Remember your college Econ classes where every session you are studying overheads of a bell curve of some kind? I should--I was an Economics major in college. Well, my writing life resembles one of those curves, only it isn't one big hump, it is a long series of lows and highs with very little time spent on any kind of even keel.
I wouldn't say I'm at a low, creativity-wise, but time-wise. I have a year-long work schedule for my writing, and after 17 years as a parent, I was wise enough to give myself the month of December completely off. It makes it hard to pick things back up in January, but it is a practical reality for the next ten years or so. Well, I wasn't wise enough to give myself May off, but it has been a month with no writing included anyway. I find it ironic that I was so deeply entrenched in my writing vocation in April, that I felt compelled to initiate this blog, and within weeks I'm so far from that deep perspective, I barely remember the title of my latest work.
May is filled with obligations, endings, beginnings, holidays, school activities, you name it. I have five things on most nights, and I decide that afternoon which items to cross off (as even I can't be five places at once). I also took on remodeling and spring-cleaning to prepare for a family gathering, helping with field trips and class parties, and was required by my day job to attend eight days of professional development classes, outside of my usual work hours.
To make this very short story long, I haven't been writing. I have been visiting my favorite bulletin board, writers.net. I have been raking in the rejections from a very ambitious mailing I did a few weeks ago. I have someone reading my first novel from beginning to end, the first person to do so. But I have taken time off from writing. While it goes against my long term plans, I think it is safe to say that I better work most Mays out to fit this model, as while May includes Mother's Day, it is more of a iron-woman challenge than a holiday for most mothers.
It is also the most beautiful weather, and lots of fun mixed in with all the obligations. I'm a spring/fall lover myself. I do not crave the sun, I crave 60s and 70s with a mild breeze. So May leaves me feeling mellow and relaxed when I get to spend time out of doors. And hopefully prepared to make June a highly productive month for this writer!
Blessings,
Toni
Sunday, May 22, 2005
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Writer Interrupted...
Ever plan an event at your own home and suddenly every remodeling project you ever thought needed to be done seems to need to be done this week? That is where I've been.
Having an 8th grade graduation/confirmation shin-dig for dd1 next weekend, and suddenly we are painting walls, picking out flooring for the entryway, building a bookshelf, and more. It doesn't hurt that we are getting a nice big tax refund for the first time ever. How does a bookshelf fit into party plans, you might ask? Well, that is going in my writing nook, but before we put it up there and fill it, we of course (why?) want to repaint the walls--dark reddish brown as it happens, so three coats are needed. Then we can move all the books from the china hutch upstairs, and the china hutch can become home to dishes for the first time ever. Perhaps you have to be sitting here next to me to understand how that makes the grad party go better...hmm....
Anyway, my writing nook contents (desk, printer, laptop, etc.) are now spread all over the upstairs hallway, and unavailable to me, so writing has been on hold, but the querying continues.
Status check:For my first novel, LIFE SUPPORT, I have received 4 requests for the manuscript from agents, and 37 declines (my nice word for rejections) to date. Not a good track record. I'm going to rework the query before I send out the next batch.
I also have a bad cold, but I am going to my writer's group anyway. I'm too sick to cook dinner of course...
Blessings,
Toni
Having an 8th grade graduation/confirmation shin-dig for dd1 next weekend, and suddenly we are painting walls, picking out flooring for the entryway, building a bookshelf, and more. It doesn't hurt that we are getting a nice big tax refund for the first time ever. How does a bookshelf fit into party plans, you might ask? Well, that is going in my writing nook, but before we put it up there and fill it, we of course (why?) want to repaint the walls--dark reddish brown as it happens, so three coats are needed. Then we can move all the books from the china hutch upstairs, and the china hutch can become home to dishes for the first time ever. Perhaps you have to be sitting here next to me to understand how that makes the grad party go better...hmm....
Anyway, my writing nook contents (desk, printer, laptop, etc.) are now spread all over the upstairs hallway, and unavailable to me, so writing has been on hold, but the querying continues.
Status check:For my first novel, LIFE SUPPORT, I have received 4 requests for the manuscript from agents, and 37 declines (my nice word for rejections) to date. Not a good track record. I'm going to rework the query before I send out the next batch.
I also have a bad cold, but I am going to my writer's group anyway. I'm too sick to cook dinner of course...
Blessings,
Toni
Saturday, April 23, 2005
How did I get where I am, and where is that?
Where am I on the path to becoming a novelist? I'm on Draft Five of my first novel.
I remember in the late 80's reading my first library book about 'being a writer'. It was by Phyllis Whitney, and in 1987 it was yellowed and outdated, but it struck a chord in me I'd never heard before. This is it. I finally know what I want to be when I grow up. Of course I didn't drop everything and listen to the voice, like I should have. No, it took almost 20 years for me to wake up to that call.
In my twenties (along with my ever-present day job) I tried to become a magazine freelancer, but I decided that the six months (mostly time passing, not hard labor) it took to get an article purchased by a NY mag for a whopping $400 was just not cutting it. Add all the rejections, I wasn't up to it. I needed cash and kudos.
In my thirties I tried essays, which I still enjoy writing. I had a two-year stint as a newspaper columnist, with a monthly appearance. Only one article due per month, and I eventually quit due to the stress of this deadline. Huh? My 40-something self doesn't understand or sympathize. But it happened.
I turned to fiction, and tried to teach myself how to write it. I had the number one requirement, which is that I read enough to fill my own library.
I read and read and took a workshop and a couple creative writing classes. But when I'd sit down to write fiction those early years, I just wanted to look over my shoulder to see who was laughing. Just writing the words "she said." made me feel like an imposter. I'm a reader, not a writer. You imposter, you.
In recent years I've read so many books on writing, I feel I could give a presentation myself. The problem with that theory, is that when I re-read said books (last night was re-reading "The Forest For the Trees" by Betsy Lerner, very good), it appears to be brand new information. What has happened to my memory since passing the 40 mark? (rhetorical question, I'm getting old? Yes. No. I forget.) I got through all my years of schooling simply by memorizing everything, with little effort. No longer possible.
So, back to books, workshops, books, classes, books. I finally get serious about all this around my fortieth birthday, but, honestly, even I didn't like anything I wrote. I tried a YA novel. I tried a cozy mystery. I had the mistaken idea that it might be easier to write genre than straight fiction. None of it was worth keeping even to revise.
In early 2003 I wrote the first ten chapters of my current book. In July I attended a class at the Iowa Summer Writing Festival, and then came home, put my novel away, and didn't write again for 15 months. I was too depressed at how far my own style was from everything I learned at Iowa, in one short weekend, let me add. It doesn't take much to discourage me, bring out all my rampant insecurities.
But this past fall my youngest went to Kindergarten, and I took on writing as my second "job". I am disciplined, I am persistent. I keep writing even though it isn't good, just so I can see what happens next. And in February, I finished the first draft of my first novel. (woo hoo) I found the process of writing the first draft to be (drum roll, please) fun. Fun is good. That chord that I heard in 1987 turned into, well not a symphony, but a nice little melody, or even just a bridge, but "I like it, I like it, Yes I do" (think Rolling Stones).
I was right. Writing is what I'm supposed to be doing with my life.
So, that is where I've traveled so far, and today finds me working on draft number five of my book(more about that soon).
It is great loving what you do! Now, if only it was what I did for a living.
Where are you on your path to becoming a novelist?
Blessings,
Toni
I remember in the late 80's reading my first library book about 'being a writer'. It was by Phyllis Whitney, and in 1987 it was yellowed and outdated, but it struck a chord in me I'd never heard before. This is it. I finally know what I want to be when I grow up. Of course I didn't drop everything and listen to the voice, like I should have. No, it took almost 20 years for me to wake up to that call.
In my twenties (along with my ever-present day job) I tried to become a magazine freelancer, but I decided that the six months (mostly time passing, not hard labor) it took to get an article purchased by a NY mag for a whopping $400 was just not cutting it. Add all the rejections, I wasn't up to it. I needed cash and kudos.
In my thirties I tried essays, which I still enjoy writing. I had a two-year stint as a newspaper columnist, with a monthly appearance. Only one article due per month, and I eventually quit due to the stress of this deadline. Huh? My 40-something self doesn't understand or sympathize. But it happened.
I turned to fiction, and tried to teach myself how to write it. I had the number one requirement, which is that I read enough to fill my own library.
I read and read and took a workshop and a couple creative writing classes. But when I'd sit down to write fiction those early years, I just wanted to look over my shoulder to see who was laughing. Just writing the words "she said." made me feel like an imposter. I'm a reader, not a writer. You imposter, you.
In recent years I've read so many books on writing, I feel I could give a presentation myself. The problem with that theory, is that when I re-read said books (last night was re-reading "The Forest For the Trees" by Betsy Lerner, very good), it appears to be brand new information. What has happened to my memory since passing the 40 mark? (rhetorical question, I'm getting old? Yes. No. I forget.) I got through all my years of schooling simply by memorizing everything, with little effort. No longer possible.
So, back to books, workshops, books, classes, books. I finally get serious about all this around my fortieth birthday, but, honestly, even I didn't like anything I wrote. I tried a YA novel. I tried a cozy mystery. I had the mistaken idea that it might be easier to write genre than straight fiction. None of it was worth keeping even to revise.
In early 2003 I wrote the first ten chapters of my current book. In July I attended a class at the Iowa Summer Writing Festival, and then came home, put my novel away, and didn't write again for 15 months. I was too depressed at how far my own style was from everything I learned at Iowa, in one short weekend, let me add. It doesn't take much to discourage me, bring out all my rampant insecurities.
But this past fall my youngest went to Kindergarten, and I took on writing as my second "job". I am disciplined, I am persistent. I keep writing even though it isn't good, just so I can see what happens next. And in February, I finished the first draft of my first novel. (woo hoo) I found the process of writing the first draft to be (drum roll, please) fun. Fun is good. That chord that I heard in 1987 turned into, well not a symphony, but a nice little melody, or even just a bridge, but "I like it, I like it, Yes I do" (think Rolling Stones).
I was right. Writing is what I'm supposed to be doing with my life.
So, that is where I've traveled so far, and today finds me working on draft number five of my book(more about that soon).
It is great loving what you do! Now, if only it was what I did for a living.
Where are you on your path to becoming a novelist?
Blessings,
Toni
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