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I am my own boss.

Christina Katz, at The Prosperous Writer, sends out a weekly e-zine in which she writes about the 52 Qualities of Prosperous Writers. This week’s topic is Accountability.

I don’t have an agent. No publisher is knocking at my door begging me to sign a contract for a book not yet complete (does that even happen in real life?). I don’t get paid to write –yet. So, what makes me accountable?

Why keep writing?

I spent years dreaming, thinking, saying out loud, “Some day I want to be a writer.” My mother believed in me. Not concerned if I could tackle story structure and character development, or if I could decipher theme and irony, she asked me to pen a story about her. If she were still living today, and reading this blog, she’d make me accountable. It’s hard to say no to your mother.

The day I signed up for my first writing class – no, strike that – the day I sent my first nonfiction piece to a legitimate literary magazine, I named myself a writer. Since then, I’ve had visions of quick success, flashes of failures, and heavy doses of reality. I wondered if I would ever be a serious writer. But, not once did I consider returning to the days of not writing.

Accountability keeps me engaged in what I love.

This blog makes me accountable. Every Wednesday, I write on the Word of the Day. No one pays me, and I happened to choose a day of the week when my time is always scrunched. Still, I post a flash fiction, a short essay, something.

Writing salons keep me accountable, and connected. If I’m too quiet in a group, someone sends an email, because – as writers – we know that silence can be a deadly.

And, oddly enough, Twitter makes me accountable. When I tweet that I #amwriting, I commit myself. I doubt all 109 of my followers are waiting, with bated breath, to read the end result of whatever it is I am #writing. But I’m a people-pleaser, and I can’t bear to think I might leave even one follower hanging.

Accountability.

Christina Katz is right when she says:

You understand that your success is contingent upon this ability to be dedicated to your work and you don’t shirk your deadlines or commitments or take them for granted.

What makes you accountable?
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Back in the Game

I’m not a quitter.

Okay, ignore that telemarketing job I walked out on after less than a day. I couldn’t take the rejection.

Don’t consider my brief one-week stint flipping burgers at a bowling alley. I didn’t much care for the mess.

Fine. The one time I flat-out quit something, I was in the fourth grade.

An asthmatic kid who barely weighed 50 pounds, I walked out onto a soccer field not knowing the difference between a forward and a fullback. Like a deer caught on the city streets, I scrambled back and forth. I turned towards my coach on the sidelines in a desperate plea for help. The soccer ball came out of nowhere – at great speed and force – and hit me flat on the side of my face.

It stung.
My nose bled.
The whistle blew.

Oddly enough, my recent novel-writing experiences mirrored my fear of rejection, my discomfort with a mess, and my day on the field.

I jumped back and forth between the first five chapters. I tried desperately to find my footing in the story and plow through to the end. At work, the story unfolded clearly in my mind. When I got home and opened the file, the plot faded, the chapters looked disjointed. I considered my options: walk away and let the novel gather dust on my hard drive, or suck it up and trust that the struggle yields a lesson.

One place I found solace was on The Sharp Angle, in Lydia’s recent post, The Benefits of Writing Short Fiction:

A good way to improve your skills as a novelist is to write short fiction.

Most of my writing experience is rooted in short fiction; I can write a lucid beginning, middle and end for a concentrated word count. So, I wondered how to translate those skills (in which I feel more confident) to novel writing (in which I fall back into the nightmare of a fourth grade misfit in the middle of a soccer field). Lydia responded to my question in her comments and helped me figure out the crux of my problem:  the “ominous middle” of the novel, as she called it.

The middle of my novel resembled a custard pie that didn’t quite gel. Some semblance of structure existed, but most of the story oozed all over the place. No wonder I never ventured past chapter five. And, because of my fear, chapter five almost ate me alive.

But Lydia’s post, her comments, and her suggestion reinvigorated me.

I am armed and ready.

Nothing’s coming between me and my laptop, at least not during the hours of 1 and 3pm (aka. nap time for child #2). I’m balancing some novel work with short story edits and trusting that, with persistence, the pieces will fall together.

If’ you’re fighting with your novel and are dizzy from the glare of too much red ink on that rewrite draft, here are some links to re-energizing tips:

And, of course The Sharp Angle, where the conversations on short fiction continue.

What resources do you rely on to to carry you through the muddy rewrites of a novel?

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Potlatch. That’s right, potlatch.

It’s Wednesday. This morning, on Wordsmith.org, I read potlatch.

That’s right:

potlatch. noun. 1. A party or get-together. 2. A ceremonial festival among American Indians of the Pacific Northwest involving feasts, lavish gift giving, dances, etc.

The word itself looked intimidating. I took a deep breath and popped my knuckles. Think positive, I told myself.

I researched the word elsewhere (aka. avoided the issue of writing about it). I scratched out one draft of a story that oozed dramatics. I went back to the original word, scrambled the letters, and created a list of potlatch proxies.

patch, latch, lap, hop, halt, hot

Then, I thought of Millie, a character in my WIP, and wrote a scenario that might suit her story.

*******

The last time I posted about Millie, she was choking down a Mega-Mix vitamin. Today, she fell victim to a birthday party gone awry….

Millie suspected trouble when she couldn’t park near her mother’s house. The giant “Look Who’s Forty!” birthday banner, stretched over the front door, proved that her mother went overboard.

A voice rang out behind her. “Lordy, look who’s forty! It’s the birthday girl!”

Aunt Harriet held a large crock pot. Quinn and Brenda walked up behind her. Aunt Harriet kissed Millie on the cheek. Quinn, Aunt Harriet’s son, nodded. Brenda, his wife, carried a gift that was overshadowed by the scowl on her face.

“Happy Birthday, Millie,” Brenda growled.

Millie followed them inside and to the kitchen. She said hello to her mother then turned to see a host of nondescript faces standing in clumps in the back yard.

“Mother.”

“What is it Millie?” Her mother mixed potato salad with a wooden spoon and a wild hand.

“Those people.”

“What people?”

“In the back yard, mother.”

Still mixing, her mother looked over at Millie and rolled her eyes. “Oh for heaven’s sake, Millie. Those people are your relatives.”

Brenda leaned over to Millie. “She’s turned this thing into a family reunion.”

“And, a few friends,” her mother continued.

“What friends? What relatives?” Millie felt light-headed.

“Brenda, go peel some carrots,” Millie’s mother snapped. “And, Millie, did you bring the cake?”

She held up a round two-layer cake under a hard plastic cover.

“That’s it? Oh my word.”

“You just said bring a Red Velvet cake. You didn’t say how big.” Millie sat down.

Aunt Harriet stared at her sister in disbelief. “You asked her to bring her own cake? Really, Katherine.”

“Well, I was in charge of the invitations, the lunch, and the party games. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

At “party games,” Millie excused herself and went to the bathroom. She sat on the toilet and tried not to throw up.

After ten minutes, her mother pounded on the door and insisted Millie get out back and mingle. She went outside, but stuck to the porch and hid behind a pillar as best she could. At first, she only recognized a few of the younger cousins. Then, standing along the fence, she saw her two neighbors, Mr. Lewis from across the street and Mr. Millstead from next door.

Mr. Lewis saluted. Mr. Millstead grinned. Millie lifted her hand in a half-hearted wave.

After lunch, Millie’s mother blew a coach’s whistle. She thanked everyone for coming, hoped they were enjoying the food and refreshments, and invited all the men to participate in a strong-man’s competition called the 50 yard Millie dash.

“And the winner of the 50 Yard Millie Dash will win this brand new Weber grill!”

Some ooo-ed, some ahhh-ed, others stood and stared. Still, a handful of men gathered around her mother to hear the rules of the game.

“Carry Millie for 50 yards as fast as you can. Whoever crosses the finish line in the least amount of time wins the grill!” Her mother clapped to get the crowd going.

There were too many people to measure 50 yards from the porch to the fence. So, someone pulled out 50 yards of rope and figured three wide laps around the picnic table would suffice. Her mother pulled Millie to the front and center.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Millie whispered.

Continue reading “Potlatch. That’s right, potlatch.”