Goldilocks Gets a Desk

My Muse has been dying a slow death. Yes, I am dramatic. I feel like a little girl having a temper tantrum. But, months of trying to poke and prod my Muse into producing something coherent have proven futile. I've bought books and subscribed to emails and blogs, but nothing and no one can get Muse to come out for more than a minute or more before she goes back into hiding and leaving me alone and idea-less.

Yes, it's like the book "The Art of War for Writers" says, I am bloodied on the battlefield. But I must soldier on, if I am to conquer my Muse and make her mind me. So, on Saturday, I attended a three-hour writer gig in Orlando, hoping to spur on my Muse and jump start my next writing project (since my latest has crashed and burned several times). The event, "Show, Don't Tell" revolved around a discussion on how to make writing come alive.

The poet who facilitated the event, Emily Carr, was (and is) an incredibly centered writer. Just receiving her doctorate in her field of expertise, she seemed to instinctively know exactly what direction she was going with her writing, even if she wasn't sure where she would land. A refreshingly positive sort who made me wonder where my own 'playfulness' with my writing had up and disappeared to.

During the program, Emily had us writers do an exercise where each shared a tidbit of curious information. Then the simple question of "Where do you write?" came about. I nonchalantly mentioned that I had been in flux. That I had a big, wooden table set up in a front room next to my piano, but I didn't have a chair that fit. I didn't say much more, only that it would be changing soon...In time....When the Muse struck. Emily jumped on my comment like the jet black kitty cat of hers that leaped from place to place in the room we writers had converged upon.

"You need a space of your own."

The writing space comment gnawed at me all through the event and the entire car ride from Orlando, back to Gainesville. I became obsessed. I needed a chair, as simple as that. That would arouse my Muse. So, my dear husband (in an attempt to make his crazy, non-creative feeling wife happy) escorted me around Gainesville in search of the perfect writing chair.

Poor guy. He really had no idea what he'd signed up for. I felt like Goldilocks - "This one is too soft....This one is too hard..." But, of course, none were "Just right." My beloved simply nodded and moved on.

Then I saw a desk. A piece of crap - made of cheapo particle board - desk. It struck me hard, like a two-by-four to the forehead. I wanted a desk with drawers to stash all my stuff. A neat-o writing place just for me. One just like all the awesome grownup authors have. Instead of becoming exasperated (which I would not blame him for being), my husband shrugged his shoulders.

"Why don't you check Craig's List and local second hand stores?" (Did I mention that my husband is brilliant? And good looking, too? But, I digress....)

I practically ran all the way home and did exactly what my spouse suggested. (Shhhh. Don't tell. He'll get a big head realizing I am listening to him... Or, anyone else for that matter.)

I started pecking away at Craig's List and whittled away at the possibilities. In a college town, finding a desk is easy. Discovering one that's got all its digits is another thing entirely. The supposed "teak" desk was hideous, in a word. The "move out curb special" should've stayed at the curb, awaiting the garbage man; and the word "vintage" took on a whole new meaning.

Then I found it. A beautiful cherry stained antique desk with braided edges. A little battered and bruised, but it had character. It was "just right" for this Goldilocks. Of course, the desk was an hour away in Keystone Heights at a second hand store. Plus, it was Sunday and the store didn't open until Tuesday.

Less than 48 hours later I walked through the doors at Our Timeless Treasures and the small but tasteful desk spoke to me. I ignored the voice. Two 1920 leatherbound volumes of Kipling sat on the edge of the desk mocking me. "You know you want to take me home," it seemed to say. And I did (after 40 minutes of trying to talk myself out of it).

It's a miniature sort of piece and sitting behind it makes me feel like a kid playing grown up. What my sister, cousin and I used to spend hours doing when we were little girls wanting to be big, important people.

This is my first piece of writing at my sweet, little girl's desk. I am hoping it makes me childlike and free, like the days I played at being a grown up with my sister and favorite cousin. A time when I thought we three would always be the Trios Club and anything was possible.

Oh, yes. Goldilocks feels "just right" now. Are you listening, Muse?

Hard to just believe

I started this blog as a way to publish my weekly musings and then the nasty critic in my head stopped me mid sentence. That bratty little voice (which sounds like my very first real life editor) told me I was somehow being ego maniacal thinking that throngs of readers would flock to my musings. (She's a real meanie, that Naysayer in my mind).

But that's not what this is about. That's not the point of writing this blog. What I was/am trying to do is somehow put into words how I feel each and every day - as a writer, a homeschooling mom and struggling yogini. I have a lot of questions about life in general as I am sure everyone else around me does. WHY, WHY, WHY, has always been the essence of my questioning soul. It's just easier to toss the words out there into the cyber universe, rather than having them roll around in my head like some sort of lucky dice waiting to be rolled in my game of life.

This morning's cup-o-joe lead me back to my Beached Mermaid blog. Actually, it was reading an email called "The Daily OM." It's an inspirational message that usually brings a smile to my face, or at least an understanding nod. Today's focused on the fact that we can manifest whatever it is we want in life. The key is to believe we already have everything we need, not wanting desperately something that we have convinced ourselves is somehow unattainable. In other words, just believing that everything is ok can make it so.

Now, blind faith has never been my strong suit. I'm a "seeing is believing" kind of girl most of the time, despite my usual sunny disposition. But as I ponder this thought it seems spot on. Every time I feel desperate about something, such as "Why can't an editor pick up my work and want to publish it?" I realize I am putting a negative spin on the things that are the most important to me. I need to believe that the perfect editor and agent are out there. And when it's time they will jump for joy that they found me. Same thing goes for my yoga. I keep tossing negatives out there like, "I will never be able to afford additional yoga teacher training. It's just too expensive." Of course, with that frame of mind why would the universe provide me with anything else?

My job is to keep believing all the good that's possible even on the days that it seems too remote to do so. It's a simple word, yet so hard to execute. BELIEVE and it will happen. Maybe not today, but with some hard work and positive vibes it will when it's meant to.

Take that, you nasty Naysayer critic in my head!

The end is only the beginning

I'm better at hello. It's the goodbyes that lodge like a piece of moussaka (as in Disney's Hercules) in my throat leaving me voiceless. Or worse yet, teary-eyed as well as tongue tied.

Oh, those beginnings. They are but a dream. A time of joy and excitement when nearly anything is possible. And then, the bottom falls out and it is no longer the blossoming beginning, but somewhere in the murky middle sucking the life out of me with every wheezing breath taken.

I am speaking of writing, yet it is quite fitting for many facets of my life. Endings have always been difficult. But aren't they for everyone? Anyone who knows me can see a pattern here, though. Instead of goodbye, I've been known to walk away without a word, mute and unable to cope, rather than experience the pain and torture that go into actually letting go. Which leads me to my current status - ending a relationship with my latest manuscript.

How many unfinished masterpieces do I have in a drawer which have the first 50-100 pages done? So bright and full of life. The characters seem to leap off the page. Oh how I love them. They are strong and virile and beautiful and unique. They are the loves of my life. All of them. But that's before the saggy, flawed, angry, middle rears its head. The part that doesn't even seem to have any heart, much less soul. This is the scary part. The part that separates the short timers from the distance runners.

I read an essay the other day from Amy Tan called 'Angst and the Second Book' in which she said she started six books after the success of The Joy Luck Club. Nearly 1,000 pages churned out and tossed all because she was worried how people would react to her SECOND book. Now, I do not have a bestseller I am trying to say goodbye to, but I am trying to improve my craft with this next endeavor. So I enter into each day over analyzing each word that's placed on the page. Yet, somehow I'm plowing through, slowly but surely.

So, here I am with the words THE END looming yet I can't seem to take the leap and just be done with it. There's tweaking that still needs to be done. There's the life that I still need to breathe into my main character.

Walking away is never easy. Just one more draft and it might be the perfect piece of literary genius. HA!

Goodbyes are certainly not my forte. But to move on, I must...

Another rejection for the bathroom wall

I have stopped counting the rejections. It's too depressing. If I kept track of the number I'd probably give up writing all together. I think somewhere in the back of my mind I am worried that I only get so many rejections and that's it. Kind of like a batter who gets three strikes and he's out. My thought is, for writers, we get a lot more than three strikes, though. (We're not quite as quick learners, so we get a few dozen more to smarten up).

Some writers, like Stephen King, have used rejection as a badge of honor of sorts. In his book, On Writing (which I highly recommend), he mentions early in his writing career he collected rejection slips on a nail on the wall of his workspace as a reminder of how far he'd come. Of course the king of the horror genre would do such a thing. Me, well, I am not so brave. I either rip them up into a million pieces or have myself a good cry. Or both, on a given day.

My first rejection for writing came oh so long ago from my high school newspaper advisor. She didn't give me a rejection letter per se, but instead stifled a smirk at the mere thought of this rather timid young girl becoming a newspaper journalist. "You? You're seriously considering becoming a writer?" Needless to say, I harbored a huge grudge and promised myself someday she'd know how wrong she really was.

And for a while, I thought I was succeeding. I had my share of accolades for writing. I won contests as a newspaper editor, as a feature writer and even a couple for fiction writing. But somehow, in this elusive gig called writing fiction, you're only as good as your last publication. The sting of rejection is considerably stronger than any accolade can ever be.

I thought I'd amassed a pretty tough skin over the years as the rejections continued to mount to so many I could wallpaper the bathroom with them (if I'd only kept them rather than shred them).

The latest came Friday evening via email. It wasn't one of those generic "It's not right for us, but we wish you success in finding placement elsewhere." This was a personal critique. It's the first big house to ever comment on my work and not either A)Toss it in the circular file (aka trash can) or B) Send it back via SASE with nary a pen mark. I held my breath, hoping upon hope this editor wanted my young adult novel that I felt was possibly one of the best things I've ever written.

Nope. Yet another blow to the already bruised ego. Bottom line, she said I had a great voice and it was a fresh idea for a genre saturated with vampires, werewolves and anything else that can rip you apart limb by limb. But again, it wasn't what they wanted or needed. I had failed.

I truly had thought this was it, my golden ticket of sorts. My chance at sharing my stories with the world. But, alas, there are no golden tickets in publishing. I just have to keep plugging at it and hope that at some point something will hit.

I figure this batter has a few more strikes left in her. My home run will come. In the meantime, maybe I should start collecting those rejections and wallpaper my bathroom for free.

Passion vs. Insanity

There are days I feel completely bonkers. Days in which I feel as if I should be locked up in a room wearing a straight jacket and my family told, "There's just no hope for her." Those are usually the days I am dry creatively. I mean bone dry. Sahara Desert dry. They are the days I think that not one remotely interesting word will ever again flow from my heart and I should throw in the towel once and for all and forget about being a writer.

Well, that's how this past weekend started for me. Not a particularly positive way to head to a day-long writer's conference in which I would find out (after months of waiting) whether or not my contest winning entry would be requested by a "big" publishing house.

Preparations seemed futile as every time I tried to print my work my computer would glitch and spit out weird black boxes on the page, rather than words. So what did I do? I fell to the floor and started to sob. Wracking sobs in which my dearly beloved husband raced in to the room and wondered what could possibly be that bad.

"It's a waste of time. All of it," I responded between sobs which turned to a fit of hyperventilation. "I have no idea why I even try. None of it matters."

I know, a little melodramatic, even for me. I admit it, passion is my problem. As a wise friend continually tells me, my greatest strength is also my greatest weakness. And she's right. (Or, should I say WRITE?) As a writer, my passion has always made my writing more colorful. But in real life, that passion can get downright crazy. Even insane on a given day.

So I ran to the bathroom, cried it out of my system, blew my nose and returned to the room where my calm and mild mannered beloved reprinted my work. He said nothing. Not a peep. Didn't even ask what came over me. I guess he's used to it.

I've been writing a long time. It's been 18 years since I attended my very first writer's conference. "I should just give up." I've said this so many times I've lost count.

Once again, no response. My husband shakes his head as he always does. He knows I don't mean it. I can't stop. It's an addiction, a need I have deep in my soul. So, I will keep writing even if no one ever reads a word. Because I can't NOT write.

Oh, and the conference? Still waiting to see if the "big" house is going to call me up. But even if they don't I know I won't stop trying. EVER.