No matter what. {Let's keep going.}

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Today's quote can pretty well speak for itself.

What I did have, which others perhaps didn't, was a capacity for sticking at it, which really is the point, not the talent at all. You have to stick at it. -- Doris Lessing

How much do I love that.

Now and then, I feel inspired. On very rare occasions, I even feel brilliant.

But most days, I am just a terribly ordinary writer-girl who is only doing this because she's too darned stubborn to give up.

In other words, I do have that capacity for sticking at it.

And that--on this very ordinary day--is a comforting thought.

So let's rally that stubbornness, that plow horse mentality. The part of us that will stick with it. Through the thick and also through the thin. 

And let's keep going. Let's stick.

Once again, persistence trumps talent. Stick with it. | lucyflint.com

We the observers.

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We the observers.

There is something exhilarating about this quote. 

Probably because: it does not describe me at all right now. 

I have been living on the surface, my friends. Skimming along, trying to deal with the urgent things before they get out of control, taking care of immediate needs. I have not stolen the time to sit still, breathe deeply, and look close. 

And while that keeps home life simmering happily, it is wreaking havoc on my writing.

Which has filled up with adverbs. Oh, adverbs. The sign of sloppy thinking.

Dull word, dull word, blah verb, and then a whole wodge of adverbs and cheap adjectives marching in to fluff out the image.

This is not how I like to work.

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What we write about when we write about teethmarks.

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So, here's a vivid memory from sixth grade. We were in music class, and our poor music teacher... well, discipline wasn't her strong suit. The kids from the special ed class had joined us, and I remember my classmates verbally savaging a mentally retarded girl named Tina. During class. I watched and listened, horrified. 

I could see that Tina didn't understand everything my evil classmates were saying, but she understood enough. I could see that my music teacher was overwhelmed, the class galloping away from her, but I hated her for not acting.

And I hated myself for being helpless. 

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Me + future Lucy.

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Me + future Lucy.

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

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

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

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

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The way to great things.

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The way to great things.

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

Right? I mean, he's Van Gogh. 

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

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

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

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Write through your problems.

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Write through your problems.

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

I am absolutely an overthinker.

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

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

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

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Frivolity + wisdom.

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Frivolity + wisdom.

I'm homesick for reading. 

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

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

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

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

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

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A simpler strategy.

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

I mean: writing. It's a big endeavor.

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

"I am going to go write."

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

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The truth about terrible writing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because I'm still aiming for marvelous.

Take that, mid-week discouragement!

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

The comforting power of dumb determination.

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

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

Which is such a comfort.

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