Back with a vengeance!

There is something to be said about being too busy: it sucks. There. I said it. Now I can move forward. I think I need my head examined - as I create my own too busy state. It's not enough that I am a working freelance writer, a coach, a college student, a single parent. No. My life wouldn't be complete if I were not working, albeit feverishly, on two book-length fiction works-in-progress. It's kind of like I can't allow myself to slow down for fear of losing momentum.

Unfortunately, my blog suffered for my tight schedule and the inevitable exhaustion that has plagued my evening hours - the time when I usually would have the time to update my blog. No doubt the stress of suffering a direct hit from two hurricanes within a three-week period between August and September have added to my weariness. I don't know what the main cause for my overall tiredness was; but, I suspect it was simply my pre-holiday, pre-finals workload.

Now that all of my work, holiday and education related goals have been successfully achieved, I've finally had a little time to relax before diving headlong into spring semester and new writing projects. And I mean a little time. It seems as though there is just never any real time off. I swore myself to relaxation and enjoying the two weeks of winter break. No school. No coaching. No work. Just hanging out with my kid, having fun and writing for the love of it whenever I felt like it.

But life isn't like that. No matter how I plan, there is still laundry to do, a house to clean, dogs to care for, meals to cook, the undecorating to do, and bills to pay. I've been off for a week and still haven't caught a break! In light of that fact, I had an epiphany. It went kind of like this: Update the blog dummy!

So, I have - and recognizing that I am never going to have sufficient time to do anything, not blogging, really makes no sense whatsoever. So expect to hear more from me.

I'm back.
With a vengeance.

Does Your Vote Count?

The Democratic process is in full swing across the nation, or at least, we hope so. Getting out the vote is the hot topic in the news today, as well it should be. However, some of the reports coming in are a more than just a bit disturbing. Some major issues have been brought to light, such as pencils sitting on the desks of the absentee ballot processors in Iowa. When it was discovered that a writing device made available to the processors could actually interfere with fair processing, the pencils were swiftly removed. The worry there was that an unscrupulous processor could potentially use the pencil to alter ballots. Then the legal battle waging in Ohio, with GOP watchdogs vowing to prevent voters who were registered, as they claim incorrectly, by Democrats, from being permitted to vote.

Quite frankly, whatever party affiliation a citizen subscribes to - that type of 11th hour partisan wrangling and intimidation should outrage all Americans. In Florida, Theresa LaPore, the notorious Palm Beach County Supervisor of Elections, has come under fire for altering the laws governing the allowable distance from polling places where reporters, campaigners, and non-partisan voter-assistance groups can gather. Should anyone have such power to change laws without any process whatsoever, to serve their own purpose?

In Philadelphia the latest reports tell of a GOP legal action, claiming that four electronic voting machines are suspect, and the 13,000 votes cast in those machines should be thrown out. Huh? Toss out votes? Is that the American way?

Perhaps the most worrisome of all the Election Day revelations is the fact that in most of the states where electronic voting is in widespread use, there is NO PAPER TRAIL.

In the wake of the 2000 election debacle is anyone really comfortable with that? How could there possibly be an accurate recount, should the need arise, without a paper trail? How could there be any argument against it? And doesn't the suggestion that 13,000 votes be nullified in Philadelphia punctuate the need for a paper trail?

Computers have been known to eat information before, and let's face it - they are susceptible to a certain degree of tampering, either via hacking or virus.

At best these partisan tactics are an annoyance; at worst, and it could easily escalate to worst, it disrupts the process utterly. How sad that in this great nation it has come to the point where partisan interference does so much to dishonor our history of democratic elections. It poses the question: Does every vote really count?

The campaign trail absolutely must be followed by an Election Day paper trail, or literally all could be lost.

What do Medusa and Pippi Longstocking Have in Common?

Well their stories are the stuff of legend - Pippi being unnaturally strong, and Medusa being so frightfully hideous that any who look directly at her are forever petrified in stone. They also happen to be the characters my daughter and I chose for our Halloween costumes. She was Pippi, of course, and a winning one: she took First place in a costume contest. I was green with envy (pun fully intended.)

Donning a Medusa costume brought forth an alarming number of people who had no earthly idea what the Medusa character is. So I would explain that she is actually a rather popular character in the Greek mythologies. Which would be met with a blank stare that practically screamed Huh? The whole experience really caused me to wonder how these folks ever managed to graduate high school, let alone college. Two of the clueless are acquaintances of mine and I know for a fact they both attended universities.

Alternately, there were many who immediately recognized Medusa, and commented on the creativity of my costume, but only after they gushed over my adorable Pippi counterpart. My serpent headpiece was a conversation starter and had strangers at a local fair coming up to me specifically to touch my head and see what it was I made the snakes with.

To their credit, a great many children recognized Medusa. That heartened me. I took comfort that at least some of the younger generation were being taught the Greek tales in school, until one little ten-year-old boy looked at me and exclaimed, "Medusa rocks! She's a creature in a lot of games." Be still my heart.

I fear the tales of antiquity shall be told only in excerpts of freshly made-for-gaming plots, and the rich characters stretched so thinly across the cyber-world, that their literary significance will be lost forever.

In the immortal words of the Wicked Witch of the West, "What a world, what a world."

Worn, Weathered, and Writing Again!

Let it never be said that a little wind never hurt anybody. My absence from updating my blog has been due to the double-whammy hits of hurricanes to my neighborhood. First it was Francis and three weeks later - nearly to the day, and exactly in the same inlet, followed Jeanne. I found it difficult to concentrate on writing anything post-hurricane strikes. The whole experience is exhausting. The past several weeks I have felt weighted and weary; as if I were stuck in the mud - spinning my wheels and getting nowhere. If living in paradise comes with a price, then we here on Florida's Treasure Coast have been double-billed. The damage to my own home is relatively minor compared to what many of my neighbors have suffered. None of us expected two hurricanes in three weeks to hit us directly; consequently, those of us with livable homes dare not complain. I only hope that we haven't assessed any late fees, in the form of more hurricanes this year.

My nephew's daughter was born in the midst of hurricane Jeanne - forcing the first-time parents to risk an adventurous trip to the hospital they will never forget. Nothing turned out as originally planned, but in the end it all turned out okay. It seems the signs of renewal are everywhere. Damaged plants and trees are sprouting new leaves. Homes are being repaired and roads rebuilt. Schools finally reopened to students who all seem unusually eager to get back to the daily grind of learning - for some, school is the last vestige of normalcy in their upturned lives.

As I sit and write this update I am literally surrounded by a cacophony of hammering as roofs are being repaired at a furious pace in every direction. Add the drone of chain saws and the intermittent hum of lawn mowers to punctuate the constant rap-tap-tapping for a veritable symphony of reclamation. I've decided to at long last add the clicking of my keyboard to this pounding symphony of rebirth. It's invigorating to return to my craft and resurrect my writing schedule. Who knows, I may even decide to do something crazy - like NaNoWriMo again! Whichever way the path may turn, I am glad to have found it again.

Writing Through Running

I started a running program this week. Now, let me say that I am not a runner and I buck the concept every (literally; pun intended) step of the way. It's not that I hate exercise, heck I'm a gymnastics coach! I enjoy physical exertion and who doesn't love the end result of regular workouts? Slimmer, more fit, increased stamina. I'll take that any day of the week. But running... eh, it's so hard! And getting started is the worst part. Waking your muscles and joints up enough to bear the added burden of running's impact on your body. Getting your mind set geared up so that you complete your exercise even through the pain, because when you first start running, even if your fairly fit - it's painful.

So why do it? Well, for me life as a writer encompasses a certain amount of sitting down. I also began taking college courses again last week, and even though I walk a good deal while on campus, studying and writing assignments always require staying planted in a seated position for hours at a time. I began to realize that were it not for coaching, I would be getting zero exercise a day. Not acceptable. But now with my increased workload I have less time to exercise, and that is where running arose as the obvious solution. I can do it indoors on my treadmill or get out for fresh air, and it is a sure fire way to a quick cardio response.

There you have it, my running reasoning, if you will. It has gone as I expected. Tough in the beginning of a run and tougher toward the end. I've started slow, incorporating only one mile runs this week and working toward one and a half mile runs next week. I'll keep that pace until I've worked up to three to four mile runs.

In planning this running schedule, it dawned on me how similar the process it to writing. Writing is hard. It is sometimes painful. You have to gear your mind up to continue writing even through the tough spots. Especially if you're new to writing or beginning a new writing regimen, because getting started is the hardest part. Well, that and editing, but I'll save the editing topic for another time.

Since I love writing and am not so keen on running, I visualize the writing process while I run. Getting that first page down, I liken to the first ten minutes of my run. As the exertion of the run increases I picture writing quickly as when thoughts are flowing easily and ideas abundant. When winding down through the final phase of running I imagine concluding a page or chapter. Wrapping it all up in a tidy package with just the perfect page turner thrown in at the end to whet the appetite for the next run, er ah... page.

Writing has made running bearable, and running has caused me to break my writing process down into clearly defined paths, giving me a solid foundation when I sit down at my desk to get started. I have never visualized my writing in such a way before. Sure I've always had a clear picture of my characters, my plot and the world in which they dwell. But I have never sat back and thought about myself doing the writing.

It's been an eye-opener to find that such visualization prior to actually sitting down to write such an effective technique. Were I to quit running, I would continue this new found method of focusing and organizing my creative process. Perhaps while doing the dishes, or laundry - why not? Could work. But for now I'll keep running. For all the pain there is something oddly peaceful about it. The thud of your feet, the hollow swoosh of your breath and the secure knowledge that you've burned off the half-pound bag of Twizzlers you inhaled while writing the night before.

Did I admit that out loud? Humph. Better go for a run.

Into The Great Unknown

Writing is a lot like gambling; if you play at it long enough you might just get lucky. That is what I tell myself every time I write a query, develop a proposal or send a completed manuscript out into the great unknown. It's hard to send your work out there. I mean, it's your work and in a great many ways, it is part of you. A representative of your creative self. An extension of yourself through the interpretation of your art. You baby it, fight with it, love it, hate it... and after you've picked apart all of its weaknesses, toyed with it, tweaked it and polished it - then you love it again. And after all of that, you diligently research possible markets for your work, your baby, and dutifully send it off to vie for publication and you wait.

And wait. And... well, you wait some more. You tell yourself that no news is good news. Your friends say things like, "Well, at least it hasn't been rejected"reminding you that rejection is the most probable outcome and it is only a matter of time before the rejection notices start pouring in. After all, it is the most probable outcome.

Suffice to say that landing an acceptance from a traditional publisher is a long shot, even if your work is excellent. Which is a good part of the reason so many writers have opted to self publish via Print on Demand companies. But even that isn't quite so simple and often P.O.D. contracts saddle the writer with the burden of high fees with very few, if any benefits.

Publication is the side of writing that is absolutely the most frustrating. Everything must be perfect if the writer hopes to attract the attention of an editor. Queries must light the fire of interest without being too long, or too wordy. It has to be perfect.

So you wait and as you wait you start to wonder if you did a good enough job. You start to doubt. And if, or rather when rejections roll in - you start to doubt your work. You pick apart the possible reasons why your query wasn't effective. You rewrite it. Edit it. Polish it and send it out into the great unknown again.

The fact is, you have to have a thick skin in this business. Critiques can be harsh, editors are usually quite demanding and rejections can sometimes be hard to swallow. But it is the way it is, and knowing that, the writer writes some more and dutifully sends their work, their baby, out into the great unknown hoping this time they'll hit the publishing jackpot - their name in print and a check with their name on it for their efforts.

Invasion of the "What if's"

Here I sit. Keyboard literally in hand... poised to bash my head into my computer monitor. I've had the same blank page in my "Word" program staring me down for about an hour. I had every intention of continuing my novel length work-in-progress (A.k.a wip) from my most recent stopping point. Actually, I ended a chapter and undecided on the direction I want to go, I opted to line edit and execute minor rewrites on all the chapters that led to this point. It was a good idea. Took a few days. Got a lot done.

It was a good idea... or at least, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Now I realize that in taking that pause rather than working through the stopping point, I failed to address the issue of direction. I didn't solve my dilemma rather, I sought to avoid it for as long as possible.

So now I'm left wondering why I allowed myself to duck for cover behind line edits. What stopped me. What made the end of this chapter a stopping point. Why was I so willing to pull away?

Could it be that my story really has no where to go? Is it dead? No, in fact I'm sure it is not. This story has taken on a life of it's own. It feels almost sentient to me. The characters breath and think and feel; they are perfect and flawed and in the world I've created in my wip, they are real. Okay, so the story isn't dead. So what's the problem?

Clearly, I'm at a transitive crossroads in my story. I could go in any one of several directions. But how to choose? What if I make the wrong choice? What if the idea sucks? What if...

What if I had sat down in my plot outline and ironed out my plot objectives rather than excuse myself by hiding in edits? Then perhaps I would not have found myself staring blankly at a blank Word document. I let the fear of the "What if's" distract me to the point of inaction. Duh! Didn't I see it coming?

Of course I did! I knew I was avoiding tough choices. I knew, I knew and I know better. I could kick myself for allowing the "What if's" to get to me. Plot transition needs to be addressed rather than avoided. Ugh. There is probably nothing as frustrating as being the cause of your own frustration.

Now I need to dig in and push through my own insecurities, so my wip can continue on it's intended path. And it has an intended path - I just need to figure out the twists and turns along the way.

News at Eleven

It's frustratingly ironic that the more technologically advanced we become, the less we can rely on the technology we've created. Take my modem for instance. Very nice when it is working. Underscore the word when. The most recent breakdown (there have been four in three months) cost me nearly four days of work. It's really difficult to do research when your computer ain't net ready. Thank heavens for friends who have computers and laptops and cell phones with internet or I wouldn't have even been able to check my e-mail. It's such incidents that really throw a wrench in a freelancers schedule.

I was left scratching my head wondering how I ever managed to get by before the invent of e-mail. These days I hardly ever use a stamp for anything aside from query submissions - and even a good many of those are sent via e-mail.

As I'm in Florida, this week we are bracing for Hurricane Charlie and watching Tropical Storm Bonnie with anticipation. I for one really think the powers-that-be, you know, the one's who actually name the storms, really missed a golden opportunity by failing to name the storms Bonnie and Clyde. C'mon, it's sooo obvious, duh!

Besides, it would have made for some fun "Storm Coverage" on the ten news channels all eager to panic the masses into a battery, plywood, and water bottle buying frenzy. I just hope that Charlie doesn't wreak too much havoc, though it would surely disappoint the local news media.

With the storms tracking up for debate, it makes me wonder if the Doppler radar is even all that accurate. Seems like they are no closer to knowing where this one is going to hit than they were when Hurricane Andrew hit in 1992. I remember watching that pre-storm coverage. It wasn't all that different from today's coverage. Serious looking reporters donning baseball caps and raincoats promising hourly updates, interviewing men as they boarded up houses and promising live "Team Coverage" at eleven.

Ah, lends some truth to the old adage; The more things change the more they stay the same. The more we come to rely on technology the more we are put at it's mercy. Doppler radar, my modem. News at eleven.

Time Bandits

It seems like nary a day goes by in which some misinformed individual passes a judgment as to the flexibility of my writing schedule. People automatically assume that because I am a freelance writer my cup must certainly runneth over with scads of free time. After all, I work when I want. Therefore, I am endlessly called upon to run here, go there, be available at such and such a time... blah, blah, blah. And you know, for a while there - even I fell for it.

I figured, well, sure I'll do this for so and so. After all it'll really help them, seeing as they have to work and all. I can spare a few hours. If they needed me to come in a bit early to coach at the gym, they could count on me. I'd be there. It only meant going in an hour early, it was okay.

A chunk of time here. A smidgen of time there. No big. I could deal. I could work around it; I create my own schedule you know.

Yeah, I was in deep alright.

The worst part about it was that I was permitting my own work to be compromised and devalued by failing to demand that anyone, anyone at all, respect my time. Even myself. And it was nearly fatal to my creative works. The more time I spent pursuing the tasks everyone else prescribed me, resulted in completing my paying assignments during the hours I would have spent on my creative works had I held to my own schedule.

Finally, it was up to me to undo the damage. I had to start saying no. And it wasn't easy. People weren't very receptive to my sudden inclination to decline their requests of my time. Their response when I asserted my need to adhere to a writing schedule I likened to how I imagine a thirsty dog would react to the sudden removal of his water-bowl while he is smack-dab in the middle of drinking. Dogs don't like going thirsty, and people don't like hearing the word no. Unfailingly both respond with the same surprised sideways tilt of the head, wearing an expression that asks "Huh?" Some even growl. So be it.

It had to be done or my creative work would literally die of neglect. Robbed of its sustenance, its value, and ultimately its right to exist by the time bandits who would continue to raid my creative itinerary, unless I stood to defend it.

That's not to claim that my reclaimed writing agenda is without interruption. Life happens. Business need to get done, kids need tending, dogs need to be walked, house needs to be cleaned and, in my case, gymnasts need to be coached. It's like a smooth walk across a balance beam just before tossing a back Handspring that lands a little wobbly; sometimes you just have to grit your teeth and hang on, or the amazing thing you were doing has lost all its value.

What's It Matter?

A couple of months ago while at a networking mixer a new acquaintance asked what it is I do for a living. I'll never forget the response I got when I said I'm a freelance writer. He looked at me blankly and blurted "Yeah, well everyone's a writer if you give them a pen." Of course, I wasn't about to just let that go. So I sucked in a deep breath and calmly countered with, "True enough; but not everyone can write well." He poked the olive drowning at the bottom of his martini and said "What's it matter? Half the population can't read anyway." When he said that, I knew I had him. I quickly flashed my best and brightest wise-ass grin and asked "So, who's your favorite author?"

He didn't have one. He doesn't read much. Muttered something about not having enough time and reading makes him tired anyway, before he excused himself to hit the bar for a refill. I shrugged his comments off and moved on, secure in the fact that I'd successfully one-upped him.

On the drive home I found myself thinking about what he said. Everyone's a writer if you give them a pen. It irritated me. The whole next day his comments assaulted my concentration to the point that I actually stopped writing midday. Instead I started to examine why in the world I was allowing what this guy said to bother me, even a little.

See, it wasn't really what he said that nagged at me, but that there is really some truth to it - a basis in fact. Not that I think him right, no... not for a moment. But after close consideration I do think him rather, well, average.

Let's face it; there's a large percentage of folks out there who do not regard writing as an art, or even a skill. He's one of them. With the world gone e-mail and the art of the letter all but dead, most people are not what could be characterized as practiced writers. I'm sure the fella was not altogether off base in his assumption that half the population can't read. Now I don't mean that literally. I'm certain that a greater percentage of the industrialized world can and do read, I'm just not convinced that they are practiced readers.  If we're not writing letters (I don't know about you, but the majority of e-mails I receive are not by a long shot well constructed so I won't count them as letters) and not adhering to basic writing and language principals will we recognize mistakes while reading books, magazines or the newspaper? Does it matter if I strive to write well, or will my efforts simply go unnoticed?

After much deliberation I've concluded that yes, it does matter if I write well and yes, my efforts will probably go unnoticed... and they should. By all. No one should take note of smooth, accurate writing. If it reads in such a way that not one person notices a thing about the writing other than the story itself, then I have done my job well.

I suppose it is true that everyone with a pen, or these days, a keyboard can write. Not everyone is going to appreciate a well written and compelling story. Not everyone reads or reads often enough. My martini sipping acquaintance got that right, and he'll probably never become aware of what he got wrong. So, what's it matter?

Maybe it's not for him to know, or even worry about. But as a writer, it is my job to contemplate such things. To elevate my work  - whether it is writing the copy for an advertisement, etching an article, scribbling an essay or immersing myself in constructing novel length fiction. It may never matter to any other person who reads my writings, but it means everything to me.

What's it matter? It matters plenty.

Open Letter to Emily's Mother

You don't know me. We've never met, and honestly I'm not sure I would want to meet you. But I know your child. She started summer camp two weeks ago. Did you know? Do you care?

Her father or grandmother drop her off and pick her up. They had to explain to us the reason five year old Emily constantly breaks down in tears. You see, they had to tell us because your daughter gets so distraught that she can hardly speak. Did you know? Do you care?

Apparently the Family court Judge didn't think you cared enough when Emily was removed from your custody, and placed with her father. Wonder what you did, or what you failed to do to have your child taken out of your home. Of course, we were also told how the Judge awarded you frequent visitation rights; overnights, weekends, etc. so Emily would see her mother frequently. That you did know, though it is clear you don't care, since you haven't bothered to try to see or talk to your little girl even once in three months.

She's never been separated from you, not for as much as a few days until now. She's only five and right now she's so emotionally bankrupt that she can't eat, she barely sleeps, and in two weeks I haven't seen her eyes stay dry for longer than an hour.

Have you ever seen a five year old with dark circles under the eyes? Can you imagine the agonizing pleading in her soft blue tear-filled eyes as she tries to choke out "I miss my mommy?" That's what Emily repeats over and over again every day. In all my years of working with children, I have never met a sadder child. Did you know that she went on a field trip today and while all the other kids laughed and had fun, five year old Emily sobbed for the love of her mother? Do you care? 

I hope that one day you are made accountable for the pain you are causing to your own precious child. I hope one day you have to look into her unforgiving eyes and explain just what you were doing that was more important than being there for Emily when she needed you most. I hope that her contempt for you causes you to feel fragile and vulnerable and frightened. I hope that one day she abandons you, when you need her most. And I hope that one day you wake up and realize what you've lost - what you can never make-up for - what you can never get back. And I hope the thought of it tortures you to your very soul through all eternity.

That would be justice. Perhaps then, you'd finally care.

 

First Class, Or Coach?

Freelance writing is how I make my living and I enjoy it; but nothing is as rewarding on a personal level as coaching. Even creative writing cannot compare with the exhilaration of watching a kid progress into a confident athlete.

This weekend was not altogether unlike many others I've spent working in gymnastics. I traveled across the state to attend a gymnastics clinic. Compulsory camps are something I try to do every summer, along with other coaches from our gym, but this is the first year we brought our team with us.  Since the camp/clinic was hosted by one of the most respected gyms in Florida, the kids were nervous. After all, this is an Olympic year and the kids knew that some of the coaches they'd be working with during the clinic currently have more than a few athletes at Junior National Team level. Very impressive. Very exciting. Very intimidating. 

We did our best to keep our team kids calm and confident. During the first few hours of the clinic they worked harder than they'd ever expected to. I was amazed at just how much effort the clinic coaches could get out of these gymnasts. Not that the kids don't work hard at our gym, they most certainly do, but this was different. The kids put in an eight and a half hour work day the first day of this compulsory camp and a straight eight hours the second day. Our own workouts never go over four hours, so this was a bit of shell-shock to our athletes. The amazing part was that even though they were utterly exhausted, they never complained. Every now and then I would see a yawn, but other than a few passing comments of "I'm tired," none of the kids griped.

That was astonishing. Especially since the athletes were doing three hour rotations on each event. Now, for those of you who are not gymnastically savvy, I can't emphasize enough just how grueling three hours working out on uneven bars is, even if your in optimum physical condition. It's difficult to understand how gymnasts can take the punishment their hands alone endure from bar routines - and after three hours the skin starts to rip and peel. Still, their determination went undiminished, even if they were somewhat less enthusiastic.  

The facility, or "club" that hosted this event is as mentioned already, among the best in Florida and arguably has one of the most sought after programs in the southern states. I'm always in awe of the sheer amount and quality of equipment the place houses. The gym where I coach has everything we need, but nothing extra and our stuff is for the most part older and well worn. It's like coach nirvana to imagine access to so much new or like-new training material. During a break I got to talking to some of the instructors teaching the clinic and expressed my envy of their coaching environment.

Boy, was I surprised to hear just how frustrated some of them sounded in their first-class facility. They complained because they get severely limited time on equipment to work with athletes not considered "elite." One coach told of his ire at having to train a class of sixteen lower level gymnasts using only one piece of equipment, because the head coach insists that the elite, Junior National level gymnasts have exclusive access to everything else.  I was floored to hear that but for the money, most of these high level coaches actually envied my coaching environment. They all spoke openly about their dissatisfaction, and explained that their talents were relegated to little more than churning out success. It kind of made me wonder at what cost do they churn, but I didn't dare ask.

The answer came soon enough. Not because anyone spoke up, but because I noticed something. The rapport their own athletes have with them is not at all what we see from our athletes. There's a coldness, a professionalism. Not from the coaches, but from the kids. They can do a perfect Back Handspring, but they don't come bouncing up to their coach for a pat on the back or a hug after a great routine. It dawned on me as I was literally being smothered by two of my own kids coming up for a reassuring hug after falling off beam.

Their kids did lovely routines. No falls. No hugs.

This weekend I learned the true value of coaching as I was wiping a tear, fixing a French braid and explaining the importance of pointed toes. First class may come with all the prestige and the luxury, but I'd rather go coach.  

Integrity

Whatever happened to the simple premise of holding oneself to a standard of personal and professional integrity? In the recent past this question has arisen ad nauseam. We've all been inundated with news stories and commentary that highlight the decline of seemingly any standard - even low standards - for personal, governmental, and corporate conduct. The Enron debacle, Martha Stewart insider trading, Prisoner abuse in Iraq, The New York Times reporting inaccurate and even utterly false stories! You KNOW there is a downward spiral of integrity when even the exalted New York Times can't be trusted.

The abuses seem to be running rampant, that is, if we are to believe the media who are ever-ready to gleefully saturate the evening news and morning paper with such reports. No one seems to be immune to the lure of dishonesty. Why pay when you can steal it? Why be honest when lies are so much juicier than the truth? Heck, even our nations Presidents bend the truth or outright lie to suit their needs, lest we forget the lurid Clinton/Lewinsky scandal or the notorious yet still missing weapons of mass destruction.

Lack of moral code spills over into everyday life, well... everyday. I have a client who owes me a substantial amount of money. It's been months. Think she cares? Then there's the mechanic who tried to convince me I needed an $1100.00 repair, when all I really needed was a shot of Freon in my air conditioner. Thankfully one of the gentlemen he works with "Figured out the problem" when I let them know there was no way I could afford such a repair at this time. Amazing.

All of this has caused me to examine how writers approach integrity in creative writing. It's so subjective. Characters, plots, motivations all drive the creative work, but how do we define creative? Hasn't everything been done before? Realistically, we all give our characters different names but hasn't every personality - every divisive flaw been already written? Our plots and stories may not be as fresh and unique as we'd like to think they are. Chances are examples can be found throughout literature of similar works that precede even what's currently on the fiction best seller list.

Is it okay to borrow so long as you are not actually stealing? I struggled with this question, and finally came to the conclusion that in the world of creative writing - you bet it is.

As long as there have been stories there have been new slants. Redirection of plots, reinventing character "types" and expanding or narrowing motivations all bring the writer as close as possible to originality. It is not a lack of integrity to borrow from what has come before so long as in the process the writer creates something that can stand on it's own as an original work.

Each of us must define for ourselves our creative standard of integrity. New stories simply could not be written with out it. Perhaps creativity is the last bastion yet to be corrupted by dishonesty. Curious that in a world dominated by the lie, what creative writers find most engaging is the truth.

Writing Rather Than Procrastinating

Sometimes I find it so difficult to commit time to my creative writing. I suppose that it is a dilemma common to most freelancers. You find yourself getting so caught up in writing for a living that you forget to write for yourself. In my own case, I will not allow myself to work on my creative manuscripts until I have completed whatever projects I am working on professionally. I promise myself that I will have permission to write creatively after all of my client related writing projects are completed. That's what I tell myself anyway. The conflict arises because even after my professional projects are completed, I still will not give myself permission to write creatively until after I have successfully managed to land several more writing gigs - and so it becomes a vicious cycle of procrastination.

 

It's not that I'm lazy or that I'm uninspired. Heck, give me a deadline and I'll deliver completed drafts not on time - but ahead of time. It's a work ethic that keeps me very popular with clients. It's not like I avoid writing. On the contrary, I write everyday and usually for several hours.

 

I think my creative procrastination can be likened to a survival mechanism. I tell myself I haven't earned the right to creative expression until I have earned my keep financially. And most of the time I don't feel creatively stifled or starved, at least not utterly. To be a good copywriter one must absolutely be creative. After all, a copywriter is forever seeking out new and creative uses for what I like to call execu-jargon terms such as "value added." But at the end of the day, even the most creative copywriting project just doesn't deliver the same level of satisfaction as my own creative projects.

 

So now I have begun examining my reasons for creative procrastination. I mean it is so frustrating that the type of writing I take the most pleasure in, is the one I am least likely to pursue. The demands of life and a paycheck take precedence and simply put there are times that writing creatively is a luxury that I cannot afford; or at least I tell myself that. I guess it softens the blow.

 

 I also believe there is an underlying issue lurking just below the surface that I am in consistent denial of: The issue of self-worth. Getting caught up in self-doubt. How do I justify time spent writing book length creative fiction that could otherwise be spent drumming up new clients? It's doubtful that anyone will ever be interested in it anyway. It's probably gonna suck, and even if it doesn't it's unlikely that it will ever wind up in publication and even if it did odds are it'll tank. Who do I think I am writing book length anything?

 

Well ... there it is. How can a writer argue with her own worst critic? I guess the only way is by proving the critic wrong. By writing that creative fiction, because I can and I want to. By completing my manuscripts simply on the merits of personal satisfaction. By querying agents and publishers with the completed and thoroughly edited final drafts.

 

Not that doing all of that would ever completely silence the voice of self-doubt. No, I'm certain that will plague me throughout my writing life. But by committing to writing rather than procrastinating I may just experience a level of satisfaction that far exceeds that of earning money. Not that earning money is bad. Who doesn't love being able to pay their bills and perhaps enjoy and evening out once in a while? Money is awesome, it's just that there are some things you cannot put a price on. At least not until after your manuscript is accepted for publication! 

 

 

Dust In The Wind

There are days you wake up feeling like you've got the world by the tail. This day didn't start out nearly that optimistic. No. I woke to a pounding on my front door at 7:45 AM. Okay, maybe it was really just a knocking - but at 7:45 in the morning, on a Saturday, it's pounding. Of course, the paint contractor I hired to repair ceiling damage in my family room arrived early. Who's ever heard of a contractor arriving EARLY?

His mission was to work a miracle and fix the 3ft long tear that resulted from my roof leaking several weeks ago. My brand new roof. So now I have another brand new roof and a brand new ceiling, courtesy of my Knight in white coveralls to boot! I just didn't expect him before I had a chance to down a pot of Folgers.

The contractor was here all day. I took my pot of coffee into my office and checked my e-mail, burned some new tunes onto disk, ate a Pop-Tart, poured more coffee, watched the news, and did everything but write.

Oh, yeah... that's right, did I mention I'm a writer? Actually I freelance full-time which means I can procrastinate in the morning if I feel like it. And that is exactly what I did.

Most weeks I try to get all of my work related writing penned before the weekend hits, that way I can feign a more normal schedule. Hey it gives me a reason to get excited about Fridays. Anyway, as I was hanging out in full sloth mode it occurred to me that my office was a wreck. Eh, I ignored it while I enjoyed another cup of coffee.

I don't know if I can begin to describe the amount of dust that was produced by the work being done on my ceiling. Let's just say that my Knight in white coveralls was surrounded by such a thick cloud of misty looking dust that he took on an almost ethereal quality. There ended my procrastinating, slothful morning. The biggest shock was just how much dust settle beneath the tarps my contractor painstakingly laid everywhere.

The contractor was finished by mid afternoon, but I did not stop cleaning until round about 8:30 PM. Of course the dust had one benefit. It forced me to address the mess in my office. But I didn't simply clean - I completely restructured my entire workspace. I went through all of my old papers, got rid of a ton of crap I no longer need. I even cleaned out my Grandmother's old sewing machine desk. She past away in 1991 and I became the familial custodian of her old, and I mean old, Singer sewing machine. It is kind of neat really. It is housed in this heavy wooden desk and the actual sewing machine is stored inside the desk. I never thought to use it as a writing desk before now. Heck, I never really wanted to go poking around in the drawers.

It is odd how even after so many years have past it still felt as if I were snooping as I pulled out old bits of paper, tons of thread, elastic binding, and a treasury of old sewing machine toolery. All kinds of bits and pieces that reminded me of my Grandmother, who we referred to simply as "Little Nana." She was a seamstress in the fashion district in New York for most of her adult life. As I rummaged around in her old Singer it dawned on me that this is the very machine she used to create dresses that were truly masterpieces. I found myself wishing that the darn thing could talk. What stories could it tell me about the crystal button I found or the pen from the funeral home that hosted my Grandfather's wake. Why did my Grandmother keep religious medals and a cross in the drawers of her sewing machine? Where in the world did she find the funny little red leather change purse with the silver buttons that folded like origami?

I spent hours in my dust filled office, in my dust filled house peeling layers of history from within the drawers of the Singer. All the little bits of the past stood as tiny nuances of a life that was in so many ways, woven in the thread of that machine. I thought about how many hours my Nana spent laboring over the Singer. How many buttons did she sew, or seams did she hem. And it occurred to me that for all our differences, many parallels can be drawn between her working life and mine. She worked hard to perfect her craft. She spent long days and probably nights at her work desk. She was never satisfied with less-than-perfect; I clearly recall her scraping fabric to start anew.

Sounds a great deal like the life of a writer to me. Now as I sit in my dust free office in my dust free house (for the moment it's dust free anyway) Little Nana's old Singer is my new writing desk. It's giving me a renewed sense of my own history and just having it so nearby is surprisingly comforting. Raiding it's drawers afforded me new insight on my Nana's life. I kept the old cross and the religious metals and the funny little red change purse in it, along with the spools of thread and toolery. Those items are supposed to remain there. Just like I was supposed to wade through a dust covered mess before I reconciled to snoop in Little Nana's drawers, revealing the remnants of her life.

The Singer feels like an old friend now. It shared it's secrets. It seems fitting that even though I'll never sew, I'll work and write on the same space where Little Nana spent so much of her time. So much for dust.