Articles
Several short pieces on writing, support, and inspiration
featured in The Writing Champions Project.
Get it down...
and get out of your way
We have a routine in our home. Each morning, with a trusted cup of caffeinated inspiration in hand, I head for my office while my spouse gets ready for the gym.
I sit down and stare at the screen. Most days, I know exactly what I need to work on. Still, there are moments I find myself getting sucked down the rabbit hole as I stare at the blinking cursor while I will myself to come up with the next big thing.
After a few migraine-inducing minutes, there’s a knock at the door. My spouse peeks in to let me know the apocalyptic reason for the disruption is that we’re out of milk. I smile as I make a mental note, shut the door, and lock it. This too is part of our routine.
Thankfully, I give up on coming up with the next great American novel, and tell myself, “Just get some words out. But be sure it's better than yesterday.” I’ve somehow managed to take the larger pressure off, but still, “I better churn out some gold today.”
It’s not entirely a bad thing to want to do better, but all too often I find putting pressure on ourselves leaves our work feeling forced and unnatural.
The pressure scenario doesn’t happen all the time though. There are days when it’s effortless, where I let go of control and give over freely to the process. And before I know it, the keys are clicking away. “It’s happening,” I joyfully tell myself, “its here, the flow!”
It’s amazing what we can do if we free ourselves of the pressure to create. Sure, one-day millions may weep at our prose or line up outside the one bookstore left in existence to snatch up our latest masterpiece. All of these things are wildly possible, but not if they’re with us when we sit down to write.
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Our job is (seemingly) simple. Put thoughts down on paper. Letter after letter, word after word, and then mix the glorious mishmash of sentences into one clear vision. Almost anyone can do it, or so we’ve been told. The trick is doing it well. Now that’s something not just anyone can do.
“Honey, I’m going to work out,” my spouse yells.
“So am I,” I say as I take a deep breath, clear my mind, and finally begin.
"Ohhhh, so you're a writer.
That must be nice."
How often have you been enjoying your day when you’re backhanded with, “Ohhhhh, so you’re a writer? That must be nice.” It’s not only dripping with judgment but screams of idle writers lounging about quill in hand while eating bonbons. Today, I thought we’d have some fun and pay “homage” to our creative adversaries.
The NCT’s (Non-Creative Types): People who no matter how often you explain what you do, cannot comprehend that is, indeed, work. They’re profoundly confused that we’d rather spend the day writing than watching sporting events or Bravo. Even more mind-blowing is our need to read books we can hold, instead of downloading it to our Kindle. NCT’s enjoy discussing anything and everything…except your “art.”
The Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda’s: If there’s one type you don’t want to get stuck next to at a party, it’s them. At the mention of your career, you are inundated with unpleasant (and deep-rooted envious) comments, like: “I wish I could sit around and write all day, but I have to work.” Or, “I always thought I should write a book; it can’t be that hard.”
The Crazy Makers: (as noted in Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way) find endless ways to zap your energy, steal your time, and squash your writing mojo. There’s always a crisis to be solved, and who better to solve it than you.
Mr. Man: At the mention of having an article published or a book optioned, Mr. Man’s first question will be, “How much were you paid?” Thus, furthering the frustrating theory that art is only worth something if tied to some monetary value.
Lastly, The Idea Man: His sole purpose is to impress you with his book idea that he’s too lazy to write himself. When you hear the phrase, “Oh, I have the best idea,” followed by “you’re gonna love this,” flick your internal hearing aid to off and simply nod.
The beauty of these foils is that there’s oh so many more just waiting to hit you with obnoxious one-liners and heaps of doubt. And although I jest about our foes, I do realize these types (for the most part) mean well and are merely naïve to all the efforts that go into our craft. In that case, I wish to impart a bit of advice to them: When speaking to others, choose your words carefully. It’s something we, as writers, do every day.
"Teachers effect eternity;
no one can tell where their influence stops."
I can remember every teacher I’ve ever had. There was Ms. June, who looked like Wonder Woman, Mr. King, whose classroom was a safe haven during my parent’s divorce, and Mrs. Koslow, who shoved me into a blackboard one day for asking too many questions. It’s only now 38 years later, far from her evil grasp, I dare speak her name.
The teacher to have the most significant influence on me out of all of them was my high school art teacher, Mrs. Price. She was a perfect mix of sweet Grandma, kooky Aunt, and free spirit. She floated around the room in long flowing dresses and colorful bangle bracelets tossing her silver hair about whilst speaking of Van Gogh and Warhol. She had a joie de vivre other teachers were sadly lacking; so much so that she even had a pair of earrings made out of dead bees. During lessons, they would swing wildly back and forth as I watched nervously waiting for them to come back to life.
Back then, I felt a lot like those bees; there, but not really alive. Four months earlier, I had realized I might be a wee bit gay. I wasn’t the only one that noticed. As the taunting of my teammates from Track increased, I turned further inward.
Initially, I had joined the team in hopes of burying my true self, but it was apparent they sensed my newly acquired signature scent, Eau de Homo, and were not fans. One day, tired of all the teasing and bullying, I confided in Mrs. Price who helped me find the conviction to quit. “You don’t belong out there running in circles. You belong in here,” she said, patting my chest as the bees nodded in agreement, “you’re an artist."
During my sophomore year, my artwork shifted from drawings to word illustrations, and Mrs. Price convinced me to join the school newspaper so I could find my voice and learn the nuances of writing good, I mean, well. When it came time to choose electives for 11th-grade, she reluctantly pushed me from her art room into writing classes.
All these years later, I’m still so grateful to Mrs. Price for carefully guiding me through those difficult years, and for instilling in me the confidence to be myself. It's only in the last few years, I’ve realized the profound effect that support and kindness can have on us all. Thankfully, my years in her classroom were filled with both.
And the tree was happy
a tribute to an old friend
The Good Book.
Books from my childhood hold a special reverence with me to this day. Like most kids, growing up I was incapable of sitting still. I just couldn’t do it. The exception to that rule was story time. Open a book and read to me, and I was spellbound. Book time at my house was special. It was a time to be still as I sat curled up in my mother’s wing, breathing in her faded Jean Nate, and waiting to say those two little words on the last page.
There were four books I treasured most in my collection: Where The Wild Things Are, Curious George, Caps for Sale, and The Little Prince. Each book spoke to me and once welcomed into my world, stayed for long stretches of time. The book that would have the most significant impact on me though we didn’t even own.
Since sitting still was a challenge, the 60 minutes I had to endure in church was a struggle of biblical proportions. One Sunday, stopping at the bookshelf in the foyer, I noticed hidden amongst the bibles a bright green book with a tree dropping an apple down to a boy.
In the pew, I ran my hand across the cover, sounding out the title, "The…Giv...ing…Treee." From that day forward, it sat across my lap every mass.
The Giving Tree taught me to read, The Giving Tree taught me to be still, it made church bearable; but what I never realized was The Giving Tree was the sermon I needed to hear each Sunday. It was a lesson in kindness, a lesson in sharing, and greed and forgiveness, and above all else, a lesson in unconditional love. To me The Giving Tree was church. And along with God, my savior.
The last time I visited my sister and 7-year-old niece a few months ago, I noticed how restless my niece was in church. I quickly opened my phone and downloaded my old friend. Amelia quietly swiped through the pages as I whispered sections to her. And as always, on the last page, I tried not to cry. As she flipped to the picture of Shel Silverstein, I smiled at the man who taught me lessons I still carry with me today and who saved me each Sunday.
Support
...and what it really means to an artist
Support is something I struggle with every day.
As a writer, I’ve never known the true meaning of the word. I fault myself for this since A. I’ve never bothered to look it up, and B. I’ve always looked to others to be supportive, rather than asking for it directly.
In seeking support from others, I’ve encountered three distinct groups: 1. The Totally Supporters - these are the people that tell you, “I totally support you, you can count on me,” and then when you reach out to them, you totally can’t find them. 2. The Back Supporters - They mean well enough and say, “I got your back.” These are people able who support you in the moment, but it’s quick and fleeting. 3. The Altruistic Supporter - They genuinely want to help you, they’re just unsure how. They too are unsure of what support means.
With so much confusion, I finally looked up the word. 1. “To endure bravely or quietly.” - That’s us, the writer, and the support we bravely give ourselves each day to continue on.
2. “To uphold or defend, to keep from fainting, yielding, or losing courage” - These are the writer’s friends, the support groups we build for ourselves, the people we turn to when everyone else (including family members and loved ones) are unable to understand us.
When it comes to being supportive, I’m great at helping others but have difficulty asking for any when I most desperately could use some. I tell myself, “you got this, you can do it all, you don't need anyone else's help” as I doggie paddle through the waters struggling to keep my head afloat.
The other day I sat at my desk feeling overwhelmed with how much work there was. Growing increasingly irritated, I reached out to a fellow writer. She not only listened, but understood exactly what I was going through, and gave me some incredible advice. This is just one of the many reasons I’m so grateful for groups like The Writing Champions Project. The support groups we surround ourselves with are quite often the most important ones. In them, we find solidarity, safety, sanity, and most of all, support.