Ego throws a mean left hook.

Ego is a funny thing.

Sometimes Ego is my driving force that gives me just enough courage to put my work out there. Other times, Ego whispers something that sends me spinning and knocks me out for a few days.

Several weeks ago, I had my eye on a couple of writing contests. I considered submitting a story I wrote, one that got some good feedback. As I wavered, Ego leaned into my ear and said –  all syrupy and sweet – “Oh, it’s good. Just do it.” She was so encouraging. I clicked “submit.”

Days later, I read a different story to a group of writers, my confidence still inflated. I received some good responses, but those weren’t the ones I heard. What I tuned into was one or two critiques that made me question my writing and myself, and then I focused on Ego’s quiet little whisper that followed.

“I’m not sure why you brought in that story anyway,” she said as we exited the studio. “You know they hated it. In fact, I’m fairly certain they don’t even like you.”

Knock out.

Man, she’s mean.

In Writing Down the Bones, Natalie Goldberg doesn’t call the problem Ego, but she writes about it just the same. She says “Do not be tossed away by your achievements or your fiascos.”

I have to take my successes for what they are: rewards for hard work done on a story. When I feel good about a story, I can relish the moment, even write a post about it, but I can’t play into a false belief that everything I write from that point forward will be perfect.

Then again, as Goldberg says, I can’t let my failures drain me either.

See beyond [doubt] to the vastness of life and the belief in time and practice. Write something else. Let go of your failures and sit down and write something great. Or write something terrible and feel great about it.

The problem with Ego is that, whether the words I hear are praise or a put-down, it’s always all about me. And, when I’m all into me, I’m not into writing. The best way to avoid that pitfall is to take Natalie Goldberg’s advice: Write something else. Through successes and failures, just write.

How do I do that?

1. I Keep it short. If I’m writing a short story or a first chapter (or if I’m knee-deep in a 50,000 word first draft), I don’t want to get stuck on perfecting one scene. I keep it short, get the first draft done, and then share it with writers who know what they’re doing. I can trust that a good roundtable session will help me filter through the parts that need more expansion and bump the sections that don’t belong.

2. I Pull out something old and rework it. I hate looking back, which doesn’t make for easy rewrites. But, after spending some time learning the craft, I might pull out an old story and apply some of those new techniques. That’s the best time to see how far I’ve come in my writing.

3. I Enjoy the process. This is especially important when I’m working through early drafts of a piece. Sometimes a whole page of writing reveals only one gem, but that gem may turn out to be the crux of my story. In a feedback session, I might hear the one suggestion that clears up the whole picture for me and brings that story into focus.

I love Jody Hedlund’s final comment in one of her recent posts, because it speaks to my struggle as well:

Perfection is unattainable. We need to guard against thinking we’re already close to perfect. And we need to guard against thinking we need to be perfect. Instead, we can begin to develop a quiet confidence in our writing abilities—seeing how far we’ve come, but knowing we still have room to grow.

So, whatever Ego mumbles in my ear today, I know what I have to do. Write.
Or, rewrite.
Whatever it takes.

Because, Ego isn’t going away.

*****

Goldberg, Natalie. Writing Down the Bones. Boston, MA: Shambhala Publications, Inc., 1986. Print.

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Temperamental Time

It’s Wednesday’s Word, and you know what that means: write something – an essay, poem, or flash fiction – based on Wordsmith.org’s word of the day and post it by midnight. Past results from this fun writing exercise can be found under Wednesday’s Word on the sidebar to the right.

~

From a writer’s perspective, Time is a friend and a foe.

The more time I take to practice the craft, the better I become at writing. Yet, time is exactly the one thing I’m lacking most days. Take today, for example. My calendar tells me I’m due for a writing challenge, but my day job insists that I work late into the evening (darn those paying jobs). I considered passing on the challenge this week and publishing a back-up post, for the sake of time. Then, I read today’s word:

miry. adjective: 1. Resembling mire. 2. Muddy; swampy.

Something about that word whispered “time” to me and hinted at a story that I couldn’t resist writing. Plus (I should have known), once I clicked on the website and actually read the word, I couldn’t back down.

*****

Unpredictable

Rosemarie finally put her finger on it: the last two weeks were like riding a roller coaster in the dark. She couldn’t predict when life would shift from warp speed to a full stop, and she never knew, until it was too late, when it might pull her down, hard and fast. It took her breath away. That was what she told her friends when they asked her “how does it feel?”

How does it feel to lose your mom?

Those words still didn’t register in Rosemarie’s mind any more than the doctor’s excuse of “aneurysm.” What did make sense was something her mother repeated each time Rosemarie pushed her to the limits.

“Rosemarie Helen Lewis! I’m gonna to blow a gasket!”

That’s exactly what her mother said the night before the morning she didn’t wake up. Rosemarie’s High School graduation was just a few weeks away. Her mother had been scrambling for days to get the invitations out, to plan the party, to buy herself a new outfit. Rosemarie only borrowed her mother’s cashmere sweater for the party at Karen’s on Friday night. There were rumors that a few college friends of Karen’s older brother might show. Rosemarie needed something special, just for the night. She didn’t even cut out the tag.

Then, some freshman idiot bumped into her when things got wild and spilled his giant glass of Mountain Dew all over her front.

Rosemarie apologized to her mother and offered to pay for the dry cleaning out of her allowance, but she shook her head. Her mother’s face turned red. She started talking low then slowly lifted her fists into the air and ended up screaming. Her mother stomped off into her bathroom to cool down and went to bed that night with a killer headache.

The next week was a mix of time moving too fast or too slow. Too slow at the funeral, which seemed to last all day. Too fast at the burial where the priest rattled through prayers and incantations and suddenly they were lowering her body.

“Don’t we get a little more time?” Rosemarie asked the priest.

The funeral director looked at his watch. Rosemarie’s father put his arm around her shoulder. They lowered her mother’s body anyway. Rosemarie then spent, what felt like eternity, staring at a paper plate filled with baked ham and bundt cake.

Every waking moment was painful. She laid in bed and willed the sun not to come up. She stared at the clock and tried to make the numbers change to midnight.  She decided she should just give up. At four o’clock on Sunday afternoon, she jerked the curtains on her bedroom window closed, slammed her door, and covered her face with her pillow.

She would simply ignore life going on.

As soon as her breathing fell into a rhythm, her father called her to dinner. His rounded shoulders and the bags under his eyes made him look old as he stood at the counter over a pot of something hot.

“Grab some bowls, would you?”

Rosemarie set the table for two. She felt funny leaving her mother’s place empty, so she moved the pile of mail in front of her mother’s chair. Her father spooned dinner into her bowl. Rosemarie studied the food. She couldn’t tell if it was supposed to be soup or stew. The base was a thick sludge of rice and broth. It was a mixture of leftovers from the refrigerator and vegetables on the verge of rotten. Her father hadn’t thought to chop the baby carrots, so orange tips poked out of the sludge like logs. She tried to cut into a potato and found that it was pure mush.

“What do you call this?” she asked.

He pushed and stirred and patted the soup stew with his spoon.

“Shit,” he said, “a big bowl of shit.”

He let out a deep sigh and took her hand. And, the brief smile he managed was just enough.

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This just in….

I’m breaking from routine. For those of you who know me well, breaking from routine can send me into a tizzy — there’d better be a darn good reason to deviate.

Today, I have two great reasons:

1. Beth Hoffman, author of the New York Times Bestseller Saving CeeCee Honeycutt (a beautiful novel that was released in paperback October 26th) has highlighted me on her website. I hope you’ll take a peek at my guest post. I’m thrilled to be a writer mentioned in her Brava & Bravo category. I’m also thrilled I’ll get a chance to meet Beth in person this week as she stops in Wisconsin during her book tour.

Also, this week I’ll post an interview with debut author, Jody Hedlund. Her novel, The Preacher’s Bride, was released in early October and is another book I didn’t want to put down. She’s an author to watch. Stop by on Wednesday, read about her novel and her writing process, and drop your name in the comment section (if you do, you’ll be entered into a contest to win an autographed copy of her novel).

See there? That little shake-up was well worth it.
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