Moving Forward

(or, Concerning the Worries of a Budding Novelist)

I’m not going to lie to you – this article is about to drop some truth on you.  Heavy truth, the kind that comes out when you’re philosophizing with your best friend at 3:00 am after a night of heavy drinking.  Hopefully, that means it will be a therapeutic, inspirational kind of truth as well, not kind that will result in us going comatose and waking up the next morning with regrets.  It concerns moving forward in pursuit of a dream.

Camp-NaNoWriMo-2013-Winner-Campfire-Circle-BadgeCamp NaNoWriMo has finally come to a close, and it is with great pride that I announce I have reached my word count goal!  Well, my adjusted word count goal of 25,000 words, anyway.  I admit this is far from my original goal of 50,000, but 25,000 words is still nothing to sneeze at (unless, of course, you’re allergic to this much raw, unbridled progress!).  I am making significant headway with my novel, and for the first time in my life, I feel like I might actually finish a book.  Maybe I have what it takes; maybe I can succeed at a life goal I’ve had since I was a child.  I’ve written so much and I’ve learned even more, maybe these dreams are possible.  Maybe I can throw everything I have – all my focus, my energy, my extra time – into becoming a writer rather than just one who occasionally writes.

Of course, that’s easier said than done.

You see, I felt this way once before, years ago when I had dreams of being a video game designer.  I did my research, I enrolled in classes, I made plans and worked what jobs I could to get by, and I worked harder than I’d have thought possible trying to make that dream a reality, barreling forward with what felt like supreme clarity.  Then, I got tripped up.  A financial screw-up left me with an extra heap of student loans but no qualifications to show for them, and my situation was worse than when I started – certainly no closer to my goal.  I had to surrender then or dig myself into a deeper hole without even the slightest promise of being able to climb out again at the end.

The experience of hitting that colossal roadblock still haunts me today, and it makes it difficult for me to readily commit to another leap.  This time, I don’t need an extra degree, I don’t necessarily need documents saying I’m qualified to do what I do, and I don’t really need to make a monetary investment in order to proceed.  But I do need focus.  I’ll need to set the things I dabble in aside while I dive deep into this one pursuit.  I’ll need to see that my paying work doesn’t interfere with my writing and vice versa.  I’ll need to write even when I don’t want to, and I’ll need to risk making myself hate the thing I love.  I’ll need to face rejection and failure as well as the possibility, years down the road, that I’ll look back and see all of this as wasted time that I could have spent trying to get a fancy job that would let me get a fancy apartment of my own.

I could just continue as I have been.  I love writing; I could easily keep it up as a hobby.  This book has been on my mind for the better part of three years now, and if I’m lucky and still quite diligent, I could finish the first draft within the year.  But then, for the second draft, how long would that take using just free moments here and there?  How many edits will I go through?  How long will I search for a publisher?  When will I start the next book I want to write?  What happens if I meet someone in the meantime, suddenly taking up rock climbing in a blind fit of infatuation?  What happens if there’s an alien invasion?  Will I wake up one morning, grey-haired and tired in the service of our alien overlords, still wondering if I’ll get published someday?

That may be a bit over-dramatic, but it illustrates my concern.  I know from experience that when I hedge my bets, I stay safe, but I go nowhere.  I keep doing art, writing, random job searching, and intermittent studies, always in spurts, never committing myself in full to any one pursuit lest I miss an opportunity provided by another.  However, by doing this, I fail to improve any one skill to the point where I become extraordinary.  I know I’m capable of charging ahead toward a single goal like an unstoppable force, but I don’t have enough faith in myself to know that the goal I choose is the right one – the one that can make me happy and keep me out of the poor house, more or less.  Maybe that’s the main thing that needs to change.

I will see this story finished, one way or another.  Whether or not it will meet the world at large one day is yet to be seen, but I hope it will.  Maybe it’s time for me to just give in to that tricky little can-do feeling and shut out the naysayer within.  My instincts were wrong once, but what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?  Besides, if you don’t try, if you don’t give it your all, then you can’t rightly weave a touching cautionary tale from your failure, can you?  If all I’m destined to be is the master of feeling sorry for myself, I might as well earn those laments!

Every celebrated author was once a struggling, aspiring author.  They were all the way up until the day they were not.  Some may have suffered less than others, some may have had extraordinary luck, some may have been identified as geniuses early on, and some may have gotten more recognition than their mediocre writing deserved, but there was a time for each when success was uncertain.  For whatever reason, they plugged on – maybe in wild, inspired bursts, maybe in a long, drudging crawl.  And then, one day, it all became worthwhile.  I don’t think I have it in me to fail utterly, completely, and permanently, not yet.  So, by my humble reckoning, it seems the only option left is to one day succeed.

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Publishing, Professionalism, and You

(or, Why Every Time I Learn New Things About Getting Published, I Feel Completely Oblivious)

I have this terrible habit of choosing life ambitions for which I have no good personal mentors, barreling blindly along toward a goal that I slowly discover to be more and more unattainable.  Coming from a family where college educations were rare and career paths were often just whatever came along first, any time I stood up and said, “I’m going to do something crazy and amazing and clever with my life!” all they could really do was smile and say, “Cool!”  Not that the emotional support was undesirable, but it usually came with the understanding that they had no idea what challenges I would face, how I might face and overcome them, or what were the right and wrong things to do.  They operated in the same school of thought that tells children they can accomplish anything they set their mind to, if they want it badly enough, or work hard enough, or whatever, and I’ve learned from experience that that mentality, when not supported by knowledge or experience, can lead to soul-crushing frustration as you begin gaining that knowledge and experience.  Eventually, you hit that brick wall where you know enough about what you’re doing to know that you have no idea what you’re doing or how you’re ever going to get it done.

When you hit that wall, it’s discouraging.  You begin to see clearly for the first time just how difficult the path ahead of you is.  You begin looking back at all the wrong decisions you made, decisions that cost you time and money and got you nowhere closer to your goals.  You start looking ahead at all the time and money yet to be spent toward uncertain returns. I have to believe this is the point where many people give up.  The nagging doubts and the nay-saying become the most prudent-sounding voices.  At the very least, this is where you have to really look at the costs of your pursuits and decide whether the end result is worth the effort.  Are you capable of achieving this goal?  Are you good enough?  Strong enough?  Persistent enough?  Charming enough?  Lucky enough?

I’d like to believe you can break past this point simply with the power of positive thinking, but to me, relying on optimism alone here seems irrational.  This stage requires honesty more than anything.  Honesty to yourself, and honesty from the world around you.  I think that if you’re honest with yourself here and decide that you can and will proceed to your goal, then nothing can stop you.  Well, nothing apart from a freak hot air balloon accident or a hostile alien invasion.

Now to circuitously get to my point.  It seems that the further I get into my writing process, the more things I learn I should be doing or thinking about.  Writing, like anything, is an industry, driven in no small part by cash flow and complete with its own rules, regulations, best practices, and etiquette.  It’s one thing to set aside your idealism and acknowledge that fact, quite another to actually operate within that understanding.  To me, it feels a little like wandering around in a foreign country where your language skills are just about equal to the first ten pages of your pocket phrasebook.  There are a lot of exciting things around you, but also a lot of confusion and awkward, shuffling silences as you search for the right words to express the simplest concepts.  For every new scrap of information you learn, three new questions emerge, and at some point, you find you’ve gotten yourself inexplicably lost.

So where do I stand now?  Well, apparently I should a) have a website (for which this ramshackle blog may or may not count), b) have a social media presence, c) be a member of some sort of writer’s association and/or d) be subscribed to some publication about the writer’s market, e) be networking with publishers and authors at conventions, f) be shamelessly self-promoting, and g) probably be looking for an agent.  Of course, the list changes depending who you talk to, and there doesn’t seem to be any proven method of “success.”  I’ve encountered writers over twice my own age who have done everything “right” for longer than I’ve been alive and still seen no success while on the other hand some starry-eyed teen strolls out of high school in a haze of invincibility and promise to get work published from the get-go.  I’ve obviously passed the stage of youthful prodigy, but where on that spectrum am I going to land?

The best I can do right now is take all the things I learn and just file them away.  First things first: finish the first draft of my novel, then worry about publication, publicity, and professionalism.  Some sources seem to suggest that I should establish myself as an author before I’ve actually written anything final, but however prudent that may be, I can’t help but feel like it’s a little pretentious.  For the time being, this little blog is my web presence.  A story will unfold here as I bring my novel to completion and (hopefully) get it published, and maybe as I start putting the things I learn into practice, I’ll become that smart, professional author I’m supposed to be.  In my most idyllic dreams, I imagine looking back at this moment years from now, with several published titles to my name, and laughing over my panic and naïveté.  Maybe some other young author with no clue what they’re doing will dig up this blog post and say to themselves, “See!  She was a wreck too, but she turned out ok!”  One can only hope.

Story Time is Forever Awesome

(or, My One Saving Grace in My Inability to Interact with Small Children)

I’m at that age where my peers keep inexplicably producing offspring.  To be honest, I guess I’ve been at that age for a while, but my closest friends and family have had the good sense not to engage in reckless baby-making, at least until now.  In the past year, however, I’ve had one of my best friends give birth to a little baby boy, and I’ve discovered I’m going to be an auntie as well.  It seems I can’t let my discomfort with these little imps continue as it was.

Now, to be fair to my own ineptitude, I’m still no good with babies.  Try as I did, while handling my friend’s infant son, most of what passed through my head sounded like, Look at you.  All you can do is drool, flail, and nod off.  You’re like some kind of mutant slug creature that somehow inspires adoration instead of revulsion.  OH GOD I’M SCARED I’M GONNA BREAK YOU!  Here, back to your mommy before I do something wrong …  However, now that the boy has mastered things like eye contact, giggles, blowing raspberries, and basic motor skills, I’m feeling more optimistic.  You see, there’s one thing I think I could be awesome at.  I am super excited about the prospect of telling these children stories.

These days, something about the act of being read to personally makes me cringe, but when I was a child, it was about the best thing ever.  There wasn’t a huge selection of books my mother to read to me, especially since I was reading my own books pretty young, and I realized in retrospect that some of the stories she read got a lot of ad-libbing, but they were special nonetheless.  I’m almost ashamed to admit it, but one of my favorites was some generic 1960’s Western boy-and-his-horse tale that belonged to my mom called Fury and the White Mare by Albert G. Miller.  She would read me the whole thing with cowboy voices, and though I can’t recall most of the plot or characters, I do recall thinking it was pretty neat.

I still have it.  No joke.  This is my own copy.

I still have it. No joke. This is my own copy.

Of course, there were also the stories told on the spot, and sometimes those were even better.  Sometimes they were anecdotes of my parents’ own pasts, sometimes they were paraphrased stories and fairy tales, but no matter what the subject matter, hearing them told on the spot from memory somehow made them more real and intriguing.  Precious, too, because when I asked for the same story again, it was always slightly different.

That’s the part I’m most excited about.  Reading to children is certainly important, but I feel like there’s a lot to be gained by both the kids and the adults when passing along a story from memory.  Plus, the library becomes infinite!  I can share fairy tales, fables, and myths, personal experiences, plots of films and video games (or spin-offs based on those stories and characters), or I can ask the child to give me a few things he or she wants in their story and just make it up as I go along!  Sure, they may not always be the best, most technically competent stories around, but I have an audience who is basically willing to give me the benefit of the doubt, at least for a while.  So, could my desire to tell little children stories be in part a way to bolster my ego by winning the praise of someone who doesn’t have the experience to know whether or not my stories actually suck?  No.  Shame on you for thinking that.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be a mother myself, and I don’t pretend to know the first thing about parenting, but storytelling is something I know and love.  For now, I’m perfectly content with being “that lady who visits every now and then with all the cool stories” – here’s hoping that’s what I become!

The Necessity of Periodic Revivals

(or, An Apology and a Continuation)

Life is a tricky thing.  One silly project, random virus, or visiting  friend comes along, and your routine is ruined for weeks.  We all know this.  But this is a blog, not a breaking news site, so we’re going to forget about the weeks of silence on move forward into a brilliant and more productive future!

I always take a great deal of inspiration from the Spring, seasonal allergies notwithstanding.  It’s not that I have any particular aversion to Winter, but once things start bursting into bloom, you can just feel the life around you so so intensely.  The greens of the leaves and grass are fresh and vivid and eager; the varied hues of the flowers spark brightly in the sun and smolder richly in the rain.  There are invigorating scents everywhere, birdsong to be heard all day long, and … let’s be honest, a totally bipolar and unpredictable weather pattern.  Among the cycle of the seasons, this is when there is the most excitement in the the air, the most opportunity and promise.  While some ladies celebrate the Spring by donning their tank tops and flip-flops in 50 degree weather, my friends know this as the time when I take way too many close-up pictures of blossoms and things.

They're just so damn pretty!

They’re just so damn pretty!

So, taking inspiration from nature’s own revival, I hope to get back to business!  By which I mean all the personal projects that, as of yet, produce absolutely no pay.  Such is the way of things, I suppose.