Still over here hacking away at a new novel. I’m officially around 20% of the way finished. This one’s easier to write than the one before it. Still, I find I have to negotiate with my brain every, single day in order to make my word count.
This is with the wind at my back, friends.
I don’t know why I find it so hard to beat back Resistance, even when I’m in a predictable writing habit. I wish it weren’t so.
All work, even creative work, requires grit and determination, though. (And writing feels like work, sometimes, let me tell you).
So, here’s to keeping on keeping on. Whatever you have going in your life right now, may you find the wherewithal to continue with it until it’s time to move to the next thing.
Should I write something about gratitude since it’s Thanksgiving week?
I’m not over this cold. Running wouldn’t be a good idea, and I am losing my mind as a result.
Why are my dogs developing food aggression all of a sudden?
There are a bazillion doomsday blog posts out there. Every second person is writing in Manichean terms–as if life is a Star Wars installment, and everyone is either on Luke’s side or Darth’s.
Everyone pretends to be Yoda, but no one is.
I need to ease up on the coffee.
Another agent requested my full manuscript and says she’s anxious to read it (!!!!!!!!!!).
No more coffee today.
I haven’t touched my manuscript since I got that email.
What is going on with me that I can’t get back to editing the manuscript?
I entered my novel in writing contest in which one judge gave me a total score of 98.7 out of 100 with glowing comments. The second gave a 97.8/100 with similarly glowing comments. The third gave me a 77 with no comments.
I cannot stop thinking about that 77 with no comments.
A 77 is a C.
The only time I’ve ever gotten a C is in an Algebra class.
So much of life is about getting down to business, doing the work, not waiting for inspiration in order to accomplish tasks, etc, etc. This is true in our jobs and in our parenting.
Also? Our creative pursuits won’t find expression if we don’t commit to them. We know we have to Just Do It.
But sometimes you “need” to do something, and you feel overwhelmed by the thought of doing it–as in you actually cannot make yourself start the thing in the first place. Even though you know the sinking feeling is only your weak mind keeping you from being disciplined. It’s Resistance, you tell yourself, as if naming it will pull out its eye teeth or something.
I’m a Christian, not a Buddhist. But I like what this guy has to say about gently accomplishing the thing you really want to get done in a day. Just that thing and nothing more. Just that thing, while breathing and letting yourself find joy in the moment you’re doing it. Just that thing, while not being driven by anxiety and dread.
So will I work on novel edits today? Will I smile at Resistance instead of trying to trick or outrun it?
There are two kinds of people: those who have a hard time starting something and those who have a hard time finishing.
I can start novels all day long. What kills me is the follow-through, the big ending. There’s something scary about putting a period at the end of the last sentence.
In anything. In life.
When I was in my early twenties, I became a mother for the first time. I was excited to see those two pink lines on the pregnancy test because I had no idea what I was in for. After we finished the last childbirth class (that I’d forced my young husband to attend), I ugly-cried in a sub shop, a bite of dill pickle in my mouth.
“I can’t do this. I cannot,” I said.
“But…you have to,” my husband said, blinking slowly, watching for any sudden movements across the table.
I got pregnant two more times after that. Each time, I was jazzed, puke and all. In those early days, labor and delivery shimmered in the mist as future realities. I knew they were coming, but I didn’t acknowledge them.
(How big a cliché is it to compare writing a novel to pushing out a baby? I don’t care. It’s a cliché because it works).
I know women who hate actual pregnancy and live for the day they can hold their kid in their arms. They are finishers.
Then there are those of us who love the idea of things, the big-picture joy of the undefined future. We wish things could stay in the realm of possibility. We are starters.
Of course, one of the big differences between delivering a baby and finishing a novel is that, when it comes to writing, you have a choice whether to get it done or not. After all, you can’t exactly put off giving birth until you feel more inspired.
Or can you? Because I would have…
For me, choosing to see a project through is the hardest part. I tell myself I’ve done it before. I can do it again.