Frivolity + wisdom.

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Frivolity + wisdom.

I'm homesick for reading. 

Usually I have a book glued to my hand 99% of the time. Always reading. As a kid, I mastered the art of pinning an open novel under my chin, so I could read while I made up the bed, read while "cleaning" my room, read while pulling on my pants in the morning.

But lately, it's been hard to get around to reading. And I miss it. I can tell, because I catch myself staring at my bookshelves. I'm daydreaming about rainy days: a sure sign that I need 1) a cup of tea, and 2) a stack of murder mysteries. Or poems. Or YA fiction. Or essays about cooking.

One of my reading heroes is a woman named Mary. I met her at the gym, years ago: we were in the same early morning workout class. One morning she announced that she had run all her errands the day before, she sent her dog away for the day, and she had completely cleared her schedule.

"So I can read!" she said. "I got everything else out of the way: I'm having a reading holiday."

I stared at her. This woman has discovered the secret of life. A reading holiday. 

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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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Why write: Reason #71

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This is the perfect reminder after a steep week of writing: Why even write? Why bother? Stephen King has the best answer. When asked if he wrote for the money, his answer was ultimately no. He says:

Stephen King writes for the joy of it, for the buzz. | lucyflint.com

For the buzz.

It's easy to lose perspective when my nose is two inches away from text, tinkering with words and meanings and the flow of speech until my brain is numb. 

But on the best days, I can pull back and hear my words like a reader, instead of a writer. I can fall into the current of the story and get swept along, surprised by it, exhilarated.

So yes. On my best days, I'm with the King. I'm doing it for the buzz.

I have written because it fulfilled me. Maybe it paid off the mortgage on the house and got the kids through college, but those things were on the side--I did it for the buzz. I did it for the pure joy of the thing. And if you can do it for joy, you can do it forever. -- Stephen King, On Writing

So let's keep going.

The truth about terrible writing.

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Writing starts terribly. It's practically supposed to. | lucyflint.com

The good news about terrible writing is that it isn't doomed to stay that way. 

The even better news? It can grow into something that's fresh, vivid, maybe even memorable. (And memorable for all the right reasons!)

Let's not shrug this off: Terrible means terrible. Like, make-your-eyes-water terrible. 

A much-needed reminder this week: I'm wading through tired sentences, dull verbs, over-modified sentences. Plenty of mediocre images. And yes, definitely the terrible.

So I'll keep my eyes on this quote as I revise and rewrite and scrub away the muck. This draft is just the super-awkward snapshot, the early years, the crappy yearbook photo. Something much much better will take its place.

Because I'm still aiming for marvelous.

Take that, mid-week discouragement!

Almost all good writing begins with terrible first efforts. You need to start somewhere. Start by getting something--anything--down on paper. -- Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird

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)

The main task.

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The main task.

This comes from Eric Maisel's genius little book, A Writer's Paris. I have maybe read it a dozen times? My book-loving heart feels a thrill whenever I pick it up, because it's the perfect size, well-bound, and gorgeous. It's also packed with brilliant writing advice, and bonus, it feels like a trip to Paris. (Only cheaper.)

We could all do worse than to pick up this book and a croissant and some strong coffee, and then write all afternoon. Hmm. There's an idea.

I love the No matter what-ness of this quote. Regardless of where you are, regardless of the hang-ups. It is all too easy for me to focus on the difficulties, and magnify them until all I see is my inability to work.

How lovely (and freeing!) to flip it, and focus on writing right where I am.

In spite of being tired and confused, in spite of being in suburban Midwest (aka not Paris), in spite of not knowing--ever, it seems--what comes next.

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