The Best Job in the World

When I'm good and happy with my writing project, when I've had a solid two weeks of decent output, regular insights, normalish emotions, then I'm ready to put a cherry on top of everything and declare writing the best job in the world.

I mean, it is, right? (Especially if we've been practicing delight.)

We're so lucky. Our job means that we can fill to the brim with the beauty of words and the transcendence of narrative. We learn from all the great writers: we get to read and taste and mimic.

And at the end of the day, all our days, we are making more books. More shared ideas. More fascinating characters. We're supplying textbooks for living. For ourselves and our fellow humans.

In his wonderful book On Writing, Stephen King says that writing is "telepathy, of course." 

Because when something is described by the writer on the page, and then received by the reader:  Welp, telepathy is exactly that that is. King writes:

"This is what we're looking at, and we all see it. I didn't tell you. You didn't ask me. I never opened my mouth and you never opened yours. We're not even in the same year together, let alone the same room . . . except we are together. We're close. We're having a meeting of the minds."

Um... I LOVE THAT. A meeting of the minds.

Writing is telepathy. And more than that: Stephen King wrote those words in Maine, in 1997. I'm typing them here, at a suburb of St. Louis in 2015, at my huge black desk (strewn with five separate beverages; four open books with more on the floor; a positive cascade of notes on scraps of paper; dozens of writing instruments; a lamp; a partially buried paperweight).

And then you're reading it, wherever you are...

So it's telepathy. And kinda teleportation. And time travel too.

Words can go anywhere: they have no borders, not really, not anymore. We writers have long arms, hands that can reach anywhere, that can reach forward in time--who knows how far? 

And what's in those hands?

Books. Words. Stories. Ideas. Dialogue. Characters. Images. 

People will read what we've written, and they'll look up in surprise and say, That's me. This person is writing about me. I'm seeing myself in this story.

They'll read our pages and say: Someone understands. Someone else has been there. Someone gets it.

We're giving courage to other people. Courage to face their own days, courage to go forward. Through our words, we get to hold hands with people who are suffering. People in need. 

We're giving them what we have--the best we have. 

We have the best job in the world. And it isn't writing, not really, not exactly. 

The best thing is to love other people. 

To reach out, to hold hands, to stay connected, to be humans, to talk about living.

To give courage, insight, guidance. To say, Yes! Do that! Go! Or to say, No, don't go that way, please, you'll regret it.

As writers, we are both the Listeners and the Speakers. And through all our words, we're communicating love, essentially.

Is that weird to say?

Here, if the word love creeps you out, read this quote, from William Faulkner's Nobel Prize acceptance speech:

"It is [the writer's] privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail."

Right? Right??? THAT.

The best job in the world. Giving other people what they need. Spending our time and energy to meet those needs.

Our medium happens to be words--stories, characters, images, conflict. We happen to be dealing with tales and novels and fiction.

"Stories are light. Light is precious in a world so dark. Begin at the beginning. Tell Gregory a story. Make some light." -- Kate DiCamillo, The Tale of Despereaux

The real job, the best job, is reaching other people. Lifting their hearts. Bringing light.

A Survival Guide to Life Outside the Comfort Zone: Part Two

Two weeks ago, we started this discussion about stretching beyond where we're comfortable. If you missed that post, check it out for four more tips.

How are you doing, traveler? How's it going, stretching into new skills, facing your own awkwardness? 

I don't know about you, but my comfort zone is fairly small--it's a dwelling place, after all, not a county, not a continent.

When I leave it behind, the world is wide. 

And the survival guide should probably be a bit longer. 

So, if you too are exploring the world beyond familiarity, here are a few more tips for us all to keep in mind:

FIVE: Start small.

If you take off running, just barreling out of your comfort zone into the land beyond, you might get pretty far. You really might. And maybe you're the kind of person that would do just fine out there.

For me, I need to take it at a steady calm walk. Or possibly a crawl. Sometimes I just inch forward.

I've learned that I need new ideas to marinate in my brain a little. If you just pull the rug out from under how I do things, I usually end up screeching. And not really growing.

But if I have a little time, I can warm up a bit. I have a better shot at making it stick. I take it bit by bit.

So when I'm facing the great unknown, I take a deep breath, look down at my toes, and just take a teeny step. 

It's still progress. It's still forward. And I'm warming up the skills I'll need later--when I start to jog, when I begin to run.

SIX: Nurture your curiosity.

Curiosity is there to make bridges. Curious is what gets us to the other side of a question. And it's one of our best weapons when it comes to facing the unfamiliar or the uncomfortable.

But what if you don't feel curious about, say, learning a new strategy for outlining your novel? What if you don't feel curious about writing a memoir, or about posting flash fiction on your blog?

You might have to wheedle a bit. Just like you might encourage a child who very stubbornly and very certainly does not want to do something (sit on the potty chair, go to the classroom, get into the car, get out of the car).

Have you done this? Listen to the things you say: Hey, what's that over in the corner? It looks interesting, it looks fun, let's go check it out. I bet your doll would like to go over there and play. Let's go see. Let's see what it's like.

Take that same tone--patient, focusing on possibilities--with yourself. 

Start prodding different parts of the project. Start saying, Hey, what's that? A new technique? It looks interesting. It looks fun. 

And as the rest of you protests--lower lip out, I don't wanna!!!--insist on becoming curious.

Curious about how the new outlining strategy might look on your story--about the possibilities it might uncover. Curious about how a memoir might reframe your perspective on your present. Curious about flash fiction as a form, even if posting it terrifies you.

Tell yourself, Let's go see.

(You can fake curiosity too, in a pinch. Fake it long enough, and it might become real.)

SEVEN: Focus on gratitude.

A few months ago, I started learning some yoga moves. The resistance in my head about this was massive. And inwardly--as I started warming up--I'd make my list for all the reasons why this was a bad idea:

I'm not flexible, I'm not strong enough, it hurts to hold these poses, it probably looks really dumb, I'm bored already, this is so hokey, I could be doing something else right now, are my hands supposed to slip?, I'm going to injure something, I don't think this is how it goes...

And on and on and on. 

Until one day when I remembered a woman I know. She's suffering from a progressive disease, and she can't move easily at all. She needs a cane to walk (if she's feeling well enough to walk that day).

She has more bad days than good days. 

I thought of her one day as I was warming up, and it transformed my whole workout. 

What wouldn't she give, to be able to do what I was doing? Even as badly as I was doing it?

I realized I was so fortunate. And I felt grateful for a body that could move at all. Glad to have the ability to do any of the moves, even though I was just a beginner.

Even the simplest stretch filled my heart with thankfulness for my working arms, my working legs.

See what I mean? Whatever it is that you are doing, whatever you are pressing into: Think of the people who would trade their teeth to be able to do that same thing. Who would welcome the challenge of it, because they would be so glad to be able to do it.

Bring some of that gratitude into this journey outside your comfort zone. Reframe the struggle. See the grace.

EIGHT: Celebrate every milestone. (And have a broad definition of milestone.)

It's a heroic thing that you're doing. Now and then, come up for air. Pause. Look around at the new view you've discovered, at the new behaviors, the new skills.

Declare it a milestone. 

Pop some champagne and have a picnic. Take celebratory photos. Sing some songs.

You have come this far. And you will go farther. And that's worth a toast or two.

A Survival Guide to Life Outside the Comfort Zone: Part One

One of the biggest reasons to not grow is that it's darned uncomfortable. It pushes you out of where you'd rather be. Out of the default position.

Even when I realize that growth is a good idea, that change is a good thing: when I get away from the familiar, away from the old ways, panic sets in.

But if we want to grow (and we do!), and if we want to keep it painless (and we do!), we gotta get this: The panic is usually more painful than the actual growth itself. 

How do you stay panic-free outside your comfort zone? Here are four steps that help me maintain my perspective, resist the panic, and keep growing.

ONE: Balance growth with self-care.

Growing just to grow has a tendency to make us brittle. You've seen trees whose limbs get all draggy and start snapping off, right?

Let's not do that.

Let's get support, let's take strength from what's familiar, and use it as a springboard to reach new places.

So as you start a draft, as you dive into a skill that makes you nervous, as you embark on a new project that has you a bit scared, a bit dry-mouthed: Be kind to yourself. 

Watch the silly TV show, the guilty pleasure movie. Eat the cupcakes. The macaroni and cheese is ALL YOURS. 

This isn't weakness. It's not a sign of giving up, and it's not a sign that you're not strong enough. 

On the contrary: it's giving you strength to step into the unknown.

TWO: Applaud the awkward.

Small talk at parties is one of my least favorite things in the world. I hold my glass too tight and scout around for exits. Seriously. Until I discovered a secret trick: Announcing to myself that this is SUPPOSED to be awkward. It's supposed to feel like I'm standing on needles. 

For some weird reason, knowing that I'm going to feel uncomfortable really helps me relax. This is supposed to feel strange. Supposed to be awkward. It's just doing its job.

I tense up when I'm frantic about the symptoms of change. Those prickle-pangs of growth. But when I say, hey, this weirdness is normal, I planned on this: that makes it so much easier.

Can you try that, with the blank page, or with the difficult phone call, or with the new writing exercise?

Hey, it feels like my brain is melting! My hands are shaking a bit! I'm doing it exactly right!

And then go back to step one and reward yourself with a cupcake. If you didn't notice, step one is very repeatable.

THREE: Have an unswerving focus on your goal.

Why do all this, though? I mean, really. Why do it?

Who needs the macaroni and cheese and the slow-breathing in the face of awkward? Who cares? Why do it?

To survive the process of growth, you need to be really clear on your goal. Be clear on what's great about all the happy milestones, too, but have a laser-like focus on the true big mother-goal itself.

Interview yourself to get clear on what that is.

So, for me: I want to write a book.

Yeah, sure. But what else? I want this to be a career. I know this is my career. I love words. I love stories.

All right, fine, what else. Money? Money would be so nice. Money is also not a super reliable goal.

What else? 

Well, there are aspects of my childhood that were pretty crappy. Same as a lot of people. Especially fifth grade through eighth.

So I want to write books for girls in those grades. I want to give them more good books, good stories. They're going through a really hard time, and I want to send them words and characters and ideas to keep them company.

That is a worthwhile goal for me. That's THE Goal. 

That is what makes the hard days worth it, the days of braving the difficulties that we all face as we try to improve our craft. That's worth it for me.

So what's that big goal for you? Narrow it down. Get to the place where you can almost feel it throbbing in your veins. The goal that makes all the hard stuff worth it. 

Write it down. Post it somewhere. And as you're applauding the awkward and scarfing cupcakes, stay clear on that goal. And let it guide you into deeper growth and steeper challenges.

FOUR: Claim this new place as a future comfort zone.

Strange but true: the thing that scares you today will get easier with practice. Maybe not exactly easy, but certainly easier.

Think back to what got you here. Where are the places where you had to step out, where it was mercilessly uncomfortable, where you thought you just might not make it? 

For me, facing a blank page isn't nearly as uncomfortable as it used to be. I know how to fling a few words on there and get rolling quickly. Posting these blogs three times a week? It used to be TERRIFYING. Now it's just a little bit of a "here we go!" in my stomach, and then I'm good. 

It helps to know that you've done this before. You really have. Stepping into the new, getting used to it, and finally planting your flag of "I've conquered this!" in that new soil? Yeah, you've totally done that before, lionheart.

From the first time that oxygen hit your little baby lungs to this exact moment: you've tackled so many uncomfortable things and made them your new home. 

You can do this. You really, really can. You know how to lean in, you know that it's worth it, you know how to keep going.

So what am I doing still talking? You already have everything in you that you need.

Enjoy those cupcakes. And have some fun outside the zone.

Can We Stop Being Weird About Writer's Block?

Confession: I promised myself that I would never talk about writer's block. I mean, we've heard enough about it by now, right?

We've heard the debate: Does it exist, does it not exist. Are we lazy, are we unprofessional, or is inspiration a huge mystical thing and we haven't done the right sacrifices...

I'm tired of people saying, "I don't feel like writing today THAT MEANS I HAVE WRITER'S BLOCK, DOESN'T IT."

Oof. No. That's not what it means. 

And, on the other side of the spectrum, there are the people who shout: "Writer's block is just a construct. No other profession hides behind this. Be a professional."

I find that point of view extremely . . . unhelpful. (I'd like to hear what they have to say to a runner with a broken leg. Is that just a construct?) 

I believe that inspiration can be sought and found. I've done some excellent writing on days when I would have given my teeth to not write. Sometimes I go to my desk kicking and screaming.

But: I do think that there are times when we just can't write. There are times when your writing project cannot and will not go forward. 

The blocks that I've hit fall into three categories. And because I'm clever and subtle, I'll just call them Small, Medium, and Large. Here's what they're like, and a few ideas for how to get around them. Okay? Let's go.

The Small Blocks

What it feels like: These are the days you look at your computer or your draft, and you just feel this huge upwelling of "meh." This is your internal, "I would really rather not." It can keep you from your writing for a day or two... And that can grow into a few weeks. 

What that might mean:

• This is hard.

• I'm not prepared.

• I'm really out of love with this part of the process.

• Chocolate.

What you can do about it:

• Writing is hard. So, this is an accurate assessment. Look around at how you're moving forward, and see if you're making it harder. Are you putting restrictions on your work that maybe you don't need right now? Can your deadline be adjusted? Is your topic too restrictive? Do you maybe need to bring in a bit more play, try to have more fun?
   

• Get your tools out. Are you writing from an imaginatively dry place because you didn't research? (I do this all the time! Ack!) Maybe you need to browse a reference book or four, maybe you need to do a little Internet rabbit trailing? Or, maybe it's a writing skill that you need: grab a book on scenes, on structure, on dialogue. You can learn anything. Take the time to go for it.
   

• You might be getting near burnout. Try working on a different part of the project. Try cajoling yourself back into it with some playful exercises. Give yourself an intentional, guilt-free day off to try and get some perspective. Read for fun. Take a nap. Clear your head for a bit, and then go back to it. Reward yourself for every step forward.
   

• Eat the chocolate. Always. 

The Medium Blocks

What it feels like: It feels like there's an actual obstacle between you and your work. Your brain is fizzing-full of anxiety. Or, your brain is wiped clean of any real ideas. You go through your usual tricks, but the words are all coming out sideways. There is angst. Deep frustration. In spite of faithfully showing up and "trusting the process," you feel like you're just spinning your wheels.

What that might mean:

• I'm not going to make the deadline.

• I'm panicking.

• The topic is wrong. Or the point-of-view is wrong. Something's just... wrong.

• I can't keep working because I'm just making it worse.

What you can do about it:

• Find a way to get yourself more time. To breathe. Deadlines are awesome to get you moving. But if you've taken a wrong turn, they might just help you get lost faster. Lighten your load, any way that you can.
   

• It is really hard to imagine new things when you feel like you're writing your way off a cliff. Take a few days to recapture your perspective. Why did you start this story in the first place? What was it that you loved about it? Go for a long walk, and just think about the good parts of your story. Find a way to get back to the heart of what you're writing: take the time to do that.
   

• A lot of what we call "writer's block" is really a huge detour sign. It's the part of the creative process that says, "You can't get there from here. You can't go that way." This is a really good thing. See it as a chance to look at all your options. Have you gone off a better, original track? Or are you a slave to your original vision, while your story wants to try a different way? Freewrite. Do a lot of freewriting. Give yourself a week to explore other ideas, other angles. Run down all the other paths for a while. Keep your grip light. When something you jot down gets you excited, keep going!
   

• Perfectionism is writer's block's BFF. They show up together. You have to kill perfectionism. Really. Be merciless. Drafting is about making messes, making mistakes, and doing the wrong thing. You're going to have to redefine success. Success is: another day with words in it. Accept that your novel will not get better in a straight line. In fact, give yourself permission to totally screw it up. Write that down on paper, and sign it. Post it by your desk. I'm serious. I have to do this all the time to keep going.

The Large Blocks

What it feels like: A large block is a total inability to deal with words. (Sometimes accompanying a total inability to get up in the morning.)

I've hit this kind of block three times in my writing life. And each time, something else in my life had gone very wrong. So a large block might come calling if you're in a season of pain, depression, or a huge life transition.

What that might mean:

• I'm in a state of total exhaustion.

• Words are broken. I have zero faith in writing, zero confidence in my ability to write.

• I can't write. I have nothing to say.

What you can do about it:

• Let yourself off the hook. With everything. Take all productivity demands off the table. Put all projects on hold. This is serious: seek physical and emotional health more than any writing goal. Sleep. Sleep a lot. Binge on Doctor Who for hours (or some such thing). Do the gentlest, kindest things for yourself. Other professions let people have sick days, right? Take care of the writer; don't worry about words for a while.
   

• If you've been hurt by someone (if your words have been taken and twisted and used against you), it can be really hard to put pen to paper. Really, really hard. I've found my way back to words through reading Billy Collins's beautiful poems. They're simple, charming, and moving. They got me believing again in the power of a few well-placed words.
   

• In moments of huge transition, it can happen that you lose a sense of who you are. I once fell very suddenly and (it seemed) irrevocably out of love with writing. Ready to walk away, for good. So I did stop writing. Instead, I read. For two months. And then, out of the blue (it seemed), I had a new novel idea that was so precious it took my breath away. If you can read a whole bunch, I'd say just do that. Read yourself silly. Give it time. Don't force yourself to make any decisions about your writing future: just give yourself a lot of words to read. And wait to see what happens.

Dealing with blocks. You have to be your own doctor, to an extent. Diagnose yourself; discover what works for you.

If you're in this writing game for the long haul, you'll be doing this from time to time. So it's a good skill to have: you're learning to listen to your life, to look for signs of growth, signs of trouble. Keep practicing--you'll get better at it.

And you'll find your own best ways around the obstacles you hit. For me, the way around even the worst of blocks boils down to this:

Let yourself play. Stay curious. Seek health. Surround yourself with words. And give it time.

---

Do you have any anti-block strategies to share? Writer's block stories? Let's keep encouraging each other! 

Wanna keep reading? Check out: Beating the Writer's Paradox and How to Keep Going.

My Super Grown-up Anti-Fear Technique

Sometimes I fight fear by being louder than it is. By snarling back. By singing fight songs and shouting rah-rah-rah and doing a few high kicks. Sometimes that's what works.

But sometimes, when fear throws itself at me, I duck.

A few years ago, I was ready to walk away from writing. I'd tried, I'd failed (or so I thought). I wouldn't miss writing, and writing wouldn't miss me.

And in the midst of my certainty that I was done-done-done... I got this beautiful novel idea.

A middle-grade fantasy meets magical realism meets historical meets I'm still not very sure what.

I fell completely in love with this story. 

But for some reason, every time I worked on the draft, I panicked.

I got all skittish. Twitchy. I found myself backing away from the desk. 

Something about this project ignites all kinds of fear for me. And I'm still not 100% sure why. 

Maybe because it's full of the things I care most about: moments of beautiful truth, light versus dark, what it means to be a family, and finally a bunch of outcasts fighting for the sake of a city (which seems to be what I write about, time and time again). 

It's quirky, funny, very dark, very bright. It haunts me.

I was terrified to write it.

After a few weeks of "writing"--which was really me wandering around and doing anything but write--I figured out what to do.

I didn't get serious about making progress no matter how I felt. I didn't post motivational quotes all over my work space. I didn't make a big show of cheering myself on.

I went to bed.

I glanced over at my desk, over at fear, and I said, "oh, don't mind me." I dragged my papers over to my bed, arranging all my reference material. Off-handedly. Casually.

This isn't a big deal, I told myself. Probably I'm just going to nap. 

But I didn't. I snuggled under those covers, I turned my bed into a writing cave, and I wrote that story. 

I coaxed myself forward, one page at a time, one paragraph at a time. "I will just write this next sentence," I'd say. "And isn't it nice and cozy in here?"

Fear was still nosing around at my computer, so I just stayed in bed. I stayed in the place where I felt like I was whispering my story, like I was telling secrets. I ate cookies. I said, "We'll just see what comes next."

And that's how I got the draft done.

Ducking fear every step of the way.

I know that I tend to take the opposite route. After all, fear bullies us around plenty. I like bullying back, when I can.

But some manuscripts are too fragile for shouting.

When things are hard--when they are really hard, when it's storming inside--here's what you do. 

Be ridiculously nice to yourself. Do outrageously kind things for you and your writing life. 

Do whatever it is that makes a safe zone around you. Tell yourself whatever it is that you need to keep you safe. 

What would that look like for you? Light some candles. Crawl under your coziest blankets. Buy yourself a few armloads of fresh flowers and put them all over your office.

Maybe you surround yourself with photographs of everyone who believes in you. Or maybe you eat all the chocolate, or maybe all the cheese. (And then have some carrots with dinner, okay, because health and stuff.)

Create a safe place. Tell yourself it's okay. And believe it, when you say it.

And from that safe place, with the blankets around you and the candles lit and the good music on:

From that place, you write. 

---

Wanna keep reading? Check out Go and Be the Adventurer You Are and 3 Fears that Stop Us from Beginning Something Good.

This Is Why You're Going to Paris This Weekend

Okay. So it's going to happen. You're going to have a writing day, week, month, uh, year, that's just going to stink. You'll do your best, but won't pull out of your funk. And your work goes all wobbly.

Either it all fails big, it blows up in your face, it gets dramatic and ugly and there are tears...

Or, it just whimpers in a corner, and your imagination dulls, and the words stale off, and you kind of wonder how you ever got into this.

Here's my best recommendation: Go to Paris.

Like, today. 

An actual plane ticket is the best route, and if you can muster that, then go and God bless you.

For all us normal people, with tiny budgets and not super flexible schedules, here's the other route:

Get your discouraged little hands on this book.

A Writer's Paris, by Eric Maisel. And yes, you are allowed to swoon over the cover. It is a totally normal reaction.

Why this book?

Because Eric Maisel is exactly the writing coach that you need this weekend: He is definitely on your side.

And in this book, he understands what's going on in the mind and heart of a writer who is discouraged. A writer who is afraid and anxious.

Most of all, a writer who needs to commit to her work in a deeper way.

(That's you. That's me. That's all of us.)

So yes, this book is also about going to Paris. For, say, a year. And writing while you're there. Writing your brains out. But more than that, it's about owning your writerness, about choosing to be the writer that you are.

The chapters are short, easy to read, and packed with encouragement. Seriously, it believes in you so hard that it nearly turns inside out. (Or was that just my copy?) 

But you're reading this because you're discouraged, right? So maybe you don't feel like you can stomach talking about writing all the time. Maybe another writing book isn't what you need? 

That's why this book is so perfect: it's part writing encourager, part Paris travelogue.

Really. So you'll be daydreaming about the Seine, about gargoyles and gothic chapels, about flaky croissants and famous museums. You'll be reading little stories about Van Gogh and Hemingway, you'll be thinking about the expats in Paris, you'll be smiling over the wonderful illustrations.

So you soak up the stories about Paris. ... And as you do, you also read about embracing your own imperfection. About how to get out of a writing slump. (I've read Chapter 25, "Not Writing," approximately 200 times.) You read about motivation, about what to do with the wonderful people who support you and the difficult people who do not.

You read about where our ideas come from, about writing in public places, about running away from your work, about how to deal with discouragement. 

... I am resisting the urge to type out whole pages (21, 128, 190...) and instead will share this one quote:

There are always reasons not to write. They appear as wantonly as toadstools after the rain. Entertaining those reasons even for a split second is the path to uncreativity. Write, even if you have a twinge, a doubt, a fear, a block, a noisy neighbor, a sick cat, thirteen unpublished stories, and a painful boil. Write, even if you aren't sure. 
-- Eric Maisel

Breathe that quote in for a second. So good, right? 

If you have varsity-level discouragement, then I'd say go big. Get this book, and dive in. But don't stop there. 

Get yourself a baguette, a pack of croissants, or at the very least an éclair or some kind of pastry. (Because discouragement and calories are best friends.) Get some French-style café music playing. Grab your coffee (strong! dark! with chocolate!).

See where we're going with this? Make yourself Paris. Right where you are.

Whip up an omelette Saturday morning and keep on reading.

Invite courage in. Wrap it around you, like a warm blanket on a rainy day.

Close out your Parisian weekend by watching Midnight in Paris. (What, you thought I wasn't going to go there? I was totally going to go there! I can't get over Ernest Hemingway in that movie. CANNOT get over him. I just want listen to him talk about writing all day.) 

Have yourself a Parisian writing weekend. And dive into your next writing week refreshed--and still nibbling croissants and humming along to Edith Piaf--and ready to work.

---

Wanna read more about Eric Maisel? Check out these two posts, inspired by quotes from A Writer's Paris: Write Where You Are and Today Is Another Chance. 

What Writers Do When It Rains

I can't believe that tomorrow is already April. I mean . . . APRIL. The weather lately can't figure out if it wants to be cold and snowy, or--like today--warm and birdsongy and fresh.

And as it makes up its mind, I'm guessing we'll have a lot of rain. (Because you knew I was about to say April showers, didn't you?)

What do you do with the rain, lionheart?

My roommates in college deeply despised the rain. Any gray day was hailed with a groan and snarls.

... I was the weirdo who lit up at the sound of rain on the roof. I'd drag out an afghan or two, light candles, and snug into the sofa with a book. 

I usually feel rain like a relief. A let-up from the expectations of sunshine. Sunny days feel so demanding. Take advantage of me! Be productive! No excuses!

But rain--rain is a much-needed break. Like letting your face relax after grinning for too many photos.

Okay, okay. I'm not a total duck. I've resented the rain too. Usually when my jeans are soaked to the knee, my feet no longer reporting any sensation, and my nose dripping.

When I have to be out in it all day, when I can't seem to warm up, or when I already felt depressed thank-you-very-much... Those days, I don't welcome thick clouds and rain spatter and puddles. 

This month on the blog, we're going to be talking about what we do in the face of rain. Metaphorical rain, if you'll go there with me. Rain as a way to retreat.

Either retreating to seek refreshment--permission to have a different kind of day. Or, retreating from an assault, from thunderstorms and hail, from cold feet and worms writhing on the sidewalk.

How do we handle the changes in routine, the slumpy days, the gloomy moods? How do we handle storms that threaten our writing life--like, dare I say it, writer's block?

Retreats. Retreating in the face of rain. That's what we're talking about this April.

Oh, and if that somehow seems un-lionhearted, let me just say: It's not a lack of bravery, this pulling in. Sometimes the most courageous thing you can do is decide to rest. To make the time and space to take care of yourself.

And then other times, yup, we pull on our writing galoshes and go out into the storm, and face it. And maybe even write some stuff down.

So, here we come, April. We'll figure out exactly what to do with you.

Bring on the rain.

How to Talk about Your Writing (Without Throwing Up)

So you've done the hard work of beginning a writing practice. You're chugging along with some good ideas, forming strong writing habits, and cultivating a pleasant outlook.

Maybe things are going okay. And then someone says, "So... you're a writer? What are you working on?"

And, if you're like me, those simple words can be slightly terrifying.

When I started writing full-time, I responded very earnestly to questions about my work. I described where I was with my current draft, maybe sketched out a little of the plot, and--heaven help us--how I felt about it all. 

My goal in these situations was: to be honest, to try and sound like my work was legitimate, and to not throw up on their shoes out of pure nervousness.

It didn't always go well.

And here's what I've found out: The reason behind talking about my writing was all wrong. Way off.

It's good to be honest. It's good to not barf on someone's shoes. Very healthy goals. Nice job, Lucy.

But that middle one--did you notice that? Answering the "what are you writing" question in a way that would make me feel all warm and special and like my work is valuable... that NEVER went well. 

Never. You have to believe me on this.

Give up justifying yourself to people who ask about your work.

When you're talking about your writing, you'll find you have three types of listeners.

• Category One: The nice people--friends or benevolent strangers. They tend to say helpful and encouraging things. 

• Category Two: And then, the jerks. These are the ones who say things that make you feel like you've been chewed up and spit out. 

• Category Three: These are the people who don't fit neatly into either category. Usually, they mean well (in a vague kind of way), but also manage to convey some serious doubts about the validity of what you're working on.

And if you go into these conversations needing them to crown you as a valid writer, as someone who is genuinely working hard, who has justified her place in the universe--

Then you can get into trouble, no matter who you're talking to.

Category One is obviously the nicest. But if I am fishing around for a certain kind of reaction, it's really easy for me to talk too much. Either I'm venting all my insecurities (NEVER a good move), or I'm spilling my guts about my story.

If all I do is hash out my writerly anxiety, no amount of their saying "No, you're a great writer!" is gonna stick.

And if I talk too much about my actual story, a really strange thing happens: When I arrive at my desk the next day, my characters are seriously unhappy with me. 

They cross their arms and say, "Why, why, did you tell all our secrets out in the open?" You might not believe me, but I promise: the work does not go well when I overtalk my plot.

Category Two: SO MUCH FUN. (Kidding.)

If you need someone else to validate you, and then open your mouth only to find out that you're talking to a total Anti-Writing Jerk...

Oh. It's just not going to go well. 

It is shocking what people will say. The best reaction I ever got from a Category Two was the woman who told me that she would evict her daughter if she ever did what I was doing. 

(And yes, it was very clear that I was talking about WRITING, and not, say, prostitution.)

It can be very, very hard to face your work after chatting with a jerk.

And then Category Three. The ones who essentially hope things go okay for you... but they also have very serious doubts about what you're doing. And why. And how successful you'll ever be. And basically...

Well, basically they doubt everything.

I have the most trouble with this reaction. Maybe because it's more common than overt jerk-ness, but also because it's too close to my fears about writing.

That I'll never make any money from it. That it isn't a "serious" career (whatever that is). That it is a waste of whatever intelligence I have.

And this is the person I find myself having inner arguments with, whenever I sit down at my desk. The kind of people I try to explain myself to, rising to the challenge of their strained "oh--how nice." 

Justifying why I write. What I write about. How I work. 

It's never a good route.

So I changed my goal.

I've had way too many crappy conversations about what I do. (Seriously. SO MANY.) 

And I've talked to too many honestly nice people, who have nevertheless sucked all the writing energy out of me and left me spinning. (Again: So many times.)

Finally, finally, I've wised up. I changed my goal.

It's not super complicated. My real, main, underlying goal, in any conversation about my work, is this: To be able to write the next day.

To be able to sit down at my desk after having this conversation about what I do, and to do my work.

No drama. No arguments. No wheedling. No justifying. No seeking validation.

I'm a writer. Writers write.

I don't need to find anyone who can give me that title. It doesn't exist somewhere outside of myself. No one hands out "Oh, FINALLY you're a writer now!" certificates. 

I've decided: this is a valid career. This is the thing I'm doing with my life.

Regardless of making absolutely zero money with it, for a long time now. Regardless of how it turns out.

Whether other people think it's worth my time, or whether they very plainly don't.

When you know this--when you know it down to your toes--then these conversations about your work just don't have that kind of power over you anymore.  They don't tie your stomach in knots and then leave you eviscerated.

Which means: You're free to do your work.

You can talk to your friends without sharing too much, without writhing in insecurity. You can be honest and concise, without ticking off your characters.

You can look at the jerks with sympathy. (My guess is, there is something in their lives that they didn't give themselves permission to do. And now they poop on everyone else's parade. Which is ultimately very sad. And it quite literally stinks to be them.) 

If you can't muster up sympathy for the jerks--or even if you can--you can write about them. Congrats, your novel just got a new character.

And the conflicted well-wishers, the kindly nay-sayers... Well, you can shrug them off too.

Your career isn't in their hands. Your ability to practice your writing until you're incredibly good, your time dreaming up characters and storylines... all of that is separate from them. It's only up to you.

So stay strong.

Look. It's gonna happen. You'll have some weird conversations about writing.

You're going to give too much information about your work to some people, and their reactions will haunt you. You'll blurt something out to a sneer-face, and be paralyzed for a week. Or you'll cheerily tell someone about your work, and their indifference or their constant questions will make you exhausted and doubtful.

But it comes down to this: You're a writer. You are facing a white page, a blank screen, and you're filling it with ideas. Words. Vision put to paper.

That is no small thing.

Actually, it's a big freaking deal.

And so there are going to be people out there that try to put the brakes on what you're up to. (Big deals tend to draw this sort of person out.)

Don't let them.

You have to decide, right here, right now, that you're a writer. 

You have to have the goal of writing. No matter what anyone says.

Because these aren't the only critics you'll face, right? So refuse to give anyone the power to stop you from working.

You're a writer. An explorer. You're diving into the unknown, again and again.

You actually do have the guts to do this. Don't let anyone's reactions convince you otherwise.

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Wanna keep reading? Check out these posts: Voice Your Astonishment and The End of Excuses.

You're Already a Magician

If you're in a creative field for about, oh, five minutes, you'll hear this quote:

Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. --Johann Wolfgang von Goethe*

When I began writing Book One of my trilogy, I was escaping two huge novel projects. We're talking fifty-page outlines, and 500-page drafts. HUGE. I wrote Book One like a runaway.

I had a couple of plot ideas, three character names, and a murky idea for a villain. A city name that I thought sounded fun. And that was about it.

I dove headfirst into NaNoWriMo, and by flinging myself at the blank page day after day, I came up with a story of over 50,000 words that completely dazzled me.

I found out that I didn't need a massive strategy. I didn't need dozens of plot complications listed out. I didn't need scene diagrams. Somehow, I already had the whole story inside me.

And it just took diving in to find it.

So what is it, this boldness of just BEGINNING? You're saying to yourself that anything is possible. That this is a road you are willing to go down. 

And when you do that, three things show up.

You're a genius.

When you dive in, with a whole heart, with all the boldness cylinders firing, you just get smarter. Really! You do. When problems show up, you find a way.

Because there are always problems. And there is always a way.

You find in yourself a cunningness. An openness to unusual solutions.

What's the prerequisite for solving a problem? Believing that you can. Believing that there exists an answer, somewhere, and that it is graspable. 

Funny what you'll invent, what you'll create, what you'll make, as long as you believe that you can. Answers arrive out of thin air, exposing what you didn't know you knew.

You're powerful.

When you really go for it, you make your own momentum.

This is a crazy good thing. Stoke it, build it, add to it in any way you can.

And never ever take your momentum for granted.

A strong beginning builds its own energy and strength. An oomph that can move you over hurdles in your way.

And hey, you're putting ideas into the world, putting words down on paper, that didn't exist there before. No matter how you slice it, no matter how you feel about it, that's powerful. That's big stuff.

You're a magician.

As you come up with your genius answers, and as you build momentum, weird things start showing up.

Characters start talking to you. I mean it. Really talking.

You start seeing things that aren't there.

No, I'm not getting spooky on you. I think another word for all this is "overactive imagination." But for once, that's a really good thing. That's exactly what you want!

Yes, you, with the overactive imagination: Please bring it over here and start writing your novel.

I think that when you've voted YES for your creative work in a really solid, hands-down, not-gonna-back-out way, your brain takes a little bit of time to catch up. (Maybe to get over its surprise.) But then when it does--oh baby. When it does.

It brings all kinds of stuff out of its attic, out of the basement. Ideas and imagery you didn't know you had in you. I mean--you really didn't know.

Character voices and mannerisms, crazy settings, and astonishing conflict ideas that you can't explain in a purely rational way. Because they feel like they came from something outside of you, not you at all.

And instead of scraping the bottom of what you can imagine, you discover depths below depths.

Dive in.

Sometimes, if we don't start when we should, all that genius, power, and magic goes the other way. It goes backward, works against you.

Personally, I'm always spotting flaws in my works-in-progress, in my project plans. I see why things don't work. I'm a terrible skeptic when it comes to most ideas: the first thing to my lips is why we can't. I am full of resistance, mule-minded, with a very hard head, heels that have lots of practice digging in. 

And I can practical-mind all that magic away.

Spoiler alert: This is not the way to enjoy writing novels.

Sometimes, you really just need to leap, whole-heartedly. In spite of flaws, in spite of doubts. And you figure it out as you're falling.

Sometimes, you really do learn to fly on the way down. And, when you don't, sometimes the crash landing isn't as awful as you thought it would be. You learn. You build a better flying machine.

Sometimes, you really just need to begin.

What is it that you've held back from beginning? What is on your "one day, maybe I'll..." list? 

What would happen if you--started?

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Wanna keep reading courage-building posts? Check out Throwing a Party for Discomfort and Feed the Bears. And then dive into your week, lionheart! You can do it!

Boost a friend's Monday by sharing this post! Let's all be magicians this week.

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*So I've heard that this Goethe quote is commonly misattributed, and that the quote actually came from W. H. Murray, but either way you slice it: it's a stirring quote.

Three fears that stop us from beginning something good (and what to do about them)

Most of the time, it's easy to think about beginning something. To dream it up. Starting a new project, or starting a writing practice at all: It feels just safe enough to talk about it. Exciting, and full of good possibility. 

Dreams feel safe. Everything is possible in Dreamville! It is a good time! Your feet don't get sore, you never run out of ideas, your skills rise to the challenge. And confetti floats down, and a feel-good soundtrack hums in the background...

Okay, maybe you vaguely account for snags and difficulties, but they are dream-snags, wispy-difficulties. They aren't enough to squash the floating, ethereal dream itself.

The actual beginning part--well, that's different.

As I make that transition from dreaming and early happy planning and excitement into the actual start--the actual rubber meeting the actual road--my knees get mushy.

Dozens of fears snarl up in my face. I find myself procrastinating, making excuses. I discover a new TV series that I MUST watch in entirety. I find any clutter unbearable and "need" to organize whatever I put my hands on.

I put off the new adventure. Or discard it completely. Or maybe I do start, but so halfheartedly that it fails. And it's kinda on purpose.

Ugh. That's just no good, watching fear snatch a beautiful beginning out of my hands.

Here are three fears that persistently try to derail me:

Fear of looking foolish.

This one's really easy to spot, because it's the voice in my head saying, "Oh my gosh. You look like an idiot."

See? Not that subtle.

This fear cannot get over the fact that I'm a writer.

You're actually going to play with a bunch of imaginary characters, and write down what they say, and then try to sell it to other people. And you call this a job. Your peers are flying planes, leading churches, teaching children, or performing dentistry. And you've got the mental equivalent of puppets on your hands, making yourself laugh, alone, at your desk.

This fear says, "You're not going to be able to tell anyone that that's what you write about, that that's what you do." And so I'm tempted to skip it completely.

Fear of hard work.

The trouble with this fear is that it has its roots in cold, hard facts. It has some truth on its side.

This is that thickening in the stomach that I get when I look at the almighty list of things that went wrong in a book. I come up with these crushingly huge revision treatises. Thousands of things that need fixing. You could probably run a country with a less comprehensive list than that.

And I absolutely quail at the sight of it.

I still think of this feeling as "syllabus shock." It's what descends during the first week of new college classes. I'd pick up those syllabus packets from my professors, look over the collected amount of work I'd be doing that semester. And slowly realize the colossal size of the undertaking.

All the hours of work, all the pages of reading. The dreaded group projects, dozens of essays, and OHMYGOSH even an oral presentation.

"Actually," I'd say to myself, in a clear calm voice (though slightly higher pitched than usual), "I don't want a degree at all. That's all nonsense. I would just like to go to my hometown and open a coffee shop. I believe in coffee. It is a noble undertaking." 

And then they'd find me three days later, wandering the wilderness preserve on campus, with my clothes in rags and my hair on end, raving about espresso machines...

(Okay. That didn't really happen exactly. But I felt like it could happen.)

Fear of failure.

This is the mother fear. The one that gives the others their power.

What if you face down the silliness of your proposed project, and what if you've even managed to believe you can do all the work. Then there's always this one:

This fear says that all your efforts won't amount to anything at all. No one will sign your project. Even if by some miracle you sell the book, no one will read it. Or everyone will--but they'll hate it. They'll write mocking-yet-accurate reviews. And also, bonus: You won't even make money from it.

All around failure.

Turning Fears Around

This is the full fear chorus I hear at the start of an enterprise: You're an idiot, you'll never get it done, and it won't be worth it.

Well. That is some fun chatter. That's a real happy party.

Listen to that too long and too loud, and you'll believe it. But that's not where we're going to stay, right? You and I, we're going to get better at beginning well.

So what works?

Wisely anticipate.

For starters, I think it can help to expect a bit of fear. After all, a taunt that's expected loses some of its power. It might still sting, but you were looking for it. You can block the punch that you know is coming--at the very least, you have a shot.

But if you're going to expect it, you also have to decide not to be paralyzed by it. 

Deciding not to be paralyzed has been huge for me. I remember that fears don't speak the whole truth. I remember that I have more options than fear wants me to believe. 

Sometimes this is as simple as announcing to myself: "I'm going to feel like running away. But I won't run."

Call its bluff.

When it comes to looking foolish, it helps to call for definitions. Pin this fear down. What the heck does foolish even mean?

Does it mean not serious enough? Not valuable? Frivolous?

I just checked my "Speaking Like Fear" phrasebook... and yeah, that's what my fear is talking about. My work isn't as smart and clever as my work "should" be. I took poetry classes. I memorized rhetorical structure and stuff. I should be all smug and intelligent with my words. (I shouldn't type kinda and publish it on a blog post, for crying out loud.)

Yeah, yeah, yeah. But here's something I learned recently: When a person is going through a really tough time, they need a laugh. They need a bit of an escape. Yes, they might also need a pilot, a pastor, a teacher, a doctor.

But they also need someone to cup hands around their very humanness. They need someone to hearten them.

They need that bit of encouragement that comes in with laughter. They need the understanding of their very selves that they find in a piece of good fiction. And that is no small thing. That's the very work of living.

So here's the absolute truth: The idea that this is foolish is an illusion.

And that goes for so much more than fiction. That goes for whatever work you do. If it's big enough and important enough that fear gets all up in arms--well! Almost by definition, that stuff is not foolish. Fear doesn't get all riled up with things that don't matter. I mean, why bother? 

Fear shows up for the big stuff. So call its bluff. You're not being foolish at all.

Grab hold of perspective with both hands.

To fight the fear of hard work, I have to change up how I'm looking at the project.

There's a falseness that creeps in when I look at a huuuuuge list of problems with a work-in-progress. There's a lie that sidles up. Because I'm looking at a list that will cover months of my life. But I can't live "months of my life" all at once.

You get what I mean?

In college, I'd look at those syllabuses, and I experienced the weight of all that work at once. But the truth is, I'd do the actual work of it one day at a time.

That's it. One hour at a time. Fifteen minutes at a time.

The pressure of all those deadlines at once--it felt like it was going to kill me, or make me a lunatic, one or the other. But I survived semester after semester just fine. Not dead. Not crazy.

Whenever I start a new book, I hear that shriek: I can't do all that work!!

And I'm learning to respond very calmly and very sensibly: "Well, you're not going to do it all right now."

You eat an elephant one bite at a time, and you write a book the same way. You do that tiny piece of work in front of you, and then you pick up the next tiny piece of work. And bit by bit (or Bird by Bird), you get the work done.

Also? You can totally give yourself breaks, refreshing retreats, and mini celebrations with each project milestone you tick off. It doesn't have to be all grim, all fingers-to-the-bone.

Fear of hard work: It's hysterical when it doesn't need to be.

Decide what success is.

All right. So, failure is real. I mean, it's really real. Stuff dies, ends, blows up, fades.

I spent four years drafting a dead-end novel that I don't know if I can ever rescue. It has a tendency to haunt me, as I work with my other projects. With each revision I start, part of me thinks: "This is the one when you destroy the story irrevocably. This is when it all goes pear-shaped."

Here's my best weapon for that: I take a good, hard look at what success is.

This fear has a very specific definition of success. Something along the lines of: a five-book contract, an advance that lets me buy a car and a cool loft downtown, three big-time awards, and eight weeks (minimum!) on the New York Times Bestseller List.

It wants my enterprise to pay off in a "legitimate" way. This means money, career recognition, and all the naysayers crying, "We should never have judged you!"

If it can't have all that, this fear says, You failed.

I have a nice long history with this fear, because I'm a recovering perfectionist: 

I have literally been sickeningly disappointed by a 100% on a test--because I didn't get the extra credit. Seriously.

But once you realize that you can be disappointed by a perfect score, you start to question just what's driving that disappointment.

In other words, that fear is completely bonkers.

To shut it up, I've come up with my own ideas about success. And instead of black-or-white requirements, it is a list of questions:

• Am I learning?

• Am I growing?

• Am I moving toward a better understanding of stories, and of my story in particular?

• Did I try?

• Was I honest?

And lately, I'm also asking more and more:

• Is this healthy?

• Am I loving the people around me?

• Am I being kind, to others and to myself? Am I being compassionate?

These questions open up a whole new paradigm. A whole new way of looking at work, at projects, at beginnings.

Those four years I spent on my first novel--I grew a lot. I learned so much about the kinds of stories I loved, and the kinds of stories I didn't so much like. I learned like crazy about the writing process itself. I tried very, very hard. And I found out just how short-sighted it is to work in unhealthy ways.

So actually, that novel is a total success. I learned things that I couldn't pay for, and started incorporating habits that are making me into the kind of writer I want to be.

That's crazy successful! That's like a whole degree in writing!

So when the fear of failure shows up, force it to voice its definition of success. And then dare to redefine it.

And then? Be bold about claiming your successes. Celebrate them! And button that fear's mouth for good.

What does fear say when it moves in close to you? What strategies have you used to shut fear up? We're stronger together, so share your thoughts on courage in the comments!

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Want to encourage a writing friend who might be struggling with fear (and aren't we all)? Please share this post!

Want to keep reading? Check out The DNA of Writerly Heroism and We Are Gonna Run For It.