Cautious Optimism

Had you asked me, when I was 11 or 12 years old, what I wanted to be when I grew up, my answer would have been immediate and enthusiastic. “A writer!” Writing was my hobby of choice and I pursued it avidly.

As a teenager, I had a mental picture of what The Writing Life would look like. I would sit at a desk in my study in a beautiful country home, purchased with the proceeds of my latest bestseller. I would sit there with my paper illuminated by a shaft of sunlight, gazing out the big picture window on a bucolic landscape, pencil in hand. (My imagination didn’t extend to envisioning the utter wonder that is the laptop computer.) I would gaze at the rolling green hills until inspiration struck, and then the words would flow effortlessly, the plot taking shape as I looked on in awe, a mere vessel for my muse.

In my 20s and 30s, I continued to write for the fun of it – snippets and random scenes, journal entries, whatever caught my fancy. A few times, I made a run at producing the Great American Novel that would finance my country home. I quickly discovered that the old Thomas Edison adage – “Genius is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration” – is, regrettably, true, at least for me. Writing a novel, it turns out, is a lot different from writing snippets and stories for fun. It requires a sustained effort, a command of the craft, and even – please say it ain’t so! – a plan. The muse, it seems, does not strike out of the blue. It needs to be sought, coaxed, cajoled, nurtured. The muse is a very high maintenance date.

Still, I wasn’t too worried. James Michener didn’t start writing until he was 40 years old, after all! I had plenty of time!

Now I am looking 50 uncomfortably in the face and am facing the uncomfortable fact that if I want this to happen – to turn out differently than my last dozen attempts – I need to put my faith in hard work rather than wait for my muse to come calling. I’m hopeful, though. I’ve knuckled down and learned a lot about the craft in the past couple of years, and I’ve found writing buddies who aren’t afraid to bestow that most precious of gifts, an Honest Opinion. And most importantly, I’ve come to understand that the most important writing exercise is “Put Butt in Chair”.

Will 2007 be the Year of the Novel for me? I am cautiously optimistic. And there’s this really nice country home I’ve got my eye on…

Cheers,

Samantha

The first one!

I’m supposed to be the first to blog. I feel as though I should say something profound. However, I’m not a profound sort of girl, so I’ll just write.

It feels good to write, to make progress on writing. I’ve been in a bit of slump with no new words since Christmas. Tonight, I didn’t get any new words, but I worked on the book and made a few discoveries.

I’ve been too distracted at home – the dogs, the Internet, the stack of books on the bedside table. Tonight, I decided to change scenery. I took a jaunt to Panera with my computer and traveling writer’s space. Classical music, hot French onion soup, and a great salad bribed the muses into reveling a bit. While I ate, I caught up on some emails for my Girls in the Basement class with Barbara Samuel. I apparently missed a great deal of email discussion about the writing life while I was at the bill-paying job. The idea/fear/anticipation that publishing your stories would change everything came up. The worry and stress and deadlines seemed to be a big deal. Fear seemed to be a big deal. I guess it’s different for everyone, but deadlines and pressure to do well or better or more seem to be part of life. I’ve never shied away from that. I actually kind of get an adrenaline rush out of it. My best work has always been the last minute, under-the-gun, pulse-thumping work to meet an impending deadline. Maybe that pressure sparks something in my creative self. Maybe the internal critic just shuts up then, knowing that no one has time for her in the crunch. Whatever it is, I’m looking forward to having deadlines for something about which I’m passionate. I love change. I love the challenge. I want the pressure to get another book out, to get it out sooner, to feed the readers hungry for more of my words. Bring it on.

Perhaps, it was that inspiration that got me moving. Maybe it was the fact that I made a conscious decision to move my fingers across the keys and just put something, anything on that computer plot board. And I did. I flowed. It all came spilling out in an understanding of my story and plotting that I’ve never had before. Is it perfect? No. Not even close. I wrote things that I know – knew when I wrote them – I’ll have to go back and change, but that’s okay. It’s the getting it down, the putting it out there that fed the muse tonight.

I closed the café. I left when they started to lock the door. I’d have written until midnight. However, a wise teacher once said to quit when you were at an exciting point so that you were anxious to get back to it. I might be anxious enough to get back to it tonight, or at least eat lunch at my desk tomorrow. I’m excited again. The muses are whirling.

Bring it on.

Life is a bullet train Mommy

With so many birthdays among friends and family this week, my thoughts have been dwelling on life and the journey we take across time. Sometimes, long before we expect it, death creeps up and starts to follow us as we pass from one day into the next. At first we ignore it, like the shudder you feel going up your back for no reason at all. It is easily and quickly dismissed. After a while it begins to make its presence a little more known and we begin to see it, barely. At first it appears out of the corners of our eyes. We turn and nothing is there. Just a figment of our imagination. Slowly, we start to feel its presence draw closer everyday. The chest pains after a night of indulgence, the high cholesterol reports from our doctors, or the near miss accident on the way home in rush hour. It is always there like a naughty little fairy toying with our emotions and enjoying the thrill of fear, despair, and paranoia it brings as it approaches closer with the passing hours. 
In our minds we are the picture of youth, with the energy to soar us to the clouds. How do we picture ourselves? Eighteen, twenty-five, thirty two? Personally, myself in my mind I am twenty-three. Then one day by chance we catch a glimpse of ourselves in the window of a coffee shop, or a full length mirror in a department store. We instantly turn back to look in the other direction to see who was walking in our place. “That couldn’t possibly be me!” Perhaps this is what sparks the human condition, aptly called the “mid-life crisis”. Our lives are passing before our eyes and there is so much left to do, so many places to see, rivers to cross, mountains to conquer.
And then it begins, Buying the Harley Davidson Motorcycle, although you have no idea how to ride one. Daydreaming about implants, after years of silently criticizing anyone who underwent the plastic transformation. Purchasing the gym membership that will take your first born child faster than Rumplestiltskin if you default on the membership. Staying up late to catch all the infomercials on the latest beauty, exercise, diet and anti-aging products on the market. For just 3 easy payments of $19.99 you can get your youth back! But wait if you call in the next ten minutes......open your eyes, It is 2 am and sleep deprivation is not the path to youth. 
My brother believes that each human has only a certain number of heartbeats for a lifetime, and once you have reached your quota, this existence is over. No matter where you are or what you are doing, your life is complete. You can call it an atheist’s view of predestination, but we all only have a certain amount of time, and death trails us from the crib to the coffin. Should we run and hide? Should we try to cram five lifetimes worth of achievements into one? Should we forget about self gratification and turn to a life of servitude for others? It all could depend on what your views of life after death contain, but that is another topic entirely. For this mere mortal, all I can do is hope to fulfill at least a few dreams on this journey. Raise responsible and caring children, tend to the earth and her injured ones, explore the lands and seas, and write my heart out. As my profound six year old says, “Mommy- life is like a bullet train, it never slows down.” I don’t mind it slowing down, I just hope to give all I can before it stops.