While He Was Sleeping

Well, that New Year's resolution is shot to hell. No, not the one I made about regular exercise (although that one is teetering precariously). The one that has really been blown out of the water is the one I make every year - writing more often. Thanks to Christmas, my son's visit, an illness that will not die that has sapped every bit of energy I possess, and a trip to Mexico I have not written anything (including Christmas cards; sorry to all who enjoyed my pithy year end wrap-ups) in more than a month.

Pathetic.

It's not that I haven't had a wealth of material over the last thirty-three days. I could have waxed rhapsodically about the joys of spending two days a week with my beyond precious grandson, with a special chapter on the creative ways I manage to extricate myself off the floor (currently limited to variations of maneuvering myself to the nearest piece of furniture but soon to involve a small crane of some kind). I could also have detailed the joys of having my son back under our roof for the first time in four months with an entire paragraph dedicated to my shock and delight at his volunteering to join me for our church's Christmas Eve service. And then there was Mexico. What can I say about a seven day trip to paradise with six of the greatest friends on the planet taken during the coldest week of the year? Nothing. You don't won't to hear about it, do you? (But if you stop buy I'll be happy to show you a couple of the 1,147 pictures I took).

I could pull out the sympathy card. I am on my fifth box of Puffs. But who cares? Danielle Steel probably wrote an entire book every time she went into labor. And so what if I've been coughing loud enough to wake the neighbors (a couple of streets over). Who cares? Nora Roberts probably churned out her biggest bestseller when she had double pneumonia. No more excuses. I can do this. I can write this stupid blog once a week and I can finish editing that novel before I file for Social Security benefits. If nothing else, I can at least write something every time that sweet, adorable munchkin takes his naps every Tuesday and Thursday.

How much trouble can one little baby be?

Change. . .Will Do You Good

If you haven't guessed by now, I'm less than thrilled by disruptions in my status quo. Translation: not too crazy about change. From what I eat for breakfast (Frosted Mini-Wheats with fruit is the standard these days) to the route I take to work I tend to stick with patterns of behavior longer than Neil Diamond has been singing Sweet Caroline. This personality trait works well if your husband is answering questions about you on a game show ("I'll take 'What she wears to bed' for $200, Alex") but is decidedly troublesome when one is trying to re-invent oneself.

That's why I'm grateful that God takes a hand in situations that get away from me. Whenever I don't have the courage/intelligence/decisiveness to pull the trigger and move on from something that isn't working in my life, He seems to step in and make the decision for me. Take last week. I had been struggling for awhile with the writing assignments I'd been getting from the online educational website that had hired me to write video scripts. The job was never a perfect marriage of my skills to their needs but I spent a lot of time, often  way too much time, trying to adapt my style of writing to theirs. For awhile, I seemed to pull it off. They were happy with what I was doing and I was thrilled to be paid for my words; it was especially gratifying to actually see my writing turned into two-minute videos on the site. But lately, things weren't working. No matter what I tried to write, I couldn't find the right tone, the right pop-cultural references, the right humor/slang/puns to satisfy my editors. I wasn't enjoying the process anymore; no, scratch that, I was dreading the idea of sitting down and coming up with material that was no longer knocking their socks off and wasn't even remotely satisfying to me as a writer.

That's where God stepped in. While I couldn't (or wouldn't) tell my boss (who also happens to be my nephew who recommended me for the freelance opportunity) that I wanted to move on, I continued to work for hours trying to please someone other than myself. I didn't want to disappoint my nephew or have it reflect badly on him that his crazy aunt had run out of gas. I didn't want to disappoint the website who had hired me and given me my first writing income in years. And, most importantly, I didn't want to admit that I couldn't bend and twist my writing ability to fit into the website's very specific mold. So, when my nephew had to reluctantly inform me that the site wasn't "digging" my latest efforts, I was initially crushed. How dare they break up with me before I had the nerve to break up with them? But, you know what? That feeling was quickly replaced with waves of relief - real, honest-to-goodness relief.

I wouldn't have to come up with a silly pun or conjure up some potty humor that would make a twelve year-old chuckle. I wouldn't have to wrack my fifty-something brain to suggest a relevant pop-cultural video image that wouldn't leave a high-schooler scratching his head (can I help it if they don't know Paul McCartney isn't just some old guy singing at the Super Bowl?). And, more importantly, I wouldn't have any excuse not to get back to the writing that means something to me.

So, it turns out that that amazingly wise woman Sheryl Crow was right. If it makes you happy, it can't be that bad AND a change will do you good.

Now why can't I write shit like that?

More Excuses

I haven't written a blog in over a week. I hope someone noticed. But if you didn't,I can't blame you. How can I expect to gain a group of loyal followers when I don't have the discipline to write regularly? Oh, I forgot. I am writing regularly - just not in this space.

Ever since I got the opportunity to get paid for some of my writing, I'm finding it a little tougher to sit down and write anything else. My novel is getting dustier by the minute and my blogs are getting further and further apart. You would think it would be the opposite; that regular writing would motivate me but I honestly think I might be using up any creative juices I may have left churning out my daily contributions to my new employer. Didn't someone once say something about the dangers of turning your hobby into your job?

Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. I'm thrilled beyond belief that someone is actually paying me for my sophomoric attempts at humor. It's easily the best job I've ever had (except for that whole motherhood thing). Having recently received my third paycheck, it's heartening to think I still have them fooled. I hope it lasts a while longer.

I'm getting used to working in my pajamas.

No NaNo

November is almost over and I'm coming to terms with the fact that I will not be writing another 50,000 word novel as I have during the last two Novembers. I went to the kick-off meetings, I had a couple of ideas but this year my attention was elsewhere. Since I'm now doing freelance writing two or three days a week, I couldn't get the motivation to write an additional 1667 words a day for a new novel. And with two previous attempts sitting in desperate need of editing, I couldn't bring myself to create another "child" without tending to the ones I've already got.

I will never minimize how much the experience of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) changed my life. Going from talking about doing something to actually doing it was a life-altering event and I'm thrilled that I did it not once but twice. But it's nice not to have anything to prove. I can do the challenge in the future for fun, for encouragement or to mentor someone else but I never have to do it to prove that I can. I've already done that.

So, now the path that NaNoWriMo opened for me has to be traveled. I need to find out what I can do with the knowledge that I can write on a regular basis if I really want to and I can finish what I start if I really push myself. Finding a way to make money from writing has always been a goal and getting that first check was a thrill but it's just the beginning.

The big dream that remains is seeing one of my books in a bookstore. Thanks to the last two Novembers, I'm one step closer to making that happen.

I Need a Wife

As I was leaving my job at the tennis club today, I mentioned that I was going home to work on writing. One of my friends commented that she didn't know how I had the energy to go home and do anything after working my shift. She said she was so wiped out when she got home that she usually ended up on the couch with a glass of wine and the remote. Not a bad scenario and one I've adopted more than a few times but that's not what I told her when she asked me how I do it. I have a very simple answer. My house looks like crap.

I wish I needed an excuse to avoid housework but I do not. It has always been on the bottom of my totem pole and now that I have an opportunity to do something I love; to write for someone who actually sends me a check for all my keystrokes, it's become even less important. Every once in awhile I'll squirt some stuff in the toilets, recycle the newspapers or throw a few dishes in the dishwasher; beyond that, my house has been basically left to its own devices.

Luckily, I have a tolerant husband. I know he'd like the house to be cleaner; I know he'd like the clutter to disappear. I know he'd like to come home to something in the oven. But I also know that he's proud of me.

And that feels a whole lot better than having a clean house.

For Love or Money

In my never-ending quest to find a way to make money from my incessant need to hear myself talk, I’m trying something new. While I really enjoy writing these blogs and appreciate the discipline I’ve had to develop to produce them, I’m stepping out of my comfort zone and trying a completely different style of writing.

I’m auditioning for a freelance gig that would require me to write two to three minute scripts that would accompany educational videos. Not only do I have to write the narration, I have to come up with suggestions for visual images that would go along with what I have written. In other words, I have to be intelligent, clever, creative and relevant. Oh, and did I mention, I have to be funny.

When I went on the website, I was amazed at the content. Where was this treasure chest when my son was struggling with Of Mice and Men? Where was this digital nerd when I needed help explaining algebraic problems to my kids? (Who am I kidding? Where was it to help explain them to me?) It’s called Shmoop and it’s fantastic; covering every subject from math to literature.

I took a quick look at the various subjects and testing aids offered and then headed for the literary section of the site. Every book a kid is likely to read in junior high and high school has detailed summaries and theme and character analysis. And each is written with enough irreverence to engage even the most disinterested student. The videos, focusing on one aspect of a famous literary work like 1984 or To Kill a Mockingbird, are fast-paced, blink-and-you’ll-miss-something gems, filled with amusing observations and images designed to connect to video game-loving students (as well as their parents). If you have a kid in school (or even if you just want to understand what Atlas Shrugged was all about), you’ve got to check it out.

So, I’m going to give it a try. I’m going to pitch a couple of ideas and see where they land. I’m going to see if I can try something completely new. And I’m going to see if someone will pay me for doing something I love to do.

Isn’t that what this whole moving out of the motherhood is supposed to be about?

TGIO (Thank God It's Over)

In the past, November has meant only one thing - Thanksgiving. This November, it's meant something else - writing. Or as I like to call it - hell. It started out as a challenge; something I've always wanted to do. Doesn't everyone think they've got at least one novel hidden in the deep recesses of their souls? I know I always did. For the last twenty years my husband has been reminding me of my promise to someday put on paper (or computer as the case may be) the bestseller that will allow us to move into that villa in Italy next to George's. Well, he may not have mentioned that part about George. That may have been my idea. Anyway, I was always shooting off my mouth that I could write something better than half of the drivel occupying spots on the library's shelves. But did I actually do it? No. Until this November 29th, I was only a novelist wannabe.

Not anymore. For twenty-nine days, I wrote an average of 1750 words per day. I sat my butt in front of the computer twenty-eight of those days and actually typed a beginning, a middle and an end of what I hope will be an actual, published book. The hard part is over. I've proved to myself that I can do it. Even if my novel never finds its way into an agent's hands; even if it never occupies a shelf in your neighborhood bookstore, no one will ever be able to take its existence away from me.

As a reward for a month of grueling hard work, our local region of the National Novel Writing Month challenge met today for a celebratory luncheon. Everyone who participated was recognized for their accomplishments (even if they didn't hit the necessary 50,000 words) and one of the writers read an essay by Tom Clancy. In it he praised and offered encouragement to anyone who had the audacity to think that what they had to say was important enough to spend hours of their lives putting it on paper. He reminded all novel writers to be proud of the fact that they accomplished something that others only talk about doing. As I listened, my eyes started to tear up. Finally. Finally, he was talking about me.