Finishing My Book

Photo Cred: John O'Nolan
https://www.flickr.com/photos/johnonolan/4898796303

I'm finishing my book today. I probably should have ended that sentence with an exclamation point instead of a common period, but I've been working on getting the exclamation point out of my writing. It just does not convey the emotion you intended when you wrote it.

I'm writing this to take a break from editing the final couple of scenes.

Now, I am super duper excited, but I know there is a lot more work ahead. The road to writing and publishing a book is long, windy, emotional, and difficult. But we writers do it anyway because to not write makes us bleed on the inside. I'm trying not to get ahead of myself here. I'm still bleeding, sweating, crying until this work of ten years of my life gets published. Somehow, some way, some time, some day, it will be a real book.

My next step is to print the pages out and read them to make sure everything coalesces just the way I meant it to. And then I will write my query letter and finalize my research on agents who might like to take a look at what I've done.

This book I've written is more than a book. It's five years of my childhood brought to fruition in a meaningful test of truth and courage. I was right when I said the reason I had to write the story was to keep it with me and let it go at the same time. I never want to forget the events of that part of my life, and I was worried they would fade away from me like old skin and get washed down the drain of my mind. But putting them together like this, into a form that I love, allows me to hold on forever to the past so it can never disintegrate.

Today, someone overheard me say I was a writer. He introduced himself and asked for some advice. "I cook a lot," he said. "And I want to write a cookbook, but I have no idea how to do it, get it published, and such." My advice to him was to write the book and research agents. We also talked about the option of self-publishing and about how he might build his platform by starting a Youtube channel. His questions are the same questions I had before I really got down and dirty and wrote my book.

I am including a link to a page by writer Jeff Goins. I think he offers some very good, concrete advice for what to do to get your book written. I've followed a lot of it. The biggest tips for me are to write an outline and to create a calendar of daily writing goals. Before I did these things, I was all over the place mentally and literally with the organization of events and placement of scenes.

I hope this post and link help you, struggling writer. Keep writing. The world needs to hear what you have to say.

Good Tips for Getting it Done

Looking Back: Meeting Joyce Carol Oates

In January, I met Joyce Carol Oates.
I took a cab to The Nourse theater in San Francisco where poet Robert Hass and Joyce Carol Oates had a conversation, live on the air and in front of a few hundred people. From the moment she took the stage, I was mesmerized. She is a frail, thin creature with fine curly hair. It's not that I expected her to look like a body builder. I've seen pictures of her many times and know she is slight of body even if she possesses a mighty creative mind.

Photo Cred: © 2014 Larry D. Moore

I am in awe of her.
She spoke of her book The Accursed which has to do with the haunted racist legacy of Princeton University. Fascinating. And she spoke of Woodrow Wilson's bigotry--how he was a quiet racist. She channeled MLK's pronouncement that "the ultimate tragedy is not the oppression and cruelty by the bad people but the silence over that by the good people." That's what Wilson did--he stayed silent when racism rang out. He was the president of Princeton University, and his silence created a haunting of the halls...This is a novel I want to read.
Ms. Oates also talked a lot about her new memoir The Lost Landscapes. Listening to her speak about her childhood and her family made me want to read this book--I, too, am a memoirist, and if I can glean anything from her fantastic vision and realistic expression, I'm in.

Another new book out now from Joyce Carol Oates is The Man Without a Shadow, about a man who remembers only what happened in his life up to age 37 and after that, his memory span is 70 seconds long. This is a study in neuroscience and a love story.
Maybe more important than hearing about the plots of her books is hearing about how she tackles life as a writer. She walks for hours. She runs. And it is during those solitary times she builds worlds for her fiction. She says the best way to create a story is to start with some truth--some real, meaningful, unforgettable aspect of your life, and build the story and characters around it.

I bought her memoir and then stood in a short line waiting for her to autograph it for me. I told her I was a writer and that I loved her. She asked me what I write. I told her with confidence that an excerpt of my memoir had just been accepted for publication. She congratulated me and signed my book, "Don't ever give up."
I walked through the Tenderloin in the dark to my hotel. I should have taken a cab or an Uber. But I was too busy never giving up to care. The chilly winter air on my face, the book of all my futures under my arm, I accepted the night and its unsavory potential, the homeless lining the sidewalks, the stretches of fear before me, and I smiled. And I stole into a Dunkin' Donuts to get some coffee, "for free" the clerk said, because they were closing and throwing it out anyway.

FOMO and The Highly Sensitive Person

I miss my friends. But after spending time with them, I need to unwind. I was away for a couple of days, and it felt so good to come home I almost cried. Don't get me wrong. I LOVE my friends, and I love spending time with them--I need the laughter and bonding to make me feel whole--but I get too excited, too bound up with joy and energy that socializing wears me out. I don't know many people like this. And I often feel so alone in my need to be alone.

I try to deal with my over-exertion by participating in some serious down time. And it takes about a day for me to feel normal again. And this is normal for me. The weird part is, even though I want all this quiet time, I suffer from FOMO. I want to be everywhere all the time. Surely, someone is having conversation I need to be in on, or experiencing a thing I want to experience. But I cannot do all the things. Literally and physically, nobody can. People like me cannot mentally handle all the things they are physically capable of handling. That is the difference.

I have mellowed out in my old(er) age, which means I am becoming more accepting of my fear of missing out. I'm letting go of the need to do all the things with all the people all the time. And it feels...different.
I never knew I was an introvert until I read Elaine N. Aron's The Highly Sensitive Person. This book changed my life. Or at the very least, it changed how I view my life. It made me see the truth about myself as sensitive, introverted, and "normal" as far as sensitive types go. This book became a coda for me, explaining and justifying my need to please, my instinct to over-analyze, and my dissatisfaction with extroverts' reactions to my decisions to "leave the party," so to speak.
If you are introverted, shy, and/or sensitive to your surroundings and mental stimuli, you may benefit from reading this book.

This is not meant to be a review of the book. It's far too vague of a description for that. It's only meant to be a testament to the book's impact on me. Because maybe if it helped me it can help others who know me.
One of the consequences of being like me--a social introvert--is that everybody thinks I am extroverted. I do love to be around people, to an extent. But I need down time, alone time, to recharge. It's a difficult thing for people to understand something that belies their preconceptions. They see me as social because I am bold, loud, and quick to start up a conversation with almost anyone who has a pulse. And I do, often. And I enjoy it. But it takes the wind out of my sails, the mo out of my jo. So when I want to never do any of that again, my friends are confused. And when I want the fun to stop, they think I am being picky or fussy or entitled or something else other than what I am, which is just plain over it.
I have started owning who I am--that this is me and I have limitations the social extrovert does not. So here's what I do to make my sensitive diagnosis work for me.

1. I don't over-plan. If you have ever had an "I-don't-want-to-go-to-this-thing-I-committed-to-three-months-ago" moment, you may benefit from planning less stuff. You won't regret it. Limit yourself to one big weekend thing a month.
2. I give myself time to recover from overwhelming situations. This means napping, hanging around doing nothing, watching TV, reading, etc. Sometimes I even go the mall by myself to walk and window-shop all the hullabaloo out of my system. I go slowly, tinkering about, trying on perfumes and purses, eating a pretzel, etc.
3. I practice saying no graciously. I'm not sure I have this one down since part of being highly sensitive means I am apt to analyze all the possible ways people might interpret my "no." And I worry they will like me a little less each time. Part of graciously saying "no" means learning to accept myself as I am and not worry so much about everybody else. They will be just fine if you don't go to every single gathering in the world. I don't think anyone has ever died because a girl said she couldn't go to a party.

4. I admit who I am. I just tell people what I need. And if they don't like it, they can kiss my sensitive behind. Kidding. But seriously, I have worked hard to develop thick enough skin to be able to verbalize my needs. And again, I don't think anybody ever died because of it.

Many of you may be thinking, "Yeah, right! Like I have time to take a freakin' nap!" Maybe you have children, a fast-paced career, a litter of newborn kittens to bottle-feed. Everybody has something, including a ton of excuses. If your sensitive situation is not working for you, there are concrete things you can do to improve your life. I'm not saying it's easy, but it may be necessary. Every once in a while when I get an invitation to be social, my tendency is to say yes immediately. But then I remember how saying yes gets me into trouble with myself, so I take a few breaths, and say no. I still feel like I'm missing out, but I'm taking care of my heart by staying in.

Buddhist Thoughts

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No one saves us but ourselves. No one can and no one may. We ourselves must walk the path.    --Buddha

So, this past week, I've been learning a little about Buddhism and Modern Psychology. I've always been interested in Buddhist philosophy, but as I understand more of the specific tenets, I have to say, I am impressed. What I've learned so far includes the Four Noble Truths, the first two of which express the Buddha's diagnosis of the human predicament. The First Truth is that suffering exists. The Second Truth is that the cause of suffering is a "craving" or "clinging" to feelings, emotions, and beliefs. Mostly, we do not see things clearly, so by letting go of illusion, we can cease our suffering.

I've been trying to be more "Buddhist" this week by not allowing my negative feelings to affect my thinking. It's not easy, let me tell you. Once you've become so conditioned to think a certain way based on feelings and preconceived notions about your world, coming out of that conditioning is like  wearing new skin. It requires changing your whole way of seeing yourself and the world.

I've discovered that my husband, unbeknownst to him, is really quite a Buddhist. He approaches problems pragmatically, and he does not get caught up in feelings and emotions. The result? He is happy and his suffering minimal. I have always had a certain respect for him and his ability to stay centered. I don't know how he does it, really. It's just a part of his "enlightened" nature. I admire it and hope to emulate his easy ways with less resistance from my own persnickety, analytical mind.

So far this week, the thought that I can be more at peace by letting negative feelings go is a start. And I'm all about starting things. It's early in the game, so there's time to unlearn the habits of my mind and change my mental processes. I'm up for the challenge, and it's not going to hurt to try.

Journaling is the Way

If you haven't heard of the fabulous Ms. Danielle Laporte, you are missing out. I discovered her when discussing life goals, writing hopes, and inspirational avenues with a woman I met at a party. It was all very out-of-the-blue, and for some reason, I remembered the name "Danielle LaPorte" the next day when I went to Google her. I never remember things unless I write them down, but I came back to Danielle LaPorte, and now she is helping me set goals. Her "What will I do to feel the way I want to feel" Journal gets me centered and her #TruthBomb deck lets me bring inspiration to others. Maybe you are not a reflective soul. Maybe you do not "journal" because you don't have time for it or you think it's meaningless. But let me tell you, when I am feeling down, anxious, frustrated, journaling allows me to have a conversation with myself outside of myself. I used to think journaling was pointless unless I had something to say, and I rarely felt I had something to say. I now focus my purpose on gratitude and anxiety. I write about what I am grateful for and about what runs my mind into the ground. And when I come out on the other side, I feel as if I've released myself from worries because I've left them all on the page. Brilliant. And I love my new guided journal. If you are interested in checking one out for yourself, check out this link:

Click to discover life-affirming magic

And if you want to find out more about the inspiring Danielle LaPorte, go here:

A glimpse of Danielle LaPorte

Writing Places and Head Spaces

I used to go to coffee shops where I would sit for hours, churning out pages, feeling salty and sassy and writerly. And then my coffee cup was empty and my bladder so full my lower half danced a jig, so I’d pack up all of my valuables and head to the bathroom. If a table was free when I re-emerged, I’d go for round two, unless I was so jittery from caffeine I thought I might appear like an addict or like I should be receiving some kind of medical treatment for tremors. Writing at Starbucks and CBTL became trendy and crowded, and especially in my younger days, made me a target for unwanted suitors. Okay, maybe I was just a tad bit flattered if I got some attention. But mostly, I just wanted to be left alone to pour my heart out through my fingertips. Now, I write at home because it’s where I live. And there’s food, and a vacant bathroom. It’s comfortable. Kind of.

I’m all set up, nice and cozy, with a vodka, soda, and lime, with an icepack on my back, with my thighs pressed against the underside of my desk apron because I can’t get all the way under it unless I sit on the floor like I’m in an elementary school earthquake drill. It’s not even really my desk. I inherited it because it was here at my fiancé’s house when I moved in. I don’t fit here, but I'm trying to make room for my artistic aspirations. And I’ve only recently begun writing here in an attempt to find comfort, solace, hope, and attitude. 

I always listen to music when I write. It drowns out the noise. And it brings the memory, the pain, and the proper mood; it shuts out reality and opens doors to my soul. It’s also this way when I take walks outside listening to my iPod. I write poems in my head, trying to commit them to memory so I can write them down when I get home. But this is a poor strategy, akin to trying to remember a dream for the duration of my morning shower. Somewhere between the shampooing and the toweling off, the vivid colors and scenes have lifted themselves from me with the rising steam. But still, the music is love. And listening to it must be similar to sleeping—to dreaming—because it forces me to wax poetic silence, dropping little stars into my heart. 

I have never made a creative space for myself. I’ve always been the nomadic writer, but I can’t really write just anywhere. Physically, I can do anything because I am a superhero. But emotionally, chaos and clutter muck up my braintooth. It's difficult to write at will, at the drop of a hat, on a moment's notice--despite the thousands of people (well maybe just a few family members, friends, and other writers, but they’ve repeated themselves a lot) who claim that a “real writer can write anywhere.” Apparently, it only requires discipline to be a writer. I suppose this would still hold true if I were drowning. And maybe, yes, I could write to the inspiring aria of my death. But alas! Once I’d transcended to the afterlife, the words would be gone from me the same as my flesh! Oh, the cruel trickery of Heaven. Or Hell. 

I’ve known writers who carry little books with them so they may be prepared at a moment’s notice to write down the next great first line of the next great American novel. I lack discipline in this routine as well. I’ve spent a small fortune on pretty, small notebooks, Moleskin journals, and pads of paper. Strangely, it seems that when I carry them in my purse, my muse vacations in the Bahamas. And on the rare occasion that I start writing a masterpiece in my head and reach for that snappy little book I praised myself for buying, I seem to have forgotten to put it in my purse when I transitioned from the previous purse. I may be over-reaching in my commitment to fashion, and underachieving in my commitment to writing. But you don’t see me now, sitting here with a crossbody bag that matches my moccasin slippers, do you? Ah! Writing it is. I can make auspicious decisions. All hope is not lost.

And so I beat on…with fantasies of perfect writing spaces dancing in my head. I keep writing, borne back against the wood of this crummy pine desk. I can see it now—my writing future—replete with ergonomic adjustments, numerous shelving, a printer with USB cord attached. Or. Or! Wireless printing capabilities. I know I’m getting a bit carried away here, but what is a writer if not a dreamer? George Bernard Shaw so wisely taught me, “You see things; and you say ‘Why?’ But I dream things that never were; and I say ‘Why not?’” Of course, Shaw’s famous words were spoken by The Serpent to Eve, but that’s of little consequence. I dream this writing space that never was and someday, when I move to San Diego in four months, I will say to myself, “Why not get myself a desk built for a human adult?” This is more than temptation; it is destiny.

Tomorrow, I will write in a coffee shop just to mix things up a bit. I’m a creature of habit but it will be nice to get out and socialize with my local barista, fellow caffeine fiends, and potential unsolicited gentlemen callers (I love my husband). This will be a daring feat, I know, since it will involve a hint of extroversion and inevitably put my bladder in extremis. But I can do this. I’m a writer.

To Endure is to Burn

“What is to give light must endure burning.”  Viktor Frankl

I don't have a job, at least not one that pays regularly. You may remember I quit that thing over three years ago. I've spent the time since doing various things, like laundry, dishes, shopping, visiting with friends, traveling, running our cat to and from the vet, getting healthier, and other such stuff that most people with paying jobs do. Almost everyone I know tells me they are jealous of me and wish they could have my life. But they don't know the truth: Having no job is harder than it sounds (or looks).

Now, let's not get carried away here. I love my life, and know how very fortunate I am to be in a situation where I do not have to work my fingers to the bone and put my nose to the grindstone daily, beginning with a 5:30 A.M. Sencha ringtone.

Being jobless has, essentially, made me identity-less.

At first, I enjoyed recovery-mode, and will admit to spending hours hanging around, binge-watching TV. But once I got caught up on PLL, The Walking Dead, Breaking Bad, Sons of Anarchy, and numerous other shows, most of which I'd never heard of, and I'd On-Demanded and Netflixed myself into oblivion, I was disgusted with myself. Rested? Hell, yes. But mostly just disgusted because I had never been so unproductive in all my life. Surely, I got more done in my mother's womb, what with all the kicking and stretching and growing and being aggressive enough to actually make it out alive. Without a job, though, I was sitting around dying, withering away, with nothing to feel good about and nothing to say. My husband certainly didn't care that I almost found out who "A" was but then, in a serious plot twist of utter nonsense and suspense, Nope! I still hadn’t even managed to acquire useless information about fake paranoid people running around their little town, lying to everyone, including themselves, about everything. But Pretty Little Liars! I was stuck in their lives--because I was "breathing just a little and calling it a life." (Thank you, Mary Oliver).  But I needed rest, I claimed. I'll figure out what I'm going to do, soon, I said. Very soon, just after I finish watching all 101 episodes of Pretty Little Liars and have a good cry over the fact that I won't have anymore episodes to watch until next season.

As I settled into my crises--no more PLL and who the heck am I?--I developed an urgent sense of self-loathing. I got to quit my job and pursue my writing. I was writing a book, and now I had all the time in the world to finish it! This was the life! But I wasn't writing. I was avoiding. First, there was the recovery period, and then there was the helping period. The helping period consisted of two very crucial elements that kept it afloat: 1) Other people in my life thought I was free to do whatever, whenever, because I didn't have a job. 2) I let other people think I was free to do whatever, whenever, because I didn't have a job. Thus, my life became about going here, and doing that, and never feeling like I could say No because I didn’t have a job, which meant everything thing else that was not my writing became a priority. And it seemed every time I would chastise myself, get serious about sitting down to write, and actually write, something else would pop up that took me away from my routine. I managed to blame my writing failure and paralysis on everything and everyone else. Even our cluttered house became a reason I couldn't write--because I simply couldn't think for all the shit everywhere. So I decided to de-clutter. And when that didn't work, another excuse emerged.

So I got a part-time teaching job at a community college. Teaching one class monopolized my time. At the end of one semester, I was tired of reading essays and arguing with students about grades, and I was only $3,000 richer. I relished the idea of getting back to writing once I got the time-management thing down for the next semester.

Until B and I moved to San Diego. We had a tiny little one-bedroom apartment. It was clean and clutter-free, and the perfect little haven for my writer-ly endeavors. I did research, I entered contests, I submitted poetry to various literary journals, and I wrote and wrote and wrote, changing my memoir into a Young Adult novel, re-writing the crap out of it, bleeding it dry, and coming to the realization that my book might actually be good now that it has a purpose, a target audience, and an actual plot. I got so close to finishing my 330-page revision, I could taste it, like sugary candy on my tongue.

And then I got injured. Forget the surgeries I'd had--one in November and one in June--I was laid up with a severely sprained wrist and major tissue damage to my left hip/leg/butt due to a fall.

And then we moved back to Redondo Beach. And I became overwhelmed again with stuff. I wrote a little, but then, days were taken up with other duties and responsibilities.

And then I was asked back to Girls Inc., where, as a writing coach, I assisted a small group of girls with writing their scholarship essays. I thought about turning the position down, since the center is 40 miles away and a permanent move to San Diego lurked around the bend. But I took the job. And I told myself I would write in the mornings before work. Ha! I worked two days a week, leaving my house at 1:30 P.M. and getting home between 8:30 and 9 most days--and getting home at after midnight three successive days the last week because it was crunch time. I was mentally spent. Another small paycheck in hand, I had been swindled by the prospect of a part-time job that would allow me time to write.

The truth is, I loved that job and love the girls I worked with. Helping them learn about writing and supporting them as they developed their harrowing life stories into meaningful essays was one of the most rewarding and fun things I have ever been a part of. And if they all get a $20,000 national scholarship for college because I offered my time, talent, and love--well, then, I'd say there is nothing more successful.

The job ended last week and the girls will find out the scholarship results in February. Either they will get a visit at their school from the Girls Inc. director, who will smile big while holding a bouquet of flowers as she congratulates them; or they will get an apologetic phone call. Two years ago, all five scholarship candidates won $20,000. So there's no pressure for them all the win this year. The pressure may be all in my head.

Maybe I’m just excited because as I write this, I am actually writing this. As much as I'd like to say I am a writer, I've battled with the defeatist thought that I am not a writer. But no one needs to be committed every moment to her dream to claim that dream a reality. And I must stop fear from telling me I am just a girl without a job (a.k.a. a purpose).

So, the next chapter begins. My life is not predictable. I don't know when or if I will freelance again. I don't know when I will publish an actual poem instead of ushering in the rejection notices like pebbles in the wind. I don't know when I will finish my novel. But that's okay. I'm close--real close. I need to keep reminding myself that I do know who I am. I am a person. I am a homemaker and a wife. I am a friend and a daughter and a sister. I am an educator. I am a writer. I am all of these things. 

To endure is to burn--to experience the nothings and learn the munificent ways in which they are somethings. For if we never feel low, how can we know the high when it hits us? For if we ourselves never burn, how can we light the path? And if the purpose of life lay in the destination, I might be content to resign myself to yet another binge-watch of some show I don't even know about--because Sons of Anarchy was disgustingly delicious. But life is all about the journey. And isn't it sweet.