I write about things as if I know what I’m talking about.

It’s part of the package with writing for money. Or maybe just with writing, period. You feel like, as a writer, you should be able to present some authoritative view or revelatory moment to your readers. Having readers is a big responsibility, people. You may not know what a burden you are to us writers, but really, you are. Obviously we’d all want to kill ourselves if you weren’t around, but writing for you people is serious work.

You want to know all sorts of stuff.

You want fact-checking and witty commentary, all in one.
You demand a lot from us writers.

And we strive to give it to you, really we do, because the biggest fear we have is that you’ll leave us.

You’ll decide we’re not witty enough.
Or that we’re too witty, self-consciously painfully witty like a ponytail pulled too tight.

Or we’ll give you too few facts, or the wrong facts, or not enough facts. You readers, these days, you’re so inundated with information, you have so many options, you can get multimedia anything; the chance that you’ll simply sit and read some words we wrote? Slim, slim, slim. So those of you that do stay with us (and we bless you fervently as we drift to writerly dreams at night) may not be surprised to find us kind of clingy. A little desperate. And so very, very aware of the responsibility of keeping you here with us.

And that’s why we kind of resent you people sometimes.

It’s not your fault.

It’s just the weird little dichotomy we live, writing these posts and articles and books as if we know what we’re talking about, when the one thing running through our head is just desperate, clingy, 5th-grader’s refrain: please like me please like me please like me please like me.

Please?
Because as distantly higher-than-thou as we act like we are sometimes, we really really like you. Really.

Image: My notebook loves writing group by juliejordanscott

Most of my journal entries are boring. Most of them start with the date and then the time and then a report: “doing good today, got up on time” or “we’re getting on track” or “late today, forgot to set the alarm” or “hit snooze 27 times before I got up this morning.”

I flip back through my journal and I think, Hmmm, anyone who could fend off the boredom long enough to actually read these pages would probably walk away thinking this girl is obsessed with only one thing: when she gets up in the morning.

Maybe I am. Let me ‘splain. (No, is too much. Let me sum up. No, let me let Madeleine L’Engle sum up for me.)

“A woman who follows a vocation needs an unusually understanding husband; [CHECK, ALL GOOD THERE.] and even then, a woman’s success can put a real strain on marriage. [I'LL LET YOU KNOW WHEN I FIND OUT.] And I believe this will be true even when women’s liberation is an accomplished fact. [WHATEVER, I DON'T KNOW.] And the woman who accepts the demands of a call must be able to observe rigorous discipline. [THAT WAS THE IMPORTANT LINE.] If we follow a vocation and choose to have a family, too, there is a constant balancing of priorities. We have to learn to turn away from the typewriter in order to cook dinner. [WE DO? OOPS.] And, yet, we mustn’t lose the train of thought.” (Madeleine L’Engle)

“…and the woman who accepts the demands of a call must be able to observe rigorous discipline.”

I’m a morning person, Joe is not. But I’ve noticed that for both of us, we do much better when we both get up at ungodly hours of morning to do the things which are important to us, which take time, which inspire and encourage us through the rest of our day, which are part of our long-term vision. These are the things, the efforts which most define and identify us at our core, most reward us (at least inwardly), but which it is most difficult to make time to do, daily.

Get up at 4 or 5 in the morning to pursue something iffy (a book, a website, a start-up business, God…) and then work the rest of the day at your real job? Are you crazy?

Well.
Maybe.

Maybe crazy. Definitely most alive and definitely most happy when we are pushing ourselves, pursuing a goal, challenged and working and progressing on something important. Of course, it goes without saying but I’ll say it anyhow: being a Mom is important and Joe’s work at Arco is important.

Yes, obviously, since we devote our days to that, to the exclusion of other pursuits. There’s no question in my head of which is more important, my children or my writing. I don’t have to ponder this. If we were in an either-or situation, it would be bye-bye to writing. But praise Thee, Lord, we are not. I can love, nurture, train, be with my children and still write. It just requires thought, effort, rigorous discipline, and a good dose of craziness to do both.

That’s why I obsess over my mornings. They are the sign: am I making room in my life for what matters? I can’t shove aside my children during the day in order to pursue writing, and I don’t want to. So if I want to do the important work of writing, I have to do it before my other important work begins. (Or after, which might be an option for night-people but not for me, as brain turns to oatmeal after 9 pm.)

So I care. I infringe on night, I cut my sleep short, I drink too much coffee, I hide my alarm, I mumble and mutter and stare and then the caffeine clicks in, I start writing, and I remember why I’m awake.
-

What do you obsess over?

Image of girl obsessing over checkbook courtesy of Betsy with a lot of S’s. Thanks, Betsssssssssssssy.

The Audacity of Passion

There is so much audacity in putting words on paper and assuming any of them are worthwhile. And it’s no good saying, “Well if only one person is helped by what I write then it is worth it…” That’s a lovely, noble albeit impractical thought and to it I say it better be some person to keep me waking up at 4 a.m. to scribble things down and that person must need a lot of help.

I hope it is crowds of people and thousands of copies and yes, large sums of money. Because money is a sign of value, and if I am to find a decent value in the time I’ve put in it will take a lot of money.

But that might not happen.

And I’ll write anyway, though heartsick at times for a word of praise, a paid job, a recognition, acceptance, affirmation.

That’s not why I write, though, because if it were I’d have stopped long ago and just focused on something like gardening or having babies, both of which seem to be far more productive. I might have a genuine knack for the baby thing…

Balance Is a Myth

Life is always happening. I have to choose my part in it.
Balance is a myth, I think, one we should reject summarily. Great and genius people, those who change what is, are never great examples of balance. They are, most often, the worst at it, because greatness, genius, and passion require more dedication than a “balanced life” can give. Balance is for the consumer, not the creator.

Give Up False Desires

We need to determine what gives us the most pleasure at a level beyond the distracted, flesh-driven, easy answer. We all have superfluous interests, things that are not bad but that don’t reach the very core of who we are. They deceive us, like thinking we’re hungry for food when really we need a long drink of good water.

They are temporary desires, circumstantial, arbitrary, and the result is a befuddled mind and satiation without satisfaction. I don’t think any of us were meant to be consumers only, as the definition of our life. How many hobbies, interests, so-called passions are based on consuming rather than on creating, giving, being, producing?

We need to find the true passions and then guiltlessly, freely, unhesitatingly get rid of the extraneous. Downsize, downplay, eliminate or simplify everything else. Why not focus on what matters most? Isn’t it really absurd to do anything else?

Sacrificing for Your Passion

I have stumbled across a few truths and one of them is that there is no such thing as a perfect life, a perfectly balanced life, or really even a simple life. Certain sacrifices must be made in order to pursue anything you’re passionate about.

Writing I am passionate about, but that’s not all. I’m also passionate about truth and about books, both of which mix very handily with my writing habit. I’m also passionate about my husband and children and the love I want to give them. That – family, its demands and rewards – does not mix handily with writing. But what of it? Neither passion is negated or even lessened in the slightest by the other.

Sure, there is plenty of side-sorting to do through the age-old things like guilt and resentment and lack of time. But none of those things are new or unique to my situation.

Avoiding Guilt and Resentment

We are a people who are capable of seeing our own imperfections, and we’ll always find something to feel guilty or resentful about just to avoid the real causes:

• We feel guilty for not living up to the perfection we know (instinctively) and crave, and simultaneously
• We feel resentful of carrying this instinct, this knowledge and burden of the perfect while being unable to reach it.

We would do ourselves a favor, release ourselves to be something worthwhile, if we would release this urge for balance and perfection and turn our energy instead toward our passions. Perfectionism just results in creative frustration. The pursuit of balance – mythical, unattainable, magical, immeasurable balance – results in creative paralysis.

Our lives will find their own natural rhythm if we quit worrying about an artificial balance and start living in time with our heartbeat.

Images
1. “The Light” courtesy of Jody McNary Photography on Flickr.

in even the laziest creature among us
a wisdom no knowledge can kill is astir–
now dull eyes are keen and now keen eyes are keener
(for young is the year,for young is the year)
–let’s touch the sky:
with a great(and a gay
and a steep)deep rush through amazing day

Pete and Repeat Were Sittin’ on a Fence

The thing that kills me about housework is the repetition. No, that’s not it. The thing that kills me about housework is the thought of all those other things I could be doing instead of housework. Repetition is just part of life, after all.

We shower every day (or thereabouts, hopefully), we say hello and goodbye and I love you, we eat three meals (or thereabouts), we sleep, we work. So on. Life is full of repetition, and that isn’t always bad despite the occasional plunge into boredom. There are ways to avoid the boredom. And boredom isn’t really bad, but that’s another topic…

The Elusive Other

But it’s the other, the thought of the other, that gets me into a state of not boredom so much as dissatisfaction. I am sweeping, mopping, folding laundry, making dinner and all I am thinking about is what I can’t do right now. The other. The unavoidable, elusive other that waits for me, that seems so much more appealing, more worthwhile, more like what I really want to be doing and expressing about myself.

Time to Let Your Mind Deflate

“…a writer doesn’t only need the time when he’s actually writing – he or she has got to have time to think and time just to let things work out. Nothing is worse for this than society. Nothing is worse for this than the abrasive, if enjoyable, effect of other people” (1).

That’s the other, for me: writing, reading and all the scrabbling and nonsense which accompany. And you do need time to let your mind deflate.

You need mindless, repetitive motions, work that requires no mental labor, that leaves your mind free to wander and pick around and weigh ideas and sift images. I think that’s true whatever intellectual work you engage in; we work best when we challenge our brains and our bodies alternately.

You Need Rhythm to Get Music

I’ve wasted large portions of many an amazing day just rushing through the have-to-do items so I can get to the want-to-do stuff. What I ended up doing was kind of clicking off my brain, or letting it worry and get agitated, while dealing with the more physical parts of what I do. What a waste.

I’m finding a better rhythm, now. I need the housework as much as I need time to sit at my desk. I am both people, I am the same person whether I am mopping a floor or editing an article. The resistance I felt toward really engaging in housework (as opposed to huffing and hurrying through it) comes, I think, through the desire to prove that I’m not just a housewife. Look at me, look at me, I’m a writer, I’m important, I’m somebody!

To which inner ravings of my self-esteem-starved psyche I need a simple response. Something like shut up, nobody is listening to you right now. Something like hush, you don’t have to prove yourself. Something like humility.

(I hate that word. It’s almost as bad as patience.)

it’s brains without hearts have set saint against sinner;
put gain over gladness and joy under care–
let’s do as an earth which can never do wrong does
(minute by second and most by more)
–let’s touch the sky:
with a strange(and a true)
and a climbing fall into far near blue
-

Images

1. Autumn birch leaves and sky by estoril on Flickr.

Sources

1. Nadine Gordimer in Women Writers at Work: The Paris Review Interviews. George Plimpton, editor. You can download a pdf of the interview (free!) from ParisReview.org. Amazing resource.

2. e.e. cummings, “if up’s the word;and a world grows greener.” Poem at beginning and ending of this post.

As of this writing, my kids are cute little stair steps: one, two, and three years old. And the reason I’m writing is because the stair steps are asleep and don’t need my attention. When the stair steps are awake, writing is only a fond dream. A fond dream, kind of like the fond dream I had of what my house would be like… before I actually had a house of my own.

Transitioning Into Real Life

I’m one of those (rare?) folks who went straight from Mom and Dad’s place to newlywed life. A tricky transition, at best. I understood budgets and how to clean and cook – how to rearrange furniture – how to pick out matching curtains.

But I didn’t understand how to transform myself from someone who cared more about reading a great book or writing a great article than rearranging furniture or hanging up curtains. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I do care what my house looks like. I care a lot. It pricks my pride when things are, well, iffy. But I don’t care enough to put all my waking hours into turning this place – our home – into something magazine worthy. And when you’re working with a newlywed budget for home decor – in our case, a wopping $0 – all you can put into it is time.

You Say Crafty, I Say Crappy…

I tried a lot more DIY type stuff before babies. I sewed a little curtain, with a very crooked hem, to hang over my kitchen window. I didn’t have any curtain rod or hardware, so I bent two forks and managed to attach them to the wall, then used welding wire to string the curtain. It looked… well, let’s just be honest: it looked iffy.

My talent does not lie in the crafty, sewing, DIY, decorating world. Oh dear, no. I am finally realizing this, instead of pretending like I have a latent talent for it that just hasn’t been discovered yet. (By the way, did you ever notice that “latent” and “talent” are the same but for two letters swapped in position? Hmmmm. That might mean something.)

My latent talent remains hidden, well below the surface. And I’m kind of coming to a strange peace with letting it stay there.

Proof I Am Getting Somewhere

Point A: I cajoled a dear friend of mine into sewing up the curtains for my front window, after purchasing the fabric with an “Oh sure I can do this, it’s just a big rectangle” pep talk and then staring, guiltily, at the fabric for 3 months.

Point B: I have stricken the phrase “I need to paint that ___________” from my vocabulary for at least the next three months. I do need to paint things, lots of walls and cabinets and doors and trimwork, but I’ve quit pretending that I actually want to or will DO that painting.

I’m way too busy with other things, things I love more, things that matter more to me. Family, teaching my children, getting outside, dates with my husband, losing the last 20 pounds of baby weight, writing writing writing and reading.

I Didn’t Think I Was a Liar

There is a level of honesty with myself in those statements that I never gotten to before. I kept putting things on my list and putting them off and feeling guilty and making plans and repeating the cycle. And all the time I wasn’t getting any of those “house” things done and I was distracting myself from the things that really matter to me.

The truth about myself and my love-hate relationship with my dwelling is this:

• Truth 1: I love it when it looks good, but I hate putting the time in to make it look good, or better, than it does now. Regular cleaning is about all I can manage. (And I confess, even the cleaning is below my Mom’s standard. Please don’t lift rug corners, touch over-eye-level surfaces, or open closets in my home.)
• Truth 2: Functionality matters more to me than trendy or pretty or even matching.
• Truth 3: I would rather (by 1000%) spend my “extra money” (ha ha, what is THAT?) on a) more books or b) really good food or c) a massage than on decor, curtains, pillows, fabric, furniture, etc. You know, that stuff that makes a house look good.
• Truth 4: I’m not as much of a DIY Frugalista Home-Freak as I’d like to pretend. I’m not going to spend my weekend breaking down that toddler bed, stripping it and repainting it and turning it into a headboard. No, I am not. I am going to spend my weekend playing with my kids, working in the garden, hiking in the woods, doing the absolute minimum cleaning necessary, and maybe baking some really fattening but delicious cookies to eat while I finish my current read. (Note to self: put that half-reupholstered rocking chair on Craigslist asap.)
• Truth 5: I am, finally, five years in to this whole house/home/marriage thing, okay with those truths about myself. I am finally not berating myself for being a secret member of the Anti-Cutesy-Crafty-Home-Decor Mom Brigade. I don’t have anything against cutesy or crafty or home decor, I’m just done feeling guilty because I don’t spend my time on it. It’s just not me.

The Time Has Come

There is one last truth that accompanies the previous five, and you know what it is already. It’s the title of the post, it’s the inevitable break-up. I can’t expect to have a perfect (or even semi-near-the-neighborhood-of-Perfect) house if I’m not willing to put time into it. This is a simple concept, and I get it.
It’s time to let go.

One day, I hope, mere years rather than decades from now, all this investment in writing writing writing and reading will have paid off in some sort of tangible (read: bank account) way, and then I might revive the relationship with my perfect house.

No, not that I’ll have “made it” as a writer, so I can take some time off to work on the house. Heck, no. Just that I’ll finally be rich enough to hire somebody to do it for me…

—–

Images

1. The red house with cows courtesy of Jody McNary Photography on Flickr.

Revelations or Epiphanies or Something

I had a couple of “mini-revelations” yesterday. I love those. I won’t call them epiphanies, exactly, but they’re big for me.
One is this: There is no perfect writing topic/subject/job for me. I just like to write, period. I like to write about almost anything. The key is (and this is the second mini-revelation) that
In order to be inspired I need to be immersed.
I need input, and lots of it, to create a continual flow of output. Otherwise I just kind of run dry.

The Input for Inspiration

For me, that best input comes in three forms.
The first is the written word.
I need books, articles, thoughtful and inspiring blogs, poems that shake my heart up, novels that wrap me up in another world, how-tos and tutorials and ideas and magazines and newspapers and quotes and lists and letters and journals. I love to learn and I learn best from the written word. When I learn, I get excited about sharing; my brain takes the new information and races off with it in a hundred directions. I can’t move my pen fast enough to jot down my thoughts.

The second is nature. Outside. Outdoors. Walking, hiking, throwing down a blanket and playing with Zeke in the sunshine. Tromping the trails with Mara and Robbie, showing them the first daffodil, the silent, faithful, soft green moss, the flattened, sweet-smelling grass where the deer sleep. Something about – no, everything about – the real, beautiful, fresh and muddy world is refreshing to my soul and my brain. Being outdoors is when all those words start percolating in my mind, start mixing with my dreams and hopes and values, start bubbling up into new ideas and thoughts and hopes that just need to be shared.

The third is conversation. Talking with my husband, my best friends, or strangers gives me windows into how other people process and think. My husband will come up with completely different spins on what I hear and read. I share a little idea with him, and together we toss it around, critique it, expand it, change it, name it, morph it like a ball of Silly Putty.
Conversations with dear friends are the same way; they expand my thinking, my perspective, my whole world. And strangers! Don’t get me started on this. I love talking to strangers. I think I scare them sometimes. But I’m fascinated by how people think and live, by what they do and feel and how they view the world. When I start talking to strangers, I walk away with ideas for articles and books just popping out of my head. (This may be why people run away from me in the parking lot. Hm.)

No Waiting on the Muse

The result of these mini-revelations is one big thought: I control my own inspiration. This is huge, as a writer. I don’t have to wait to “be inspired” from some mysterious force. I have identified what inspires me most, and most consistently. I just need to grab that stuff when I’m feeling dry. I need to make sure that those sources of inspiration are a huge part of my life.

So what’s your inspiration? What’s your source? What gets you ticking? And how can you make room for more of it in your life?

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This post is part of the 30-Minute Blogging Challenge at SteadyMom. (25 minutes.)
Image courtesy of markbarky.

You Threw Off My Groove

It’s been a dead couple of weeks, inspirationally speaking. Do you know what I mean? I’m used to the day or so like that every now and then, but I can usually get excited about blogging by stopping to plan, getting some titles and outlines and series ideas together. Once I have a page or two of notes, I’m ready to write again.

Usually.

Squawking as an Art Form

I have about 10 pages of notes, both handwritten and on my computer, and I’m still just staring at the screen with that one feeling I hate the most… the parrot feeling. I’m just squawking out ideas and tips and lists and pointers that have already been said, in much better ways, by people much more qualified than I am.

That’s how I feel as I force my fingers to keep moving, and it sucks the little bit of inspiration that’s left right out. There’s a little pile of it on the floor beside me now. It’s not very useful there, but once it leaves it’s hard to gather up again.

Sometimes when I feel uninspired, I take the time to browse other sites, the really big, chock-full of amazing and helpful information sites. They tend to perk me up to topics I hadn’t thought about covering, or perspectives I want to discuss. This time all they did was reinforce the parrot sensation. Squawk.

If they are already saying everything that can be said, why do I keep writing?

Why Do I Keep Writing? No, Really… Why?

I keep writing because I’ve made a commitment, more to myself than to anyone else. I considered and I made a decision: Yes, I will do this/blog about this/write this/commit to this until I am successful. Not until I quit enjoying it or until something distracts me or until I have a better idea or until I run out of ideas. Success is the benchmark.

I have a definition of success as a freelance writer and a plan for reaching it, and a plan for what to do as I get there. I love blogging, but I don’t want to have to blog forever. My goal as a freelance writer is to reach self-sufficiency, by which I mean… well, here’s the long version:

Working toward self-sufficiency as a freelance writer means reaching success in the following ways: creating steady sources of income, including passive income; setting and maintaining practical work standards; creating and marketing your brand; eliminating client codependency; understanding and choosing the right publishing options; being prolific and producing consistent quality of work; refusing to participate in scams, get-rich-quick ideas, and other ways of avoiding hard work; working hard and loving it; maintaining balance; setting and reaching goals; operating as a small business; planning for the future.

At this moment, I don’t feel anywhere close to success in any of those areas, but I know that the more I write the closer I get. Sometimes progress is so subtle that you can’t track it while it is happening. Sometimes we do feel that we are just walking in place, and it takes time before we gain the perspective to see how far we have traveled.

Let Me Sum Up

Let me summarize in a more simpler format. If you’re stuck, if you’re uninspired, if you’re wondering why, if you’re ready to go back to the day job, if success feels unreachable, if you’re squawking like a parrot, remember this:

1) You made a commitment. You can’t break it. It will hurt who you are.
2) You are moving toward success. You can’t feel it, but it is happening.
3) The more you write [or whatever it is you need to do], the closer you get to success.
4) Once you reach success, you can quit writing forever if you want to!
(Sometimes #4 helps more than anything else…)

Image courtesy of TheAlieness GiselaGiardino²³