Be patient: we're waiting for wonderful.

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This is the quote I have on my nightstand. It's one of the last things I see every day, and there's good reason for that.

Keep going. Keep going. Hang in there. | lucyflint.com

Some times this writing gig feels like I'm pushing a pebble forward with my nose every day. And when I come back for the next day's work, I discover that a giant hand has put it back where I'd started. 

(These are usually the times when I meet a dozen new people, all of whom want to know if I've made any money publishing yet.)

Also: there have been too many days when I feel like a fraud, a slug, or a parasite. 

Which is why I make sure I read this quote. Every night.

Not in the hopes of summoning some writing-life equivalent of the tooth fairy (the plot unsnagging fairy? the I'm-adding-3-or-5-or-7-hours-to-your-day fairy?) to visit, but more for the nightly hang in there.

Because all these pebble-pushing days just might add up to something wonderful.

Hang in there. It is astonishing how short a time it can take for very wonderful things to happen. - Frances Hodgson Burnett

 

Me + future Lucy.

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Me + future Lucy.

Most of the writing advice peppering my desk falls into two categories: uplifting and butt-kicking. This is what I need. 

Anyone with me on this? You need the lift on those discouraging days, when your brain is a desert, only without anything as interesting as cacti inside. And then for the lazy days, a bit of a smack across the hindquarters to get you running again?

This quote manages to do both of those things for me. 

I definitely hope to still be writing in five years, sure. But I don't tend to think about that. I tend to get mired in the day to day. I see the obstacles between me and today's work. (Usually it has something to do with whatever mud is on my emotional boots, whatever it is I'm tracking to my desk.)

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The way to great things.

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The way to great things.

In my unofficial list of "people who have done great things," I have to include Vincent Van Gogh.

Right? I mean, he's Van Gogh. 

And when I look at big achievements, I too easily slip into imagining that they were done all at once, with trumpets fanfaring along. Confetti pouring down. That great things feel like great things as they are being made.

Which is a daunting perspective to bring to the task of writing a book. Even a book that doesn't have to be great: I'd settle for pretty darn good.  

But my writing days are made up of small moments, small tasks. Little adjustments, little ideas. 

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Write through your problems.

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Write through your problems.

When I hit a story snag, I tend to hold still and think about it.

I am absolutely an overthinker.

And I feel a brick wall slowly building between me and the story. Energy and excitement drain away. The stash of chocolate begins hollering at me from the kitchen.

But this lovely quote--and many other brilliant writing books and teachers--has the right, sanity-saving technique. And when I remember to, that's what I do: grab a pen and a blank sheet of paper, set a timer for five (or eight, or ten) minutes, and just write like crazy. Write without stopping. 

It's amazing what this turns up--how fast I can plunge into better ideas for the characters or plot, ideas that snazz up the problem I was facing. It's like: instead of edging around the lake of story ideas, I'm climbing an overhanging tree and dropping straight in. Going deep.

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Throwing a party for discomfort.

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It's alarming how often I assume that change is easy. That the worthwhile things in my life should be just within my reach. That, for every period of trying hard, I am compensated with, say, a time of taking it slow. 

Little bit of strain; lot of pampering. If I'm honest, that's how I want things to work. 

Funny how often life doesn't look like that. At all. 

Actually, for the last, oh, year and a half, life has looked a lot more like climbing a mountain blindfolded. Hard going, not quite sure when I'll reach the top, and also, I don't exactly know where the trail mix is.

In other words, it's not comfortable. 

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A simpler strategy.

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It is all too easy to get in my own way. I think, "I need to go work. Time for work! Need to go write." And when I think in terms of writing and working, I can freak myself out.

I mean: writing. It's a big endeavor.

Some tiny part of my mind thinks that I need to sit down and do all the work I'm ever going to do. Or maybe write, like, fifteen novels. Today.

"I am going to go write."

Super grandiose. I don't feel smart enough, most days, to call myself a writer.

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The comforting power of dumb determination.

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Success is more linked to determination than genius. That's a relief. | lucyflint.com

I am not even close to being a genius, but I do have deep mule-ish tendencies. (Stout, stiff hind legs, and an iron forehead.) I think I can aspire to dumb determination. 

Which is such a comfort.

Success usually has more to do with dumb determination than with genius. -- Joshua Prince-Ramus, as quoted in Making Ideas Happen.

Where we work.

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Even though I know better, I still have days when I feel like I need perfect peace and quiet in order to work. Those are frustrating days, chasing ideal conditions that are never within reach.

Wendy Rawlings says, We work amid chaos. | Where We Work on lucyflint.com

When I accept the chaos, somehow that acceptance makes room for the work. Allowing the craziness. Leaning in to the insanity. Whenever I stop fighting it, I free up just enough energy to grab those five minutes and use them to get something done. 

In and around. Sometimes that's what the process looks like. 

How else, except amid chaos, to get anything done? -- Wendy Rawlings  (from her essay in Rules of Thumb)