Remembering the Good Stuff, Even When It's Hard

I started writing my current book in January. January through mid April I wrote my first draft. After taking the rest of April off to finish my other projects and finals, I also decided to give myself May as a free, non-writing month to recover from grad school and catch up on feeling like a normal person. June and July have been revision months, and now I am into August. And in terms of writing and revising a book, the accumulation of these months don't really represent that long of a time frame. Some books take much longer to write, for a variety of very important reasons. But yet, even though it hasn't been that long, I am getting antsy. I am ready to wrap up my project, take a short break, and move to the next one.

Here's a funny story from this week. At work, my friend and I often talk about our evenings plans. So one day she asked me, "What are you doing tonight?" I said, "Oh, I am going to go hang out with Pearl. We're going to dinner." And my friend looked at me like I had lost my mind, because the name of my main character in my current novel is Pearl. Quickly, I understood her thought process and said, "No! Not that Pearl. A real person Pearl."

I tell this anecdote because the truth is that my fictional Pearl and my project have become such an integrated part of my life over the past few months, that I easily understood why my friend was momentarily confused. I love my current novel. After all this time, I still do — which I think is a great sign. But even with my enthusiasm for fictional Pearl, I can feel myself growing weary. I am ready to produce a polished, finished project and start on something new.

Honestly, I think in some ways this is a good thing. It is encouraging to know that I am looking forward to the next project; that I still have a strong enthusiasm for writing and ideas and creating something new. All of that is a great sign. But much like the rest of life, I think it is important not to rush forward, focusing on the end goal and forgetting to enjoy what is going on in the here and now. I know I am certainly someone guilty of this, in writing and in my day to day.

But as I think about all the work I've done with this novel, I can truly say that I've really enjoyed it. Along the way, I've learned and grown and sharpened my craft, but I've also laughed and felt for my characters and lost myself in the story.  And honestly, if I can get pleasure reading my story as if I wasn't the creator, and if I can know that sometimes, after a mediocre day, I find myself uplifted by my story, and thankful for the work I get to do and the way it makes me feel, then I need to cherish those moments — to remind myself that even though there are days when I am tired or working so hard and just want to reach the end goal, the creation is important to. The process of writing matters, just as the finish product matters.

So as I find myself antsy this weekend, and racing toward the end goal,  I need to remember to enjoy the process. Because of course I want to finish and wrap it up and send it out into the world with hope that someone might believe in it. But I've realized that when it is all said and done, I might just find myself wishing it all hadn't gone so fast.

Help When I Needed It — How Writing Gives Back

Writing is often seen as a chore. A habit you have to enforce. A discipline you practice. An endeavor you pursue. And all of this is true. Writing is a practice that must be honed and worked at; one that requires commitment and perseverance. We see writing as something we give ourselves to — an output of ourselves and our stories onto the page. 

But it's also more than that. Writing is an expression that helps us to get through all of life’s challenges. Writing provides a forum for the truths we hold important, and the difficulties we seek to both describe and further understand through our writing of them. It receives our words, like a good friend offering a listening heart. It provides structure in an often unpredictable world. Writing gives back. It gives to the writer, just as the writer gives to her writing. 

You see, often I fall in the first camp of thinking. I suspect most of us do. I like writing, but mostly I like producing stories that might one day affect the heart of another. I know some people who can't wait to write every day, which is totally great. But no matter how much passion we have to our craft, it still becomes work. As my good friend said to me this week after I described how much time I put into my work —"Books don't write themselves". And she's right. They don't. So we write them, dedicating hours and hours and restructuring our days to make sure to fit it in; and in that sometimes that feeling of "work" overtakes the feeling of "fun" or "passion", and habit overrides emotion. 

In theory, this is good. We writers want to be people of habit and dedication. But what about what writing provides to the writer? Don't we want to get something from this journey, too, apart from the ultimate dream of publication? Don't people say art should be for art's sake and not the end game? 

We could also answer these questions different, but here's why I'm writing this post: Last week, I realized just how much writing does for me. That's right. What it gives to me. And, to be honest, I could probably expound and expound on why I write and why choose this as such a major part of my life, but in this post, I'm just going to make one simple point, which I already alluded to above.  

Last week was a particularly hard week for me. And while I am more than happy to say everything turned out well, it was a difficult week to get through. It was trying. And in the midst of it, when there was nothing I could do but go about my day hoping and trying to be as normal as possible, I found my writing. 

Of course, it has always been there. But this week, I found how much my practice of writing helped me. In the middle of hardship, I found my writing a comfort in a way I had not anticipated. This habit allowed me to feel normal again. My characters allowed me to focus on another, very real part of my world. And above all, my writing was there - consistent, structured, unchanging, all determined by me. It provided the constant, reliable outlet that I needed. And before last week, I am not sure I ever realized just how valuable writing is in this way.  

No matter where I go or what happens, my writing is there. It's familiarity is comfortable to me. It lives within me and on the page. In times of trouble, I am sure writing will not always be easy. But the simple fact that it is there, waiting for me, ready to receive the weight of my heart or create something entirely new, that was a revelation that really helped me through. 

This whole writing thing, it's not a one way street after all :) Wishing you all comfort in your writing, and all good days ahead!

Books! Books! Books! The Love of Reading and How It Relates to Writing

I had a great moment this week. It was the moment I officially knew that I loved reading again. You see, grad school was hard. And reading 5 to 8 books a week really took a toll on me. Even though my second year was relatively light on reading, the first year had done its damage. Reading had lost its urgency for me. At least for a little while.

It's not that I loved books any less or that I didn't read. But that desire, that need to pick up a book and spend my free time in the pages of a story just wasn't there. Perhaps heightened by my own story telling efforts, I felt like I needed to do something different. Be with friends. Watch TV. Go outside. Anything. And while books floated into my routine sometimes, most of the time I felt the need for space; time for my mind to distance itself from the hours and hours spent cramming book after book into my brain.

But this week, things changed. Or shall we say, they returned to normal. This summer, I've been reading regularly, but at a slower pace. I felt no need to rush through one book and hurry to the next, but instead enjoyed a leisurely stroll through chapters and stories, loving picturebooks for their short, visual nature, and gravitating toward adult non-fiction. Last week I ventured to the library, however, picking up Sara Pennypacker's Summer of the Gypsy Moths and Rebecca Stead's Liar and Spy. I finished the first last week and began Stead's fantastic book. And when I came to the end of Liar and Spy, when I turned the last page and closed the cover, I knew the moment. I finished the book around nine thirty at night, and instead of turning to TV or deciding to turn in early or call a friend, I instantly wanted to read another book. It wasn't just that I wanted to read another book. I needed to read one immediately. Right now. So I pulled my awaiting library borrow, Just Kids by Patti Smith, and plunged into the pages.

To some, this may sound normal, and to others perhaps strange. But it was the urgency with which I needed to read that got me. It wasn't my interest, for books have never and will never not interest me. But it was that I needed to read. I had to start another book, as if being in the middle of a story would lessen the quality of life.

This feeling isn't new to me. But it was a welcome return. I remember late in middle school and early high school always having the desire to read. And although books have never left my side, that feeling ebbs and flows, changing, coming and going with the seasons of life. And I don't know what it is — perhaps my hiatus from books, my need to have stories swirling in my mind as I pursue my own, these particualr titles, or maybe something else — but I was happy to pick up the torch again, blazing through books and looking forward to the next one.

Carrying a book around in my purse, planning reading into my day, staying up later than I should repeatedly telling myself, "Just a few more pages." I know I'm not the only one who does this. But my new zeal for reading is a good reminder of why I want to create books myself. To imagine someone else reading my book the way I might read another; to know that my pages could be the reason a kid feelings this love of reading for the first time; to think that my work could sit alongside so many of the books I loved and have yet to discover — this is why I write. Because I love reading. And to provide someone with a book they can love; to contribute to the body of literature that betters my days and provides heart and knowledge and growth; to contribute to the reading experience. There's nothing better than that. Nothing at all.

Finding Your Stride — Sticking It Out Until You Remember Why You Love This

A lot of people ask me how my revision is going. And it's a question I appreciate a lot. It shows encouragement,  interest in my work and my life, and this thing they know is so important to me. And this week, I was happy to be able to answer with a little more enthusiasm. To say that my revision was moving along; that I finally felt like I'd made some progess.

Now, let me be honest. I have a lot more work to do. And plenty more revising hours ahead. But something changed this week. I felt like I kind of hit my stride a bit more. I had a better understanding of my work as a whole. I felt super connected to my characters again. I had new ideas about moving scenes and inserting details and character placement. I saw more potential. And I liked revising, at least for a little while!

See, I'm not sure what exactly made this difference. Perhaps it was that I took a day off from work this week and revised twenty pages in one day, which really helped me feel like I made substantial progress. Or perhaps it's that in this part of the novel, pieces are starting to fall into place and my characters are prearing to embark on their journey. But I think part of it is simply the fact that I've traveled along the journey of my characters again. I'm invested in a new way. I'm re-invested in seeing them through, because at this point, in the way I hope my future readers will feel, I want to see what happens to them. I want them to succeed. I want them to find the answers that will lead to resolution.

Revision is work. And work like this fills a lot of hours. So I understand why sometimes I don't want to revise or why revision often feels like work instead of fun. But there's something to be said for sticking it out. And even more to be said about continuing your dedicated work through your disinterest.

Good book takes time. All art takes time. Time that isn't always fun. But much like running, we all need time to warm up. To find our stride and fall into a comfortable rhythm that will take us the distance. Sometimes, finding our stride takes just a few days. Sometimes it takes weeks. And from day to day that some comfortable level — that interest and motivation and enthusiasm — can change. But when you find what works for you, when you rediscover the excitement of your novel and have a moment that energizes you and brings new life to your work, then it will all seems a bit more worth it.  And hopefully you will that extra motivation you need.

So, here's to more hard work and dedication. And here's to hoping we find our stride just when we need it — that the love our craft surprises us again and again.

Encouraging Yourself — Finding the Thing That Keeps You Going

Last night I went to the bookstore with my mother. While we browsed some books, mostly we poked around the selection of beautiful trinkets my local bookstore carries. After we'd selected our treasures, I said, "I have to go to the children's section."

Not looking for anything in particular, I headed over, happy to be surrounded by the books I love; the land I live in. My mother stayed behind look at other things while I made my way around the books, sometimes reaching out to pull one of the shelf, sometimes just to touch the spine. It's a quiet thing I do, being with the books even if I have no intention of buying one or evening reading the jacket copy.

Because here's the thing: sometimes I just need to be with the books. When writing feels tiresome and I'd rather be doing something else; when I fall behind on my schedule and I'm not sure I can make up the time; when I'm tired; when I doubt myself; when I become strapped with the worry that this book might not go anywhere and the question of am I just wasting my time; when I wish I had something more to show for all my hours and efforts; when I need inspiration; or when I really need to somehow, someway feel closer to my dream — these are the times I need encouragement most. These are the times when I need to go do something that perhaps no one else can do for me. I need to find that thing that will keep me going. That thing that touches my heart strings. The thing that encourages and inspires me. The thing that is most meaningful to me.

So here's way I do:

I just stand there. In the bookstore, in the children's section, I find my area of books: intermediate fiction. Then, I stand in front of the books and I admire the spines. My eye jumps from color to color, from title to title, taking in the physical books in front of me.

I think about the covers. The authors. The hard work that went into this seemingly effortless and beautiful story that is just patiently waiting to be picked up by the right hands — to touch just right heart. I move slowly from shelf to shelf, my gazing settling on the names of various authors, sometimes purposefully, sometimes at random. And then, after I've taken in the books and moved quietly amongst the shelves, I think to myself, "That could be me. This could be my book." And then sometimes I feel a bit tearful as I know that day will eventually come — that someday, I will see my book on the shelf. Someday, this dream will come true.

And then I am ready to work again.

You see, I usually don't tell people this. It's kind of vulnerable, admitting how deep this personal hope of mine really is, even if most people know it about me. And I know to some, this practice of imaging my book on a shelf might seem silly, but it's what keeps me going. In a way that nothing else does. Sure, I am hugely dependent on the support of my loved ones, the encouraging words, the excitement of new story ideas, and my honest love of writing itself. But seeing these books on a shelf, it just gets me differently. It makes me feel hopeful in a way that's hard to explain.

So whether you're a new writer or a veteran; an artist or a singer, I would encourage you to find a way to encourage yourself. Find your thing that gets you through — the one that inspires you in that unique, personalized way. Because it helps. It really does. And it bring you that extra boost of energy you need — an energy to keep working hard and to an energy to see the joy that sometimes gets hidden in the pursuit of your goal.