Ideas for February Doldrums

We all procrastinate. For me, it seems to get easier to do so the deeper into a book I write, especially when I’m not at all sure what’s next or if I run into roadblocks or writer’s blocks. Every writer, no matter what they tell you, has experienced both in some way or other. Here are a few things I do if I find myself in either situation.

I break the project down to the littlest chunk I can deal with. If I’m working on a poem that stalls I might go looking for words and make a list, telling myself that’s all I’ll do. The words kick start my sluggish mind and having the pressure off to produce is a great motivator.

If I’m working on a novel, the list of words gets my mind off the story and into the world I’m creating. I often find when the work is coming hard for a novel it’s because I’ve become removed, instead of inside the story

Or I’ll research the subject—Poem or novel. I can’t tell you how often I’ve found inspiration for my best poems from hard, dry facts. That process makes me smile because it just seems so at odds with poetry writing, but I always think of a quote I heard many years ago:

Facts is stubborn things and can’t be drove. —Mrs. Gamp

Facts just are and as you go looking for them, I think you’re mind stops trying so hard and genius slips in. (I hope.)

Another small chunk I do is force myself to write one sentence. It is amazing how often that one sentence leads to more. If the one sentence doesn’t work, I’ll use my timer. It’s an old trick I use to use on my kids when they didn’t want or think they needed a nap. I’d tell them all they had to do was close their eyes for five minutes. I even set the timer for them. I never once had them only nap for five minutes (of course, I snuck in their rooms and took the timer out of the room, turned it off, snuck it back in. I’m not stupid, not even back in those days. Do I feel guilty about trick my kids. Um, no!) I’ve never only written for five minutes.

The best part about doing the smallest thing possible is anyone can do that. Take one step, cut out one dessert, write one word, walk one block and inevitably you can do another, then another and then, there you go.

I’ve been known to take a bribe. Oh, yes and I don’t feel an ounce of guilt about that either. I’ll coerce myself with promises: All I got to do is write 100 words today, then I can go antiquing, have a taco burger (I have no idea why this is such a guilty pleasure, but it is and so fraught with memories, too. The perfect bribe.) or a seafood salad. A new notebook or pen would work or a new houseplant. Hey, I can think of dozens of bribes and I’m so easy I’ll work hard for every one.

Get away from the work. This doesn’t mean I take a vacation, although, sometimes that’s exactly what my mind and body are saying I need. As I’ve mentioned before I’m the primary caregiver for a ninety-four year old parent. That challenge is becoming more and more time intensive. And I am still a mother and wife. The responsibilities and demands challenge my mind and my body every day. And they could easily take over every minute.

So a nice pampered vacation is not in the cards, but all the same I have to be kind to myself for all I do for others. And believe me often the only one looking out for me is me. That has been one of the hardest lessons to learn.

The thing is my writing is my lifeline, the one consistent thing I do for me, but when I am overwhelmed by other’s needs sometimes my work, that lifeline, just won’t come. What do you do when you need a change, a rest, a vacation and it isn’t going to happen? What I do is, first, I breathe: in for 5 counts, out for 5 counts. I just breathe and let stillness surround me.

Sometimes, all I can manage is a glimpse out of my office window, but the sight of trees and rain or snow, of wind, of the old wooden fence, the garden is enough. I can feel my pulse slow, my breathing relax.

Sometimes, I listen to music. Music fills spaces in my soul, it works on the words stuck inside, it puts me in a place and time I’m writing about. It soothes the savage beast. It does.

Sometimes I walk. Outside is best. There is something elemental about the swing of arms and legs, the quiet, the sight of sky and clouds, wind in the trees, leaves scuttling across the ground, the song of birds.

These small escapes are sanity. The worst part about it is my stupid guilt feelings I can’t seem to shake, but I can live with them. I can write with them, too.

Not Do or Do and Finding

Not-To-Do-List:

·       Worry about things I have no control over. Most of the things I worry about never happen, but when I worry about them the stress does.

·       Diet to get ‘skinny’. Instead, I’ll eat and exercise for what’s good for me, makes me feel better.

·       Please everyone. Too damn hard. I’m going to start treating me like my own best friend.

·       Watch make-over segments on TV, wondering if I should die my graying hair or cut said hair.  

·       Worry about my aging looks. I’ve earned every bit of and it ain’t so bad considering.

·       Be unappreciative of my body ever again. It has fought the good fight and (this is especially gratifying to say) won. I never want to take it for granted again.

·       Let ‘mean girls who have turned into mean women’ get to me anymore.

Today:

I’ve been playing Whitney Houston music all morning. It took some doing to find the cassette stored away in old Pepsi wooden crates and a little finger-crossing that the old cassette deck would still work, but after listening to the short stanzas played over and over on the news, I ached to hear the whole experience of her voice. The excavation was worth it.

It was the best way I could think to honor and thank her for what she gave us.

Singing is so connected to a person’s heart, I think. Singing (or listening to someone else) of heartbreak, love, God brings it out into a reality. It is deeper than tears or smiles. We carry music with us throughout our lives. It is connected to our memories, our histories. As Dick Clark says, Music is the soundtrack of our lives, and we each have a personal playlist that introduces the chapters of our life. So when we hear a song we recognize, we hear a memory too.

Finding:

There was an antique show Saturday and, of course, I went. The crowd made the treasure hunt difficult and not as pleasant as I hoped. It was hard to make way through the crush into the booths and once in the booth moving through to look at all the items was more than a little frustrating. Still, for all that, I had fun and found some great things. Notably a wooden desk organizer, perfect next to my printer. As I was cleaning the dust from the wooden shelves, I found a bunch of papers shoved into the back. I love that kind of thing.

I found several staplers and two garden sprayers to add to my collections and the book, Westward by Rail.

Speaking of finding treasures, I’m still going through dejunking and organizing my office, making progress, thinning out old books, I’m no longer using and reassessing  decorating choices. Of course, there are files to go through, copy or get rid of, but with every step I’m improving the function of the room and my work.

Progress is slow, but steady, but I’m not putting it off. I’m moving forward one step at a time.

If you strike a thorn or rose,

Keep a-goin’!

If it hails or if it snows,

Keep a-goin’!

‘Tain’t no use to sit and whine

‘Cause the fish ain’t on you line;

Bait your hook an’ keep in tryin’,

Keep a-goin’!

                   -Frank L. Stanton, Keep a-goin’

Favorite things:

Homemade chocolate cake with chocolate frosting like my mother made. The kind of butter frosting that went hard after a few days (if the cake lasted that long.) Oyster stew with sautéed green onions and celery. Oh, the memories.

Homemade frozen jam—making and eating. Even the pleasure of seeing the jars tucked away in the freezer. The pantry full of home-canned produce, the shelves glittering like gems. Homemade fudge, the kind you stir forever. The perfect homegrown peach dripping juice down my arm as I peel it. Children swinging and laughing on a tree swing.

The smell of garlic sautéing in butter. The amalgamated scent of my herb garden. The scent of loamy soil coming out of its winter freeze. Roses, ‘Lady in Red’ salvia and lavender perfuming the air as I brush past tidying up the garden. Buttered popcorn. Fresh sheets hung outside on a cold, crisp day in April.

Butterflies in September, the monarchs, in early spring, the Mourning Cloak. Crocuses peeking through the snow. An empty road. Moonlight on an empty road. Good morning sun on that same empty road. Window Boxes. Window boxes sprouting salmon geraniums.  Freshly washed windows in spring.

 Fog rolling in with the muffled silence. Being read to by my mother, no one does ‘The Raven’ quite like it. Homemade rag dolls. Homemade doll clothes.  A handwritten note. A flea market find of old recipe books, especially those gathered together for a fundraiser. A box of handwritten letters, ribbon optional. A diary found in an antique shop: another life, a story.

On a gloomy, midwinter day, write about your favorites. If nothing else it gets you started writing and smiling.

Making a Trail and Pictures

As I’ve been working on rewrites for Ella and the Tie-down Man and Heart’s High, developing Heart’s Ease and writing the blogs about character, I’ve been learning and, maybe, relearning.  I’ve come to several conclusions, too.

You can never have enough notes for your novels, especially on rewrites. Now, I know most writing goes from developing the story to first draft to rewrites to editing in a nice chronological and linear fashion. I’m also certain, many writers have done as I have—written books that didn’t work or were out of favor and years later revisited them. I’ve heard of writers taking many, many years to work on a book.

To do that well, you need notes, good solid notes on what you are thinking on a particular character, setting, plot point. I’ve been lost in this world I made, several times wondering what my thoughts were, where I was heading. So, I wished I’d done a better job of making a trail. And I wished I’d done one other simple thing. I wished I had attached a picture to each character sketch or the name of an actor—just something solid to envision. For me, on character, a picture or actor sets more than the look. It cements an attitude.

I search through magazines, pay attention in movies and TV for characters. Pictures are good, also, for costume and set design. It isn’t a waste of time or ‘busy’ work to find the perfect snapshot of clothing, setting, objects that serve a role. Looking through a few magazines, copying a few pictures out of books is great, but for Western Historicals that can sometimes be difficult and slim pickings.

That’s where a camera comes in. And great western scenery, native flora and fauna, animals and people. I have a wonderful camera I keep in my purse. I find the best props and locations when I least expect to and with a camera always with me, I catch it. I just purchased a little bigger camera for research, with a little more zoom, a little better quality and ability for photographing in museums and antique hunting.

Antiques are a passion of mine and one of the reasons is the stories behind the object. As I wander through the antique booths and shops, I can’t tell you how many props I find. The stories come, too and I can dress them with real finds I’ll never be able to afford, but ‘find’ for set design. I always ask permission before I photograph and have never been refused. I’ve grown a wonderful detailed ‘catalog’ of authentic props and ‘dressed’ many a setting with them while I browse.

So, as I read somewhere: To keep from getting lost, stay found.

And take pictures.