Attitude is Everything

I need to improve my attitude. I can’t just do my work, or as I say, “Don’t wish for it, work for it,” or just “believe in the unbelievable, believe in yourself.” I need more attitude than that. Here’s my list:

·       Don’t wait. Do it now. Write down that idea. Edit that poem that is almost ready to submit. Plan now. Buy that needed, used up supply now (so you don’t put off printing, sending, post-it noting, whatever)

·       Control your doubts, control actions. Think big as long as you’re thinking

·       Find, refind, build, love the passion you always had for writing. Remember that passion and why. It’s still there. It’s what matters most. It’s what helps you overcome doubts, difficulties and brain drought.

·       Know that the one constant is change. Especially now. Especially in publishing. Stay open to change. Remind yourself about all the writers you’ve heard of that were published without going the traditional route.

·       Learn from every rejection, setback, interruption, writer’s block. Ask how you can avoid the problem next time? Remember rejection is an opportunity to do it again, edit, change, improve.

·       Be more grateful with the opportunities you have. Give yourself credit for your successes. Remind yourself the odds of you getting published in this or that. Whenever you do get published, know it was stiff competition.

·       Listen to your gut. Listen to your heart. Hope you don’t have indigestion or heartburn

·       Remember, this is your life—your writing life. Take a hold and do it your way. Don’t change what you’re writing with every whim or subject that has caught on. Be and write who you are. You will never go wrong being and writing yourself because no one else can do it the way you can.

·       You’re shy—painfully shy. Acknowledge that and try to at least leave a good impression but, again, be yourself.

·       Never stop learning. Improve your writing in any way you have the opportunity, even if it is a small improvement. Never, ever think you know it all.

Just What I Need

Spring has opened her arms. While I bask in the heat of the sun I have mixed feelings. Spring takes the winter weight off my shoulders, sure enough. I am plagued with SAD. (Seasonal affective disorder.) In the early years, though I recognized the depression hit around October, ended about the end of February, there was nothing written about it, explained on TV at that time.

I struggled and thankfully found things that worked for me. I squirreled away things that helped me through: new houseplants, some new skill to learn, plenty of books, a bouquet from the store when I could afford it and it worked, even though I always wondered why I had to fight this sadness (I had so much, wonderful kids, a great husband, so there was a lot of guilt) and always thought I was alone.

So for me, spring is an open door to this SAD cage and yet, since I began writing in earnest, I stay busy and happy writing during the winter, still there is this heaviness, that flies away come spring. But with spring come more chores and work. My writing suffers a bit, which bothers me. More so as my mother ages, true, but I made myself Rules of Time.

Rules of Time:

·       Do what I should when I should. Do not procrastinate, ever. (Well, almost never)

·       Stuff happens. Stuff happens when I’m writing. Disruptions happen. Disruptions come from even those loved ones who know better. I’ve stopped getting mad. Mad steals writing, mad takes the whole rest of the day and blows it. Mad wastes time, mood, creativity. I don’t think it’s much good for anything else either, besides no one gets the reason for the anger anyway. No, I mean they really don’t get it. Soooo, I deal with it, whatever it is, then I get back to writing as fast as I can. If the disruption has completely derailed me, I fake it and look, act and seem like I got back to writing without a stumble. I’ve found this helps cement the idea that I am serious about writing, no matter what.

·       I try to ask myself what the best use of my time is. Sometimes, it is just getting the garden planted or my mother’s yard weeded, no matter that I want, need to write, so my mind’s nagging doesn’t kidnap my creative juices with worry or stress.

·       I never, and I mean never, tell anyone about time outside my usual writing time, that I’ve planned to sneak in a little more writing. It is retreat time—secret, ‘away,’ mine.

·       I take what I can use, leave everything else, with everything: technology, advice, critics, help. I am a writing-book junky. I love reading books about writing. It is an addiction. But I love to read and after reading a few novels I need a good how-to-book and nothing makes me happier that a great book on writing. Over the years I’ve found great, wonderful advice. Some I use, some I never even think about again, some I try and just can’t behind.

By the way, my how-to book for this month is Shut up And Write!by Judy Bridges. Some ideas I get from workshops and books bog me down. There’s just so much to do and figure out but at the same time I know I need something. I get frustrated filling out all those charts and yet, I have to have some way to organize and remember facts and ideas.

Where has Judy Bridges been? I’m using so many of her ideas. I always struggle with outlining and developing the story in an organized way. I can’t believe how far her Character Wheel, the Playing Twenty Questions with Your Character by Elaine Bergstrom, she included in her book and the Narrative Drive and Bubble Outline has taken the book I’m trying to develop for the last book of my Heart’s series. The ideas are simple, concise and visual. Just what I needed.

Growing the Writing

Ahh, Spring. Finally! Shake off the doldrums of winter, the extra pounds, the lagging energy, the gray days, the lazy thoughts.

Plant: peas, lettuce, chard, done. Dust off and oil garden tools, wash up garden gloves and breathe in the scent of soil. Cut back the dried up sticks of the perennials, the scattered leaves, unearth the new starts and clean the patio. Spring.

Remind myself to make each minute count during my writing time. More time pulls and distractions, but embrace the season, face reality and give in by taking my writing outside. I’ll let spring spear me on.

Make time for a few field trips. Perfect spot to do that, right close. Several farms implementing  the 1870- method of farming within an hour’s drive, along with pioneer museums with every item imaginable used during that time. Details available, hands on experiences just around the corner. How lucky am I?

Spring is a chance to grow. Along with the daffodils and peonies, I think I’ll grow my writing.  

More Than One Book a Year

Been trying to catch up on some business reading—writing business. I let it haunt me, as the RWR, The Writer and Writer’s Digest stack up. One way I catch up is by reading during the commercials of must-see TV.

Hey, I know no TV is must-see and watching is time wasteful. I admit I do a certain amount at the end of a day—I’m almost catatonic anyway.

Like today, a simple little thing(renewing a prescription from an online pharmacy) for my mother-94, a sometimes (more and more often now) forgetful mom, turned into a wasted hour, hair-pulling, a few…colorful words, a phone call where I was put on hold for thirty minutes, a solution, but too late and a call to the doctor-also put on hold after going through a complicated phone tree—finally success, but I was left ragged and out-of-sorts. It didn’t end there either, what with the wind hindering me doing some much needed yard work, the meal planned for dinner, freezer-burned. (I just bought it, too, uggg!)

By the way, music helped—Lionel Richie’s Tuskegee and Mumsford and Sons’ Sigh No More right now.

What I read during those commercials can sometimes be as frustrating, or overwhelming as the day. Like the article by Cynthia Eden titled Editor Expectations After the Sale, in RWR that states that though publishing schedules vary at each publishing house, the preferred schedule seems to be twice a year or at the least, every nine months. Yikes, although I get the reasoning. So many books are being published each year that authors need to have plenty of releases to build a backlist and keep reader attention.

I know how fast the public’s attention can be lost and changed, but two books a year reminds me of something my mom use to say about authors and how she picked the authors she read. She thought if an author pushed out too many books a year, they just couldn’t be as well done as an author that put out a book a year consistently. I often found that true, but as with everything every writer has their own best pace. (An interesting question-How do you pick your books, by author, title, subject or popularity? Think about it and think why. This answer surprised me when I asked friends, family.)

I was going through an old file and found an article in The Writer in 2009 about the pressure put on writer’s to produce at least one book every year and that many writers were feeling the pressure, especially when there are authors that have moved the product of books into a top brand supplying the market by working with a team of co-authors. The author’s is a manager, developing ideas and plots, then cowriters fill in the story by writing that into a full-length manuscript. A production line of sorts and other artists have used this method to make a good living.

I can see the reasoning and why. Not many authors make enough to live on writing without some way to supplement what they earn writing. As a business and earnings strategy it is smart.

I’ll admit, I’m lucky, I don’t need to earn a living with  my writing, if I did maybe I’d be interested in doing the same strategy. But is that what I want to do with my writing? Is this what I’ll need to promise in order to get published? Or can I still do it my way?

Is it even the best way to get really good, fresh books out to readers? Hey, I’m a reader and I can tell you nothing is harder than waiting for the next book of my favorite authors (Kaki Warner or Charles Martin or Kristin Hannah) Is the only way to get published to go along with this crazy schedule?

I pray not. I write with the prayer it is not. I’m wearing so many hats, important hats not only to me but to my loved ones and only one is my writer’s hat. Still, if I’ve learned anything over the years, I’ve learned—it is what it is, but it will become what you make it.

So, I write, I send things out, I get things back, I edit and try again.

It reminds me of when I was raising my three boys. I did it differently than my sister, my sister-in-laws, my neighbors. I was criticized for one thing or another, but we did what was important to us, according to what kind of parents we wanted to be. Our way wasn’t the recommended way, the common way, but my boys survived childhood in one piece, became adults I’m proud of.

I’d settle for something similar with any of my books. I’ll go my pace and pray it’s enough that I’m writing the best book I can  and when/if I get the call I’ll do the best I can do, for myself and my writing. Shouldn’t that be enough? Isn’t that where the best art comes from?




By the way: Where have I been? I've been writing.

The Poem

Well, it came in the mail today and I’m so thrilled with the way Spin-off Magazine showcased my poem. Plus they sent me several copies and they’ve put it on their website, so I can let friends, and family know where they can find it. http://www.spinningdaily.com/blogs/spinoff/archive/2012/02/24/spin-off-spring-2012.aspx

 I smile every time I think about how this little poem came about. Years ago, many, many years ago, I watched a spinner spinning wool in the mall. I wanted to stay there watching but I had kids and a mother wanting to move on, get shopping, eating, going.

But something about spinning touched me. I couldn’t explain the why and heaven knows, at that time, I had enough to keep me busy. Still, that seed rooted itself.

Years later, after the kids were older, I finally began my writing in earnest again and took my youngest two boys to an old time rendezvous to do a little research for a western historical book I was writing while showing my sons what life was like way back when. A woman was demonstrating spinning in one of the cabins at the Fort Buenaventura Campgrounds. I was again struck with the soothing rhythm, the tactile experience. I promised myself, someday, I’d own a spinning wheel and learn to spin.

Many years later I sold an essay to Birds and Bloom, my first published piece, payment $200.00. I bought an beautiful silver beech spinning wheel and paid to have it finished and assembled. Then I spent four weeks trying to learn to spin. I say try because it’s so much more complicated than it looks. It takes time to learn to keep the right tension, get the yarn even and thin, get that easy rhythm. And it marvels me that that is only the beginning of the process of making clothing and textiles. I’ve learned such an appreciation for what women, our predecessors, did to provide food and clothing for a family.

Jump ahead years later when I took a poetry workshop. One challenge was to write a poem about a skill or hobby. I’d always planned to write about my experience spinning. Such a tactile, sense-filled pursuit and I always felt the art so like writing, somehow. 

The Cashmere Life was born almost whole as if it had been waiting to be written.

I took a chance sending in the poem. I’ve never seen a poem in Spin-off through all the years I’ve read it, especially on the end page. I had a, what the heck, moment, figuring a poem was every bit as relevant as an essay would be. You know: nothing ventured. I had given up just a week before I heard. After all, it had been nine months.

The other day as I was getting my teeth cleaned, my hygienist asked how the writing was going. I mentioned my little poem coming out in Spin-off.

“It might be a magazine not everyone will see.” I said. “But still, I’m published and I’m so proud of it. They made it look so good.”

“What is Spin-off?” she asked.

“A magazine about spinning.”

“The exercise?” she asked.

“No, spinning yarn.”

“People still do that?” The shock on her face was priceless.

Well, yes they do, in fact, my sister was in a craft store the other day and happened to mention my poem in the magazine. The lady immediately asked, “Is your sister in one of our spinning groups?” Not at all impressed by the publishing accomplishment. Isn’t perspective wonderful?

That made me smile, somehow. Still does.

I wished I had written my bio for the poem differently: Toni Gilbert of Ogden, Utah spins yarn, short stories, essays, novels, and poetry.

Anyway, the whole experience with the poem had make me realize how grateful I am to be a writer. To feel passionate about doing something and doing something I love. Having something like that is more powerful than getting published, however great that is. It keeps me feeling alive and excited to start my day, keeps me too busy to worry about the little things.

When I look back on my life, I realize writing and reading has done that and saved me so many times. Through lonely parenthood, railroad widowhood, financial trouble, marriage ups and downs, family dust-ups and heartbreaks.

Oh, the teen that was me with a broken heart (every month or so, the drama) with tears, candles hunched over my father’s old roll-top desk writing tear-stained poetry, the overworked, sleep deprived mother, the empty-nester. I hope my father knows about this poem. It was his dream, too, to be published in a national magazine.

I heard this story many years ago. I've reminded myself of it plenty of times. Told the story to my kids when some one said something unkind about them. Authors need stories like this, so I share it here: http://www.makers.com/barbara-walters/moments/surprise-letter?icid=maing-grid10%7Chtmlws-main-bb%7Cdl15%7Csec1_lnk3&pLid=14158

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.