Everyday is #WritingWednesday

how_to_overcome_writers_block

Soon I will be a full-time writer which, frankly, scares the crap out of me. As I phase out, over the next few months, my time as a professor, I will be face to face with what I always wanted to be, 

said

 I was going to be, and now 

must

 be; that is, a writer. Not a part-time dalliance, not a self-absorbed "hobby," not anything else but one of those odd people identified as - a "writer." No excuses. Time to produce. So be it.

Gordon B. Hinckley said, "All writers should be put in a box and thrown in the sea." He might be right, but I will not be thwarted.  I will have to learn to say so long to procrastination, excuse-making, and most of my time on Facebook. I will have to produce. I will have to be a bit selfish with my time. I will have to be disciplined! A novel, and then another. Maybe a short story. A new novel.

I have no expectations of best-sellers, movie contracts, interviews on TV, ever-aware of Flannery O'Connor's quote about expecting too much which produces a softness that can lead to bitterness. I will write, revise, edit, and send off my work. Then I'll start something new. How weird is that?

I will develop a thick skin.

I will be disciplined. I will put in the research. I will seek critique from honest people I respect.

But to be honest, I'm not so sure I can avoid what the tremendous author, James Lee Burke, calls "corrosive self-doubt" that afflicts all writers of all genres. That's the ugly thing that can intimidate.

I'll keep you posted, dear reader, as I gradually ease into my new life as a writer. Shall I purchase a beret?

Everyday is #WritingWednesday

Soon I will be a full-time writer which, frankly, scares the crap out of me.  As I phase out, over the next few months, my time as a professor, I will be face to face with what I always wanted to be, said I was going to be, and now must be; that is, a writer.  Not a part-time dalliance, not a self-absorbed "hobby," not anything else but one of those odd people identified as - a "writer."  No excuses.  Time to produce.  So be it.

Gordon B. Hinkley said, "All writers should be put in a box and thrown in the sea."  He might be right, but I will not be thwarted.  I will have to learn to say so long to procrastination, excuse-making, and most of my time on Facebook.  I will have to produce.  I will have to be a bit selfish with my time.  I will have to be disciplined!  A novel, then another.  Maybe a short story.  A new novel.

I have no expectations of best-sellers, movie contracts, interviews on TV, ever-aware of Flannery O'Connor's quote about expecting too much which produces a softness that can lead to bitterness.  I will write, revise, edit, and send out my work.  Then I'll start something new.  How weird is that?

I will develop a thick skin.

I will be disciplined.  I will put in the research.  I will seek critique from honest people I respect.

But to be honest, I'm not sure I can avoid what the tremendous author, James Lee Burke, calls the "corrosive self-doubt" that afflicts all writers of all genres.  That the ugly thing that can intimidate.

I'll keep you posted, dear reader, as I gradually ease into my new life as a writer.  Shall I purchase a beret?

It is all behind me...

It was the kind of pain that makes a 200-pound guy gasp even though he doesn't want anyone to hear it. Out of pride. But as I turned to get up from my chair in front of my computer, it hit me. It was like a glowing curl of barbed wire in the small of my back, forcing me to grasp at my desktop to keep me from falling. I didn't want my long-suffering wife to hear, and she didn't. I'm not prone to yelps of pain, but this one was a beaut. Uninvited, unprovoked, yet still there, burning into my body. That was Saturday, and now it's Sunday, a day that rendered me close to helpless as I skipped church and was too nauseated from the "discomfort" to eat with our community group having lunch here at our cottage. I ate Advil and it only bumped the pain back a little. Then, on the suggestion of one of my sisters in the Lord, I added red wine to the mix and the pain began to ebb. I fell into a recliner and read James Lee Burke for a while, dozed, had three more pain pills, finished the book, Black Cherry Blues.

Now I'm better and thinking about getting back to the gym tomorrow afternoon where I'll sling some significant weights around without a problem.

Pains lends perspective to our lives, and the absence of such lends even more. And gratitude. I've had days when I could pick up 440 pounds and times when I couldn't lift a pencil, like yesterday and Sunday morning. Cracks me up.

Leftovers on Loan

Lately, I have been going to the public library here in Travelers Rest. It is excellent. And I've been checking out books. It's free! Who would have known? Anyway, it is wonderful, but I have noticed something as I plow through novels by Robert B. Parker and James Lee Burke. It is this: Some people who borrow books at the library have poor hygiene. It is a rare thing when I go more than three or four pages without coming across residue of some kind. I am positive I have found blood smears, mucous from at least two places in the human body, and food stains (frequently chocolate). If possible, I use a thumbnail to dislodge those deposits which can be dislodged. Then I sweep away the debris and continue. If the blemish is a stain, I just keep reading. After all, I am not a dilettante. Is this a general phenomenon, or does it apply only to those who read Parker and Burke? Knowing that there is no answer available, I will not let poor hygiene from previous readers deter me from enjoying a good story.

Far be it from me to participate in such sacrilege. When I read, I immediately blot out my wine and beer spills, and make sure to remove most of the pork rind crumbs, Cheese Puffs dust, and bacon bits before I return the book. I have standards.

I'm afflicted

One of my goals this Spring Break was to finish the first draft of novel #3 in the Thomas O'Shea series. Just a few chapters, going back a bit and making minor revisions, forging ahead. Well, I did it. I finished the final chapter, Chapter 30. I tried to avoid finishing it, to be honest. I have what the great James Lee Burke calls "corrosive self-doubt," which is an affliction all writers suffer.  I dawdled. I dallied. I thought of other things I could do besides finish that last, short, chapter. I played "monster" with my dog, chasing her around the cottage, a game she loves. I got on Facebook for a while. I read up on the Hawkeyes, the Red Sox, political scandals. I went back to my computer.   I finished, immediately followed by a sense of satisfaction, a sense of imminent doom, a bit of sadness that it was over. But I finished. Next step? Well, I mean to put it away until May, and then I'll go full bore making revisions, some major, most minor. I have to get all the names straight, the timelines accurate, the details nailed down, maybe more research to review, the loose ends tied up. But I love that part of being a writer as well.   Next step after that? Off to my publisher and start to write again.   Being a writer is an affliction, but it is a delightful one, especially when a work is finished. And I did that. Now I can spend my valuable time watching March Madness. Of course, there's some writing I need to do.

The beat goes on.

Lest not ye be judged...

Yesterday I was at the local laundromat. This because the Carenen Cottage is undergoing construction for an addition, which rendered our old laundry room nonexistent and the new laundry room not ready yet. It's a nice, clean, efficient laundromat with good machines that work. It costs around $15 to do our laundry. That's 60 quarters, enough to make me happy someone invented belts a few years ago. But I digress.

 

There was a frail, skinny, old man trying to do his laundry. He wore a baseball cap on his knobby head perched on a scrawny neck. His long-sleeved, faded shirt had a tear in the back exposing saggy skin. His pants were baggy and he wore scuffed, ratty shoes barely held together. He shuffled. I think he got there just before I did. He was fumbling with how the washing machines worked. I looked up and saw a lady come his way and I immediately went into my judgmental role. She was in her 30's, overweight, and spoke like a redneck and I judged her. There, it's out.

 

Then she pleasantly and kindly went about helping the man get his laundry done. Once the machines were going, she sat with him and struck up a conversation. I overheard him say that he was 90 years old, his wife had passed on, he was a World War II veteran, and he lived alone here in Travelers Rest. The two of them had a conversation while I read my James Lee Burke novel.

 

Time passed and the old man's laundry was washed and ready for the dryer. The lady kept helping, not doing, but helping. The old man was not incompetent. He was just very old, and the lady helped. I did nothing but watch and feel ashamed for not helping first, for letting someone else lead while I watched. Finally, the lady had to go, and an opportunity opened. When his clothes dried, I held two pillowcases open and we stuffed his clothes in. Finished, I put the two fat pillowcases in the back seat of his car and watched as the old man climbed behind the wheel of his rusty old gas guzzler and slowly drove away.

 

Then I went back to my book about the bayous, less ashamed than I had been, grateful for the guilt-driven opportunity to knock my self-centeredness back a notch or two. Appreciative for learning there's more to people than the way they look or talk. Uneasy about the next time something like that happens when I hope I can become more of a man.