GENREALITY

On Saturday morning, I got up at 9:10 a.m. I poured a cup of coffee (the husband was up already and had it made), carried it to my desk and turned on the computer there for the first time in a week, having been working on my laptop from the living room. I then proceeded to do paying web work, volunteer web work, print postage for mailing blog prizes, clean out the email boxes I don’t use daily, and respond to the things there that needed attention.

At 1:50 p.m. I got up from my desk for the second time (the first was for a coffee refill) so I could eat lunch, having forgotten breakfast – except I really didn’t get up to eat. I got up to go to the kitchen, carve off a breast from the rotisserie chicken the husband brought home after running to the post office and bank, then eat it at my desk while paying bills, seeing as how another month had arrived when I wasn’t looking.

Next time I looked up, it was 4:15 p.m. I’d spent over seven hours at the computer. Bills were paid, check book balanced, more biz emails responded to. I’d also written (or started) three blog posts I had scheduled for this week, and done some promo work for the book I mentioned last Monday. I should’ve sent my newsletter out the day it released. I waited a week, putting it off for the same reason I delayed doing so many of the other things mentioned above. I was writing.

I’m a mess when writing. I can’t think of anything else. Not housework. Not bill paying. Not volunteer work. Last week, I was working to get a proposal to my agent. I had no deadline except the one I’d set for myself. There’s not even money involved, though hopefully there will be! But I didn’t want to leave that world until I had it all in order. I needed to make sure what readers would see in those first chapters was clear, not overly complicated, and woven naturally. It’s a tough balance sometimes. Not too much, not too little. Especially when I know the story and the world so well. But back to the clock.

When I’m creating, my story rolling forward under its day to day momentum, growing into something even larger than I’ve imagined, going in directions I never could have sent it without immersing myself completely, I can sit down at the laptop or with the pen and paper at 9:10 a.m., work until 4:15 p.m., taking nothing but a lunch break, and wind up with only a thousand usable words. Maybe less. All that time, and so little to show for it. Where does the time go? Why, when writing, can I not be as productive as when I have a “to do” list of web work and volunteer work and bill paying and promotional tasks? Those I can slam through, and at the end of the day I can see the progress. Writing? Not so much. I work and work and work and it takes FOREVER and DAYS to turn all those words into a story.

It’s astounding, time is fleeting . . .

I’ve lived on publishing time for years. It’s not the same time the rest of the world lives on. We don’t turn on the creativity faucet, let it run for four hours, turn it off for one so we can go to lunch, start the flow again for another four, then shut it down for an evening spent with the family at the dinner table or at a soccer game or in front of the TV. Those of us who write for a living don’t always sleep normal hours. Some nights I go to bed early and get up the next morning the same. Other times I stay up until the next day rolls around.

And then there are the ways we measure the passing of the year. Not by holidays or birthdays or days of the month, but by the writer’s calendar. Deadlines. Copy edits. Galleys. Release dates. Royalty checks due. Seriously, it’s a wonder authors manage to get anything done or be where they need to be in real world time. But if you think that’s a complaint, you’re wrong. *g* It’s the best life ever.

Clock Flower photos by Hamed Saber

Two weeks ago I was at a book conference, sitting at a table filled with both published and aspiring authors. I struck up a conversation with a nice woman at my table, who told me that after years of toiling at various jobs she was thrilled to now be a full time writer. When I asked what she’d published, she said she had written one draft of one novel and was thinking about starting another one. For some reason this bothered me, probably more than it should have, and it’s been like a popcorn kernel stuck between my teeth. What she said touched a nerve, I just haven’t been able to shake it. I’m not picking on this woman–she seemed perfectly nice and loved books and people like that should never be taken for granted–but I couldn’t help but think that if she truly wanted to be a writer, she’s going about it completely wrong. And the reason I believe her comment bothered me is that many aspiring writers I’ve met over the last few years have very similar attitudes, that once you put a pen to the page or bang out a few pages you’re officially a ‘Writer.’ This is not to come across as elitist, it’s not to create a division between published and unpublished writers, but  in my opinion if you want to be a writer, that way of thinking harms your writing more than anything.

While I was working on the book that would eventually become THE MARK, I rarely talked about it, and then only if shocked with a cattle prod. My family and a few close friends knew I was working on a book, but to me it wasn’t worth talking about until it was finished. And even then, I didn’t think it was much worth talking about unless it actually found a publisher. I didn’t want to ever spend time talking about ‘My Book.’ My book. My book. My book. I have met so many aspiring writers who spend countless minutes and hours talking about ‘My Book,’ that if they took that time and put it towards the actual manuscript, ‘My Book’ would inch closer to being on a shelf somewhere. Occasionally some of my family members would ask, “How does it feel to be a writer?” I would usually hem and haw and give one word answers like, “Good” and “Fine,” just to be pleasant. But in my own mind my answer was always, “I’m not a writer…yet.”

To me, being able to call myself a writer was akin to lunging for that carrot hanging off the end of a stick. It was something to aspire to, but in order to reach it I needed to earn it. Slapping a label on my work-in-progress was easy, giving myself the title of ‘Writer’ without having published anything would have made things oh so simple. But if you set the bar too low, you can leap over it without any difficulty, without trying, without pushing yourself. By calling herself a “full time writer” despite not having completed even a second draft of one novel, I felt this woman was doing herself a disservice. If she had talent, she was cheating it. Taking batting practice does not make one a baseball player. Using a calculator does not make one a mathematician. Wiping the crust from my dog’s eyes does not make me a of veterinarian. These are all professions. They take years of training and study and work. And while you never get a certificate that proclaims you a ‘Professional Writer’, not allowing to think of myself as a writer until I was published was a powerful motivational tool. Writing is a wonderful, cathartic thing, and I would never, ever discourage anyone from ‘writing’. I am simply discouraging people from calling themselves ‘Writers’ until they have accomplished their goal. If your goal is to write one draft, so be it. But I have a feeling most writers aspire to more.

Becoming a ‘Professional Writer’ is nowhere near as easy as writing a first draft of one novel. It takes numerous drafts of one novel. And then maybe numerous drafts of a second, third, or even fourth novel. Too many writers waste time worrying about agents and marketing and query letters, and not enough honing their craft so that when an agent or editor reads the book, they’re blown away. I wrote two books before THE MARK got published. The first book was a coming-of-age story about a college freshman who must discover who he really is. It did not deserve to be published. I still love the story, but I was simply not a good enough writer. My second novel was something of a literary thriller, about a bartender whose life is manipulated in order to make his upcoming memoir more exciting (and therefore salable). This book came close to selling, but in the end did not. With my third book, I finally wrote something that, when my agent began submitting it, I felt had a real chance. And it did, selling in a three-book deal. I loved my first two books, but had they been published I doubt many people would have enjoyed them. I’m sure there were some redeeming qualities about each, but in the end I’m glad they weren’t published. 

If you aspire to be a writer, do yourself a favor and don’t call yourself a ‘Writer’. I’m sure many people have gone about it differently, and what worked for me won’t necessarily work for others, but don’t allow yourself to eat the carrot simply by sticking your hand out a few inches. Hold it out there in front of you. Walk for it, run for it, grasp for it. When the time comes, you’ll be able to reach it. Just don’t sell yourself short by holding it an inch from your mouth, then congratulate yourself for leaning forward far enough to take a bite.

When my daughter played for me the soundtrack for the movie Twilight (presently her favorite movie of all time), I was surprised to hear a song by one of my favorite bands, Linkin Park. The music video that the band put out for the song is one of the most imaginative I’ve seen, but it has nothing to do with high school, angsty teens or vampires. In the video the band plays the crew of a starship in the distant future. There are lots of neat special spacey effects, but I liked the sense of isolation and regret the video portrays (and if you go to Linkin Park’s web site, you can watch the whole thing by clicking on the Music Videos tab and selecting the first video.)

The older I grow, the more conscious I am of what I’m doing as my writing legacy. Not in the way you probably think, either – the profit-generating portion of my estate and potential income for my heirs is important, but that’s something over which I have little control. My books will survive me or they won’t; I won’t be around to see or worry over that. I rather doubt my work is destined to become a bunch of classics.

What I think of as my writing legacy is something that has nothing to do with Publishing or profit. It has to do with the nameless global community I joined the moment I wrote my first short story. I took my first baby step on the twenty-five year path to what would eventually become my calling, my art and my profession.

Traditionally writers make this journey alone. As a friend once told me, “There is no Us in writer, there is only I.” It is a solitary vocation, and no one holds your hand at the keyboard. Even when you collaborate with another writer, you’re still on your own in your head as well as when you produce your portion of the work. So it’s difficult to feel that you belong to a much larger group when you spend so much time working by yourself, and even harder to think outside yourself and be aware of all the other writers in the world who are doing the same. You probably never think about the writers who haven’t been born yet, or those who will join the community in fifty years, or a hundred, or a thousand. They likely won’t miss you; odds are they’ll never hear of you.

Why should you care? In a hundred years, none of this will matter, right?

Well, about a hundred years ago, a woman named Juanita took her daughter to California and started writing a journal about their lives there. She continued the journal for twenty years as they moved back and forth across the country. It wasn’t very exciting journal, but she added some of these new-fangled things called photographs and described where they went and the people they saw, as well as the birth of her youngest son. Although I don’t know for sure, some of her entries make me think she also encouraged her daughter to write.

The only thing that frustrates me about this lady is that she never wrote about the years she spent before she went to California. In her youth she served as a nurse during the last years of the Civil War, and afterward took care of soldiers at a veteran’s home. Maybe it was too traumatic for her, or maybe she didn’t think it was important. People who live in interesting times rarely do.

When Juanita passed away, she left the journal to her only daughter, Thelma, who also wrote. She wrote plays and short stories but she really loved poetry, so that was mostly what she wrote, and she was quite gifted. She published some of her poems but never tried to pursue it professionally. Her poetry was an intensely personal thing to her, so it’s understandable that she would want to keep private. She did instill a love of writing and books in her only daughter.

In time the poet passed away, but left behind the journal and the poems for her only daughter, Joan. Joan not only kept journals and wrote poetry, but she began writing humorous essays about life. She became a popular speaker at churches and went on to be published in newspapers and magazines. She tried to write one novel, but decided it wasn’t for her. She passed along the legacy of love for writing and books to all five of her kids.

Of the humorists’s five children, two began writing journals, poetry, essays and stories at young ages, and of those two, one (also a daughter) decided to pursue it professionally. It took some time, but that daughter eventually became a published novelist.

This entire legacy that began with the lady with the California journal to the professional novelist took 91 years. It’s still alive, too – the professional (that would be me) has a daughter, Kat, and she writes journals, poetry, stories, and is thinking about starting her first novel. When I’m done here, Kat will inherit the California journal, the poetry, the stories, and everything else I’ve preserved from the three generations of writers who came before me. And here we all are:

(From left to right: Juanita, Thelma, Joan, Lynn and Kat)

So yes, in a hundred years, what you write now just might matter to someone.

I miss my poet grandmother, who practically raised me, and I wish I had been old enough to talk to my journaling great-grandmother (she passed away when I was six.) My mother and I have talked about books and writing my whole life, and I’ve done the same for my daughter, who I hope will do the same for her children. That is the legacy I want to see survive me.

The tradition of writers in my family aren’t my only writing legacy. Through the internet I’ve found a much larger writing family, and talk about books and the work every day with them. I can’t take credit for all they’ve done, are doing and will do, and I wouldn’t try, but I think I’ve helped some of them with the work. Then there are the thousands of authors I read from the time I was a kid to present day, who deserve a mention. I learned to write books by reading books, so practically every author I read gave me something that contributed to my work and what will someday become my legacy.

Do I think anyone will miss me when I’m gone? Sure, my family and friends will. Will my passing matter to other writers? Probably not. All I can do is share what I know now through books and discussions, and hopefully leave enough behind to carry on the legacy to future generations of writers. The years may erase my name from the memories of those who write in years to come, and most will probably never know how what I write now will influence their work in the future, but the love and knowledge and kinship we share as writers transcends time. Through writing something of me will be passed on down the line. As long as people read and write, I and other writers will live on through them and their work. That legacy is the only torch guaranteed not to burn out.

Related link:

Stefani Evans wrote a lovely tribute to her mentor, poet and professor Peter Wild.

No great genius has ever existed without some touch of madness.
- Aristotle

Here on GenReality we’ve talked about writers organizations, and had discussions about the pros and cons of conferences. For me personally, I’m not a big fan or organizations, or of the pressure to go to confrences as a career move. However, I am a big believer in going ot conferences to connect with others.

You see, I live in northern Alberta, Canada. There are no local writers groups in my city, and none of my friends have any interest in writing. My friends and family try to be supportive of my writing, they congratulate me on releases, and ooh and ahh over new covers if I flash them around enough. They occasionally ask how the writing is going, and they listen when I whine about something not working right for me. But they don’t really get it.

To me, this is why I go to conferences. So I can hang out with people who get it. Friends who get teary eyed when, without a word, I show them a copy of the May/June issue of Complete Woman magazine, and they see my book cover in the bottom corner. They get what a feature like that means to me. Friends who can talk about characters like their real people, and who understand when I have a panic attack at the thought of actually plotting out a story. Collegues who come up to me and congratulate me on getting an Honorable Mention by a National Leather Association.

Hanging out online is great, without the internet I’d have long ago driven myself insane trying to be a writer. But once a year I make sure to attend a big conference in the US so that I can remind myself that no matter how alone or disconnected I sometimes feel, there are others out there who are going through the same thing. Other writers who often feel that no one really understands what they’re going through. Other writers who need to get together with like minded adults, and let loose. And not just other writers , but readers too.

All writers, booksellers, editors, agents and reviewers are Readers as well. We all love stories and we all love books…it doesn’t matter if someone doesn’t like historicals, or erotics, or whatever. All that matters is that we all love books, and we’re together for that week to celebrate that. Many conferences I’ve attended have had drama of some sort or the other, but I have to say, this year RT rocked. And it was perfect timing for me, because the past year has been especially hard for me career wise. I’ve been waffling on a lot of decisions that I needed to make, and wondering if I was really meant to be a writer. Strangely enough, I didn’t talk alot of writing this past week at that conference, (I did talk some, just not a lot), yet I am now home, refreshed and renewed and ready to tackle several projects.

To me, that is the best reason to go to a conference. – to remind yourself that you’re not alone, and to get re-energized with your own personal goals. We let our creative sides come out on paper all the time, but every now and then we need to live it up, and remind ourselves that there is more to being a writer than just writing, and business. If you can’t enjoy life, how are you supposed to write about it?

With that in mind, I’d like to share with you the slideshow I made with my photos from this years Romantic Times conference. I think it sums up the vibe/energy of the event, and will hopefully show you that it’s not only okay to have fun with your career, but also necessary.

I have a question for folks.  Some explaining first.

When I was first starting out, one of the good pieces of advice I got was to write every day.  I heard it from lots of people, and it made a lot of sense.  Getting in the habit of sitting down every day and writing is one of the best ways to learn to write, to learn to write lots, and to learn to finish what you write.  Over the course of my years as a struggling writer, I’d write every day some years, and not write every day in others.  The years when I wrote every day were always better.  I didn’t necessarily produce more, but what I produced was better, and got better feedback.  I kind of got superstitious about writing every day, because good things happened when I did — I sold more stories, wrote better stories, and so on.  This last stretch, I’ve been writing every day since February 2004.  I’m afraid if I stop all the success I’ve had the last couple of years will go away.  (I also, coincidentally (?) landed my agent in February 2004, sold my first novel in August 2004, and so on.)

Now, I have a very loose definition of writing every day, which makes it much easier.  I don’t have a set word count.  Writing in my journal counts.  (I’m sure someone looking through my journal would find at least a couple of entries that say, “Can’t write, too sick, blaurrgghh!”)  When I travel I keep a trip journal rather than try to work on fiction.  Brainstorming and outlining count as writing for the day.  So does serious revision.  But I do something that involves putting words on the page every day.

So.  Writing every day.  Good advice for writers just starting out.  But I’ve noticed something: a lot of the pros I know don’t write every day.  They take breaks between books, or breaks for other reasons, or take weekends off.  At this point, I’m not sure I’d know how to take a break from writing.  As I said, I’ve become rather deeply superstitious about it.  Writing is a self-fulfilling ritual.  If I want to keep writing, I have to keep writing.  Irrational, I know, but there it is.

Now the question, especially for the working pros and nearly-pros:  Do you write every day?  Do you take breaks?  How do you decide when to take a break?  How hard is it to get back into the groove?

I love my job, but there are plenty of days I don’t feel like writing, and I have to drag every word out of my brain kicking and screaming, painfully. (I just had a couple of those days, which is what brought this up.)  But if I didn’t write when I didn’t feel like writing, I’d never get anything done.