writing

Over on twitter, someone was expressing love for Anna over Elsa in the movie Frozen. I opined that Elsa was the more interesting character. The other person disagreed. Then I had to figure out why I thought Elsa was more interesting. I think Elsa is more compelling because I know Gleek, who desperately needs more of Elsa’s story. She is trapped, liable to do damage on accident, and really needs to see a path toward self-acceptance and balance. I cry at Frozen and at the songs from Frozen because of the person I know who needs that story.

Disney has done a really good job lately of hitting pockets of emotion for me. Rapunzel from Tangled reminded me greatly of my somewhat mercurial and artistic Kiki. Brave brought me face to face with some of my emotional tangles about motherhood, decorum, and freedom. I’m not saying that Disney is always getting it right, but they’re doing a fine job of actually tackling some of these things. Thoughts on all of this led me to tweet:

How we react to a story depends greatly on the baggage we’re carrying when we arrive at the beginning of it.

I’ve heard from people who were flat out bored by Frozen. I know others that love it. I know people who are very concerned about subtext in the lyrics. I know others who felt like the whole movie was silly fun, without depth. All of these people saw the same film. The difference is what they brought with them when they entered the theater.

A week ago I printed out the full draft of my sister’s novel. Then I read through it making notes as I went. I stuck post-it notes in the places with large plot problems and wrote in the margins for smaller ones. This afternoon I spent a couple of hours talking with my sister about problems and possibilities. It was really fun. The book needs work, but it is not broken.

After we got off the phone, I realized how much I want to do that for my own book. I want to have a completed draft and then begin fixing it. Revision is exciting for me, because it requires seeing the project anew. But before I can do that, I have to finish a draft.

I have friends who write novels. Many novels. Long novels. I have friends whose books are shelved face out at Barnes and Noble. Some of them have been on the New York Times Best Seller’s list. I have friends who shepherd their books solo through drafting, editing, design, and releasing out to the reading public. Many of my friends have won awards for the words that they have written. I don’t really covet the awards, shelf placement, agents, editors, sales, or recommendation lists. All of those things come, or don’t come, after the primary effort is done. First my friends had to write the words. Hundreds of thousands of words. They sat at their keyboards and worked until they had a novel, or two, or ten. This is something I have yet to do. It is something I admire. I’ve blogged, written essays, created two picture books, drafted short stories, and crafted a memoir. These things are not insignificant. They are good and important works, but I have not written a novel.

My novelist friends succeed where I have not, because they have habits that I do not have. I’ve been watching them lately and looking at my daily schedule. I’m trying to figure out which habits I can fit into my life and what things that are currently in my life will have to get pitched in order to make space. Because no one gets more than twenty four hours in a day, not even novelists who create alternate realities. The time for considering is almost over. I need to start shoehorning writing habits into my days. I’ll start with one or two and see how far that gets me.

At ConFusion I spoke with many of my writer friends. At home I keep in touch with them and many more via social media. Everywhere I hear stress, frustration, and fear. There are so many parts of publishing that are out of the writer’s control. We even brought that up in a panel, how it is important to focus on the things we can control, the choices which are ours because the ultimate financial success or failure of our projects is out of our hands. This is hard when the result is so very important.

I think about this and then I think about my own published works, most of which have not paid me any significant amount. As a business, my writing career has yet to break even. From a cold calculation stand point, continuing does not make sense. But then I look at the projects themselves. They are each something that now exists in the world that did not before. Each one has added to my life and to the lives of some of the readers. I can’t easily measure that in dollars and I don’t want to. No matter what comes in the future for my writing, I have triumphs that can’t ever be taken from me. Strength of Wild Horses funded. Hold on to Your Horses continues to be read to children and make them happy. My Cobble Stones books remind me of the value of the words I write here. I got to go to ConFusion and speak on many different topics. I’m going to get to teach at LTUE. These are all treasures that can not be taken from me, no matter what blows life and publishing have in store during the years to come.

Right now I am drafting my first full novel. (I don’t really count the three quarters of a novel that I wrote in junior high, nor the half novel I wrote in high school.) I’m ten thousand words in and I’ve been stalled there for quite a while. Today I opened it up and refreshed my memory of where I’m at and where it needs to go next. Over the next weeks I’m going to get to draft that novel. I don’t use the word “get” lightly. Being able to work at writing fiction is a gift. It is one I have to fight for, I have to defend the writing spaces and decide to work when my brain wants to rest, but that doesn’t change the fact that I have this opportunity. Never again in my life will I get to write the first draft of my first novel and I’m not going to let that experience be buried in fear or stress. I don’t want to let it slip away either. Because life may not always be kind enough to allow me time to write.

When the time comes to submit this novel, I hope I can savor that opportunity as well. It will definitely bring discouragement, but I hope I can feel it all fully and add to my pile of life experience treasures.

With the new year, when so many writer friends are listing their 2013 stats and their 2014 goals, I find that my brain is dwelling on the thought: I could just go do something else. Surely I’d be happier if I tried using my spare hours as hobby time instead of shoehorning writing into my schedule. Writing certainly hasn’t paid any bills for me. If I count the expenses of traveling to conventions and the expenses of printing, I’ve spent more than I’ve earned.

This is not the voice of despair, or at least not the typical despair. I do not feel bleak or sad. Tired, yes, but not overwhelmed. It feels more like temptation. As if something is trying to lure me down a seemingly easier road.

It is a lie. The easier road is illusory. I’ve tried to give up writing before. Both times it came back. I’m 10,000 words into a novel I should finish. Short stories are percolating in my head in a way they haven’t done in years. I have another novel waiting after the first. I still have to do fulfillment on my picture book Kickstarter. I’m headed to ConFusion in only a few weeks where I’ll wear my professional clothes, teach, and re-connect with many of my writer friends.

Perhaps I should take up some soul-filling hobbies. That would be good for me. I spent the last year emptying myself out to answer the needs of others. Something needs to come and fill that space. I think I am afraid that working at writing will be a further drain rather than restorative. That fear is wrong. It would take more work to stop writing. I could stop writing if I put deliberate effort into doing so. I’d have to pull my brain away from it. I’d have to re-wire my coping strategies. I’d have to carefully weed writing out of my life and social contacts; stomp it down when it popped up, again and again. I don’t think I should do that. I think I need to tell these stories even if I only have an audience of one. Even if the only purpose is for me to sort myself. I think once I’m writing regularly I’ll remember that writing fills me. I’ve only forgotten because I’ve put so little effort into writing during this past year. All my effort went elsewhere.

My plans for this coming year are beginning to coalesce, but I’m reluctant to turn them into lists. There will be plenty of time for lists and business. Right now I’ll be content in the contemplation that this might be the year when I finally learn what it is like to leave the door to writer part of my brain open because I’m using it so often.

I haven’t been blogging as much lately, which often happens this time of year when my logistics brain takes over in order to manage the complexities of December scheduling and shipping. But I miss it. I miss unspooling long thoughts into words. Today I drove three hours to fetch Kiki from college and I spent most of that time sorting thoughts into probable blog entries. There are half a dozen of them and now I know what they are. Hopefully in the next few days I’ll be able to steal some time to write them. For tonight I’m going to have a Friday evening with my kids at home.