And the Beat Goes On...

Well, well, well, say how-do to real life as a writer! I've spent the last few days engrossed in a massive overhaul of a story that missed the mark for an anthology I submitted it to. It wasn't rejected, per se, which feels nice...I can't count the number of times I've had to do rewrites for things like my thesis, so this seems pretty normal. However, normal does not always mean something's easy! When I say overhaul, I mean it's like building a car from a kit and having to rip out the engine and exhaust system and replace it. Ouch. Far from simple or painless.

I have to laugh, because it's that whole "be careful what you wish for" thing that everyone warns you about. Now that this is becoming a viable career and way of life for me, there continues to be actual work involved. That's the funny part about dreams--they're all glowy and shiny before they become real because it's all a fantasy, but when they come true, no matter how happy you are, you gotta work at it. Fortunately, I don't mind hard work much.

For you writers out there, I highly recommend reading "The Writer's Journey," by Christopher Vogler. Although it's geared toward structuring story using mythic structure, it also reflects the path a writer takes along the way. I had an intellectual understanding of that, you know, the sort where you rub your chin a little and say, "Oh, yes, I can totally see how that might occur in one's evolution as a writer," but you don't really get it. Yeah. As my own story unfolds, I can see that this is the time for me to gain allies, face tests, and conquer the demons blocking my way to success. Like having someone say "maybe" instead of "yes," and what will you or won't you do to change it to the latter? Am I a hack or an artist? Who knows? I suppose I'll find out in the process. I'm in the Second Act now, and it's up to me to keep the pace up and prevent the story from lagging. That's a very real danger, once you achieve a little success and/or hit a major roadblock--the Second Act Swamp.

I trained for years to become a counselor, even though I've left off following that path, and I could tell you so many ways for a person to keep from losing sight of a goal, keep from veering off-course, and keep motivation high. But as they always say in writing, show, don't tell, what's happening in your story. And I think that's great advice, no matter where it's applied, as my own beat goes on.

Surprise, surprise, surprise!

My first short story acceptance has finally happened! "Just Desserts" will be published in the "Zombology VI: The Living Dead vs. The Undead" anthology by Library of the Living Dead Press.

Surprise. Delight. Acceptance! What a sweet feeling, to finally know that this is even possible, when only a month ago I wondered how long it would take. I'm taking a little time to bask in the afterglow, to enjoy the feeling, but I'm determined not to rest on my laurels. There are other stories to get out there to the world, a book to finish and sell, and maybe even a poem or two in me. Not to mention plain old life to live!

It is a bit of a Gomer Pyle mindset, really. I'm surprised and caught off guard that I finally did it; surprised by the story that achieved it; and surprised that I waited so long to try. The more I think about it, the more I like Gomer's attitude--sweet, relaxed, and happy-go-lucky, never letting setbacks get to him as he rolls with the punches. My story gets rejected? Well, gol-lee! I'll just send it to someone new. They might like it!

After 15 rejections (not much, really, in the larger scheme of things) I've learned several lessons: 1) you gotta play to win, 2) rejection isn't personal, and 3) keep trying. And I think Gomer would agree with my final thought as well...that perhaps, even when a story doesn't "make friends" with the folks I send it to, we'll just mosey along and talk to someone new, because a stranger is just a potential friend waiting to happen. And who you make friends with might just surprise you!

Get busy livin' or get busy dyin'

Today should by all rights be a suck-ass day.

Got another rejection from a magazine, a very kind and polite letter that I have to admit is probably correct. Not enough that's new to grab their interest, and the characters weren't sympathetic enough. Like I've said before, you want people to care when your protagonist falls into the wood chipper and dies a horrible, bloody death :) So I missed the mark again, which isn't fun, but is pretty common when you first start trying to publish. Lots of people say they could wallpaper their office with rejections, so you do the math!

I get frustrated and sometimes I take it personally, which is really quite stupid because no one's rejecting me, the person; it's just words I strung together on the page. Today, it's mostly about doubt--will I ever succeed? Another silly idea, when I'm going to be writing for the rest of my life, for another 40+ years at least. It's pretty hard to believe that if I keep writing and trying, 40-some years could go by without a publication!

It's also about fear. As in, "What if I never get published? What if I never succeed? What if I have to work crap jobs for the rest of my life to make money while I bang my head against the wall and get shot down over and over again? What if my little family struggles along for the rest of my life because I don't succeed?" Believe me, that's a terrifying idea. Although I sincerely doubt anyone likes failing, it scares me to question whether I've finally come up against something I can't beat into submission and MAKE myself successful at.

Part of the problem is time. The clock is ticking louder with every passing day as I approach the midpoint of my life. It went so fast, as I got caught up in the everyday struggles of life, until I woke up a little and understood how much was gone. And I finally realized that I have a choice to make--do I want to get busy living, or get busy dying, as Red said in Stephen King's wonderful story, "Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption?" I can say I want the former, but am I ready to walk the walk? Living involves risk, and uncertainty, and growth, all of which can lead to failure. But it can also lead to success. And getting busy dying never does that.

I don't want to give the impression that I'm happily writing a motivational essay, here. I've lied and fooled a lot of people along the way, including myself, into thinking I was doing okay when I was dying inside a bit more with each passing day, and I want to avoid that at all costs. This is difficult and scary and frustrating, but I like to think it's honest. There are few easy answers, right decisions, and safe bets in life--that's the honest truth. That's life.

When it comes right down to it, I think it's about will. As Yoda said in Star Wars, "Do or do not--there is no try." Protesting "I tried" is half-hearted, half-assed, and half-truthful. "I did" means giving it all you had, your very best, honestly. Is it worse to give it your all and fail, or "try" and fail? Either way, the outcome is the same, but in one case you can preserve the fiction that "I could've done that if I wanted to/if they weren't such fools/if I really tried." You never have to face the possibility that perhaps you can't do it. It's paradoxical, because by avoiding the true test, you don't go all the way, and therefore fail anyhow; it pampers and protects the fragile ego, but does little else.

So maybe better questions are, "What if I give it my all, every bit of my heart and soul? What if I succeed? What if I'm completely honest and let nothing stand in my way, including myself?"

What if I live?

It's only the sound of my heart breaking

Today has been a rough day. You know, one of those days where you wonder just how in the holy hell you ended up where you're at...and what you did to deserve it.

Ever heard that song, "Glory Days" (funny how it sounds like 'gory days,' eh?) by Bruce Springsteen? Maybe that dates me, but regardless, it fits how I feel right now. I catch myself thinking "I used to be somebody" a lot lately, until I remember that the somebody I used to be wasn't very happy. Sure, I looked pretty glorious--straight A's, honors, talents, and boy! That juicy title, Doctor, just within my reach. Except I didn't want it, not really. I thought I did, thought I should, because wouldn't anyone want that? Anyone but me, that is.

Right now I'm listening to Rush, "Subdivisions," and realizing that it's all about conforming to get the goodies of being admired, being "in." I was really, really good at it, you know. A mirror for anyone who looked at me, reflecting back what they wanted to see. I did what everyone wanted. I was good. I excelled. I worked hard, damn near sweating blood to claw my way to the top. First bachelor's degree in my family, first master's. Bringing glory to my family name and all that...Michele the Great. I did it all right, and it all turned out wrong because I never followed my heart. Maybe it's good to feel like my heart is breaking, because at least my heart is mine now, instead of everyone else's, to break. Doesn't make it feel any less horrible to realize I went the wrong way for about the last 30 years, but there's still time to try getting to where I want, now that I've turned around. I do feel like I'm stranded 20 miles from civilization in the desert, with a broken-down old truck and no gas, no food, and no water, but I can still walk, and I have a map of where to go. It's not impossible, it's just hard, and I need to remind myself of the difference.

Anyway, I'm not the first person to say, "Hey! I fucking hate my life and I refuse to do it anymore for anyone, even if it makes me rich/famous/admired!" I met a guy who owns a vineyard in Southern Illinois who was even closer to getting his PhD in Educational Psych than I was, halfway through his dissertation, and he chucked it all. My husband knows this guy who used to study black holes at a university, who he describes as "fucking brilliant," (which means he's WAY smarter than I'll ever be) who ditched it all in hopes of becoming a cook on a ship, which is what he wanted to do, what he thought would make him happy. I can hear people groaning and saying, "All that time wasted!" Well, yeah, it's time wasted on unhappiness. And does anyone want to waste another 30 years working on being unhappy?!?

Not me. Funny how the sound of heartbreak can be music to the ears, if you listen. Speaking of, watch "Glee" on Fox and you'll see what I mean!

Fishing in the great pool of life

Greetings, diehard readers!

I went fishing yesterday at my in-laws. They have a pretty well-stocked pond containing bluegill, widemouth bass, and catfish, so there was the possibility of catching something really exciting! My beautiful husband and I took our rods out there, and I reacquainted myself with how to cast, which was pretty frustrating at times. Hadn't done it in over 15 years, so I was out of practice.

And it showed. I hooked clump after clump of moss, which got annoying pretty quickly, or nothing at all. Yay. It finally occurred to me that becoming a writer is a lot like learning to fish again--starting out, you catch virtually nothing but rejection letters or no response at all. You keep throwing stories out like lures on the line, hoping someone will finally take the bait and you'll get rewarded by being published (and maybe making some bucks, even better). Learning to write better, "tighter," or in more exciting ways is like casting out further, or lowering the angle on your pole, so the lure looks like a tasty little minnow, wiggling on the end of the hook. And above all, you must cast your line out there, or you'll never catch anything at all. Ever.

I did finally catch one fish, though, a good-sized bluegill. Looking at it, I felt kind of sorry for it, gasping for air with a hook through its mouth. I thought I'd feel triumphant, but all I felt was a bit shameful, doing it for sport. I doubt I'll feel the same way with my writing, because every time I "catch a fish" in the future, someone will be reading my story, thinking about things, and maybe feeling something. I believe that at least one person will, in a sense, take it home, fry it up, and swallow it down, which is what I suppose I'm aiming for.

So today I'm getting ready to cast out again onto the publishing pond, and keep casting till I get a bite. Hey, it's all good--I look awesome in fishing gear!

I love it when a plan comes together

No, I'm not part of the A-Team, but I still do love it when I get the "a-ha!" moment. Today I woke up and lay in bed for a while, trying to find a way to tap into the hidden strength that all humans have...wait, no, that's the Hulk, sorry! I was trying to use that half-awake, half-asleep state to juice up my creative thinking and solve a plot problem that's been plaguing me for a long time, now. No luck.

So I go into the bathroom and start brushing my teeth, absent-mindedly, and it hits me like a thunderbolt what I could do...and you know, it solves multiple problems! It sort of made me laugh, because I thought I had this whole "creative idea" generation thing figured out. At first, I got ideas in the shower. Cool, right? But not every problem gets solved this way, only sometimes. Then it was driving. Next, doing dishes and zoning out worked. Recently, it was lying in bed half-awake. Now, all of a sudden, it's brushing my teeth. Just when I think I KNOW what will make those pesky little ideas pop into awareness, something comes at me out of left field and the method changes. I'm happy it works, however it works, but I sort of feel it's about as controllable as casting runes to predict the future, reading entrails, or playing the lottery. Maybe the right brain doesn't work like I'd like it to, all linear and predictable-like. Although I'm not totally comfortable with it yet, I've made an uneasy peace with the fact that creativity doesn't just sit, heel, and shake paw when you want it to. It's a lot like herding cats, really :)

But that's okay, really. I pity the fool who messes with me...and my messed-up process (yeah, that's bad, but gimme a break here, people, I'm a WRITER for chrissakes)!

Very proud of ourselves, ain't we?

And the answer is, "Yes!" I've been getting more and more dedicated to busting out work on my book with every passing day, so I'm feeling pleased as punch with myself. Although I feel sorry for my poor husband, who gets to hear about all the neat stuff I'm researching until his eyes glaze over. He's really quite patient, you know, to listen as much as he does.

Today I had fun trolling through the DSM-IV (that's the diagnostic manual in psych) to see if what I planned for my characters makes sense, in terms of symptoms, presentation, and fit. You see, as a former psych grad student, there's nothing I hate more than seeing terms misapplied, and I laugh like a loon when I read these descriptions of a "glamorous" disorder like Dissociative Identity Disorder and note that the author didn't do their research like they should've. It's pretty funny, really. I suppose anyone in a profession either gets mad or scoffs at books or movies, going, "Hey! That's TOTALLY not how we do things!" Guess that means I have to do that myself, when I write about fields I haven't studied in. Time to read up on police procedure, and maybe tap Jason's cousin Tim for advice :)

I also read more about symbolism, and I think I figured out some of the important details for my characters, you know the ones that make you feel like they're real people? Not some poor schmuck on the page jumping through hoops to do my bidding. It's like in pornos, where some dude shows up to deliver a pizza or clean the pool, and 5 minutes later everybody's knocking boots? It's not like either person is a REAL person, in this scenario. Nobody cares if they get abducted by aliens or fall into their own woodchipper, because they don't feel real. This is not something I care to do in my book. I WANT people to care when they fall into the woodchipper (no, really, that's not part of the book...not this one, anyway).

I'm feeling pretty motivated to finish up my research tomorrow, and because I'm more than halfway through an excellent book on structuring my novel, will be in the homestretch on that as well. Ooooh, it's getting so exciting, seeing the general shape of it take place! Can't wait until the planning stages are done and I get to write the beautiful thing! Can't wait for you all to see it, read it, and (hopefully) enjoy it.

Well, it's 9 o'clock and all's well. If I drank much beer, it'd be Miller time, but mostly I'm a teetotaler these days, busy dispelling the myth that all writers are f---ed up, neurotic, alcoholic, drug-addicted messes. Well...okay, maybe a little glass of wine to celebrate a good day? We'll keep it our little secret, shall we? I like being an iconoclast too much ;)

Stepping onto the stage

Well, here's my first little step toward de-hermitizing and being more "public" in my career! One of the things I've realized is that free publicity, as a writer, is going to be a wonderful thing. And a public blog is one of those steps toward getting name recognition.

Plus it's just fun to talk at more people, you know? I tend to think that writers write because they have something to say, and want people to listen, to pay attention to them. But who knows, that may just be me. Besides, I was a counselor for years and talked with folks all the time, albeit under less fun circumstances. I have noticed that I get a rush when people read my stuff and respond to it, whether they're freaked out, angry, sad, or hopeful. It's great fun, because those are the same feelings I have when I read a good story that moves me in some way.

At any rate, the reclusive homebody that is me, is coming out to play a little more, put myself out there, so that everyone can see my writing a bit more, which means they'll be seeing more of "me." It's kinda scary, like stepping out onto a stage totally naked...although who knows, that could be fun too. Equus, anyone?