Category: Writing

Starting Again

My friends, today I’d like to share a great secret with all of you.

You can have as many ideas and good intentions as you want. You can have goals and dreams and freaking aspirations. You can give yourself pep talks. You can have a production schedule. You can even actually write things down on a calendar. You can have a plan.

But if you get a head cold from hell, none of that matters. Everything – everything – comes to a full, complete, dead stop while you deal with rivers of mucus and sinus pain making you want to yank out all of your teeth and trying not to hack up a lung every night.

Trust me. I speak from sad, sad experience on this one because this is how I’ve spent my last couple of weeks.

*sigh*

Let’s just say that creativity has not been top of mind lately. In fact, nothing has been top of mind. Except congestion.

The good news is I can finally say I’m feeling back to normal. The bad news is that now I have to start again.

I think everyone knows how hard it is to get moving once you’ve come to a complete stop. As Sir Isaac Newton says:

An object at rest will remain at rest unless acted on by an unbalanced force.

An object in motion continues in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force.

If you are at a standstill and you want to move, you have to apply force to get moving. And that can be a LOT easier said than done – it’s ridiculous how hard it can be to get going once you’ve stopped.

I think it’s because when you’re moving, you don’t really pay attention to what you’re doing. You just know that you’re moving. But when you come to a complete stop, you look at the overwhelming mountain you’re trying to climb and you freeze because it seems impossible.

That’s where I am right now.

Now the question isn’t whether I should start again – because of course I should. The question is HOW do I start again? How do I start to climbing when the hurdle looks impossible from where I’m standing? How do I get going again when I don’t have any momentum?

How?

Maybe the first thing I need to do is not be angry or disappointed with myself because my body needed a full stop. Maybe I can’t be discouraged and give up simply because I couldn’t keep going the way I thought that I should. Maybe I need to realize that this is life, and life happens.

Then I need to start small. Instead of looking at the big picture, I need to find tasks I can complete. For the writing part of my life, that means writing this blog post and the February newsletter. Next, is actually opening the document I’m editing, even though I’m terrified that I’ll never ever ever ever be able to find my footing. Then I need to start reading that document. Then I need to sink into the actual editing.

The focus is on moving forward, step by step, inch by inch.

Starting again.

And…here we go.

February 19, 2017
Keeping On

When we left Betsy many weeks ago, she was staring at the shining cities of the story worlds she was creating. Harry, the white gerbil who is the Guide on Betsy’s Quest to become a successful independent author, was with her. Harry wants to upgrade from white gerbil to white hare or even a white stag, and he was very excited to announce that his tail had transformed from a long, skinny gerbil tail to a rabbit puffball.

But, except for sporadic blog posts, it’s been weeks since we’ve heard from Betsy. And Harry hasn’t heard from her at all.

And now, as we join Betsy in her brain, we find her perched top of a large boulder, which is sitting in a sea of mud that stretches as far as the eye can see.

What in the world is going on? And where’s Harry?

Let’s see…

*As noted above, Betsy sits on a large boulder in a sea of mud* *Splashes hand through the mud*

Maybe it’s really chocolate.

*Tastes* Oh, ick. *Spits it out* *Sighs*

What the hell are you doing?

*Betsy jumps and almost falls off the boulder*

Harry? You scared the heck out of me.

Yeah? I’d like to scare the heck out of you. *Harry comes stomping across the mud on boots that look like little snowshoes* *Climbs onto boulder next to Betsy* *Plants paws on hips* *Glares*

*Betsy pulls back* What did I do?

Nothing! And that’s the freaking problem! *Harry gestures wildly* You’ve done nothing, absolutely nothing for the whole freaking month! Maybe even longer. Just sat here on this boulder.

*Betsy pouts* I’ve done stuff.

Yeah, like eat food inappropriate for your diabetic condition.

*Betsy frowns* I was anxious. Food helps when I’m anxious.

And you also spent money you didn’t have on things you didn’t need.

I needed that stuff! I got a third cat, and he needed stuff!

Right. What about all the food inappropriate for your diabetic condition you were buying?

*Betsy’s frown deepens* I was anxious!

*Harry marches closer to her* And how much writing have you done?

*Betsy gasps* Hey! I did a lot of writing. I finished the first draft of the next novel AND of a novella. That’s pretty good. I deserved to be able to take a break.

That was September. You wasted all of October.

I did not!

You haven’t even started to edit anything.

I started!

Yesterday. When did you want to have them finished to go to the editor?

*Betsy shifts* Um, the end of October.

And what day is it?

It’s, um…hey! I wrote! I wrote a newsletter and a blog post, you know.

*Harry rolls his eyes* Oooooo A newsletter and a blog post. Big freaking hairy deal. You’re supposed to be freaking editing your freaking book! *He turns around and lifts his coat to show Betsy his butt* Do you see this? *Points* My tail is getting long again! I had a rabbit tail. I was well on my way to finally transforming into a White Hare Guide instead of a White Gerbil Guide and you have to go screw it up!

I know, I know. *Betsy’s eyes well with tears* I’m sorry.

*Harry sighs* *Straightens coat* *Sits next to Betsy*

Come on, babe. What’s up with you? We haven’t even talked for weeks.

It’s just… *Betsy swallows* What’s the point of this whole thing?

*Harry frowns* What’s the point of what?

*Betsy gestures* This. Everything. I mean, yes, I’ve roughed out the next thing or two, but so what? What’s the point of it? I should just give up.

*Harry puts a paw on her arm* No you shouldn’t.

*Betsy draws away* Oh, come on. You’re just saying that because you want to upgrade to a white hare.

I mean it. You shouldn’t stop.

*Betsy laughs a little bitterly* Why not? I keep trying to push this boulder through this sea of mud, and I’m not getting anywhere. The boulder just keeps getting heavier. Why bother trying? You can’t win no matter what you do!

*Harry grabs her arm* You listen to me. I don’t wanna hear that from you. *You* can!

*Betsy looks away* I used to think so.

*Harry pauses* Wait. That sounds like…have we just been quoting lines from “Dirty Dancing?”

Everything is a line from “Dirty Dancing.”

*Harry’s frowns* “I carried a watermelon?”

*Betsy shrugs* Even that’s appropriate sometimes.

Sure. If you’re carrying a watermelon. *Harry waves paw* Anyway. What the hell kind of nonsense is this?

There doesn’t seem to be much of a point, and my life would be a lot easier if I didn’t keep trying to push through all the time. Maybe I could just be normal for once. Take a nap. Watch Netflix. Maybe even vacuum. *Betsy thinks* No, not that.

And what? Eat inappropriately for your diabetic condition all the time until your health tanks again? Spend all of your money until you’ve screwed up any progress you’ve made with your debt? *Harry cocks head* *Pretends to think* Oh, wait. You’re already doing that. How’s it working for you?

*Two jewel-like tears roll down Betsy’s cheeks* Harry. Why are you so mean?

*Harry sighs* Look. Forget my tail for a minute.

*Betsy blinks* I did forget it.

This is about you. *Harry gestures* I know it’s hard pushing this boulder through the mud all the time. But you have to know there’s firm ground underneath. You just have to keep pushing until you get to it.

Why?

*Harry shrugs* Because this is what you do. Other people do other things with their lives. I”m sure they feel like they’re pushing boulders through mud, too. You write stories. If you don’t write stories, your life is going to suck. Just like it has for this past month.

*Betsy swirls her finger through the mud* But…I don’t feel like I’m getting anywhere.

Look at it this way. You for sure won’t get anywhere if you stop. And if you stop, it’s going to be that much harder to start again. Right now you have a few people who like what you do. If you stop, you’ll lose them, too, and have to start over from scratch. Stopping won’t help anything.

I guess.

So you need to keep on keeping on.

I guess.

You went back to work on the book yesterday. How did that feel?

*Betsy thinks* Good. Like I was myself again.

*Harry nods* There you go.

And I have some ideas for other blog posts. And more books. And the newsletter.

And how will you feel if you don’t write them?

*Betsy thinks* Pretty much like I do now.

Do you like feeling this way?

No. *Betsy stands* *Wades into the mud* Okay. I’ll get going. I just wish it was easier.

*Harry gets up too* If it was easier, everyone would do it.

That’s what they say.

*Betsy starts rolling the boulder again* *Harry climbs up to perch on her shoulder* *Raises fists into the air*

Woohoo! I feel my ears getting longer!

To be continued.

October 30, 2016
Distractions
dis·trac·tion

dəˈstrakSH(ə)n/noun
1. 1. a thing that prevents someone from giving full attention to something else. “the company found passenger travel a distraction from the main business of moving freight.”
synonyms: diversion, interruption, disturbance, interference, hindrance “a distraction from the real issues.”
1. 2. extreme agitation of the mind or emotions. “he knew she was nervous by her uncharacteristic air of distraction”
synonyms: frenzy, hysteria, mental distress, madness, insanity, mania
Distractions can come in many shapes and sizes. Sometimes they aren’t all that pleasant – “what’s going on with my health?” “what’s going on with my job?” “what’s going on with my money?”

Sometimes they are warm and fuzzy and very cute.

Exhibit A – Meet Mr. Masha Miguel de Cervantes Horvath (known informally as “Mickey”).

Mickey is an incredibly delightful, wonderful, awesome, fluffball of a cat. I am so glad that he came into my life, and into my home. It’s not his fault that I turned him into a distraction of epic proportions, a distraction creating inertia that lasted for almost the entire month of September. No, this had nothing at all to do with him, and everything, as it turns out, to do with me and my fears.

As I entered into the month of September, I realized that, since the first drafts were finished for both my next novel and my novella, I needed to move forward get working on the second drafts. And I choked. Honestly, I always choke going from the first draft to the second draft. I’m always SURE I won’t be able to straighten out the book and come up with something even remotely decent. I look at the mess I’ve created, and I don’t have the slightest clue what to do about it.   This time, the feeling was worse than normal, augmented by a MASSIVE amount of insecurity about the books already published.

Enter Mickey. He’d been dumped, starving, at the house of a woman I know. She couldn’t keep him, and I’d been thinking about bringing in a third cat, so she told me about him needing a home.

I’d like to tell you that I made the calm, rational decision to adopt this sweet little guy, and then concentrated on breaking through my anxiety and mental roadblocks and moving forward with my work.

I’d like to tell you I was a professional.

I’d like to tell you that I did not descend into madness.

But I can’t.

No, I didn’t focus on the real reasons for all of my anxiety and insecurity and doubt and fear.

I focused on Mickey.

First I had to stress about whether or not I was doing the right thing. My other two cats are at opposite ends of the spectrum – Eddie is definitely Alpha. Tasha is definitely Omega. Where would Mickey fit in? Could he fit in? I take my responsibilities as a pet owner very seriously. Would bringing him in be fair to all of them?

Then, once I’d visited Mickey, realized he had exactly the right personality for my house, and decided to take him, I had to stress about whether I’d made the right decision. Had I done the right thing? Had I made a huge mistake? What if I brought him home and Eddie was aggressive to him? How should I introduce them? How could I make sure he didn’t get hurt? How should I set up my house? There was a delay in me getting him, so I had to stress about when to bring him home. What day would be best? Should I take him to the vet first? Would he let me handle him since he hardly knew me?

When he was finally with me, I had to stress about introductions and how to ease the transition with the other two cats. I put him in a little spare room I have, and sat with him, playing with him, stressing about whether or not he was lonely, and about Eddie, and how he seemed to be afraid, and what would happen when the two met face to face?

Do you know what happened?

Eddie hissed at Mickey a little bit and chased him once or twice.

It got better the next day.

And better still the next.

And now they’re on the way to becoming good friends. Mickey is part of my household, and I can’t imagine life without him.

And it’s October.

And Betsy blinks open her eyes, looks around and says, “What’s going on? What did I do in September?”

And the answer is – not much.

I stressed.

Because I stressed, I fell back into my habitual patterns for dealing with it – I ate inappropriately for my diabetic condition, and I did not sleep.

Because I ate inappropriately and I did not sleep, the stress increased.

Rinse and repeat.

I focused on Mickey, obsessed about him. I stressed, and I ate, and I did not sleep, and I did not write. Even more importantly, I did not work on the real problem.

Because the real problem, the problem I was trying to avoid with all of this stressing and eating and not sleeping, was the fact that my first drafts were finished, and I was terrified to move forward with them. Even when I told myself that I was working on my writing, what I was doing was more in line with dealing with insecurity about the books already finished, rather than moving to finish the ones I’m currently working on.

So, what’s the point of me sharing all of this? Other than exposing my neurosis, what’s the purpose of this exploration into Betsy’s psyche?

It’s only to say that distractions come in all shapes and sizes and degrees of awfulness or wonderfulness. They can crop up when you least expect them, out of a perfectly sunny sky.   Anything, really, can become a distraction – from a sweet and wonderful little cat, to the horrible presidential election, to the newest Netflix TV show.   We create these distractions, and we focus on them so we don’t have to focus on something else that might be more difficult and more important.

Yes, I had to decide what I wanted to do about Mickey. Yes, I had to make sure I felt like I was making the right decision. Yes, I had to deal with that situation, and I’m so glad that I made the decision I did. Mickey IS extremely important. But I did not need to spend the entire month of September stressing about him. The impotent, unproductive stress WAS the distraction. I focused on that instead of moving forward, taking the next step, pushing through my fear and the barriers set up by the part of my mind that says I CAN’T.

It happens so often, at so many points in our lives.   We’re sailing in our little boats, and then a current comes and knocks us off course. If we don’t notice what’s going on, we can sail around in circles.

The trick, I guess, is to see it, and steer back into the stream again.

I’m going to go hug Mickey, and Eddie, and Tasha. And then I’m getting back to work.
October 2, 2016
Striving for Sanity

I don’t want to burst anyone’s bubble, but I’m kind of a neurotic mess of a girl. I’m compulsive, obsessive, obsessive-compulsive, addictive, paranoid, anxious, and fearful, to name a few of my more endearing traits.

But other than that, I’m fine.

I’ve been a bit more insane than usual over the last few weeks / months. The election did it to me. The news of what’s happening in the world did it to me. The good people dying. The rising hatred and divisiveness on the Internet. The breathless flame-wars on social media. The shouts of radio talk hosts, or cable news anchors, or bloggers. Everyone who wants to tell you what you should think, and believe, and do.

It truly has been a long, hot summer.

There are still many, many messages of joy and peace and love out there—I know this for a fact. But joy and peace and love don’t get you ratings or clicks or views and, thus, advertisers. So it’s the ugliness we tend to see the most of.

In the face of all of this, I feel helpless, and that just makes things worse. I realized a few weeks ago, that I needed to find a constructive way to respond, at least in my own mind. I needed to find a way to walk my path, even when the world seems like it’s spinning out of control all around me. To live, and not get swept up in the tornado.

Oh, by the way, there are tornados, too. And hurricanes. And massive flooding. And earthquakes.

Anyway, I knew that I needed to protect myself – my “self” – or I’d go nuts.

“Go?” I hear you say.

Smart alecks.

So, here’s the first step I decided to take. I turned off the wifi router.

And peace descended upon the Palatial Horvath Estate.

I don’t have cable or a smart phone, and my antenna only picks up three stations, so turning off the wifi connection basically cuts me off from all media. And when I’m at my day job, I’m actually, you know, working. So even though I can’t turn off the Internet connection there, it’s not as bad.

I need to dole out my Internet connectivity in small chunks because my compulsive / addictive personality demands it. I do still need to connect, but deciding when I want to be online instead of just having it always on and available, gives me the power to choose. It means I won’t be looking at social media or email as much, so hopefully, I won’t miss anything time-sensitive. But since I will still be looking at it, I shouldn’t miss anything important.

The second thing I’m doing is writing with focused intensity (see the last blog post).

You see, it occurred to me that the only thing I can do to make my little sliver of the world even the teensiest bit better is to write, and work towards my goals. To live as fully and as well as I possibly can.

But, wait, you say. That makes absolutely no sense. How do my pathetic attempts at writing impact anything whatsoever?

I don’t know, but it’s all I’ve got. All I can be is who and what I am. I don’t help anyone or anything by trying to lie and be someone else. I don’t help anything if I try to be what other people tell me I should be, or if I hide under the bed because I’m so afraid, or if I get caught up in all of the ugliness and spin around in a circle because I’m going insane.

Well, more insane than normal.

And me being more insane than normal is not pretty.

Yes, there are a lot of horrible things in the world, and my writing doesn’t do anything about any of them. But it’s essential to me. And if I turn away from something that’s essential to me, only to be pulled into watching and opining about the gale force winds blowing around us, I’m nothing. Just a leaf. Or dust, as the song goes.

If I’m doing something I love, something that’s essential to me, then maybe I’ll be more fully present in my life, more able to help the people around me. And maybe that will help the world a little bit, too.

At the very least, I might keep my sanity.

But don’t count on it.

September 4, 2016
The Magic of Finishing the First Step

I’m sorry I haven’t been around much the last couple of weeks. I decided to put the blog and the newsletter (have you subscribed to my newsletter yet? Hmmmm?) on hold for a little while so I could work on my current manuscript with more focused intensity. Then, last week, I had a few days off from my day job and was able to work on it with an even more focused, focused intensity.

It was awesome. I’ve never really written much more than 5,000 words in a day. Last week. when I was off, I had three days in a row between 7,000-8,000 words – or over 22,000 words in three days (basically, a short novella). That’s not a lot for some people, but it sure is a lot for me. Better, it seemed to kick things up a notch, because even after I went back to work, I was able to keep writing at a higher level.

And now?

I hurt. My wrists are numb. The tendinitis in my forefinger and thumb is throbbing. My shoulders ache. My neck is stiff. And my butt…well,let’s not talk about my butt, except to say that I HAVE to save for a standing desk.

But the first draft of “Welcome to Hardy Falls, Book 2” is finished.

Don’t get me wrong—it’s not good. It’s not close to being good. Heck, it’s not even readable. I’m not sure that I can read it, and I know what’s supposed to happen. It’s at least 30,000 words too long, and will require a LOT of editing.

But I typed the words “The End”.

And it was finished.

Why was I so concerned with focused intensity, anyway? Why was I racing to the finish line like I was on fire? Why did I hurt my body, ignore my cats, friends, and family, let my house fall into decay, and basically chain myself to my desk?

Because finishing was important.

See, I had been working on the manuscript for so long, been down in the weeds for so long, that it didn’t even feel like a book anymore. It felt like total crap. Like I was just kidding myself and being an idiot. Like I’m not good, I’ll never be any good, I’m a complete impostor. Why was I fooling myself thinking I could do this again? I should just scrap the whole thing. I really, Really, REALLY wanted to scrap the whole thing. What the heck was the point, anyway?

I could only think of one answer.

The point was to finish. The point was to complete the first step.

I took a deep breath and reminded myself that the book didn’t have to be good right now. It didn’t matter if wasn’t readable at this point. I’ll be going over it at least two more times, so I’ll be able to fix things. It didn’t matter if it wasn’t perfect. It didn’t matter if the words did not flow like wine from my fingers to the keyboard. It didn’t matter if it was incomplete. It didn’t matter if it repeated itself. It didn’t matter that I know for a fact people won’t like all of it, even after it’s done and polished. It didn’t matter that, even worse than being disliked, most people will be indifferent. At this point, the book didn’t have to have the right facts, or the right grammar, or the right continuity.

The only thing that mattered right now was getting the first draft finished. There needed to be words from beginning to end, and those words didn’t have to be perfect. They just had to be written.

So I sprinted for the finish line like the devil himself was chasing me.

Maybe he was.

It would have been so, so easy to just give up. To turn away. To call myself an idiot and move on to the next distraction. To sink into social media or Netflix. To…stop.

Yes, I sprinted. I sprinted as if my life depended on it. I sprinted because I was terrified that I would stop. I was terrified I would let the distractions get me. I was terrified I would let my absolutely sincere doubts stop me. My lack of confidence. My lack of skill. My lack of progress.

I sprinted, and I finally finished (even though at the end I felt like I was wringing drops of water out of a wet bath towel).

I’m happy that the first draft is done. But I have to remind myself that this is only the first step. There are a lot of challenges ahead, and a heck of a more work to do. The second draft will be difficult because I’ll have to cut so many words to get to the length I want. And everything takes longer than I think it will, so I’ll get impatient with myself. I’m scared that I’ll read the first draft and it will suck so badly that I’ll be devastated. There’s the danger that I’ll let my fears stop me, so I’m afraid of my fear and how I’ll respond to it.

But a wise woman (Nora Roberts) once said that you can’t edit something that’s not there. And now that the first draft is finished, there’s something there to edit and polish and eventually publish.

And that, my friends, is the magic of finishing the first step. Because taking the first step means you can now take the second.

By the way, just as an aside, what makes me even happier is that today I wrote the first 7,000 words for the first draft of the next story. Another step in the right direction.

August 28, 2016
Lost In The Underbrush

Last weekend, I found myself at a point in my manuscript that’s, sadly, very familiar. I have found myself in the exact same place in all of the other books I’ve written (whether published or unpublished).

I realized I didn’t know where the hell I was going.

Until then, I had THOUGHT I knew where I was going.

I was sure I had a plan. An outline, if you will.

I thought I’d put in all the footsteps and building blocks and whatnot to get to my destination.

I thought I saw the destination, and was working towards it.

But, somehow, someway, I’d gotten lost in the underbrush.

And I didn’t know where the hell I was.

In fact, I looked up from my manuscript last weekend and realized I wasn’t going anywhere. I was just spinning around in a circle with no real objective in sight.

So what happened?

I think part of it was, even though I’d thought I had planned where I was going, I really hadn’t. I had a vague idea in mind of where I wanted to end up. I was writing in a general direction, not with a specific objective.

Which is fine if you never want to get anywhere.

Upon further reflection, I was relieved to see that the words I’d written, the threads I’d created, were still good. The story was there, I could see the outline (heh!) of the path I wanted to take. But it was overgrown with shrubs that needed to be trimmed or replanted.

Actually, that’s not too bad. I need to take what is already there, and shape it up. Get those wild shrubs under control. But the ground itself is good, and the plants are healthy.

When I’ve run into this problem before, it’s often been a wee bit more challenging. Sometimes there’s a problem with the garden itself. The path I’m walking isn’t right. The plants are sickly. Then everything needs to be moved or scrapped completely.

Sometimes I think the problem is the garden, the base of the story. I throw everything away, when all I really needed to do was weed.

And isn’t this a little like life? Or my life anyway.

We think we’re on a path, we think we can see it, we think we’re following it, we think we’re good.

And then we realize we don’t know where the hell we are.

We’ve gotten lost in the underbrush, or distracted by the pretty flowers, or fallen asleep under a tree.

Maybe the path is basically good, and it’s just covered with weeds. Then all we need to do is clean it up so we can see it clearly again.

Maybe the path is bad. Then we need to lay the course for a new one and move.

In both cases, some of the plants growing along the way might need to be discarded. Some might just need to be pruned or moved to a different place. But we can’t assume that we should throw everything away simply because we’re lost.

Things we’ve done, people we’ve known, places we’ve been – these are all the words in the stories of our lives. Maybe we’ve lost our way to our destination, maybe we need to weed our path a little, maybe we need to change where our story is heading, but we can’t discount or discard the experiences we’ve had along the way just because we don’t know where the hell we are.

Fortunately, I didn’t immediately trash my entire manuscript. I could have. I could have thrown it all away in disgust, thinking it was worthless. I certainly have done that in the past. But I stopped, and evaluated the situation first. (which is a bit of a miracle).

Then, this time, for this book, I saw that the story was there, waiting for me to find it again.

July 3, 2016