Had he seen Sam?

“You were here?” I asked.

“I stopped by the stables. I remembered once I got home that I’d left Tiramisu tied to her stall after I finished cleaning out her hooves.”

“You didn’t have to come all the way back for that,” I said. “You could have called me.”

“You had the party. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

I nodded and we fell into silence again. Moonlight whinnied and brushed the ground with her front hoof as I massaged her flank.

“So was that him?” he asked. My stomach churned. I didn’t know what he’d seen but it didn’t matter. Tyler knew me too well. A single glance at Sam would have given me away.

“Him, who?” I asked.

“Alexis,” Tyler said, reprimanding me for pretending with him. He placed his hand over mine on Moonlight’s flank and locked eyes with me, making my body go stiff with a tension I’d never felt around him before. He opened his mouth to say something.

“Good morning, Tyler.” My dad’s voice came from the entrance of the stables and both Tyler and I dropped our hands.

“Good morning, sir,” Tyler said and stepped away from Moonlight. Away from me.

“Can you take Brawny out for a ride this morning and make sure Tiramisu is cleaned up? We have company coming over this afternoon and we’ll be taking them both out.”

“Of course, sir,” Tyler said, he dropped the sponge he’d been using into the bucket but didn’t leave right away. My dad smiled at me and turned back toward the house.

“Company?” I asked before he’d gone too far. “Who’s coming over?”

“Sam,” my dad said over his shoulder.

Tyler and I watched my dad retreat until he disappeared over the hill, then Tyler cleared his throat. I looked at him and wished I hadn’t when he raised an eyebrow, clearly questioning whether I’d be joining them or not. I stood there in silence until he finally pulled his hat down in a failed attempt to hide his clenched jaw, and disappeared into the stables.

I spent most of the day outside, avoiding Tyler and distracting myself by scrubbing down saddles, bathing the horses, mucking stalls, and organizing the tack room. Anything to stop myself from thinking about Sam and how to hide my confusion and desperate hope when I faced him again for the first time.

I ran over every scenario in my head a hundred times. My favorite one was straight from a Taylor Swift music video, where he walked into the stables and saw me with Moonlight, the shadows casting me with an air of mystery, and the light breeze swimming through my hair, when he’d become enchanted and decide he had no choice but to fall in love with me. But as the afternoon sun descended, I wondered if he’d ever show up. With nothing else to keep me busy, I was forced to return to the house to wait for him there. Only, when I ascended the hill and the house came into view, I spotted a car that had to be Sam’s—a sleek black Porsche–parked in the side lot. My heart sped up.

The sounds I heard when I entered through the back door weren’t at all what I’d expected—Sam’s voice and my mother’s laughter. I followed them to the kitchen.

“It’s just a small thank you for everything you did to make the party so perfect,” Sam said.

My mom laughed again. “Please,” she said with the wave of a hand. “I supervised more than anything.” Still, she filled a vase with water and transferred the spring bouquet from the paper. Flowers. He’d brought my mother flowers. I watched from behind the doorframe.

“My mom never even made it that close to a kitchen. I can taste the difference between prepared food and home cooking. I know you did more than supervise,” he said. He smiled and slipped his hands into the pockets of his jeans. I’d never seen him in jeans before. The casual style suited him. Though, of course, they were purposefully distressed and clearly as expensive as any of his slacks.

“Well,” my mother finally conceded, “thank you. That’s very sweet.”

When their conversation lulled, I stepped into the kitchen and made my presence known.

“Hey, honey,” my mom said. Sam merely smiled and gave a single slow nod.

“Beautiful,” I said, motioning toward the flowers.

“Aren’t they?”

Sam’s face flushed and he quickly changed the subject.

“Your dad said you’re the one to see about horseback riding?” he said.

“I guess so,” I said, confused.

“He had to take a phone call. He said he’d be down in a few minutes.”

I searched Sam’s face for an indication that something had changed between us. He seemed polite, gracious and happy, as always. But my mind wouldn’t let me accept it at face value.

I shrugged and said, “Follow me.”

I led Sam to the stables. We exchanged small talk. Commented on the party—the food, the great attendance, the reaction to the wine. Nothing about the aftereffects of drinking too much of it.

I introduced Sam to Tiramisu, who he’d be riding, and she warmed up to him easily, melting under the touch of his hand in the same way I did.

“How long has it been since you’ve ridden?” I asked as I tightened the straps on her saddle.

Sam laughed. “I haven’t.”

“You haven’t been horseback riding before?” I couldn’t imagine anything Sam wasn’t already perfect at.

“My family was more academically focused,” he said. “Except golf. My parents love golf.”

From what I knew about him and his family, that didn’t surprise me.

“Well, it’s pretty straight forward. I’ll walk you through it.”

I gave Sam a few pointers on how to ride comfortably and let him in on Tiramisu’s quirks, then I helped him get up into the saddle. It came to him easily. He looked natural up there, almost regal. Just as I threw my leg over Moonlight, my dad entered the stables.

“Ready to go?” he asked.

We walked the horses at a slow pace as Dad showed Sam through the grapevines. I trailed behind them and listened to my dad chatter on about the differences between how we grew our grapes compared to other vineyards and what he’d like to improve in the future. He had a special talent for making every conversation about business, which often got on my nerves, but Sam was enthralled so I tried harder to focus.

Eventually, the conversation turned to Sam and I no longer had to pretend to be interested.

“So tell me about your parents,” Dad said to Sam. “What do they do?”

Sam took a deep breath before he answered—a habit, I’d noticed, whenever he talked about his family. “My dad is in stocks. He made a few good investments when I was younger that pretty much set him up for life. He keeps a portfolio now to have a little extra profit coming in here and there and to keep himself busy, but he doesn’t really need it. And my mom…well, she shops.”

My dad laughed and I smiled. “It’s what they do best, isn’t it?” my dad said, though I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen my mom outside the kitchen. “They’re still in Colorado, right?”

Sam nodded.

“Do you talk to them often?”

Sam shrugged. “Every once in a while. My dad and I didn’t exactly separate on the best terms.”

Dad stayed silent, the trick he used to get people to keep talking.

“Since we had enough money to live comfortably,” Sam continued, “I think he wanted me to just stay there and hang out with him at the country club all day, marry a woman from another wealthy family and pass the money on to the next generation. But I wanted more than that. I wanted to make my own way.”

Even from behind, I saw my dad’s ears lift in a smile. He nodded firmly and reached out to give Sam a hard pat on the back. “I respect that in a man.”

Sam’s head bowed and I imagined a coy smile on his face. “I appreciate that,” he said quietly. “More than you know.”

My dad patted him again and said, “So what do you say we head back up to the house and open a bottle of wine?”

Sam groaned. “I’d love to but I really shouldn’t. I’m going to spend my whole salary on cab fare.”

“Absolutely not,” my dad said. “That’s what we have a guest house for. Alexis will get you all set up. Right, sweetie?” Dad asked. They both turned toward me. I looked between them and tried to gauge whether Sam really wanted to stay or not.

And then I realized I didn’t care.

“Of course,” I said.

There are two types of writers–the ones who hate their work immediately, and the ones who hate their work eventually. Either way, it’s inevitable that at one point or another, you’ll read back what you’ve written and think, “what was I thinking?” and “who let me call myself a writer?” and “thank goodness no one will ever read that.” It’s tempting to want to build a fire right there on the desk and watch all evidence of such a tragedy go up in smoke, but before you start searching for the matches, here are a few things to think about.

They All Wrote Crap Once Too

J.K. Rowling, Tolkien, Shakespeare, Franzen–If you think any one of them simply pulled a pen out one day and began to write life-changing prose, you’re sadly mistaken. Every single writer who has ever dared to call themselves such started out as a begginer. They wrote in passive voice, they had love affairs with adverbs, and they used “cajoled” instead of “said.” But they grew to be more than that, and with practice, so will you.

It’s All a Learning Experience.

Writing isn’t one of those activities in which you can read ten books on how to do it and then expect to sit down and write a New York Times Bestseller. The reason is because learning is a left-brain activity. Writing is a right-brain one. As soon as you pull up that Word document, your brain switches and all the “rules” you know are blocked off behind a wall. Great writing is a habit. The rules begin to seep into your subconscious only by doing it over and over again until it happens almost without you knowing.

Negative Self-Talk Only Breeds More Negativity

I know, this one is a little deep for a writing blog but it’s true. Keep telling yourself you’re a horrible writer and guess what, you will be. No one ever shined up an old penny by throwing more dirt at it. Empower yourself to be more, to be bigger, to be greater. None of the greats had anything you don’t have. We’re all people with a dream, just the same. We all come into the game with the same tools. The only thing stopping you from being as amazing as your favorite authors is you.

Everything Can Be Edited

And as long as you keep writing, you’re going to keep getting better, which means this manuscript will be better than your last and your next one will be better than this. If a piece isn’t as polished now as you’d like it to be, set it aside and know that in a year, you can always come back to it as a more experienced writer and give it another shot. Give yourself permission to take the time you need to learn.

It isn’t easy to read your own work coming from a place of appreciation–taking the negative route seems to come much more naturally–but the next time you feel the overwhelming urge to take your latest story by the hand and lead it into oncoming traffic, take heart and know there are three things you can count on. 1) We’ve all been there. 2) We’ll all be there again. 3) You will get better. Then, use that energy to fuel your desire to grow and keep on writing.

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I have something embarrassing to admit. Before I wrote my first novel, I thought you had to be a chosen one. Seriously. I thought it required a fancy degree or some special certificate or maybe an old man in a wizard’s hat came out to your house, interviewed you, and gave you a learner’s permit if he found you suitable. It seemed like such a daunting task that surely an average girl like me could never do it.

About four years ago, in my infinite quest for an excuse to give it a shot anyway, I came across the National Novel Writing Month website (is this where I apply for my permit?). Would you believe there were thousands of average people, just like me, writing novels together every year? People who weren’t even writing outlines or trying to get published? People who were writing novels purely for the enjoyment of it? I was so surprised, it took me reading the entire website and a full twenty-four hour’s contemplation to sign up for an account. I assure you–this is a long time for me. That November I wrote my first novel and it was all over from there. I was hooked. I was a writer.

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