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Maybe If I Had Those Boots: A List, Linda Carter, and Letting Go

I am a listmaker, a planner, and a victim of my own high expectations. I began the summer by designing a hefty writing goal: finish the current draft of my novel by the end of June. Even now, as I type those words, the task seems like it should have plausible. Easy. But, after only two weeks into my summer vacation, I realized I wouldn’t reach that goal.

Couldn’t reach it.

Headaches ensued, followed by a case of the “poor me’s,” and soon those clouds in the sky that lingered well past their welcome meant more than just rain.

“It’s summer, for crying out loud,” I complained to a friend. “Life is good. Why do I feel so bad?”

My friend suggested I write another list, a different one, a list of every expectation I set for myself. Later, when I read it back to her, she pointed out an interesting theme, so that I understood the skewed vision I had, of me:

Linda Carter could kick a novel into submission in no time, and have dinner on the table by six o’clock. She could swim the deep ocean to rescue a sinking sub and then surface, lipstick and mascara (and sanity) in tact. But I’m not Linda Carter. My hair gives way two minutes into a workout, and those bullet-deflecting bracelets are useless against the snide remarks of that committee in my head.

Making that list of expectations was quite a revelation, from a personal point of view and a writer’s perspective. I can’t do everything I set out to do, and that’s okay. So now, I have two new goals: relax and just be —

Present.

Amanda Hoving talks about similar revelations in a recent post on her blog. Yes, time is ticking away, but that I don’t need to drive myself crazy or beat myself up.

Wise words came from a few other folks, too, words that help keep me grounded, lately:

1) Comments on a recent post of my own, which reiterate I am not alone in my struggle to complete a novel, and that perhaps I could consider that story as a shorter work (there’s that perspective bit again).

2) Passages from Roz Morris’ Nail Your Novel, a great book for writers with just an idea or with an unfinished draft in hand. Early on in her book, she says something that speaks directly to me, in how I work my draft and (apparently) in how I plan my days:

Don’t make lists…lists tie you down to having events happen in a certain order, and this is not the time for you to be deciding that.

Lists do help me get organized. But, like every asset, making lists quickly swings to a defect when that particular action takes me down into a feeling of failure. Morris knows this, and she offers several tasks for writers that help move a novel forward, without obsessing over the mantra, “I should be doing this, or that, by now.”

3) Jan O’Hara’s recent post on Writer Unboxed, a poignant essay on letting go, relaxing, and embracing the kind of writing that feeds your spirit. She says:

I’ve noticed a tendency for writers to devalue their natural talents, perhaps because the writing can feel easier. (Not “easy”, because writing is seldom that.)  Sometimes I think we are so used to telling stories about struggle, we believe that’s the only way to exist. If it isn’t hard, it doesn’t count. If we aren’t wrung out by the process, it can’t contain much worth.

Go read Jan’s essay. Then, set out – or head back – to do what you love.

Speaking of, just for today, this is what I’m doing:

  • Using Morris’ book to push my story draft towards the finish (whether that be 80,000 words or 40,000), but not panicking if that happens at a much slower rate.
  • Writing and revising flash fiction (maybe even putting them into a collection), because that’s a genre I enjoy, and one in which I feel I can succeed.

Linda Carter can keep her boots.

What high expectations can you let go of today?

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Together, On Our Way to Decatur

A Dr. Pepper and a Chick-O-Stick,
Breakfast on the road,
When dress shoes and shirt and tie
Were pushed aside in the closet,
Exchanged for cowboy boots,
And a Wrangler button-down shirt,
Both well worn.
We climbed inside an old truck,
Me and my dad,
To head out to his ranch in Decatur.
To a small herd of Brangus —
To his herd.

I was afraid of horses,
I froze when cows came too close,
I was too skinny to be of any real help
With heavy bags of feed.
But he let me tag along.
Those mornings I woke up easy,
Excited.
Thinking.
It was like going to his office
Only better.
Phone calls and secretaries
Couldn’t interrupt.

I sat on the passenger side
Of the truck’s bench seat
And pulled the door, hard, to close it.
The hinges creaked
Before the door slammed shut,
A hint, I suppose,
That it had been awhile.
He cracked open his drink,
And unwrapped his candy bar.
“Ready?” he announced.
I grinned,
And scooted over, closer to him.


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Flash Fiction: The Continental

Sometimes, Wednesday is all about using Wordsmith.org’s word of the day as a writing prompt and posting something by midnight. Past essays, poems, and flash fiction pieces can be found under the Wednesday’s Word category.

It’s Humpday, and it’s rainy, and I’m feeling kind of Flashy. I thought I might take on the word of the day – lancinate: to pierce or tear – but that sounded dangerous. Besides, the prompt I really wanted to tackle came from a listen to the radio a few weeks ago.

Through fortunate events, my husband and I wound up with free satellite radio for a whole month. Similar to satellite TV, there’s an overflow of options, most of which (like NASCAR radio) I could do without. One station, though, I quickly fell in love with: The Coffeehouse, a collection of acoustic songs that are really stories woven into musical threads. A writer’s dream. Well, this writer’s dream. Maybe you prefer the Liquid Metal station. Anyway….

The Coffeehouse is where I heard Suzanne Vega’s acapella version of “Tom’s Diner.” This song, like a good story, uses tempo to pull the listener along and incorporates pauses to allow the listener’s mind to wander. Just for a second. Just long enough.

Even if you don’t read the flash fiction piece below, listen to the song. I dare you not to write from it. You might even find a way to squeeze in the word of the day, too.

*****

The Continental

Nostalgia can be hazardous, Jenny thought, as she walked into The Continental. Just look at this place.

The original horseshoe counter had a tinge of antique color to it. The floor was sticky, probably caked in diner grease. A rotary phone hung next to the register. A rotary! And, the griddle sat off to the side, out in the open, where anyone could see the cook flip patties and wipe the spatula on his apron.

This place is neither efficient nor healthy, she figured, but it was the only place around. She grabbed the first open seat at the counter, a metal-rimmed stool with a vinyl cover that – of course – had a crack down its center. When she sat on it, the edges of the broken vinyl fell together and pinched her in a tender place on her thigh. She jumped and cried out. The waitress walked over.

“What can I get for you, honey?” The waitress cleaned the space in front of Jenny with a wet cloth and set a napkin down.

“Coffee,” Jenny said. She dried the counter with the napkin. “To go, please.”

“To go?” the waitress repeated.

“I’m waiting for a tow-truck,” Jenny said. “I won’t be long.”

The waitress shrugged and pulled out a white, ceramic cup. “Tastes better in a cup. And, I know that tow truck. He takes twice as long as he says.” She filled the cup to the very top and walked away. Jenny looked around, but no one else seemed unnerved by the waitress.

Jenny had blown a tire a few blocks down from the diner and ended up calling Information for a mechanic in town. She hated calling a mechanic, but while she knew how to change the tire, she didn’t have the strength. She dialed the number and was told forty-five minutes. She thought a slow walk to the diner and back would kill time. But, after hearing forty-five minutes would be more like an hour and a half, she regretted sitting down.

Next to Jenny, an old woman pulled up her purse and began rummaging. As she dug around, the aroma of Doublemint gum filled the air, and Jenny thought she smelled Aqua Net. She turned away, so she wouldn’t be tempted to peek at the contents of the old woman’s bag.

A bald man with a goatee sat at the end of the counter, next to the coffee burner. He refilled his own cup and worked a crossword puzzle with a gnawed pencil. “What it doesn’t hurt to do,” he said to the man next to him. “Fourteen down. Three letters. Should be easy, right?” The two men stared at each other for a minute.

“Ask,” said the woman with the purse. “A-S-K.” She turned to Jenny. “Men.” Then, she turned back to her rummaging.

Jenny snickered to herself and sipped her coffee, which was now cold. She waved at the waitress, who waved back. The waitress was busy, tapping her pen on her pad, while a young couple at the corner table giggled over the menu. The young man said something, Jenny couldn’t catch it, and held up two fingers. Then, he brushed a piece of hair behind the young girl’s ear.

Jenny’s body softened.

The woman next to her smiled.

The man with the goatee folded his paper and hit his pencil against it.

The phone rang, genuine, and the bus boy answered.

“More coffee?” the waitress asked. Jenny hadn’t noticed when she walked up.

“No. Well…yes. Thank you. I suppose you’re right. I should stay a while.” Jenny ordered a cup of clam chowder and a grilled turkey sandwich. The waitress winked, clicked her pen, and gave Jenny’s order to the cook.