When Productivity Isn't a Good Thing

About a month ago, an acquaintance of mine--a good person, well-intentioned, who wants the best for me--asked how my novel was going. And I wanted to:

Multiple choice: choose the most appropriate answer: 

a) discuss the recent high points in my drafting process.
b) invite them to read my work-in-progress.
c) pass the question off with a super-vague answer.
d) scream. And just go ahead and keep on screaming.

To my deep mortification, the answer is d. I held it together at the time, and managed to squeak by with a combo of a and c, but oh my goodness. I had to go to my writing desk and sit down and have a very serious talk with myself.

I mean: What was my deal? It's one thing when someone's being a pain in the hindquarters. But this was a genuinely nice person. (Who doesn't read this blog. So don't worry, I'm not talking about you.)

It took me about ten minutes to realize that my near-meltdown was because I haven't been writing fiction lately. I haven't been working on my novel.

When I'm not working on fiction, two things happen. 1) I become restless and irritable, and 2) I'm much more likely to take the heads off innocent bystanders who are asking about it.

When I'm not working on a novel, I get a little unhinged.

But I know this about myself. I've known this a long time. In fact, my family is well-trained: if I'm getting a bit, um, difficult to live with, they know how to lovingly say, "Hey, why don't you go write."

So the real surprise on that day I did not scream was this: That I had no idea that this condition was creeping up on me. 

To tell you the truth, it didn't even dawn on me how much I wasn't writing.

What was I doing instead? I was having a mega let's-plan-the-rest-of-my-life festival.

For about a month.

Now, I have a bunch of good reasons. SO MANY REASONS. I'm taking new directions in my overall career focus, and shifting a few other things around too. (General life stuff. Big overhaul. Big plans.)

A lot of things are up in the air, honestly. And since I'm one of the 99% of people who have trouble with change, I've been feeling a teeny bit anxious lately.

And when I get anxious, I plan.

I try to stabilize my shaky legs on ideas that feel solid and sure. Like lists.

I've been looking at productivity strategies, making to-do lists, creating six-month plans, three-month plans, eight-week plans, next week's plans...

My days were full of words and paper and new digital documents. I felt so deliciously BUSY. And it was all to do with career stuff, and new mindsets, and a better outlook. 

Everything I was doing wore a big shiny "I'm Important!" badge.

But the truth is, I camped out way too long in Plan Making. 

I fought all the uncertainties with a blaze of productivity, of plans and activities and deep thinking.

And I stranded the imaginative side of my work. For weeks.

Funny how this is still so easy to forget, but as a fiction-writer, the imagination is my primary citizenship.

Not lists, but dreams.

What do you do when you get a wake-up call?

I didn't make a list. But I did make a few choices.

I plunged back into my fiction work, bringing my novel back to the front of my days. The top priority spot in my schedule. When my brain is best.

The novel now gets the bulk of my time. (Can you hear all my characters cheering?)

But the more I thought about it, the more I could tell that there are other places I've neglected too: There's my perennial cry that I don't read enough. It's been too long since I've nurtured creativity for its own sake. And there are places in my craft that I need to focus in on, with a master class or two.

What's a Lucy to do? 

I'm making a few other changes to my schedule, and one of them affects you, my lovely and wonderful readers. Here it is: Instead of publishing three posts a week, I'm gonna pull it back to just two. Is that okay?

I still love you, and I'm still rooting for you like crazy. We're still going to talk all things lionhearted, all thing writing life. We'll just be doing it on Mondays and Thursdays, instead of three days a week.

Is that cool with you? ... Okay. Thanks.

And my novel says a huge THANK YOU. (Also, it says: high fives to your current work-in-progress, if you could pass that along.)

So how are you doing? Have you stumbled across a wake-up call lately? Any acquaintances that may have been screamed at? Or is there just a slow disconnect, an unwinding and an unraveling in your work? 

Do you feel crazy-busy? Is it choking out all the quiet voices of your words, your writing? 

How's your imagination? Does it feel strong and healthy and ready to conjure up another world at a moment's notice? Or is it a little limp, exhausted, and drowned out by the productivity sirens?

Maybe for you, planning and list-making isn't the problem. Maybe it's all research and no writing? Or staying in the "idea gathering" stage waaaaay too long? 

What might be trying to get your attention? And what would it look like if you listened? If you focused in on it, and put all your attention on the most important thing?

Let me know in the comments, and I will totally cheer you on. 

Refuse to Feel Sheepish about How Completely Odd You Are

On a lightning-quick visit to Chicago last spring, I stumbled across an exhibit of Edward Gorey's works at Loyola University. Lucky, lucky, LUCKY me! I spent an age poking through the exhibit, reading every little blurb, staring at every illustration.

(...Okay, I really really love his stuff, so let's skip the part where I basically hijack this blog post and turn it into one long gush festival about how much I love his stunning and macabre illustrations, how I laughed till I cried at The Gashlycrumb Tinies, and what that says about my sense of humor. We'll skip all that. I love him, the end.)

The most important moment for me was when I read this one panel that listed all Gorey's influences. Everything that he liked. The stuff that had some effect or other on his work.

You guys. This list. SO LONG.

And bizarre. And ... varied. Edwardian architecture and Gilbert & Sullivan. The game of Monopoly and graveyards (obviously). Edward Leary and sitcoms. Ballet and Batman and cats. 

He was influenced by so many things that he became totally uncategorizable.

Completely original. 

I came back home, thrilled by all of the exhibit, but especially haunted by that list.

See, I have this temptation to ignore all my quirkiness. To override my creative impulses. To refuse to make time for all the things that intrigue me.

No, no, no, I protest to myself. I need to be efficient! I need to not go down all those other paths of what I'm curious about. I need to stay FOCUSED.

Productivity is all well and good, but we need to create room and time to be artists.

To chase down the things that interest us. 

Whether they're interesting to other people or not. Whether they "fit" our topic and our genre or not.

When I was little, I had this book about codes that I loved. I'd sit for hours with this reference book, pouring over the section on Morse Code, and Braille, and flag signaling. 

I also had these nature encyclopedias. I studied the detailed drawings of animal footprints, just in case I had to identify, say, a bobcat print. (You never know.) I memorized details about thorny lizards and carpet sharks and cassowaries. 

I was obsessed with the alphabet. I loved paper folding and weird little crafts. I named all the trees in our backyard and invented histories for what had happened there before we came.

... And then I guess I grew up. I watched reality TV in college and the same movies everyone else was watching, and I felt generally kind of ... dull.

There's a temptation to mimic everyone else's input. Right? To make it look acceptable and safe. But that doesn't breed creativity. Not so much.

What about you? What were you obsessed with as a kid? And what's inspiring you like crazy now? (Or what would inspire you, if, you know, you went ahead and let it?)

Are you making time for that? 

What would happen, if we explored those weird little curiosities we have?

I have this suspicion: that by giving ourselves time to do that, we might be feeding our creativity and stories in deeper ways than we can really know.

What do you need to do, to treasure your own oddities? To treat them like the creative GOLD that they are? 

What would it look like for you to pursue those funny little interests, that strange hobby? To be well and truly influenced by that thing that's not on anyone else's radar?

... Can I tell you something hokey I'm doing?

I'm dreaming up some kind of exhibit that might exist, decades down the road. You know. After my long and incredibly creative career, after I turn up my toes and am snoozing in a very comfortable grave somewhere.

Say, ten years after I'm dead.

And there's all these BOOKS. (A book exhibit. Sure. Why not.) And there's a panel on the wall, listing the many, wildly varied influences on Lucy Flint's life and career and stories.

All the crazy ingredients that seeped into my stories through the years.

And here's my question to myself right now: What's on that list? 

And then, next step: To totally own that list of influences. To give myself full creative license to dig into the things that inspire me. Unapologetically. 

Maybe I'll figure out that bobcat footprint after all. Maybe I'l let my inner geek out and study Morse Code again.

How about you? What's on your ultimate list of influences?

Or are you stuck trying to sound like all the other bloggers and Twitterers? Are you trying to make your Instagram feed and your Pinterest boards look like everyone else's? Do you feel somehow obligated to be inspired by certain things?

What movies do you really want to watch? What kinds of reference books would make you stay up way too late at night? What details make you crazy-excited? 

Don't water down your creativity by trying to use the "acceptable" influences.

Do not trade your dreams for someone else's idea of normalcy. 

Because you know what? The world does not actually need you to blend in, and write the same exact stuff as everyone else in your genre. It DOESN'T NEED THAT.

There will be pressure to make things that way, but trust me: That's NOT what it needs.

It needs you to be you. Your deepest, wildest, most unruly self. 

This weekend, set aside some time for a creative date with yourself. Pursue the quirky things that you love.

Refuse to feel sheepish. Just plunge headlong into your own craziness. Be TRULY inspired.

Okay? And let's be the writers we're supposed to be.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to find a book on codes.

How to Survive Writing Life Culture Shock

When you dive into the writing life--especially if you're going full tilt, full time--you might experience culture shock. And frankly, it might be severe.

Wait a sec, you might be thinking. Isn't this taking the whole "travel" metaphor a bit far?

Nope. 

When I was in college, I spent a semester studying in England. We were prepped with a discussion or two on culture shock before we left. 

Okay. Things will be different, I thought. So I went with my teeth gritted a bit, expecting to enjoy my host country, but also to face a bit of culture shock as well.

Guess what. I had absolutely NO culture shock symptoms at all. I wanted to stay there forever. (Sniff. I love you, England.)

But fast forward to, oh, about 24 hours after college graduation: I developed a major case of culture shock. Which lasted about seven years.

Learning to check my instincts before crossing a road was SO EASY compared to navigating the full time novelist's life!

Culture shock + the writing life. Let's talk about it. 

I love this description of culture shock, from the University of North Carolina - Greensboro. (Not my college, but they do an awesome job of discussing symptoms and adjustment.) 

They define culture shock as "the way you react and feel when the cultural cues you know so well from home are lacking."

What do you think, lionhearted writer? Did your cultural cues shift when you started the writing life?

All the things that made sense in your normal job, or in school--when they disappeared and were replaced by the writing life's cues... how did that go for you?

I found that I was desperate for a syllabus. I wanted someone else to have a plan for my writing life. I missed feedback at every step of the way--from fellow students, from professors.

And I couldn't figure out why working all day and night was burning me out instead of getting stuff done. The harder I pushed, the worse things got.

Here's what I found: All the skills I had developed to do really awesome work in school were the exact skills that set me up to do really badly as a full time novel writer. 

Seriously. 

So did I get some major culture shock? Yup. 

And not just metaphorically. I had the symptoms. 

Check out that list on the U of NC page: I developed a BUNCH of them as a full time writer!

This is a little embarrassing, but seriously, I checked pretty strong on: tiredness, irritability, depression, crying for no reason, homesickness, and (ahem) hostility toward host nationals. (I hated hearing about other writers doing well. Like I said: embarrassing.)

I have finally crossed through that stage, but I think I could have passed through it much MUCH faster if I realized what the heck I was dealing with. I could have learned to adapt, I could have thought like an expat, instead of just fighting it all.

I love the tips for coping on that study abroad link. Seriously, these are GREAT for writers. Let's translate them into writer-speak:

Learn as much as possible about the writing life. 

Not just the writing craft, but the writing LIFE.

That's a huge part of why I have this blog in the first place: because all the books on craft weren't helping me get better.

It was only when I learned more and more about how other writers  survived, how other writers tick, how other writers navigate productivity and creativity... only then did I start to calm down, and figure this stuff out.

So what can you do?

• Read writer's memoirs! Books about how other writers deal with this funny writing life. (The Writer's Desk is a gorgeous and very pick-up-able intro to the writing life.)

• Gulp down interviews with other writers. (The website Writer Unboxed has an incredible archive of interviews. Read 'em all!!)

• I will crawl over shards of glass to hand any writer a copy of Page after Page or Chapter after Chapter by Heather Sellers. More than any other books, these helped explain to me what it feels like to be a writer. 

Find logical reasons for the cultural differences.

So, the writing life doesn't look like a bunch of other kinds of lives.

It is not the same thing as a full time student life. Or full time work with a boss and clear instructions. Okay? 

If you've only ever been a student, or if you've only ever worked with fairly clear guidelines--you might feel like your identity has gone all shaky on you. 

You might feel like you've been tossed in a lake with a pen and paper. (And if so, yup, that's right on track.)

It's a fluid kind of life, with room for creativity and curiosity. You learn how much discipline you need, and how to keep discipline from choking creativity. (And creativity from choking discipline!) You learn how to push yourself and how to let yourself rest. 

And it's darned hard! 

I spent so much time highlighting the differences between the writing life and my former life. And then I reinforced  those differences by fighting the writing life. And fighting hard.

I kept thinking: it shouldn't be this way. It should be a lot more like college.

That kind of thinking didn't help me. At all. It kept me locked in culture shock for a long time:

I shouldn't have to have an apprenticeship. I should be able to write a perfect novel in a year. Other people should understand exactly what it is I do (and be encouraging, for pete's sake).

Creativity should follow neat, organized paths. I should be able to stay perfectly on my predicted schedule. Every day should be productive in a quantifiable, check-off-that-box kind of way.

That kind of thinking helped me graduate with honors. I did really great in school. So, yay. Yay for that. But it was time--past time--to let that thinking go.

To tuck those ideas, that way of working, in a box with some tissue paper, and put a freaking lid on it.

If, say, creativity followed neat and organized paths, guess what. IT WOULDN'T BE CREATIVITY. It might be, say, website coding, or architecture, or algebra. But it wouldn't be CREATIVITY. 

See what I mean?

What about you? What are your biggest arguments against the creative writing life?

Maybe it's time to acknowledge that this kind of thinking helped you do whatever it is that you did before. Maybe it even helped you do really, really well. And that's great. Really.

But it will strangle your writing life. Time to let it go.

Don't whine about your new culture.

Ahem. Right? We need to resist the temptation to get together with other writers to have a big moaning festival.

I'm only one week into my No Whining Challenge, but I'm already discovering three great benefits to refusing to whine: 

1) If I can't vent about something, I find that I can laugh about it. And not just in a bitter way, but I can genuinely find it funny. It's like all that whining energy puts on party hats and makes me laugh. I can't explain it. But it's a good thing.

2) A bigger sense of gratitude. When I'm not clouding my general outlook with a lot of complaining, my vision is clearer to see all the good stuff. Which has been pretty cool.

3) If something's really bugging me and I can't whine about it, I channel all that energy into just fixing it. Shocking, right? Instead of griping, I can, you know, DO something about it.

So instead of whining about the writing life (the instability! the disorganization! the many tempting chances to go insane!), find what's funny about it. What's genuinely humorous about the writing temperament, the quirkiness of what we do, the way writers talk and think.

See the freedom with gratitude. 

And if something's really nagging at you--try to fix it.

Talk to someone who has acclimated to this new culture.

YES! Meet other writers! Seek friendships with the non-whining people who are navigating this life, and who are doing a decent job of it. Find 'em on Twitter, on Instagram, through other social media channels...

Or hey, talk to me, I'm right here! Ha ha! But seriously, leave a comment or catch me on Twitter @reallucyflint, and say hello. We can talk about this totally unusual writing life!!

Talk with your new writing friends about how your old cultural cues worked and how these new cues are so different.

Talk about how your sense of expectations changed, how success is totally different, how freedom sometimes feels like it's strangling you, how all those books on creativity make you feel squirmy.

And learn about how this other person has made their adjustments, what mindset tricks they use, how they think about it now. This can be so so helpful!

Know that you can make it.

You really can. (Heck, if I can do it, I'm pretty sure anyone can!) 

If you're writing at all, if you're drawn to the writing life, then some part of you, somewhere in your personality and psyche, some part of you really will thrive in this life. Some part of you is urging you to jump in.

And the rest of you? The rest of you really can catch up. I promise.

The writing life is a pretty broad and forgiving thing, when you get used to it. There's a lot of room for variety. As you adapt, you'll find ways to make it your own. One day you might wake up and find that you're right at home, talking and giving directions like a native!

It helps if you aren't super strict with yourself as you adjust. Give yourself so much grace. Don't demand perfection. Don't try to push yourself harder when you're still learning the ropes. 

That study abroad page has a list of character traits that are good for helping you adjust and cope: And even though they say that they're helping you travel to a new culture, I think that they are IDEAL for a writer's toolkit!

A tolerance for ambiguity? YUP.

Open-mindedness. Flexibility. Curiosity. Sense of humor. Ability to fail.

Yes to all that.

Look, friend. If you really want to be a writer, but are having the hardest time adjusting, I totally hear you. 

Try this. It really is more than just a nifty metaphor this time. Try thinking of it as culture shock. You learned how to survive in your old culture, and you probably were really, really good at it.

But this is a new place. 

Don't beat yourself up. The new culture simply won't look the same as the old, in so many ways. The cues are not the same.

Don't hold yourself to old standards when you're in a new land. At the very least, you'll be uncomfortable. At the worst, you'll be a bit of a wreck, kinda like me. 

What is the thing that you trip over the most, the cultural cue that is the most frustrating and infuriating? The thing that makes you snap, and holler about how much you hate writing, you hate this crummy life? What is that thing?

Try to see it in light of this new culture. Maybe there's a reason things are different here. Maybe the reasons are even understandable, even good somehow. Learn how other writers made that adjustment. Make friends with writers who are adjusting right alongside you.

Practice flexibility. Practice your sense of humor. Let yourself fail. 

And become a citizen of a new (and ultimately super wonderful!) culture.

---

What is the toughest part of adapting to this new culture? Or what are you overcoming; what have you overcome? Let us know in the comments. Let's be a writing community that supports each other! 

The Habit We All Have that Poisons Our Writing (Yikes!)

Have you ever gone on a trip with a total whiner? Someone who highlights every disappointment, every inconvenience? 

The smell of the room, the weird guy over there, the long line at the restrooms, the shoulder bag is way too heavy, these prices are ridiculous, feet are aching, ohmygosh is it really about to rain, these exhibits aren't really all that great, these streets should be better marked, CAN'T get my MAP folded back up . . .

You know. Whining.

It's funny: I love traveling. Love it! I itch to explore new places. And yet... I do my fair share of whining.

*slaps forehead* 

What's up with that? Here's my theory. I think I love idealized travel. Right? Travel with neat edges: clean restrooms, low humidity, good hair days, smooth traffic, no exploding shampoo in the suitcase.

The kind of travel that doesn't really exist.

So the part of me that loves idealized travel is the part that cannot believe that all these difficulties and irritations exist.

So I nitpick. And whine. About all the inconveniences.

... but have you heard what G. K. Chesterton said about inconvenience?

He wrote, An inconvenience is only an adventure wrongly considered; an adventure is an inconvenience rightly considered.

Meaning: it's all a matter of perspective.

Meaning: all my whining IS TOTALLY OPTIONAL.

What about you--are you a whiner?

(Go ahead and 'fess up. It's good for the soul.)

Do you whine about travel? Or, more to the point: Do you whine about your writing? 

Oof. I know. Me too.

It's so easy to love writing, to love the writing life, and find out that what you actually love is the idealized version.

The writing life where everything moves at the pace you would choose. Where you never have to throw out that 500-page draft you spent over a year working on. (Who, me?) Where you get money just for TRYING HARD.

Where the words come fairly easily, and any struggles--if you must have them--are beautifully cinematic and cause other people to buy you drinks. (As opposed to telling you to get a "real" job.)

Whining about our writing because it's not the "ideal" writing life. 

I think we need to stop doing that. 

Just go cold turkey. Give it up. No more whining.

To be clear, by "whining" I don't mean: Identifying an obstacle or pointing out that something is wrong. I'm not saying that we shouldn't recognize what isn't working well, or that a situation is difficult. 

By all means, let's stay realistic.

But let's also realize that all our whining is actually optional and not super helpful. And that by turning all setbacks into inconveniences, we just might be missing some adventures.

Need a bit more convincing? Okay. 

Here's what I find when I whine, whether it's about my writing, or about anything else:

Whining means: putting words out there. (I tend to whine in a journal a lot, so I'm literally writing my whines down. I'm using all my writing muscles to whine.)

And it doesn't make things better. Real whining? It's just moving the mess around.

In housecleaning terms, it's taking a pile of clutter and marching through the house with it, spilling papers and paraphernalia all through the rest of your living quarters. Giving yourself MORE to deal with, not less.

I'm not saying that we should never have a negative thought. I'm not saying we need to lie to ourselves, or to Pollyanna our way through life.

What I am saying--and what I've seen at work in my own writing life--is this: When I whine (whether with my mouth or pen or keyboard), I drain words and energy and emotion and courage right away from my writing.

After a big whine festival, I feel like I'm sizzling with ideas for more whining. I feel a bit worn out and self-righteous and like I could write a whole treatise for Why This Thing Is Wrong.

And also, like watching a movie with a gin and tonic. Because now I'm tired, and I feel like I need a break. 

From stewing and rehashing and complaining about something that--frankly--I probably won't even remember a week from now. Something that definitely Does Not Matter.

Usually I'm inflating a petty drama or a misunderstanding. I'm blowing a ton of hot air into it, so it turns into this massive balloon of a mood that sweeps me up and away. 

I'm focusing on conflict that isn't my novel's conflict. I'm rehearsing and recreating dialogues that aren't coming from my characters.

I'm spinning this whole narrative sequence--all those novel skills at work!--and using up my creativity for some silly, petty nothing.

That's whatcha call Counterproductive.

And here's the other thing: Whining dulls us. 

G.K. Chesterton might say that it keeps us from seeing adventures, opportunities, and new ways of thinking.

When we inflate the inconvenience version of things, we can't possibly see the positive version. We go blind. (This is never good for a writer.)

And it messes with our voice. Have you noticed that all whining sounds pretty much the same?

There's a tone and a direction, a sourness. Whining deflates a personality, and turns it into plain old bitterness. Which smells and sounds like everyone else's bitterness. Gross.

Lionhearts! Let's NOT DO THIS. Okay? 

It's toxic. It's bad for our writing, and probably it isn't super for any other part of our lives.

Let's boot it out of our writing hearts. Let's not use our pens to jot down a million reasons why something is no good.

Let's stop dwelling on petty dramas and inconveniences. Let's stop trading our good novel words for energy-draining, personality-zapping dullness.

ICK.

No more letting our moods stomp away with us.

I didn't really plan this, but I've decided to do something. I'm all convinced. I'm sick of being the whiner, of finding creative ways to voice my disapproval of things that don't actually matter.

So I'm gonna give myself a challenge. Thirty days. Of NOT WHINING. 

Of not dwelling on inconvenience. Of not venting and venting and venting. Of not rehashing things that irritated me. 

Without whining, I'll have more room in my brain for my words. More room for my wonderful work-in-progress. Yep, it's worth it. So I'm going to close the door on complaint.

#30DaysNoWhining

You are SO welcome to join me. Let's stop letting moods poison what we do. 

Let's see adventures instead of inconveniences. 

Thirty days. Starting right now. 

What to Tell Yourself When You're Ready to Quit

Just in case your Monday decides to get all ugly and act like a Monday, I'd like to share a quote with you. Good?

This is the one that jumps to mind when I think about both travel and writing (and, also, discouragement):

One does not discover new lands without consenting to lose sight of the shore for a very long time. -- André Gide

I've always found that quote to be very, ahem, moving. (Whoops. A pun. Sorry.)

But seriously. There's a super-important reality check embedded in there, a kind of question: Lucy, did you really expect that you could have both a thrilling New Land and the certainty of your Old Shore? 

Why yes! is my answer. Yes I did! Certainty AND newness! How much would I love both?

But the equation doesn't work that way. Not with traveling. Not with writing. 

Instead, it goes something like this:

For starters, we want to discover new lands.

Let's figure out what we are aiming for. The point of this, the hope, the main idea: New Lands!!

This is where we get excited. Dream big. 

I have a few New Lands that I'm aiming for. The first is this:

A novel draft that is stuffed full of all my best ideas, all my unexpected insights, and whatever else I can manage. FULL OF GOODIES.

Something that, when I reread it, startles and surprises me. THAT draft. That book.

Not tired ideas. Not over-thought concepts. Not dull description and crummy dialogue and faint little characters. Nope.

I want this book to feel like a new land. Like something discovered.

What New Lands are you aiming for?

Maybe the exhilarating glory of coming across a truly new idea. Or the undreamed-of horizon of the last page of your work-in-progress. Or even: earning money from your work. (Oooh. I'm on board for ALL that.)

And then we consent to lose sight of the shore.

Rubber, meet Road. (Or, to be true to the metaphor, I guess we should say: Ocean, meet Ship.)

This is the kicker. The "you can't eat your cake and have it too" part. Ya can't do both.

You have to agree to let go of your certainties. Let go of what's stable. Lose sight of that old shore.

What is that for you? Ideas about what the writing life should look like? Should--but doesn't? 

It's easy to build up a lot of beautiful, romantic ideas about the writing life. And then you find out that it's actually a lot of feeling stumped, losing your notes, becoming absent-minded, and being misunderstood at parties. 

Not quite the Hemingway-and-Fitzgerald-sharing-drinks-in-Paris we imagined. (Or was that just me?)

Or maybe the old shore is: the certainties and stabilities of a different vocation.

Before I dove into the writing life, I was all set to become an editorial assistant. I'd completed two editing internships, I had plenty of determination, and I had just started an extra class just to perfect my proofreading skills.

I'd been working toward the goal of becoming an editor for six years. Since the middle of high school. 

It was a Real Job. I would have a Boss. I was pretty great at editing, frankly, and excited to learn more about it. Oh, and there would be a SALARY. All the legit, good, stable grown-up stuff. 

But when I suddenly, definitely, irrevocably fell out of love with the idea of working on someone else's novels, someone else's work, instead of my own--

When that happened, I was ready to lose sight of the shore. I was ready to let go of all the certainties.

So I let go of the ready answer when anyone asks "so what do you do?" The clearly defined role in a company. A boss who would tell me what was expected of me. Co-workers who would slog alongside me. A salary. (*weep, weep*) The apartment I imagined renting. 

I still have times where that old shore pulls at me. (Like, last week.) Days when I shout "Enough! I am SO SEASICK! Let's turn this ship around!" 

The thing that keeps me going during those hard days? Realizing, deep down, that I am more in love with the new land I'm seeking than I am with that old shore. 

Really.

The thought of this trilogy being written with the absolute best I have in me: that steadies my heart and steels my mind. That gives me the courage to keep wobbling around on this ship a while longer. However long it takes.

Which brings us to the next point.

And then we find out that: it takes a very long time.

Um. Right. That.

The truth is: We don't know how long this is going to take.

Timetables? That's Old Shore stuff. We don't know when and how things are gonna happen out here in the ocean. You can't predict when a new land is going to pop up in your spyglass.

This is the part that tests, and tests, and tests our resolve.

It's one thing to lose sight of certainty for a short period of time. Anyone can muster that up, right? 

But to stay uncertain for years. That takes some chutzpah. You've gotta be BOLD.

Because reaching that new land might take longer than you or I ever thought it would. 

I'm only just now starting to feel proud of what I'm writing. Only in the last year have I been working on a project that feels like I could put my name on it, that feels right. And it still has a lot of work left!

Mathwise, I've been at this full-time for nine years.

It's starting to feel like a long time.

But here's what I'm learning about the time it takes:

Every time I come to the end of my patience, every time I'm threatening to turn the ship around and go back, I force myself to rethink why I'm doing any of this.

Like I said before: I refocus on the new land, on what I'm hoping for.

And what has happened, as I've done that over, and over, and over again, is this:

I've built a new certainty.

Out here, in the middle of the ocean, the Old Shore feels more like a myth, a thing I once knew but now--not so much. So there really is no going back.

The New Land that I'm looking for, the land of the trilogy being well-written, or the land of publishing this book and going on to the next--well, it feels a bit mythical as well. I'm hoping to make it, but it's a hazy image.

The thing that is sure, though, is me. Me on this boat in the ocean.

I am certain, certain, certain that no matter what, this is what I want to be doing.

In spite of storms and waves, in spite of my legs wobbling sometimes. In spite of frustration. In spite of the miles of writing I still need to do to get this trilogy right.

In spite of all that, I'm certain of this: I love the writing life. I just plain do.

And I'm sure that I want it to last the rest of my life. I'm willing to put in a very long time at this.

So the thing about this quote: It redirects my heart. (Are we allowed to talk about our hearts without feeling silly? Yes? Okay.) 

It reorients me. It's easy to say, Oh, I miss the thing that I have lost. Oh, I would have felt so certain and sure. It's easy, in the moment, to think that all this work, and waiting, and uncertainty, isn't worth it.

But every time I read this quote, my fingers tingle at the words discover new lands. And I can't help myself. I think, YES. I think, I'M IN. Whatever it takes.

So I consent. I'll lose sight of those old shores. I'll last a very long time.

I really think it will be worth it. 

So where are you, in your writing life?

What are the old shores that are still pulling at you? What new lands are you aiming for? And how do you reorient yourself, when it starts to feel like it's been too dang long?

Here's one more thing. A super-short video, presenting another quote that's been such an encouragement to me. Hope it adds a serious dose of awesome to your Monday.

Video created by David Shiyang Liu http://vimeo.com/24715531 http://www.getoutthebox.org http://facebook.com/dailyinspirationandmotivation http://spiritualinspiration.tumblr.com http://www.twitter.com/naeemcallaway

Now let's go get that week.

Why It's Okay to Look Like an Idiot (Or, the Writer Is a Traveler)

Here in the midwest, it is definitely SUMMER. The days are sun-dazzled (or fiercely thunderstorming), and sticky with humidity. At night, the bats and fireflies take over the backyard, and fat junebugs whap against the windows. It all puts me in the mood for ice cream cones, barbecue, the smell of fireworks, and...

You know. A big VACATION.

Right?

Besides heat, summer is always synonymous with vacation. Traveling. Getaways.

I love to travel. Soaking in the atmosphere of some Other Place. Listening for the accents, changes in idioms, new conversation topics, or heck, a whole new language.

I like to see how the light feels different, to feel the switch in climate. I revel in all the sights, unfamiliar streets, new architecture. 

Best of all, I love how it changes the air in my brain. You know? Suddenly you're thinking new thoughts. When you're in a new place, a new context--

You get a chance to be a whole different person. 

It's kinda like being a writer.

Yes? Every time I sit down to work on a novel, I feel like I kind of unbutton part of my personality. I do a conscious context shift. I shiver into another kind of skin, another kind of mental place. 

And when I wrap up a writing session, there's that disorienting sense of coming back home. That muzzy, jet-laggy brain. And all the familiar objects seem a little strange, a little off.  

Okay. But then, there's this other side to traveling. 

To be honest, there's a lot about traveling that I honestly DON'T love.

I know. Super un-cool of me. But there it is.

I am not a big fan of hassle. I get a bit stressed when maps are pulled out. 

And when it comes to being daring in new places: I am about one-quarter brave and three-quarters big fat chicken. (I'm working on changing that ratio.)

I know it's very unsexy of me, but I actually enjoy routine, reliability, and certainty. I usually don't love surprises.

Like, say, the massive detour you weren't expecting because you're already exhausted and haven't had dinner and your bladder is about to explode. (Right? Anyone?)

Travel means being out of my element. And sometimes it means, being lost, staring around for some signage, pulling out the dreadful travel guide or phrase book...

Sometimes, travel means looking like an idiot.

Advertising the fact that you literally don't know where you're going or what you're doing.

It means being at the mercy of a whole bunch of other forces. (Rain, poor signage, crappy websites, hand-drawn maps, other travelers, extremely unpleasant restrooms, the locals, the germs of the person behind you on the plane...)

Huh. 

Kinda like being a writer.

I don't know about you, but when I started writing full-time, one of the things I most wanted was an ultra-clear, ultra-calm map. An infallible guide to this whole process.

Some very chill person with total authority, who would step in and say: Don't worry. This whole situation is totally under control. No muss. No fuss. 

But honestly, a lot of writing--for me at least--involves feeling like an idiot. 

Like I don't have the brains to write a clear sentence, let alone a chapter. (And never mind a novel, just don't, because that's like sprinting up Everest alone and without training.)

The writing life is full of uncertainties and massive detours. It yanks me out of my element time and again, forcing me to go somewhere that I'd rather not go. 

Sometimes, I get lost. I scramble for my best writing guides, and have agonized conversations with my best writing friends, and still end up feeling like I don't know which way is north. 

Sometimes with writing, I don't know what I'm doing.

The wonderful thing is that: I know why I endure the discomforts of travel. It's not about the creepy gas station toilet experience. Or the night I was pretty sure I was being sold to human traffickers. Or getting lost late at night in a place where I didn't know more than seven words of the language. 

(Though it all makes for great stories.)

I love travel because the process of it shapes me. Letting go of familiarity changes who I am, and how I see myself. 

And whether it's comfortable or very much not: the experience stretches me, broadens me, makes me new.

And that is worth it. 

(As are the amazing views and wonderful food and instant friends and the crazy stories and other incredible experiences...)

And as for writing: well. I endure the discomfort for the same reasons. 

Because after laboring up the steep hill of not knowing what the heck I'm writing, I sometimes reach a place where suddenly I see. And suddenly I know.

And that just fills me up. It makes me crazy-happy, delirious, and like this is the only thing I want to do.

Right? Have you found that you can go from total uncertainty to total clarity about the themes in your work, or the way the plot will unkink at the end, or who the characters really are... and isn't that an incredible moment? 

The process of writing--it changes me. All the thinking and working and fighting to see things clearly: it all scrapes the edges off of me. 

Writing--like travel--returns me to myself feeling a bit new.

And that is worth it.

(As are the amazing love of words and the wonderful books we get to read and the instant friends and the crazy stories and other incredible experiences.)

This July, we'll be teasing out the relationships between writing and traveling.

The overt ones (like what to read on a trip; how to write when you're on the road; how travel sharpens our observation skills), and the more metaphorical (like traveling the worlds of our own stories--woo!; or dealing with the culture shock of becoming a writer).

We'll be traveling, exploring, and getting all wanderlusty with our words. 

I'm stoked.

Because I'm convinced that travel can echo, illuminate, and shape our writing--our writing habits, our mindsets, our writerly hearts, and oh yes, our bravery.

Bravery! (You knew I was going to come back to that, didn't you, lionheart?)

So pack a pen and a notebook, gather a bit of courage, and let's do this.

Are You Ridiculously in Love with Your Writing? Or, Um, Not?

How do you feel about what you write?

I'm not asking about the quality of it: we all wade through the crappy first (secondthirdfourthfifth) drafts. That's normal and understood.

I'm talking about the actual topic. The genre. The style. The guts of your writing. The center of your universe of words.

How do you feel about it? 

I'm hoping that your answer is along these lines: 

I love, love, LOVE it, Lucy. Maybe I don't have all the plot stuff figured out, and I'm still working on a lot of it. But the world I've created with these words, and the main things that I'm talking about, and the kinds of characters I've created, and the genre that this all operates in, and the style of my sentences... I can't get enough. I'm loving this.

Is that you, saying all that? I really hope so. But if not: I get it. I totally understand.

For a long time, I couldn't have said any of that.

When I started writing full time, I felt pulled in two directions.

First: I wanted to be a clever writer. I had just studied all kinds of beautiful literature in college. I honestly loved reading Steinbeck's Grapes of Wrath. Sylvia Plath's poetry gave me chills. We read so many brilliant short stories that did astonishing things with their sentences.

I felt like, to be a SERIOUS writer, to feel PROUD of what I'm writing, to be able to hold my head up when I'm saying what I do: Then I should write that kind of thing. Clever, prize-winning sentences.

Then, there was the other direction. When I got stressed out, I would always read kid lit. And complicated, beautiful YA fantasy. And smart, funny, middle grade adventure novels.

That's what I read when no one was looking, what I read for fun, what just plain made me happy.

So, I thought, I should write that. Probably I should write that.

So I started writing this young adult fantasy.

But not whole-heartedly. Because I was SO EMBARRASSED. 

Whenever someone asked about my writing and my work, I had a zillion apologetic ways of slanting what I wrote. Trying to sound smart and clever about it, while also trying to cover up the truth about my novel. 

I ended up sounding very sheepish. And like someone was forcing me to write this silly crap. And like I pretty much hated my writing.

Guess what. I ended up pretty much hating my writing. 

And hating my writing life.

It was a grim season.

It took me a long time to realize what I was doing to myself (and to my poor work-in-progress!). 

I was letting other people determine the value of what I wrote. 

And--even worse than that--I was guessing at what they would think about what I wrote. I decided beforehand that they would think it was ridiculous, and then I gave my long cringing apology.

Ack! Ick! No, no, no. 

This is not the kind of writing life we want. Right, lionhearts? 

Here's an incredible, powerful quote from Ray Bradbury. Read this slowly, and think about your writing life, your current project, the things that you love to read. All that. Here you go:

Love. Fall in love and stay in love.
Write only what you love, and love what you write.
The key word is love. 

Are you getting that? 

We can't write to suit someone else's idea of what is acceptable. What is "worth" reading or writing. We can't try to please other people with our choice of genre or style. 

When I read a novel that I just flat-out LOVE, I am not trying to impress anyone with my choice of loving. I'm not trying to seem all clever. I'm just loving what I love. Because I love it. 

A sense of what I SHOULD or SHOULD NOT appreciate... well, that really doesn't come into it.

The same is true of what I'm writing. 

I am now happily writing a middle grade adventure trilogy. And I'm putting characters in that I just adore, who are quirky and funny and strange and full of secrets. I'm adding crazy details (I've mentioned the telepathic lizards?).

I'm building a storyworld based on love, on my love for this book, and not based on anything else.

And now, when someone asks what I write, I tell them honestly. I tell them that I love it. That showing up for work feels like an adventure. That it's exactly the kind of trilogy I would have eaten up when I was in sixth grade. 

I don't apologize. I don't try to sound super clever, like I'm a really impressive little genius.

I'm frank and clear and direct. 

And guess what happens. No one says, "Sorry, but you're not smart enough to keep talking to me."

Actually, people sound a little . . . jealous. A little envious.

Because my full-time work sounds thrilling and funny and interesting and exciting. (WHICH IT TOTALLY IS.)

No apologies necessary. Imagine that.

So what are you apologizing for? Are you trying to justify your choice of story, your genre, your style, your anything? Do you feel sheepish about any part of your writing life? 

Today I'm inviting you to just let that GO. Get rid of it. 

If you're writing something out of some weird internal obligation or some sense of what you ought to be writing--maybe shelve that project. Or radically change it, into something you madly love. 

If you're writing something you like, but feel ashamed of that: kick that sense of shame OUT. It's not serving you or your work. And it might not even be based on anything real. Okay?

Let's decide to just love what we love. To love what we write.

To operate from that excitement, that energy, that truth about who we are as writers and artists. 

I double-dare you to be passionate and unapologetic when you talk about your work this weekend.

---

If you want an even bigger pep-talk about how to deal with other people, check out this post on how to talk about your writing (without throwing up).

And, if you're struggling to figure out what kinds of stuff you love to write (because we can get so muddled, right??), read this post on getting permission to play. 

The Most Important Person Here Isn't Me.

It's Monday morning, so how about I go ahead and embarrass myself by confessing something to you? Sound good? Okay then. Here it is:

I'm mortified to admit it, but when I started writing full-time, I felt like I deserved an audience.

<CRINGE!!!>

But really, I did. I thought I was ready for people to come listen to me, to read my words.

After all, I'd done my part. I worked hard at school to learn about stringing words together. I had developed a few interesting ideas. I figured that showing up and reading my stuff was the least the world could do.

When I started my first blog (a lonnnnnng time ago), I figured that, basically, people would be beating down my virtual door, devouring my lovely little blog posts, and begging for more. 

Probably some editor would fling a contract at me. "Write us a novel," they would cry. "We want to read it."

... Okay. Can I stop there? Because seriously, my cheeks. SO RED.

Well, no, there's one more little part to that story, and it's this: yes, a few friendly faces showed up. Yes, I had some readers. A few. 

But that was it. 

I was disappointed. More than that--I couldn't understand it. My desire to write shriveled up. I eventually closed that blog down. And I had a very hard time believing I should write the novels I was working on. 

The writing life just felt very hard and cold and unrewarding.

What I didn't realize: By expecting massive applause, I had set myself up to feel disappointed. Neglected. Undervalued.

When we let our ego call the shots, we've lost.

It's easy to see why we let pride win out, though, right? After all: If you're writing ANYTHING, you're working hard. There's sweat mixing in with all that ink. This isn't easy stuff. 

Also, it takes a bit of chutzpah to believe that you have something worth saying. To get over the crippling desire to stay silent and unnoticed.

To get past the fact that there are a bajillion other people writing blogs and spinning sentences and throwing novels at the world. 

That's a big obstacle. And sometimes pride is the thing that steps up and says it has an answer.

After all, it's nice to believe the ego, right? It's so compelling. It lets us strut around and decide that we are big and everyone else is small. That we deserve prizes and accolades and thousands of readers and I don't know, a salary, perhaps. 

But it's an ugly thing, to feel like people owe us attention. To be convinced that the world owes us an audience. 

And oh, guess what: All that ego and all that pride... it makes us profoundly NOT FUN to listen to. 

(If you've ever been trapped by a blatherer at a party, you understand this.)

So how do we fight it? How do we counteract that sense of entitlement? How do we douse our pride with gasoline, and burn our little egos out?

I think one of the best things I've learned--the thing that shut my pride right up--was a profound respect for the reader. 

Ahem: That's you.

You have so many other things that you could be doing right now, and believe me, I'm aware of it.

There are more voices you could be reading, more writing blogs. Or heck--you could be checking YouTube for a laugh. There are errands to run and there's probably coffee to make (I hope you're having coffee--it's a Monday for heaven's sake). 

There are a thousand things that are competing for your time and your attention.

And--presuming that you're still with me--you've picked this blog post.

You're trusting me with this little corner of your time, this patch of your attention. And that's a trust that I have very strong feelings about.

Is this getting weird for you? Sorry to be so direct. But the truth is: I think about you a lot. 

You don't owe me a thing, but I owe you plenty. I owe you the best that I can do.

The best words, the best ideas, the best writing tips. I've promised to tell you every helpful thing I know about the writing life. And I'll even try to be a little funny if I can manage it.

Why? Because I respect you.

Because I think that your time matters. 

Because I now believe that writers are actually meant to serve the readers, and not the other way around. 

And because--not to get all SAPPY on you--I'm grateful. Darned grateful to put words out into the world and have someone read them. 

It's a privilege. It's an honor. It's about trust. 

And that's my best weapon against the ego-gorilla that shows up sometimes, banging on its chest and demanding to be heard.

I shut that gorilla up by reminding it of what I've learned: that in spite of all its shouting, the ego is a fairly brittle thing. It's restrictive. It dulls my mind and keeps me from growing. It sets me up for disappointment. And it turns all my ideas into bland, flavorless offerings. 

I'm much better off without it. And so is my writing.

So, a happy Monday to you, my well-respected reader.

Here's to serving others with all that we write.

(And if there's a blog topic that you're wanting to hear more about, or if you have some ideas about how I can run this space differently, or if there's some other way that I can be serving you all better, scroll down and leave a comment. Seriously. I'd love to hear from you!)

How to Make a Good Writing Day Even Better (or, How to Save a Bad One)

After writing my last post, I've done a lot of thinking about observation. And how darned hard it is.

I mean, really: it's hard. 

There is so much CHATTER in our heads--are you getting that?

So much noise, and not a lot of room for those small moments of watching a scene, staring out a window, and letting a deeper sense of meaning and understanding bubble up.

Or, I don't know. Maybe y'all don't struggle with that. But I'm guessing I'm not alone.

Enter: My best-ever remedy for living in the moment.

Have you read Billy Collins' poetry?

If so, you know where we're going with this. If not, you are in for such a treat. 

And if you've decided you hate poetry and are therefore exempt: well, I hear you. Really.

If poetry means fussy, pretentious verses full of obscure references, and you need a zillion footnotes and a master's degree to piece together some semblance of meaning--

Then I'm totally with you. I hate that kind of poetry. 

This isn't that.

Step inside a poem by Billy Collins and you see the world differently. 

After reading half a dozen, you'll start to develop this wonderful sensitivity. You'll pay better attention to what's around you.

Read half a volume, and you'll begin seeing poems everywhere you go. Really. Seriously. 

These poems help me live in the present. They unlock an ability to encounter the meaning in the moment.

They help me see what I didn't expect to see. Does that make sense?

If you're having a good writing streak, spend time in these poems to spur yourself on, to replenish your imagination, and to keep nourishing your mind.

And if you're having a crappy writing day (or week, or month), then take one of these books with a cup of tea and a long afternoon. Really. It's the best remedy I can recommend for you.

When I'm struggling with words and imagery and feeling tongue-tied, these poems are how I patch myself up. 

They win my heart back over to writing. They draw ideas out of me when I think I'm empty.

They just might do the same for you.

They're simple. Exquisite. And very powerful.

Give 'em a try. 

Thanks to the Internet, here are a few poems for you to taste:
- the best-ever: a three-year-old boy recites "Litany" 
- "Nostalgia"
- "Another Reason Why I Don't Keep a Gun in the House"
- "Marginalia"

Give Yourself a Year of Writing Dangerously

Once when I was traveling and had to be away from my desk for a month, I happened across A Year of Writing Dangerously in Barnes & Noble.

I fell in love with the title IMMEDIATELY. I pulled it off the shelf, thinking that even if the inside of the book is a bust, I want the phrase WRITING DANGEROUSLY tattooed across my arms.

Yes???

Writing dangerously. I just love that, just completely love it. Yes! Push right to the edge, write from the brink, be brazen, dare.

Be bold in telling the truth, say how things really are, fend off apathy. 

Because when we're doing this, when we're really into the game, when we're playing for keeps: writing is a lot like scooping chunks of your heart out with a spoon, smearing it on paper, and hoping people like it, hoping it's useful, hoping it helps, hoping you told the whole truth.

It is dangerous to write. We're brink-dwellers, on the edge of so many things. Giving it all away. Saying every secret. Spending all we have.

So yeah. I fell in love with the title. 

And then the inside of the book was exactly what I hoped it would be.

She talks about the writing life: the spectrum we live in, from insecurity to daringness. She describes how famous writers write. (Which I love, b/c I'm so nosy about writing routines!) She shares anecdotes about famous writers, less famous writers, students, herself. 

If you're like me, you'll read this and you'll recognize your own funny self: over and over again. And you and I will both be sighing and saying I'M NOT CRAZY, I'M JUST A WRITER, WHEW.

It's good to know. 

She has tips on creativity, on how to keep a light hand with your work, or, on the flip side, how to lean in closer and be more serious. 

I LOVE that she closes each section with a quote. I love writing quotes, of course, and have collected so very many of them--and yet so so so many of these were new to me. 

It's just HELPFUL, guys. There's a whole community of writers represented in these pages. So many fellow scribblers in her text, in her anecdotes, in the quotes, that even if you're working alone, even if you're the only writer you know, you feel surrounded by others.

All of us picking our way forward with ink, with words. 

You're swimming in this stream with all these other writers! We're all foraging for ideas, dreaming up stories, creating little worlds that then run away with us.

All of us. Together. All year long.

The reading for each day is small enough that it's the perfect little idea snack before you dive into your writing day. Or it's the perfect closer at the end.

Or you can do what I did when I first discovered it: I picked it up that day, obviously, in the bookstore, and I brought it on my trip with me.

And whenever I could, I'd sneak off and just gulp it down, reading a chunk at a time, soaking it up, immersing in words.

It's wise and bright and funny, clever, insightful, and darned intelligent. It's just right, it's the very thing, it's the perfect fit.

One of the reviews calls this book a writing party, and I love that description, because yes. Yes it is. 

Phyllis Theroux says, "When you open [this book], you are in a house full of writers, each of whom wants to march you over to a corner to tell you something important about the writing life....Prepare yourself for a wonderful party!" 

If you or someone you know could do with a bit of courage, a bit of brightness in book form (and who doesn't need that?): then get this book.

And if you pop some champagne and toss some confetti as you read, as you celebrate writing dangerously... Well, I'm not going to stop you.