Progress and Challenges

Every Monday, early, I take care of my houseplants. While the computer boots up, I trim out dead leaves, look for bugs, insert the water meter and water the Boston ferns, the ZZ plants, the tri-color pothos, rubber plants, lipstick plant, philodendrons and violets.

There was a time when these plants became one of my tricks of salvation from the winter blues. Now, I simply love something green surrounding me. I’ve accumulated them slowly. They brighten my rooms and mood.

I had to learn to love the winter. November, my birth month, always seemed so gray and grim. Nothing to really recommend it. It has taken years for me to realize that isn’t true. The sun still has warmth in it as it streams through the windows and autumn color, though muted, still splashes old gold, here and there, through the silvered trees. As Dickens said, “each season has a beauty all its own.”

There was always my birthday and Thanksgiving school break going for it. Later, I was often buried beneath the preparations of the big feast. The turkey, potatoes, stuffing and pies. I took over the preparations of Thanksgiving the year after my father died.

He was in charge of getting the turkey ready to roast and carving the bird. Such simple tasks became huge holes. I was always a curious child, asking too many questions, why, where, when, how, what, can I help. I’m so glad of that now. I use to watch my father clean and truss the turkey, so there was no question that I take over and help my mother with the meal.

I kept at that until it became too much to drag my growing family to my mom’s house each holiday, so I began my own traditions, always including my mom. As my family grew and got married, knowing I had to share my married children, holidays became an every other year tradition.

This year it will be just my husband and I. I’m looking forward to the smaller, quieter meal. The time to read the fat sales ads, taking a nap with the smell of the turkey, and the fireplace to keep me company. No pressure. I might even get to read a book, or do some writing.

I’ve learned through the on and off years, a loveliness to November and the rest of the winter months. Even a gratitude for time spent closer to home and warmth.

Writing is a bit easier without the garden calling to me, whispering of neglect. The office like an isolated turret as snow falls and the fireplace blazes.

I’m at the end of a five-week poetry workshop. As I’ve been so determined to get the edits done on Ellie and the Tie-down Man, I planned to work on both. My time has been very compressed as I still have my day job: primary-care giver, chief cook and bottle washer, railroad widow around here.

The experience turned into quite a challenge in more ways than one. Is it the cosmos, chaos or me? It seems when I am most pressured for time that is just when the most, time-consuming, unable to be ignored interruptions take place. Still, I stuck with it. I pressed on.

It paid off. It really did. I don’t know if the poetry I wrote was the best, but I do know I stretched myself. I tried things I wasn’t sure I wanted to try and emotions I wasn’t sure I wanted to feel. There are five poems that need editing, but still, there are five poems.

Ellie and the Tie-down Man is on track. I’m on the downhill of that. Though once I got past the spot where I had to stop when I got sick, it’s been tougher going as that hadn’t been touched before.

Progress is sweet. Challenges make it even sweeter.

Thank Yous

In the September issue of Writer’s Digest, Sherman Alexie suggests we thank an author when we read a piece of theirs that we love. In the Nov./Dec. issue, M. Claudette Sandecki mentions this, too and says she thinks of it as ‘insurance' that more of similar work from the author will make its way to her.

It’s a great idea. A writer’s life is isolating. All of us wonder, sometimes if we connect with our readers. A simple note, offered to the writer telling them what we enjoyed.

I think it can go deeper than that. Everyone likes to know they’re doing a good job. It gives a lift to the trudge of everyday and helps maintain the work. I’d do it to a great waiter, a thoughtful hairdresser. (And throw in a tip.) It’s a way to connect to the writer, expecting nothing but wanting only to show appreciation for the enjoyment I got.

It’s such a simple thing to do with e-mail, Twitter, and Facebook, so available.

Give a writer a gift this holiday.

Risks

At one time, I had a relative tell me I needed to take more risks. It’s true I am a careful person. I wear my seatbelt, wash my hands constantly, use hand sanitizer, drive the speed limit, wash all the surfaces in my house with Clorox wipes, at least once a week, look both ways when I cross the street, wear the brightest clothes in my closet on my walk in which I, also, carry a can of mace. I lock my doors, I have virus protection, insurance. I don’t fly, speak in public, hang-glide, jump out of perfectly good planes, ‘cause you’re not going to get me in it anyway. I don’t gamble, get on ladders, mix chemicals, do wiring. (If you knew me, you would not want me to.)

Actually, I’m an obsessive-compulsive coward (This all made more so with the MPGN, ensuing prednisone treatment compromising my natural immunity, the flu scare of last year with the difficulty in getting the shots and the newfound vulnerability I now feel, in spades.) and I’m okay with that. Really, I am. But don’t tell me I don’t take risks. I risk every day. I risk my heart, my confidence, and who I am. I do sorties into hostile territories, every single day. I know, from the get-go, I’m going to be under fire, likely shot down, wounded and…and every once in a while…saved. Don’t tell me I need to take more risks. I write. I risk everything. Does that sound dramatic? It is, I suppose, but other writer’s know exactly what I’m talking about.

Writers hear it, it’s the common vernacular: Open a vein, sweat blood, tie your butt to the chair. Sounds a bit violent, doesn’t it? Non-writers wonder why the hell we do it. Every writer I know wonders, too, on those bad days, but the writers that stick with it know, without any doubt or reservation, it is worth it.

It is worth it!

Halloween Rainbow

Ten Things That Keep Me Writing

• I stay in my office. I do the work. Fight the distractions, even if it feels like that’s all I’ve done that day. Even if it feels like I only got two words written, I don’t leave until my time’s up, then I start again tomorrow.


• I let a lot of things go. I’ll never have everything done so I’ll have time to write, so I write first, then tackle the stuff.


• I realize, I don’t need workshops as much as I need to just write.


• I decide. I’m in charge of my time. I’m the one who decides what distractions and interruptions I allow to get through.


• I know the odds are against me, so I enjoy the process, but…BUT…I know that with persistence the odds tip in my favor.


• I never go anywhere without pen and paper. There’s no telling where I might find my next great idea or detail or gem word. I keep myself open and I’m always ready to capture the treasure the universe sends my way.


• I try to ignore the bad news about publishing and be happy I’m doing what I love to do. I get as much joy as I can accomplishing what I set out to do.


• I allow myself a half hour funk for rejection. Tell myself it wasn’t my turn and try again.


• I take time for myself and my well-being. I exercise, eat right 80 % of the time, unplug, have fun, do something just for me.

Not five days ago, the dribbles and drabs of fall: the gradual gilding of the walnut trees on my parkway, the sudden appearance of marauding magpies and squirrels as the few walnuts hit the ground. I was scrambling to get the perennials cut back and the garden harvested of the last of the tomatoes, zucchini and broccoli. And scrambling to eat all those fresh veggies. Such a bittersweet challenge.

The weatherman warned of cold and wet and maybe, even snow. Time to dig carrots. All summer I had barely looked at the row of carrots, except to thin them the first time. I never did get around to thinning them again, as I wanted, so I never did look too close at the row out of guilt of my neglect. Besides, we had all we could do to keep up with all the bounty of vegetables we had: broccoli, chard, lettuce, radishes, green onions, spinach, cabbage, tomatoes and zucchini.

My husband ended up doing the digging in the rain. After washing and sorting them, he left them on the lawn until I returned from taking my mother shopping. I was so surprised at the simple beauty of that pile of near perfect tangerine-colored carrots. We’ve planted carrots every year for decades and never have we had such straight, perfect carrots.

For years and years, we’ve gathered the rocks up from the soil hoping to eliminate all the crocked, deformed carrots. We’ve fought ants and bad germination and just not growing. (last year).

I could write an ode to the carrots. They are that beautiful but all I can think of is carrot cupcakes with cream cheese frosting.

I’ve been so busy the last couple of weeks working on my writing, half the time I feel out of breath. I’m doing another great workshop with Melanie Faith called Following the Golden Thread: A Tapestry of Poetry and it is marvelous. Deliciously inspiring and the book we’re using for our text just like my carrots. Simply perfection. Each chapter is a gem. The Try This sections giving me so many ideas I’ll never get to the all.

Poetry always kicks up my energy and my productivity in my writing. I need to remember that and always have a poem going.

The workshop opportunity didn’t come at the best of times, but I wanted to do it and my husband said something so smart. “You get feedback here, where you don’t get a lot of feedback from the novels and even when you do, it is so delayed that it almost doesn’t count. You need this to feed the rest.” Smart man.

Still, because I’m determined to finish, Ellie and the Tie-down Man and get it out there in the world, (It’s a principle or goal or…One more thing I promised I’d accomplish, if I got better. It near broke my heart when I packed all the research, drafts, notes and copies away. I wasn’t sure whether I would ever finish and the novel was right there at the spot of needing just a bit of tender care to finish.) I’m working on the novel, too. It means working on the novel in the mornings and the poetry in the afternoons and still doing my other jobs. (Those jobs don’t pay either—you know, chief cook and bottlewasher, caregiver, go-to person.)

And above all, don’t stress. Do I look stressed?

I feel—spun. Good, but dizzy. And that is seed of my poem for this week.

Interruptions and Distractions

All writers deal with interruptions and distractions, but writers who write from home are in guerilla warfare.

It happens, sometimes once a week, sometimes many more. That interruption, the one that breaks your concentration and stops that flow, so hard-won.

Distractions are roadblocks, out to derail. They’re sly and chameleon-like, masquerading as something important or tantalizing. That e-mail could be important, that breaking news, significant. It’s true. The ‘just-one-game’ does sound fun, relaxing and harmless.

I’m not sure exactly what I battle most, myself or outside sabotage. I want to write. When I’m writing, I know I’m doing what I was born to do, what all my little cells came together to make: a writer. But I also know: that was not exclusive. It was never intended, that that was all I would be. I was supposed to be a mother, too. So, that sort of follows, I was supposed to be a wife. And when I came into this life, I was a daughter, a sister, an animal lover.

All these different roles I play are important to me. They are where my soul lives.

But that is what a writer is, isn’t it? Someone who is plopped down in this world to record. Whether fiction or fact. A writer observes and writes that observation down the way they see it—fiction or fact. That is the writer’s unique viewpoint. (and boy do all those roles give me golden grist.)

I usually know exactly what I intend to write, too. Finding a subject has never been the thing that keeps my fingers from flying across the keyboard. It’s more insidious that that.

Interruptions do come, sometimes once a day, sometimes they pile up. The phone calls, other’s thoughtlessness, others ‘emergencies.’ You know the ones I mean—Dear Abby, even got a letter about a writer’s husband calling from the office, asking this writer to bring him something he forgot from home. Abby had tough answers, too.

This is what I’ve figured out over the last thirty years of writing from home: It’s choice. The writer has full charge of what she/he lets into her job area. It’s about making boundaries, priorities and choices.

Life is a series of interruptions and distractions, especially now, with all the technology that also makes it so much easier on writers. (Can you imagine not being able to cut and paste, copy, and move about on the page at will?) So, the real trick is harnessing all the helpful stuff and putting all the distractions and interruptions in priority order.

You have to know and act on what you really want to do.

Interruptions use to make me angry, which like domino’s dropped minutes of productive writing one after another while I fumed. I was good at fuming. Had it down. Thing is, fuming did worse by my writing than any interruption.

Some interruptions are better dealt with immediately. Then, move on. Some interruptions are really an opportunity for a teaching session to the interrupter and some interruptions are best ignored. The writer has to figure out which is which, depending on their priorities.

Learning to accept interruptions, the ones that must be dealt with immediately, can get you back on track and focused. That’s the ultimate goal, isn’t it?

Making firm written lists of priorities and goals helps with choices when tempted by time-wasting distractions.

Those who learn to focus, who honor their priorities have the edge.

Happy are those who dream dreams and are willing to pay the price to make them come true. Anon

Keep writing. Keep doing it and doing it. Even in the moments when it’s so hurtful to think about writing. —Heather Armstrong.