Category Archives: Writers – Run Aground

September

For over one year, I frantically pushed groceries and children in and out of the car and house, trying to squeeze writing minutes out of each passing day. If someone asked me why we were out of milk, I counted to ten several times and promised sweetly to buy some tomorrow, all the while squinting my eyes and wanting to shout, “Go find a cow and get it yourself!”

When I could grab precious minutes and push children away from the computer, I literally hurled myself at the keyboard, pounding keys and making sentences, certain the flood of words tumbling out of my pent-up mind would call aloud as they inched out of the printer, bringing themselves to someone’s attention. Words pulsated on the page. I waited for a passerby to glance at one single word, for even one person to get caught in the literary genius of my imagination and grab every page strewn across the desk, devouring my brilliance. They didn’t. Instead, teenagers leaned from the hallway into the office. “Are you at the computer again? You’re always typing! Did you know we’re out of peanut butter, too?”

My one solace was my weekly writing group. Each Tuesday, I gathered all the hard-won pages and brought them to my friends for critiquing. Six pairs of experienced eyes poured over the stack of printed pages I passed around. They gave serious attention to all aspects of my writing: commas, topic sentences, allusions, and meaning. But it became clear as the year progressed that, while the paragraphs on one given page seemed to mostly hang together in an almost coherent idea, the pages from any particular week had absolutely no connection with the pages of the week before or the week to come. In the kindest, most optimistic critic’s mind, it would seem I was writing ten different novels, jumping from the introduction of a book on loneliness to the middle of a family memoir, to a devotional on gardening, and on to a ranting political treatise on the evolution of the modern world. Everyone around the critiquing table always smiled encouragingly at me, if only because the slightly manic sparks shooting from my eyes suggested I might blow up the western hemisphere if pushed too hard.

My writer friends preserved world peace by bolstering up my wilted psyche, my husband went to the grocery for milk and peanut butter, and my son learned to cook French toast, fried eggs, pancakes, toast, and cold cereal—depending on the contents of the refrigerator.

This was our average, normal life.

Slowly, as the school year played out, May began to loom large and threatening. As I tore April off the calendar and began to cross out the early days of May, I couldn’t help but notice the coming winds of a hurricane. Jamie was coming home from college on May 6th, moving all of her belongings, her clothes, an apartment fridge, stereo system, television, rolling plastic drawers, trunk and more clothes into her small 8 by 10 foot bedroom, right across the hall from the office and my writer’s desk.

And the hurricane settled in to stay. Vic’s sister and her two kids arrived from North Carolina. We stuffed the kitchen with food for family parties, one gathering after the next. We partied, ate, did laundry and packed the van. And finally, somewhere on highway 18, heading into the Rocky Mountains on our way to a wedding in Colorado, it dawned on me that I’d have to either murder my own family and all of their nieces, nephews, aunts and uncles, or I’d have to postpone writing the History of the World According to Jane. A small shrug settled it. I lifted my shoulders, looked up into the Colorado mountains, following their peaks into the clouds and said, “September.” And I let out a small sigh.

Small miracles do happen. Mom surrendered. And we survived. There is life after the end of writing.

In Colorado, we laughed and cried as two ‘youngsters’ promised to love and cherish each other until death, and then our entire extended family plus two more returned home to Arizona. Our house again filled with guests; I remembered I did know how to cook. My children were amazed when we had completely new and different home-cooked dinners five nights in a row. We stopped going to restaurants. And we didn’t starve. We never ran out of clean clothes, we learned how to talk and tell stories. Jamie found crayons in the bottom of the closet, and she drew pictures with cousin Katie at the dining room table. Justin and his cousin Shayne went swimming at the community pool. Vic and I actually saw two theater movies. Two. Both movies in the same year! I didn’t write one sentence. And the world survived.

Whenever my writer’s panic set in, whenever I looked too far ahead into the summer calendar, I closed my eyes. September. The syllables developed their own rhythm. Sept—em—ber, Sept, Sept, Sept—em—ber. If I repeated the mantra, it reminded me I was only responsible for one little thing each day. Each morning, I opened my eyes, rose from bed, and walked to the calendar. If today the calendar said, Party, then we partied. Tomorrow didn’t exist. Only today. And September. Sept—em—ber.

One day at a time, we made it from May to June to July. I taught a workshop in Tennessee. I visited Tennessee relatives and picked black-eyed peas. As I stepped off the returning airplane, Jamie grabbed my navy blue duffel bag on wheels for her travel to Spain. Justin spent July in Mississippi. I wrote checks to keep the water and utilities turned on. We never ran out of peanut butter, and we had a steady supply of three kinds of milk, providing for the various gradations of fat content required by our household crowd: people afraid of gaining weight if they say fat out loud and children who burn thousands of fat gram calories when poking each other in the ribs.  And I continued to walk around several piles of college linens and one gargantuan cardboard box filled with college dorm decorations, all of them blocking the path to the computer.

As we moved into August, anticipating the return of school, an amazing thought occurred to me. No anxious editor had called me during the summer to plead that I get back to writing. Neither had Newsweek magazine cut its “My Turn” feature for lack of receiving Jane’s 1000 urgent words about world peace. Oprah Winfrey seemed to have a new show each day…without me…or my latest book. The Tribune newspaper called us 23 times during the summer begging us to renew our subscription. They didn’t call once to ask why I had stopped e-mailing them my incisive, to-the-point, letters and editorials. Marriages were breaking and healing, self-helped with John Gray and his Venus/Mars analysis. Not one bookstore cleared a spot on the shelf and set out a sign, “This spot is reserved for the upcoming best-selling book from the new and promising author, Jane Noesitawl.” President Clinton saved himself, and he didn’t follow one piece of advice I offered. Amazing.

September. It’s 14 days away,…and counting. The stock market leaps up and crashes down, Y2K is four months away, six Republican presidential candidates are slugging it out in Iowa, Al and Tipper Gore are working to convince us they have personalities and priorities, Christians are trying to rescue African children from the slave market, and the water heater is broken. I sit unmolested at the computer, but I can’t think of one way to prevent a worldwide financial meltdown on January 1, I won’t be able to vote for the President I want because my man will never make it through the political gauntlet for nomination, Jamie’s safety in Spain for the next year cannot be secured by Vic and me in Arizona, and even if I could buy one child out of slavery, it would only reward and encourage the evildoers to capture another.

What’s left for this writer to do? I do know the pork chops are thawed. That may be enough to save my own marriage, but it certainly won’t cut into the sales of Mars and Venus by Mr. John Gray, Ph.D. And I don’t really want to be on Oprah. More than anything, I appreciate knowing I can make a peanut butter and wash it down with a large glass of cold milk, full fat. This is certainly not the type of attitude that will fill a three-book contract and sell as a mini-series.

Time to close my eyes. Sept—em—ber.

 

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THE WRITER’S LIFE
TABLE OF CONTENTS

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Copyright 2013.   All Rights Reserved.

Blocked Writer

I’ve never experienced Writer’s Block, at least not as most writers explain it.  I’ve actually experienced it in somewhat the reverse, Blocked Writer.

I sit down, ready to write, the words just ready to pull together into a …wait…the phone rings, the car is dead two miles away, rental car for husband, tow truck for car…

…back to writing, the ideas flow, word added to word, page builds upon page, to the climax, the phone rings, Justin is sick, the computer locks up…

…pick Justin up at school, a smell wafts down the hall, computer still locked, a good story dumped as computer crashes, the burner on the stove blows, the sprinkler system explodes, a river runs down the street, the doorbell rings….

Jill just stopped by, if I have time, her life is a mess, and she is still looking for work, while we’re standing in water running down the hallway, nothing but a broken hose on the washing machine, hours at the laundromat, phone calls and appointments with repairmen for the car, the sprinklers, the stove, the washing machine, the computer, and the sick kid.

Even if I haven’t sent out one story to one publisher to receive one rejection letter…the mailbox is always full.  There are bills for water and telephone, taxes to be calculated, broker statements showing stocks going down, going up, going down, stock newsletters in a pile covered with dust.  Who can believe it’s already 6:00 p.m., no dinner to cook, no milk, no bread, no butter or eggs, call out for pizza, vegetarian without cheese…hey, who took this call from the attorneys?

The court hearing is rescheduled…maybe…depends, hours to pour over documents that mean nothing to people who meant nothing when they signed them…

…time to write, time to write, write what, are you kidding, when do you think you’re going to have time to write, just organize, prioritize…

If you want it, make it, time to write…sell everything, the house, the sprinkler system, washing machine, phone, computer, husband, kids…then how are you going to order pizza, and without pizza, how are you going to write?  Writer’s block?  Yeah, I’ve heard of it.

I finally gave up.  And when I did, God took over.

“Hey, you down there, Ms. Big-Shot-with-Lots-to-Say.  It’s about time you gave up.  I was aiming to explode your dishwasher next.  But now that I’ve got your attention, here’s what I want to know.  What’s so important that you’ve got to sit down and write it anyway?

“I’ve already said it all.  Jesus.  Remember?  The Bible, remember?  I’ve seen you reading My Word each morning.  What problem in life can’t be settled by My Writing?  What can you say that hasn’t already been said…by Me?

“Oh, I don’t mind if you write.  I just wish you’d settle down a bit.  Splashing words on paper might be fun, but don’t you think you’re taking it a little too seriously.  I mean really, you keep saying it’s your ‘Gift.’  Just where did you get that idea, anyway?  Gift, my girl, are you looking for a gift?  Pinch yourself.  Squeeze yourself until you hurt.  Face your reflection.  You’re the gift.  You.  Love’s the gift.  I offer it to you, to your family, your friends.  It has nothing to do with words, with writing.  That’s just an occupation.  It’s fluff.  It’s stuff.  Love is the gift, and you.

“If you never have time to write one word, it will be no great loss.  There’s plenty of words where I come from.  Besides, it’s all been written before, by Me.  And who’s listening anyway?  Now living, that’s another thing.

“Jane, you’re made for living.  You’re made for loving.  You’re made for expressing My Love.  You don’t need to write for that.  In fact, if you spend all your time writing, you might forget what you were made for.  Just be, Jane.  Be Love.  That’s hard enough.  If you want to write to earn money for pizza, that’s OK by me.  But remember the real gift.  If you don’t, I’ll stand in your way.  I created words.  I own Writers Block.

“I don’t want people to know you by reading.  I want them to know you by watching.  Be Love.  Reflect My Love.  That’s enough.  And it doesn’t require words.”

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THE WRITER’S LIFE
TABLE OF CONTENTS

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Blink – and – Gone

Tuesday, July 22, 2003

It was good to hear Donna Partow speak at Word of Grace.  She is a hard-hitting John MacArthur, while I am more ready for a thoughtful, meditative Sister of Canaan.  Nevertheless, she brought me before God and Christ in a personal way.

Like my time with my writers editing group earlier in the day, Donna made me realize how far distance and distraction have taken me away from total reliance on God’s goodness.  Secular and business “duties” have interrupted my meager attempts to read the Bible, attend church, and pray.  I keep excusing these lapses because I am trying “to do the work of God.”  How much I need to remember that God does his own work, and to the extent that I am separated from Him, I will become less and less useful.

Vic and I have the Blue Top condo rented as of Thursday.  On our way to the cabin in the mountains this weekend, we will be able to listen to the Carlton Sheets real estate investing CDs that I ordered while in Washington.  I think both of us have previewed his information at least twice before. One more time seems to be in order.

This has been an expensive year for us thus far.  We have traveled extensively, with one week in North Carolina, one week in Nashville, my week in D.C. for the NOW conference, and my trip with Jamie to Missouri.  We’ve also financed traveling for Justin and Jamie.

Money has continued to flow out of the coffers:  termite treatment for Blue Top, new curtains for the office, Dan’s final work on the Vernon house with the kitchen pantry, a new flower and vegetable bed in the front yard, two storage units, and extensive computer repairs that turned into a new computer overnight…all of these expenses have gobbled up every penny deposited and what our bank savings held on reserve.  I had to move $2000 from savings just to pay the Sam’s Club bill, something I had hoped to avoid.  Vic is right.  We need to support our daily living expenses with the income we have.  Until then, how can we even think of him retiring?

At least I am sitting at the computer for enough time to write a decent journal entry.  How long has it been?  Last night, editing Judy’s chapters for her book, I was reinvigorated by the writing process.  The Writer’s Life, by Annie Dillard, read on the plane to D.C. evoked so many smiles of recognition.  Is this where I’m supposed to be, in front of the computer again, spinning words?

What does it say about my writing, that I was willing to lose it all in the computer meltdown of the past few months?  Words, laboriously collected and ordered on the page…hours, months, and years of wordsmithing work…all lost?  In a puff of <delete> and <reformat>, the words blink dark…forever lost?

Maybe this is the final letting go God requires of me.  If pride won’t allow me to let go of my words, perhaps I am not fit to write.

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THE WRITER’S LIFE
TABLE OF CONTENTS

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Copyright 2013.  All Rights Reserved.

 

 

 

Lint

Typewriter Mess

A morning…wasted…trying to come up with the perfect intro to my article on getting your precious work critiqued by other writers.  I so want my reader to feel the life of the writer, a quiet, introspective life filled with the fears of lions and tigers and bears.  But how do you get the safari hunter to understand the treachery lying behind one misplaced word?  I couldn’t figure it out.  And I think the reason things weren’t going well was the lint on the carpet.  I kept looking down, thinking, and seeing little flecks of white threads, rice, and dust.  Big clumps of dust.  And they were stopping the flow of my creative juices.

I turned away from the keyboard, “Guess I’ll have to vacuum.”  As I pushed and pulled the Eureka down the hallway, I continued to mentally work out my idea.  Maybe I could compare critiques of my work to going to my high school reunion in a white knit top and Jean skirt, only to find that it was a semi-formal evening.  There is definitely no way to hide my white knit in a room sparkling in shiny black lame and sequins.  This indignity at least served to memorialize myself as the first Arcadia High School girl to “drop out” of Delta, the prestigious everybody-wants-to-be-asked-to-join club of cheerleaders and their friends.  I still liked the Delta Girls.  I just knew I wasn’t one of them.  I was a white knit kid, even back then.

And that makes a pretty good story, except that as I pushed the vacuum under the chair, I realized it didn’t really explain satisfactorily why writers simply hate to have other writers read their work.  Oh, sure, I could add a few transitions and use key words like “this is just like”…but it was not going to change the fact that I was trying to force a good story and a good idea into a bad marriage.

Pushing the vacuum into the living room, I contemplated the common human experience of telling a joke that goes flat.  I could explain how this is just like having a story you just wrote go thud in the hands of six people writing critical suggestions in the margins.  I could describe a stack of six manuscripts, precious piles of papers held by paper clips…passing them out to fellow writers around the table and asking them, “What do you think?  Go ahead.  Read.  And tell me what you think.”  And I could work really hard to explain what that feels like.  It’s just like telling a dumb joke in front of an audience.

But the trouble is that telling a dumb joke can sometimes be funny in itself.  I mean, not if you’re Billy Crystal at the Oscars, or even Master of Ceremonies at the company’s annual convention.  But when you’re with friends, and you tell a bad joke, usually they’re nice enough to laugh at the funniness of how bad the joke was and forgive you.  And that never happens when you ask other writers to read your work.

I was in danger of running out of carpet lint, vacuuming my way around the house twice and not having any good idea…until…. In the television room, between the futon and the stereo system, pushing the pillows back against the wall, I glanced sideways and caught my reflection in the dark TV screen.  And I have no idea why at that particular moment my reflection made me think back to my high school speech class, with me standing in front of a room full of juniors, my papers and notes fluttering in my hands.

It’s just that writing is like that.  It’s planning, mulling, trying on and putting off, and starting and stopping, and getting rid of the lint, and then all at once when your human energy is all spent, a miracle occurs.  Someone reaches into your mind and says, “Here, try this one.”  And even if the lint is still there, you don’t see it anymore.  End Scroll

 

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THE WRITER’S LIFE
TABLE OF CONTENTS

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Copyright 2013.  All Rights Reserved.