I haven't posted in over a month, hard at work on next manuscript and unwilling to risk losing the 'thread' of my story. But I've taken a few breaks to read, and today I found this on Janet Reid's blog.
It's not about what you think...
http://therumpus.net/2010/07/dear-sugar-the-rumpus-advice-column-44-how-you-get-unstuck/
I'll wait here while you finish. Yeah, I brought tissues. *taps foot*
Were you blown away? Talk about stripping away all the bullshit to reveal what's underneath. Writing bone-marrow deep like that takes real courage. Sometimes I get close. I look over the edge, stare truth in the eye. But something--now I know it's fear--makes me blink. Instead of bold and ugly and real, I pull back and write 'safe'.
Someday, I swear--and even if it takes a lifetime--I'm going to write like Sugar.
-T
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Sunday, March 3, 2013
The Professional Writer (Or Better Sex: Part 2)
Last time I wrote about discovering you want to write a story that's actually worth reading. The next obvious question is: "How the hell do I do that?"
That, my friend, is the right question (I, Robot rules.) Finding the answer--according to Malcolm Gladwell--requires ten thousand hours of study and practice. I'm only a third of the way there, but after assaulting every neuron in my stubborn brain with tips, classes, and books on writing fiction, I've come to view it as a two-part process: What to write, and How to write it.
What to Write:
For me, this is the harder of the two areas.
I've known instinctive writers; perennial best-sellers who can sit down with nothing more than a ball-point pen and a rough idea. Two months later, they've magically produced a taut, engaging plot, complete with unexpected twists and spot-on timing. To me, they're like people who naturally look good on the dance floor; folks who close their eyes, feel the music, swing their hips...and the result is sexily (that's a real word, right?) wonderful.
If you'd seen me trying to 'Do The Hustle' in seventh grade, you'd know that isn't me.
Part of growing older is accepting your limitations. I'm blessed in many ways (thank you, Mr. or Ms. Higher Power, whomever You are.) But I submit that when it was time to hand out the genes for freestyle dancing and seat-of-your-pants writing, I got screwed. So, as much as I resisted at first, I've come to adore the three-act structure.
I don't know whether my favorite authors (Dennis Lehane, Elmore Leonard, and *Steve Ulfelder *literary crush alert) consciously use a template. But when I read their books, I watch for the 'beats' I know are coming: Setup, Catalyst, B-story, Midpoint (stakes are raised), Bad Guys Close In, Dark Moment, Climax, and Conclusion. (Beats condensed/adapted from Blake Snyder's Save the Cat.)
In my genre, Catalyst, Mid-point, and Bad Guys Close In beats generally require dead bodies. Count on someone we care about getting hurt/dying at the Dark Moment, whereas B-story and Climax beats show our protagonist first appearing to win, then actually winning.
The value of a formula for writers like me is this: With (lots of) practice, the moves begin to appear natural. Like dancing in front of a mirror, using the three-act, fifteen-beat structure helps me see where tension dribbles off, where the plot drifts aimlessly from scene to scene with no suspense in sight. There are (strong) suggestions for how long each section should be, and this, too, helps with timing.
Best of all, I don't waste time writing scenes that end up in my computer's recycle bin.
To construct the outline, I write a short synopsis of each chapter (Witness X dies) on an index card and stick it on the cork board on my office wall. Keeping the 'beats' in mind, I shuffle the cards around until I've found where they belong, then note where the story is too short (or long), and whether I need to add to one of the sections. This is usually where I kill someone. (How many jobs allow you to say that and still walk around free?)
Using a template is like checking that funky chicken move in your bathroom mirror before unveiling it on the dance floor at your class reunion. Does it look as good as you think? No? That's how well the flashback-to-childhood scene in the middle of the Climax beat works...which is to say, it doesn't.
But thanks to guys like Blake Snyder (who passed away in 2009) and gals like Alexandra Sokoloff, people like me have the equivalent of plastic footprints stuck to the floor, and even those of us who dance like we're having a grand mal seizure can appear graceful.
Next I'll talk about the part that does come (somewhat) naturally for me: How to Write It.
That, my friend, is the right question (I, Robot rules.) Finding the answer--according to Malcolm Gladwell--requires ten thousand hours of study and practice. I'm only a third of the way there, but after assaulting every neuron in my stubborn brain with tips, classes, and books on writing fiction, I've come to view it as a two-part process: What to write, and How to write it.
What to Write:
For me, this is the harder of the two areas.
I've known instinctive writers; perennial best-sellers who can sit down with nothing more than a ball-point pen and a rough idea. Two months later, they've magically produced a taut, engaging plot, complete with unexpected twists and spot-on timing. To me, they're like people who naturally look good on the dance floor; folks who close their eyes, feel the music, swing their hips...and the result is sexily (that's a real word, right?) wonderful.
If you'd seen me trying to 'Do The Hustle' in seventh grade, you'd know that isn't me.
Part of growing older is accepting your limitations. I'm blessed in many ways (thank you, Mr. or Ms. Higher Power, whomever You are.) But I submit that when it was time to hand out the genes for freestyle dancing and seat-of-your-pants writing, I got screwed. So, as much as I resisted at first, I've come to adore the three-act structure.
I don't know whether my favorite authors (Dennis Lehane, Elmore Leonard, and *Steve Ulfelder *literary crush alert) consciously use a template. But when I read their books, I watch for the 'beats' I know are coming: Setup, Catalyst, B-story, Midpoint (stakes are raised), Bad Guys Close In, Dark Moment, Climax, and Conclusion. (Beats condensed/adapted from Blake Snyder's Save the Cat.)
In my genre, Catalyst, Mid-point, and Bad Guys Close In beats generally require dead bodies. Count on someone we care about getting hurt/dying at the Dark Moment, whereas B-story and Climax beats show our protagonist first appearing to win, then actually winning.
The value of a formula for writers like me is this: With (lots of) practice, the moves begin to appear natural. Like dancing in front of a mirror, using the three-act, fifteen-beat structure helps me see where tension dribbles off, where the plot drifts aimlessly from scene to scene with no suspense in sight. There are (strong) suggestions for how long each section should be, and this, too, helps with timing.
Best of all, I don't waste time writing scenes that end up in my computer's recycle bin.
To construct the outline, I write a short synopsis of each chapter (Witness X dies) on an index card and stick it on the cork board on my office wall. Keeping the 'beats' in mind, I shuffle the cards around until I've found where they belong, then note where the story is too short (or long), and whether I need to add to one of the sections. This is usually where I kill someone. (How many jobs allow you to say that and still walk around free?)
Using a template is like checking that funky chicken move in your bathroom mirror before unveiling it on the dance floor at your class reunion. Does it look as good as you think? No? That's how well the flashback-to-childhood scene in the middle of the Climax beat works...which is to say, it doesn't.
But thanks to guys like Blake Snyder (who passed away in 2009) and gals like Alexandra Sokoloff, people like me have the equivalent of plastic footprints stuck to the floor, and even those of us who dance like we're having a grand mal seizure can appear graceful.
Next I'll talk about the part that does come (somewhat) naturally for me: How to Write It.
Saturday, December 29, 2012
The Professional Writer (or: Better Sex, Part 1)
How does one go from being a professional-something-else (in my case, a veterinarian) to becoming a professional writer?
The answer: It Depends.
On what, you ask?
The journey depends entirely on the type of writer you want to become.
If blogging is your thing, the path is simple: Study your target audience (a.k.a.-future revenue source), decide on the best topics to attract said audience, create a killer web platform, then compose-measure-refine your message based on the results.
Repeat until you're sick of blogging or have become the next Pioneer Woman.
If you're a left brain sort, maybe your future lies in non-fiction. Say you're an expert at growing garlic the size of baseballs or a whiz at organizing socks. Perhaps you've produced eleven children and delivered them into adulthood without so much as a single detention slip or snotty eye roll. If so, condense those wisdomy pearls into something called a book proposal, then query agents who represent your particular flavor of non-fiction. Based on what I'm seeing on the grocery store racks these days, you shouldn't have much trouble selling.
Kicked your embarrassing butternut squash addiction? Lost half your body weight on a diet comprised of dill pickles, kale, and Diet Mt. Dew? Tell us how you did it in 1200 words or less (don't forget the bullet points) and send it to Men's/Women's/Kid's Health magazine.
Want a sure thing? Use the words 'Better Sex' in the title, regardless of topic.
Don't get me wrong. I understand how difficult it is to blog regularly and successfully. How tough it is to write (and sell) non-fiction books or magazine articles. In my veterinary practice I devoted long hours to writing client brochures and how-to handouts. In deciding to sell my practice to write full-time, I considered writing articles for equine publications in order to pay the bills. (And even now haven't completely ruled it out.)
But if you really want a tear-your-still-beating-heart-out-of-your-chest thrill, try becoming a professional writer of fiction.
To start, you find--and fall hopelessly in love with--characters who exist solely in your imagination. Maybe (like me) your first book begins as a lovely, vivid dream you can't shake. Just to clear your head, you write the scene down in a ratty spiral notebook. When it's done you shove it under the bed, then get up the next day and go back to your real job.
But when you come home that night, you can't wait to dig out the notebook and see what happens next. Soon, you're stealing moments to work on your story: sick days, lunch hours, that magic time in the morning before the kids get up. Your characters feel real, as if they're telling you what to write.
Before you know it, you've bought two more spiral notebooks and a package of really good black pens. Then, like a junkie with an ever-worsening need, you spring for a used laptop and download Word or Scrivener to keep track of all your chapters, character descriptions, and plot points.
At this point it hits: You don't want to just write this story. You want people to read it...and thinks it's good.
Problem is, you don't actually know how to write a book. Sure, you're a voracious reader, but appreciating a thing isn't the same as knowing how to do it. (Karaoke, anyone?)
Enter the next phase: Soaking-up-information-like-a-Brawny-towel-on-steroids.
(to be continued)
The answer: It Depends.
On what, you ask?
The journey depends entirely on the type of writer you want to become.
If blogging is your thing, the path is simple: Study your target audience (a.k.a.-future revenue source), decide on the best topics to attract said audience, create a killer web platform, then compose-measure-refine your message based on the results.
Repeat until you're sick of blogging or have become the next Pioneer Woman.
If you're a left brain sort, maybe your future lies in non-fiction. Say you're an expert at growing garlic the size of baseballs or a whiz at organizing socks. Perhaps you've produced eleven children and delivered them into adulthood without so much as a single detention slip or snotty eye roll. If so, condense those wisdomy pearls into something called a book proposal, then query agents who represent your particular flavor of non-fiction. Based on what I'm seeing on the grocery store racks these days, you shouldn't have much trouble selling.
Kicked your embarrassing butternut squash addiction? Lost half your body weight on a diet comprised of dill pickles, kale, and Diet Mt. Dew? Tell us how you did it in 1200 words or less (don't forget the bullet points) and send it to Men's/Women's/Kid's Health magazine.
Want a sure thing? Use the words 'Better Sex' in the title, regardless of topic.
Don't get me wrong. I understand how difficult it is to blog regularly and successfully. How tough it is to write (and sell) non-fiction books or magazine articles. In my veterinary practice I devoted long hours to writing client brochures and how-to handouts. In deciding to sell my practice to write full-time, I considered writing articles for equine publications in order to pay the bills. (And even now haven't completely ruled it out.)
But if you really want a tear-your-still-beating-heart-out-of-your-chest thrill, try becoming a professional writer of fiction.
To start, you find--and fall hopelessly in love with--characters who exist solely in your imagination. Maybe (like me) your first book begins as a lovely, vivid dream you can't shake. Just to clear your head, you write the scene down in a ratty spiral notebook. When it's done you shove it under the bed, then get up the next day and go back to your real job.
But when you come home that night, you can't wait to dig out the notebook and see what happens next. Soon, you're stealing moments to work on your story: sick days, lunch hours, that magic time in the morning before the kids get up. Your characters feel real, as if they're telling you what to write.
Before you know it, you've bought two more spiral notebooks and a package of really good black pens. Then, like a junkie with an ever-worsening need, you spring for a used laptop and download Word or Scrivener to keep track of all your chapters, character descriptions, and plot points.
At this point it hits: You don't want to just write this story. You want people to read it...and thinks it's good.
Problem is, you don't actually know how to write a book. Sure, you're a voracious reader, but appreciating a thing isn't the same as knowing how to do it. (Karaoke, anyone?)
Enter the next phase: Soaking-up-information-like-a-Brawny-towel-on-steroids.
(to be continued)
Monday, December 10, 2012
To Save A Life...
Last week I, um, borrowed an idea from another author (I swear I'll make it up to her somehow.)
After a few tweaks, it went like this: Like my author page on Facebook before 10pm Wednesday, December 5th and I'll donate two bucks to the Broken Arrow Animal Shelter.
Since the challenge only ran a few hours I was surprised by the results: Fifty eight dollars. Way to go, Facebookers! Even better, my cousin, Tim--a devastatingly talented West Coast actor--matched the donation at his local shelter. (I'll try to post the link to his experience on my FB page.)
Friday I went to our sparkling new animal shelter and whipped out my writing account checkbook. The manager gratefully accepted the check, and said our donation will go to buy toys, fluffies, and treats for the animals until they're adopted.
Afterward, an officer showed me around so I could take pictures for the blog.
My first impression: Clean, nice-smelling (shocking, right?) and well-managed. Cats have a cool jungle-gym setup with lots of glass. Dogs have four indoor kennels with solid-poured floors, which means easy cleanup and no odor. There are skylights in every room. And the officers do a tough, heartbreaking job with empathy, professionalism and kindness.
Surprisingly, most shelter cats eventually find homes. Cats are easy to care for, and who can resist a fuzzy-haired kitten?
So I asked to see the dogs. We entered the first kennel and met three lovely boys: A chihuahua cross, an elderly Rottie, and a slick-hair spotted creature of mixed heritage who quietly watched us walk by.
"How about that one?" I pointed to the big black-and-white, who looked as if he'd fit in at a biker bar.
The officer shrugged. "You're the vet."
"Hey buddy." I bent down in front of the run. "I can't take you home, but how 'bout posing for some pictures?" At this point the dog, who'd been the only one not to raise Cain when we arrived, reared up on both hind legs and let out a fusillade of ear-piercing bark/howls that made my brain hurt. He was a head taller than me--and a good twenty pounds heavier--and had no problem letting me know what he thought of me.
"He says 'No Thanks'," the officer said, trying not to laugh.
"What?" Biker Dog hadn't finished letting us know he was Large and In Charge. The officer pointed to the door, and we beat feet out to the hall.
"Next kennel?" I resisted the urge to explain I've always been an equine veterinarian--a horse doctor. When my dogs get sick I take them to my husband's veterinary clinic.
The officer grinned and led us to the second--mercifully quiet--kennel. That's where I met Goldman.
Gorgeous dog. A youngish yellow Lab with deep brown eyes, soft coat the color of milk-with-honey, and a thick tail that lazily waved the air as we walked by. We stopped in front of his kennel and Goldman politely sat down, tail grazing the floor.
Then he smiled.
If you're a dog person, you know what I mean. For those who aren't, a dog smile is a wide-open, trusting grin that says, "We're going to like each other, aren't we?" It's irresistible, and before you know it you're smiling back.
"You're a good boy, aren't you?"
Goldman's grin got bigger. He stood and did a little dance, looking expectantly at the gate latch. The officer wanted to go in first, just in case the Lab tried to rush past. He slipped inside without trouble, and the dog greeted him joyfully, winding around his legs, nuzzling his hands.
"He's fine. I'll hold him and you can come in."
The next fifteen minutes made me wish we could adopt a third dog.
Sadly, we're already at maximum rescued-dog capacity. But as I write this, I'm getting tears in my eyes. Because Goldman is the kind of dog who rides shotgun in your pickup; who leans against your legs and looks up at you like you're a dead-on genius; who licks your daughter's bare toes and makes her giggle in her high chair.
Goldman is the kind of dog who becomes family.
Anyone interested in a lifelong romance with a gentle, well-behaved yellow Lab should contact the Broken Arrow Animal shelter http://baanimalshelter.webs.com/
And if you're on the run from the mob and need a rambunctious, ready-made bodyguard, drop by Kennel #1. Bring an industrial-sized bag of treats, a strong leash...and earplugs.
And don't mention my name.
Cheers...and Happy Adopting!
-T
After a few tweaks, it went like this: Like my author page on Facebook before 10pm Wednesday, December 5th and I'll donate two bucks to the Broken Arrow Animal Shelter.
Since the challenge only ran a few hours I was surprised by the results: Fifty eight dollars. Way to go, Facebookers! Even better, my cousin, Tim--a devastatingly talented West Coast actor--matched the donation at his local shelter. (I'll try to post the link to his experience on my FB page.)
Friday I went to our sparkling new animal shelter and whipped out my writing account checkbook. The manager gratefully accepted the check, and said our donation will go to buy toys, fluffies, and treats for the animals until they're adopted. Afterward, an officer showed me around so I could take pictures for the blog.
Surprisingly, most shelter cats eventually find homes. Cats are easy to care for, and who can resist a fuzzy-haired kitten?
So I asked to see the dogs. We entered the first kennel and met three lovely boys: A chihuahua cross, an elderly Rottie, and a slick-hair spotted creature of mixed heritage who quietly watched us walk by.
"How about that one?" I pointed to the big black-and-white, who looked as if he'd fit in at a biker bar.
The officer shrugged. "You're the vet."
"Hey buddy." I bent down in front of the run. "I can't take you home, but how 'bout posing for some pictures?" At this point the dog, who'd been the only one not to raise Cain when we arrived, reared up on both hind legs and let out a fusillade of ear-piercing bark/howls that made my brain hurt. He was a head taller than me--and a good twenty pounds heavier--and had no problem letting me know what he thought of me.
"He says 'No Thanks'," the officer said, trying not to laugh.
"What?" Biker Dog hadn't finished letting us know he was Large and In Charge. The officer pointed to the door, and we beat feet out to the hall.
"Next kennel?" I resisted the urge to explain I've always been an equine veterinarian--a horse doctor. When my dogs get sick I take them to my husband's veterinary clinic.
The officer grinned and led us to the second--mercifully quiet--kennel. That's where I met Goldman.
Gorgeous dog. A youngish yellow Lab with deep brown eyes, soft coat the color of milk-with-honey, and a thick tail that lazily waved the air as we walked by. We stopped in front of his kennel and Goldman politely sat down, tail grazing the floor.
Then he smiled.
If you're a dog person, you know what I mean. For those who aren't, a dog smile is a wide-open, trusting grin that says, "We're going to like each other, aren't we?" It's irresistible, and before you know it you're smiling back.
"You're a good boy, aren't you?"
Goldman's grin got bigger. He stood and did a little dance, looking expectantly at the gate latch. The officer wanted to go in first, just in case the Lab tried to rush past. He slipped inside without trouble, and the dog greeted him joyfully, winding around his legs, nuzzling his hands.
"He's fine. I'll hold him and you can come in."
The next fifteen minutes made me wish we could adopt a third dog.
Sadly, we're already at maximum rescued-dog capacity. But as I write this, I'm getting tears in my eyes. Because Goldman is the kind of dog who rides shotgun in your pickup; who leans against your legs and looks up at you like you're a dead-on genius; who licks your daughter's bare toes and makes her giggle in her high chair.
Goldman is the kind of dog who becomes family.
And if you're on the run from the mob and need a rambunctious, ready-made bodyguard, drop by Kennel #1. Bring an industrial-sized bag of treats, a strong leash...and earplugs.
And don't mention my name.
Cheers...and Happy Adopting!
-T
Monday, November 26, 2012
A Great Location to Inspire You...
This is the San Francisco Cliff house. A seven-story Victorian with a 200-ft observation tower, the third version of the building (the previous one had been destroyed by a ship loaded with dynamite) was known as the 'Gingerbread Palace.' It survived the 1906 earthquake, then burned to the ground one year later.
The most famous photo was taken by T. Imei, a Japanese photographer. A copy hangs in my writing room where it creates a wonderful, moody atmosphere.
Sadly, the artist's signature is missing from my print. My hope is that Mr. Imei's estate profited from the sale of his work, though it seems unlikely.
Here's a Tintype from that era:
Someday I'd like to tell a story about these two women (maybe from the horse's point of view?)
I think their names are Emma and Rose.
If you've ever been inspired by a setting, I'd love to hear about it. (And see pics, too!)
(Thanks to the Cliff House Project for the great photos and history.)
Cheers...and Happy Writing!
-T
Irresistibly creepy, right? What if I told you the walls were white, and the roof was a
cheery shade of red...
But on a moonlit night--a different place. I can imagine a woman screaming,
then tumbling from the balcony to the rocks below.
The most famous photo was taken by T. Imei, a Japanese photographer. A copy hangs in my writing room where it creates a wonderful, moody atmosphere.Sadly, the artist's signature is missing from my print. My hope is that Mr. Imei's estate profited from the sale of his work, though it seems unlikely.
Here's a Tintype from that era:
Someday I'd like to tell a story about these two women (maybe from the horse's point of view?)
I think their names are Emma and Rose.
If you've ever been inspired by a setting, I'd love to hear about it. (And see pics, too!)
(Thanks to the Cliff House Project for the great photos and history.)
Cheers...and Happy Writing!
-T
Friday, November 23, 2012
The sound froze Yvonne's heart mid-beat: A shotgun being racked.
During his thirty years with the Department, her Walt had described the sound as the gates of Hell closing.
Now she understood why.
What Yvonne didn't understand, what her sleep-fogged brain couldn't measure in the dark stillness of her own lonely bedroom: Why the sound had come from the foot of her bed.
Panic roared in her ears. Her mouth, dry as cotton. And though her heart had restarted and was beating like a moth trapped inside her chest, Yvonne remained perfectly still. Listening. Waiting.
It was him.
Being a County Sheriff's wife had been its own kind of hell. But it also taught Yvonne to be prepared for the day some lowlife scumbag smoked enough courage to take revenge on the lawman's family. Walt had been taken a year ago, yet she still slept with a loaded Walther P99 under her pillow. In three decades she'd fired it in earnest once, to shoot a rattlesnake that had crawled inside her kitchen cabinet.
Tonight she'd be killing a different kind of serpent.
Keeping her breath slow, Yvonne scanned the room with slit-lidded eyes, searching for a black shape in the darkness like a hole in the night sky. The 9mm was near her right hand. She raised her head a fraction of an inch and felt for the weapon that would become the Hammer of God, Dispenser of Justice.
There! Virgil Sims. Had to be, by the size of him. The scum was coming around the side of the bed, starlight from the window silhouetting the shotgun he hadn't yet leveled at Yvonne.
His mistake.
He's cocky. Probably hoped this old woman would see him and beg for mercy. Else, why wait to rack the gun? Why not sneak in here ready and pull the trigger?
Walt's strong, kind voice came to her. "If you have the advantage, Vonnie, use it. Bad guys don't fight fair. Only good people do...and they wind up dead."
In one smooth motion Yvonne pulled the gun from under her pillow and fired four rounds at the shadow. Virgil's shotgun went off, deafening her. It splintered the headboard and sent shards of hand-carved Arkansas oak into Yvonne's scalp and cheek. Her skin caught fire, but Yvonne's hand held steady.
The shotgun dropped to the floor beside the bed. Virgil crumpled into a heap.
Blood streaming onto her cotton nightgown, Yvonne sat up and slowly emptied the magazine into his body, saying her children's names with each shot.
"That's for Jenny...and Harden...and Melissa. That's for my grandbabies, who miss their Papaw."
Yvonne knew exactly how many bullets she'd used: Fourteen.
She pointed her gun at the man-shape--where Virgil's heart would be if he'd ever had one--and pulled the trigger one last time.
"And that's for Walter James Scofield--" Her voice had been strong--from the adrenaline, she supposed--but dissolved into a heartbroken whisper, "who loved me more than life itself."
Cheers...and Happy Writing!
-T
Friday, November 16, 2012
When the Dog (Barks), When the Bee Stings...
We still sit down and get to work.
But what glorious work; this all-consuming art, this heart-wrenching craft.
This writing!
Truth is, writing's a pretty good gig--with some noteworthy caveats: Isolation, lack of structure, frequent rejections, and an inward-looking, sedentary life; occupational hazards that led to the demise of gifted authors like Woolf and Hemingway.
In making the shift from veterinarian to writer, I wondered whether I'd wind up hunched over the keyboard, swearing at faceless agents blind to my talent, stuffing myself into the same sweats I'd worn all week, skipping showers and overeating my way to an early grave.
Happily, my experience has been just the opposite. I'm healthier--physically, emotionally, and spiritually--than when I devoted sixty hours a week to my veterinary practice.
Oddly, I've found spirituality is the area I can't afford to neglect.
I can skip my run, eat junk food, or stay up all night and still write fairly well (at least in the short-term). But when I forget to be grateful, when I'm too busy to notice--and then express--my profound wonder at the rightness of the universe, my writing falters.
Maybe, as some have suggested, we need inner silence to hear our Muse.
I prefer to think of it as taking care of what's important--or as Dr. Covey puts it: Sharpening the Saw.
This used to seem backward to me. As someone driven to succeed, I used to make lists for myself, convinced I'd be happy once I crossed the last item off my agenda. For years it worked--sort of.
Attending college, earning my veterinary degree, owning a practice--even learning to write fiction-- became badges of honor; proof of my right to take up space in this world.
Problem is, there's always another list.
That's where sprituality comes in. When I put my focus on seeing--and appreciating--my tiny-but-significant place in the universe, I'm free to pursue the best course for me, regardless of whether that course leads to my old definition of success.
Do I want to see my work published? Heck yeah!
But far more important than selling books, I want my stories to move readers; to make them feel strongly--and maybe think differently--about the themes we explore together.
When I nurture my spiritual self, writing a beautiful story matters more than being recognized. And, strangely, it's also easier to write through distractions like a barking dog or blaring television.
But if I neglect spirituality, I forget how much I love writing. Soon, I'm focused on achieving the great prize--publication--and snap at my kids for interrupting me. "Be quiet," I say. "Mommie has work to do. Once I get an agent I need to finish the next book in the series...and the one after that. Then there's the blockbuster thriller sitting in my idea drawer. My God, that'll take a year to write, so I'd better hurry..."
Can you see the lists? I can.
Yes, it's a business. And I do take it seriously. Every day, rain or shine, good mood or bad--I sit down and write.
But when I take time to sharpen the saw, the work is effortless. The saw zips smoothly through the heart of the tree, chips pile up with amazing speed. I'm making real progress, and it feels good. I inhale deeply, smell the pines and the sharp tang of fresh sap, hear the birds in the trees above.
I close my eyes, feel the sun on my face, and think, "Man, I love this job!"
Cheers...and Happy Writing!
-T
But what glorious work; this all-consuming art, this heart-wrenching craft.
This writing!
Truth is, writing's a pretty good gig--with some noteworthy caveats: Isolation, lack of structure, frequent rejections, and an inward-looking, sedentary life; occupational hazards that led to the demise of gifted authors like Woolf and Hemingway.
In making the shift from veterinarian to writer, I wondered whether I'd wind up hunched over the keyboard, swearing at faceless agents blind to my talent, stuffing myself into the same sweats I'd worn all week, skipping showers and overeating my way to an early grave.
Happily, my experience has been just the opposite. I'm healthier--physically, emotionally, and spiritually--than when I devoted sixty hours a week to my veterinary practice.
Oddly, I've found spirituality is the area I can't afford to neglect.
I can skip my run, eat junk food, or stay up all night and still write fairly well (at least in the short-term). But when I forget to be grateful, when I'm too busy to notice--and then express--my profound wonder at the rightness of the universe, my writing falters.
Maybe, as some have suggested, we need inner silence to hear our Muse.
I prefer to think of it as taking care of what's important--or as Dr. Covey puts it: Sharpening the Saw.
This used to seem backward to me. As someone driven to succeed, I used to make lists for myself, convinced I'd be happy once I crossed the last item off my agenda. For years it worked--sort of.
Attending college, earning my veterinary degree, owning a practice--even learning to write fiction-- became badges of honor; proof of my right to take up space in this world.
Problem is, there's always another list.
That's where sprituality comes in. When I put my focus on seeing--and appreciating--my tiny-but-significant place in the universe, I'm free to pursue the best course for me, regardless of whether that course leads to my old definition of success.
Do I want to see my work published? Heck yeah!
But far more important than selling books, I want my stories to move readers; to make them feel strongly--and maybe think differently--about the themes we explore together.
When I nurture my spiritual self, writing a beautiful story matters more than being recognized. And, strangely, it's also easier to write through distractions like a barking dog or blaring television.
But if I neglect spirituality, I forget how much I love writing. Soon, I'm focused on achieving the great prize--publication--and snap at my kids for interrupting me. "Be quiet," I say. "Mommie has work to do. Once I get an agent I need to finish the next book in the series...and the one after that. Then there's the blockbuster thriller sitting in my idea drawer. My God, that'll take a year to write, so I'd better hurry..."
Can you see the lists? I can.
Yes, it's a business. And I do take it seriously. Every day, rain or shine, good mood or bad--I sit down and write.
But when I take time to sharpen the saw, the work is effortless. The saw zips smoothly through the heart of the tree, chips pile up with amazing speed. I'm making real progress, and it feels good. I inhale deeply, smell the pines and the sharp tang of fresh sap, hear the birds in the trees above.
I close my eyes, feel the sun on my face, and think, "Man, I love this job!"
Cheers...and Happy Writing!
-T
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