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Sunday Series: Amanda Hoving on Why I Write

In this Sunday Series, you’ll meet writers new and seasoned as they share what inspires them to put #PenToPaper. This week, welcome Amanda Hoving, who writes about 8-track tapes, Michael McDonald, and playing the fool.

Photo by Markus Spiske from Pexels

My dad introduced me to the song, “What a Fool Believes” by Michael McDonald on an 8-track cassette while driving in our Bobcat station wagon that was the same color as my muddy flared cords. If any of the words in the previous sentence are foreign to you…congratulations! By luck, birth order, or pharmaceutical means you’ve managed to bypass memories of the early 80’s.

I loved the song, though, and still do, especially after learning the premise behind it, which recounts a chance meeting of two people…with a past. To the “fool” of the pair, their time together had been the best thing to happen in his life; to his partner, well, as the lyrics say, “She had a place in his life, He never made her think twice.” Ouch. Everyone but the fool can see the relationship disparity. In short, love can erase all common sense and sensibilities.

Why bring this up unless to torture you with visions of feathered hair and vintage Jordache jeans, you ask? Because I often think of, “What a Fool Believes” as the soundtrack to my writing life. If it’s not clear already, I’m the fool in this writing metaphor, and my relationship with writing is one that seems to defy all reason.

When Christi first asked me about writing for her Sunday Series, I had just been informed by my school district that I needed to gather two-weeks-worth of “thoughtfully-planned” quality instruction materials for my 30+ students spanning 3 grade levels “just in case.” Two days later, our building closed. That was 7 weeks ago.

Before writing this piece, the last day I had written anything besides my daily parent emails – which are often quite entertaining (to me, at least) and take more time to put together than I will ever willingly admit – was March 7th. Almost 2 months ago. Sadly, I have gone longer without writing. Much, much longer.

I know there are many writers who say they can’t NOT consistently write – that writing to them is almost or more necessary than breathing. I can’t NOT consistently create (stories, images, daydreams) in my head, but I’m very good at the not writing it down bit. Like, super good.

Does this make me any less of a writer? I don’t think so. But, am I just a fool who believes what I want to believe? Maybe.

The Bio I have listed on my website starts like this:
Amanda’s writing career began in 2nd grade with the limited-edition publication of Around the Mulberry Bush – a book of poetry she wrote and illustrated during a thirty-five-minute math class about a type of foliage she had never actually seen.

And, you know what? My writing has always been this way…not the part about mulberry bushes, fascinating as they are, but that it’s done during stolen moments when I’m supposed to be doing something else. I write about exactly what I need or hope to find at the time  –  my published works and works-in-progress are an eclectic mess of my interests and psyche through the years. The one constant has been my proclivity towards adolescent humor. (Thank goodness for that!)

Right now, though, as I’m trapped in a distance teaching Zoom cocoon, there are no moments to steal. Writing has currently become my (other) neglected Significant Other. Again.

Because, although my relationship with writing is often complicated, uneven and disparate, it’s definitely based on love. A love of language. A love of stories. A love of creating. A love of sharing. And, I have to trust that when I can get back to it, it will be waiting for me. Again.  

Or, maybe that type of thinking is just plain foolish?

But what a fool believes he sees
No wise man has the power
To reason away
What seems to be
Is always better than nothing

(“What a Fool Believes” lyrics by Michael McDonald and Kenny Loggins, 1979)

Amanda Hoving is a Midwestern writer and teacher currently misplaced on the east coast. She has written humor, fiction and poetry for publications such as Chicago Parent, Writer’s Digest, Highlights for Children, American Girl, McSweeney’s, Slackjaw and others and is a contributing writer for Middle Grade Minded.

You can also find her on her website and on Twitter where she posts in inconsistent bursts that you can never always count on.

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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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Just make the pancakes.

The other night, I decided to make breakfast for dinner. There’s a thrill in deviating from the norm, isn’t there? But, the real reason I opted for flapjacks was that they’re easy.

I had a list of writing projects on my mind. I worked on a few pieces during the afternoon and then found myself short on time for dinner. Keep the meal simple, I thought, easy and stress-free. But, even as I whipped together the batter without cracking open a book (we have breakfast for dinner often), I still created my own little chaos.

I studied the clock and wondered how long it might take to get things cooking along. I calculated the amount of edits I might get done during my late night writing time. I felt the pressure of self-inflicted deadlines.

Maybe, I figured, I could edit a few sentences here and there, in between batter drips and flips.

Pretty soon, I was praying for an extra set of arms, burning myself on bacon grease, and reading the same sentence over and over. My stomach grumbled, not from hunger but from anxiety, and my head began to swell with whispers from my internal critic.

Watch out that you don’t burn dinner.
Do you even know what your kids are doing right now?
There’s no way you’ll ever finish that story on time.
By the way, that batter’s too thick.

What happened to that quick and easy, stress-free dinner?

Then, I heard that still, small voice that can break through my insanity like the sun, when it cuts through a cloudy day, and I heard a simple solution:

Sometimes, you just make the pancakes.

You put the writing aside.

You let go of the fear of unfinished projects.

Just for now.
Make the dinner.
Listen to some music.
Relax.

Amanda Hoving talks about a similar moment in her post on unruly To-Do lists. She dared to put her list aside; she embraced the day and found respite. She says, “The point is, it will all eventually get done.” She’s right.

Because, do you know what happened? I flipped one pancake at a time, cooked up some mean bacon, and set a lovely table for breakfast…well, dinner. Then, I smothered my inner critic in syrupy goodness, so that she stayed quiet the rest of the night.

And that writing? Little by little, those stories are coming together. I even sent out one submission before the deadline.

It’s Sunday.
A perfect day to bask in the steam from that cup of coffee.
To mix up some bread dough and knead, knead, knead.
Go ahead.
Make pancakes for dinner.