Acronyms Abound!

Ah, November. The beginning of the holiday season. Time to reflect on our blessings and start plotting ways to avoid the mall at all costs for the next 55 days. (Who am I kidding? I try to avoid it the other 310 days of the year, too.)

It's also NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). I said I was going to do it, and I'm sticking to it. I still don't have a plot. But I do have one character named Anna and a setting. Yesterday I wrote 801 words. In that time, Anna managed to not get on a train and then get on a train. If it takes her 801 words just to do that, this might be a very long novel indeed. No matter. As long as I reach 50,000 words by the end of the month, I'll be a NaNoWriMo winner! You gotta love any "contest" in which anyone who finishes is called a winner.

November is also NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month). Am I going to do that, too? Come back tomorrow and find out, won't you?

But now I must go write 2,532.32 words to make up my quota for the last two days.

Evolution of a Writer

Between a Rock and a Hard Place, September 2007

Somewhere along the line, I developed a literary hierarchy. It looked like this:

Poetry

Fiction

Non-fiction

Magazine Articles

Newspaper Stories

Comic Books and Graphic Novels

Poetry topped the totem pole. Perhaps because it seemed so posh and high falutin' to my young mind, I thought it was the bee's knees of the written word. Maybe that's why I wrote a lot of poetry as a child and teenager. Was I aspiring to greatness? It's possible. But more probable is that adding line breaks and vague metaphors is a great way to jazz up pedestrian prose and purge all of that teenage angst. (My childhood poetry was less angsty and more cutesy. And it may have been better than the adolescent attempts. I was especially pleased when my award-winning "Five Little Flowers" poem made its way into an anthology during the fifth grade.)

I didn't write a lot of fiction. Short stories seemed like too much work, especially next to my admittedly anemic ideas of poetry. All those elements of plot, character, climax, and denouement just seemed like too much to dream up and keep organized. I internalized the idea that I wasn't a good enough writer, or creative enough person, to write short stories. And a novel? Surely you jest.

I submitted my angsty poems with my application to The Pennsylvania Governor's School for the Arts. I was rejected two years in a row, but my second attempt did get me a spot in the two-week-long, runner-up SHARE program (Summer Honors Arts Resident Experience). While there, I tentatively branched out into short stories. My group was given the word "heat" as a writing prompt. I wrote a short story about a homeless woman who had to warm herself in front of barrels of fire. Her luck finally turned and she got her own apartment -- which then burned to the ground.

While I usually steered clear of writing fiction, I read a lot of it. And I considered it to be superior to non-fiction. Even as recently as my 20's, I secretly scoffed at people who preferred to read non-fiction. I thought their minds and imaginations were inferior to those of us who had Literature Degrees. La-dee-da! Ironically, I considered fiction to be the "real stories." I wasn't interested in memoirs, most magazine or newspaper articles, or anything dealing with historical or actual events. And essays? I didn't know that was even a legitimate term. Who reads essays besides high school English teachers?

But oh how I love David Sedaris and Sarah Vowell -- both in print and on the radio. Give me an hour to listen to "This American Life" and I'm a happy camper. I dug Bill Bryson's witty insights after living in England for a year. One of the seminal influences of my adolescence was Robert Fulghum, author of All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten and It Was on Fire When I Lay Down on It. I even crafted my high school graduation speech around one of Fulghum's essays called "Giants, Wizards, and Dwarfs." When I extolled the virtues of being an individual and asked, "Where do the mermaids stand?", I think I brought my French teacher to tears.

In my college creative writing class, the pieces I most liked writing -- and the ones that came easiest to me -- fell into the category of narrative essay. I loved capturing real people as characters, relaying tales of the real-life wackiness and poignant moments that surrounded me. There was my roommate who turned out to have schizophrenia; the time my teenage brother lectured me for using the word "shit" and told me -- an English major! -- that only people with limited vocabularies use swear words; and the moody nighttime walks I took with the brooding, clove-smoking actor I never ended up dating.

A few years ago I discovered the term "creative nonfiction" and things began to click. It was slowly dawning on me that my true passion for writing is non-fiction. I love the personal essay and was thrilled to find out that this was a valid form of expression. I never thought of myself as a journalist until I realized that I could tell real stories as stories: facts embedded within a narrative arc. The idea of "narrative journalism" moved journalism way up the totem pole for me.

Actually, I have to admit that my nice little construct has fallen apart. Poetry no longer seems better than journalism. Non-fiction is no longer sub-par to fiction. It took me a long time to uncover my writing strengths and passions. It's one of those obvious epiphanies that had me smacking my forward to say "Eureka!" and shaking my head to say "Duh!" all at the same time.

An interesting thing has happened now that I've embraced the non-fiction oeuvre: I want to write a novel.

For years I've thought about writing a novel. Mostly, I've thought that there was no way I'd ever write one. If short stories seemed fraught with dangerous elements like plot and character development, a novel was just out of the question. I mean, how on earth would I make up all that stuff?

I've read about novelists who say that their characters take on lives of their own, directing the plot with their actions. These writers say they often sit back and let the story go where the story must. I've long envied those writers. And never, ever thought I could be one of them.

Then I heard about NaNoWriMo: National Novel Writing Month. One 50,000 word novel in 30 days. Sound insane? Yes. And I think I'm going to do it. The sheer lunacy of cramming that much fiction into one month means that my standards will have to go way down. The inner critic who would normally make me slave over a paragraph will just have to take a leave of absence while I bang out a shitty first draft.

That's the whole thrust of NaNoWriMo: To aim for quantity, not quality. And by so doing, to achieve something that might otherwise feel beyond our capabilities.

I have no plot. But according to Chris Baty, the founder of NaNoWriMo, that's fine. I'm about one-quarter of the way through his book, No Plot? No Problem!. So far it hasn't helped me to overcome the no plot problem, but I'm hopeful. The novel writing experience starts on November 1, so I don't have that long to worry about it.

There's a small chance that I'll chicken out, but I think I owe it to myself to join the tens of thousands of others around the world who will be trying to write an average of 1,666.66 words each day. (Hm, that's rather an evil looking number...)

By announcing my intention here, I'm hoping some of my readers will offer their support and encouragement or even decide to join in and write their own slapdash novel next month. Oh, and I'm also open to plot or character suggestions. If you happen to have some lying about that you aren't going to use, please send them my way. Maybe they'll take on a life of their own and end up in my pages.

All that glitters

You know that girl in your head who tells you can't do it, so why even try? Well, I know that she's a liar, but she has me petrified. I'm not mad at her, because I understand that she's just scared and doesn't want to see me fail. Her scope is so limited that she can barely imagine the possibility that I might succeed, or at least have some fun along the way. I feel bad for her (let's call her Violet) because she usually sits alone, cautiously looking around, making sure that nothing will force her out of her comfortable little corner. Violet is extremely suspicious of the other girl (let's call her Phoebe) who lives across the way, in another corner.

Unlike Violet, Phoebe doesn't usually stay put. She's all over the place, flitting here and there, running about laughing, even venturing over to Violet's corner and inviting her to come out and play. On a good day, Violet does. And each time it's like discovering a whole new world. "Look at this!" says Phoebe. "Isn't it beautiful? Isn't it fun? Aren't we wrapped up in the joy and wonder of it all?"

On those good days, Violet responds, "Yes! I never knew it could all be so marvelous! How could I ever think that my one little corner was enough?" And she and Phoebe hold hands, laughing, skipping, just living and breathing pure magic.

But on the bad days, Violet, who has a pessimistic and mean streak, looks at Phoebe and says, "What's the use? What's so great about any of this? You keep trying, but it's just so hard sometimes, isn't it? Wouldn't you rather take a nap, Phoebe?"

Phoebe is fiercely independent and annoyingly optimistic, but even she can't hold out forever. Most of the time she simply tells Violet that she loves her and will always welcome her to come and play. But sometimes, on the worst of days, Phoebe takes Violet's gloomy advice and retreats to her own corner, drifting into an uneasy sleep.

__________________________________

A few weeks ago I signed up for a Postcard Swap hosted by Karen of Chookooloonks. The idea instantly thrilled me for two reasons. First of all, I love the idea of taking online community off-line into the "real" world. What an interesting way to connect with strangers who share at least one common bond (reading the same blog). The concept is fairly simple: Create a batch of handmade postcards using your medium of choice, mail them out to the 11 people on your list, and receive 11 little works of art in return.

The second reason I was excited about this is that I needed an art project to jump start me. I've mentioned before that I started dabbling with watercolours earlier this summer. I'm sad to say that I've only painted once since the class ended over a month ago. I want to paint and try new art forms (at this point, most art forms are new to me), but I never seem to get around to it.

I think about it a lot. But it just seems like such a hassle. I have to work on the dining room table, which means I need to put the kits in an upstairs bedroom, otherwise they'd be covered in paint and glitter . (Okay, I don't actually have glitter. Should I get glitter?) I tell myself that it'd be so much easier to paint and create if I had an art station in my office. That way I could make a mess and not clean it up if I didn't finish a project in one sitting. "If only I had a studio," I tell myself, "I'd create more."

But the real truth of the matter is that I'm scared. When I first started painting, I had no visions in my head of what I wanted to do. But very quickly -- surprisingly quickly, in fact -- I started to have ideas and inklings about what I'd like to see happen on the page. But I'm new. So new that I often don't have a clue about how to achieve my vision. I don't even know what materials to use. Heck, I don't even know what materials are available. I'm pretty sure that some of my visions aren't suited to watercolour, but I don't know what I need.

All I know is that I'm supposed to mail out 11 hand-made postcards in two weeks. And I don't want the recipients to be disappointed. As I fretted over this a few nights ago, a poem came to me, just a few lines long, but perfect and complete. I haven't written poetry in years and was surprised by its appearance. I'm taking it as a gift that I can use to anchor my vision for the postcard. At least I have a starting point now.

I'll share it -- and the postcards -- with you after everything is mailed out. In the meantime, tell me, how do you get your own artist to come out and play?

Clearing the Mental Clutter

View of Lake Michigan from Navy Pier, Chicago

I tend toward chaos. Without constant attention and diligence, I'm just a messy person. I enjoy well-organized spaces, as long as they feel lived-in. But left unchecked, I create clutter: magazines, newspapers, mail, print-outs, dirty dishes, laundry -- they all pile up so easily.

And that's just the external mess. The internal disorder is so much worse. My mind backlogs with half-formed ideas, I start to forget things, and frustration sets in. As an editor for my clients, I'm extremely detail-oriented, even nitpicky. I can take a muddled manuscript and infuse it with the rosy glow of clarity. But when my mental clutter overflows, it's my own writing that suffers. I may have loads to say, but I struggle to get it out in an orderly -- and interesting -- manner.

One of the ways I combat the messy mind syndrome is by cleaning. My physical environment deeply affects my mood and mindset. So I try to clear my head by clearing a room. Today I spent hours digging out from the embarrassing mess that filled my office. I feel a bit more focused, but I'm still all over the map.

Part of the problem is that I haven't written my morning pages for about a week. Every day when I get up, I try to write three pages in a journal. The writing doesn't have to be good or coherent or interesting. It's a place to let out the chatter. Sometimes I write three pages of boring stream-of-consciousness chatter. And sometimes I hit upon something significant, or even have a small epiphany. The practice of the morning pages is part of The Artist's Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity. And the more I write them, the more clearheaded I am.

Right now, I have so much I want to share with you. Thoughts on community (online and off), my time in Chicago, and what exactly the "real world" is. Please bear with me as I sort through the chaff.

And tell me, what do you do to clear out your mental clutter?

Two Types of Value

In my last post I pondered what it means to value yourself enough to align your talents and desires with your actions. Part of what got me thinking about all of this was a post called Get a Real Job from Chris Garret on New Media .

Chris writes about people who think that blogging in particular – and writing in general – are not "real" jobs and are not worthy of real compensation. He asks, "Do people feel writing and getting rewarded for it is ripping people off in some way?" Here are my two cents from the comments section off that post:

I recently read an analogy comparing publishing a blog to publishing your very own newspaper. I think this type of comparison can be helpful for people who are new to blogging or unsure of its purpose and value. It's easier to "get" blogging when it's compared to a form of traditional media (like a newspaper, newsletter, or magazine), at least as a starting point. And it's given me a new perspective on how to approach my own blog. I'm building a list of ideas of regular and special features, types of content, ways to generate interactivity with readers, and how to monetize all of these efforts. I blog because I love to tell stories, but it’s also part of my business. I like the connection of passion and profit.

As far as people undervaluing blogging, it's the same with writing in most forms. I think that this pervasive attitude is also what makes some freelancers work for so little. Too many writers embrace the "starving artist" mindset, are simply desperate for work-any-work-at-any-price, or are just not very good writers. When I first started freelancing, I had to constantly remind myself that I was running a business and needed to value my talents and services appropriately. After all, if I didn't value them, others wouldn't. I always knew this in a business sense, but it took awhile to know it with every fiber of my being – in other words, to be able to quote my rates without secretly cringing. For awhile, I kept thinking, "Who pays for this shit?" It’s not that I thought my work was crappy. But I marveled that people would pay good money for something that came so easily to me. Then again, I pay people to mow my lawn and do my taxes – two areas outside of my own expertise. The moral of the story: People will pay for what they want/need. Which we all knew already.

Since I write for a living, both kinds of valuation – personal and profitable – are important to me.

What do you value in yourself? Does it also have value in the marketplace? I'm not suggesting that money should be the only motivator for using our talents. But too often we overlook opportunities to benefit from doing what we love. We all have gifts and we all need money to live. Why shouldn't the two overlap?

What do you love to do? What are your hobbies? Are there people who want the end product but don't want to do the work to get it? Would they be willing to pay you to do the work?