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When a Writer Goes on Respite

photoLast month, I cleared my plate of a blogging obligations in order to finish this current round of novel rewrites. In those thirty days, I found plenty of time to write.

I spent much of that time reflecting. Some of it lost in aimless TV. A large portion of it devoted to watching Colin Firth in Pride & Prejudice. A little blown on complaining musing about the realities of life. You can see where I’m going with this, right?

I didn’t finish the draft.

I did learn an important lesson, though. Contrary to what I believed, Time is not my problem (though it is certainly a good scapegoat).

For me, Time is like money: the more I earn the more I spend, and not always on the things for which it was intended.

IMG_2012I don’t regret taking a break from blogging. When I wasn’t lost in Jane Austen or Jane Austen-like movies, I made Thanksgiving dinner with the hubby. Fired up the record player with my mom’s favorite Elvis Christmas album. Put up Holiday decor with the kids. Prepared for and celebrated the birthday of “Nanci” (a doll, mind you, but a very special member of the family…imagination runs rampant in our house, and only a little of that is mine).

Is there any wonder why a writer with a life might take years (and sometimes a full decade) to finish a novel?

I could pout about getting little done on the draft. Well…actually, I did pout. In my journal, in a late-night email to a friend, in a out-of-the-blue argument with my spouse who wisely did not take it on and sent me packing with my laptop to the nearest coffee shop. Pity-Party U.S.A. But then I read this on Amy Shearn’s Twitter feed, a quote from Sarah Ruhl’s 100 Essays I Don’t Have Time to Write:

[T]empting as it may be for a writer who is also a parent, one must not think of life as an intrusion. At the end of the day, writing has very little to do with the writing, and much to do with life. And life, by definition, is not an intrusion.

IMG_2002Lesson learned. Everything I did over the past several weeks–from the tiny rewrites all the way to the photos I took of Nanci in her birthday dress and Nanci “blowing out the candle”–carries weight and importance in my journey as a writer. I mean, you cannot bypass the making of chocolate pie or the building of Christmas Town just so you can finish rewriting chapter 8.

The key for me is not in finding balance between life and writing but in becoming willing to participate in both without seeing one as the enemy of the other.

How did your November shape up?

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3 Lessons for the Traveling #Writer

Traveling this week? I wish you disco hotels and fancy desserts and a good friend to boot. (This post originally appeared back in 2012)

Lesson 1: Whenever you can, take the train.

There’s something romantic about boarding the train, about climbing the narrow, metal stairs, suitcase in tow. About following the pull to your left and turning into a cabin full of rows and promise. You take your seat, gaze out the window, and float along with a landscape enveloped by the season. On this day, by a heavy snowstorm; the city streams by in a soft, white glow.

Quiet. Like a dream.

The conductor asks for your ticket. He punches twice, smiles once, nods and moves on. You take a picture to mark the moment.

Lesson 2: Whenever you can, take a friend.

Certain bits and pieces of life are best experienced in the presence of someone who puts you at ease, as you move through new spaces. Someone who’s traveling that same journey with you, who shares in your excitement about the future, about the things you want to do and the stories you want to write. Someone who looks you straight in the eye after you’ve said there’s no way you could apply for that two-week writing residency. Ever. Life would never allow for such extravagance, you say. To which she says, Maybe not right now. Reminding you that now isn’t the same as never.

Lesson 3: Whenever you can, take risks.

Say Yes to a late-night dessert. Order the gelato drizzled in salt and olive oil and find yourself saying, “Who knew.” Stay up until two-thirty in the morning, even though you know what “tired and over forty” feels like.

Soak up the fancy of a hotel you might never have visited before, except by the random choice of an online reservation site. A hotel dressed in straight lines and sharp angles and silver and lights and – somewhere in your room – hidden disco balls. A hotel with mirrored tiles that fracture your image and make you believe for a second that you really are living out a dream.

Make a list of all the things you will do this year, ignoring the committee in your mind that presses you with “impossible” and “come on!” and “who do you think you are?”

Write about “gasp-able moments,” sage advice learned from a writer friend’s young son.

And on the ride home, when you realize the train will travel backwards the whole way, sink into your seat and take in the irony of it all, how you’re being pulled out of the dream and back into the day. As if to say, Grab hold: of the energy, of the inspiration, of the call to take risks.

Because here we are, only once. There’s no guarantee you’ll succeed just by trying, but there’s promise to fail if you don’t.

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My Fairy Godmother of Writing

On a break this month to focus on the novel, this post is a much needed re-press.

I found her, my fairy godmother.

She’s short and spry and feisty. She wears a giant sombrero and spurred boots. She says things like “sugarfoot” and “let’s get crackin’” and doesn’t think twice about firing that golden pistol of hers into the air. She appears out of nowhere and just in time.

“What’s the matter with you, honey?” she asks.

I tell her I’m trying to write a novel. I explain about all the planning and the bulletin board in the basement, about the first-draft jitters, about the laundry that keeps getting in the way and the dishes in the sink. I say I need more time. A maid. I need to read more books on writing novels first. I’m afraid, I tell her, that I won’t get this right. I wait for her to weave some sort of magic.

But while I’m talk to her, she’s not directly talking to me. She lives in the pages of a children’s book by Susan Lowell, Cindy Ellen, A Wild Western Cinderella.

When she asks, “What’s the matter with you, honey?” she is eyeing up the young cowgirl, Cindy Ellen, who longs to go to a rodeo, ride the bronco, and win the heart of a young handsome son of a cattle king.

Whether you love or hate the Cinderella tale, there’s plenty of reason to appreciate Susan Lowell’s book. Lowell adds a fun twist to a familiar tale, making the story completely her own with her characters and language. It’s terribly fun to read out loud to your kids, especially when you’re a Texan who’s rooted in Wisconsin. I get to revive my Southern twang, say words like “gumption” and “Western fandango” and “you’ll be sorr-ee!”

Mostly though, I love the fairy godmother. She’s all sass, endearing as much as she is intimidating. Not all fluff and fancy. She calls it like she sees it.

“Magic is plumb worthless without gumption. What you need first, gal, is some gravel in your gizzard. Grit! Guts! Stop that tomfool blubbering, and let’s get busy. Time’s a wastin’.”

Words of wisdom fit for any writer.

There’s magic in crafting a novel. I still believe that. Characters appear out of nowhere. Dialogue sounds off in your head as if you’re remembering a conversation recently overheard. Words fumble and fail and then suddenly fall into line, “like little soldiers,” as Victoria Flynn said in a great post (which I want to link to but cannot find at this late hour!).

Magic.

But, none of it happens without gumption.

Sugarfoot.

“‘Hit the trail, honey!’ the old lady said.”

(She’s talking to you.)