Those Who Quit and Those Who Persevere

I am inspired today by a dear friend who recently shared on her blog an excerpt from her private writing journal. I am inspired, also, by Brené Brown's TED talk on vulnerability, on courage and connection.

I have been writing stories my entire life and writing-with-intent-to-publish close to 6 years now. I have kept a private journal throughout most of that time, in addition to this blog (which, let's face it, I've let languish over the past few months). I have also kept much of myself to myself for fear of not saying the right things, of not looking shiny and pretty and perfect enough. I have tucked away struggles and experiences, things I've learned along the way, questions I've pondered, battles I've fought. I have censored and edited and boxed myself into a silent, lonely place where I can never be the person I want to be and love the way I want to love.

You know what's beautiful about life though? Second chances. Every day, a new opportunity to do something different, to embrace whole-heartedly things you've previously turned your back on.

So and now. Here I am. Sharing some of myself.

Unedited.

***

November 9, 2011

Perhaps there are only two kinds of people in this world: those who quit and those who persevere.

Some quit before they even start. Whether from fear or apathy. Perhaps from a sense of "what's the point", the exhaustion that comes from working so hard at something that may or may not produce results. Or perhaps the quitters have taken too much to heart those nay-sayers disguised as people who have your best interests in mind, who don't want you to get hurt, to fail, to succeed...whatever the case may be.

And then there are those who persevere. These people struggle and fight against the same fears and fatigue; they battle nay-sayers. In fact, they probably incur a stronger, more vigorous resistance from those kinds of people because they refuse to give up. And the thing is, whatever goals they're trying to reach, whatever they're doing, they keep doing it despite setbacks and an uncertain outcome.

In such a results oriented culture, we forget certain things. Like the satisfaction of accomplishment (even something small that only the doer notices), or the triumph of overcoming something particularly difficult, the triumph of seeing a project through to the end. And there must be something important, too, in challenging yourself, in failing, rising again, and getting right back to it. Something that makes you a better, stronger, more fulfilled person.

It's easier to quit. Or to not even try. It's easier to slip into the fantasy world of tv, video games, social media, yes, even books, and waste an entire life learning nothing, doing nothing, being nothing.

Instead of living easy, though, I'd like to challenge myself to explore and ask questions, to get messy, risk injury and failure, to experience life in a fuller, more loving way. Loving. Yes, that seems an apt word.

Writing Is Messy: Roll Up Your Sleeves and Dive In

I am knee-deep in a new manuscript, flailing, stumbling through the first draft, racing round blind corners. There is something incredibly terrifying about starting a new book, facing that blank page, wondering if I can really do this again, wondering when my brain is going to throw up its metaphorical hands and say, "That's it! Fuck this shit. I'm done. I'm through. I quit." It's so very simple, though, this thing I'm trying to do: put words down on paper, make something from nothing, share a piece of my soul with the world. But if I'm not careful, the fear, the immensity of the task before me and the quiet voices whispering "You can't. Why even try?" will choke my words, stifle my creativity before I've even begun. And then where am I? Alone at a desk, staring at my computer screen, slowly losing my mind.

Last week, I cracked open my much-loved copy of Anne Lamott's writing book BIRD BY BIRD. Lo and behold, the pages fell open to the chapter titled "Perfectionism", and the words I found there seemed like fate, like they'd been written especially for me, for this exact moment.

"I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping-stone just right, you won't have to die. The truth is that you will die anyway and that a lot of people who aren't even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you, and have a lot more fun while they're doing it."

I had to read this paragraph twice, three times. It was like she'd gone inside my brain, taken out the part of me that I thought I'd hidden away so carefully and exposed it to bright daylight, demanding me to look, look and see what you're missing out on every time you worry about slipping, falling, failing.

Lamott's wisdom continued:

"Perfectionism will ruin your writing, blocking inventiveness and playfulness and life force. Perfectionism means that you try desperately not to leave so much mess to clean up. But clutter and mess show us that life is being lived. Clutter is wonderfully fertile ground...Tidiness suggests that something is as good as it's going to get. Tidiness makes me think of held breath, of suspended animation, while writing needs to breathe and move...

"...So go ahead and make big scrawls and mistakes. Use up lots of paper. Perfectionism is a mean, frozen form of idealism, while messes are the artist's true friend. What people somehow (inadvertently, I'm sure) forgot to mention when we were children was that we need to make messes in order to find out who we are and why we are here--and by extension, what we're supposed to be writing."

For me, writing a first draft feels very much--I can only imagine--like trying to wrangle a herd of cranky elephants. There are days where it feels impossible that anything beautiful can come from this disastrous mess I've made, from all the tangles and rabbit trails and weak sentences. But of all the things I've learned in my short time writing, perhaps the most important is this: Trust the process.

And my process is this: write the messiest, dirtiest, ugliest first draft I possibly can, explore the dark jungle of my mind and get a pale skeleton sketched onto the page. Then scrap it. The whole thing. All 80,000+ words. Toss it in the garbage and start over with a clean page. It's the only way I've found so far to come up with something genuine, something that feels true, the only way to make my subconscious, sideways mind see the connections I'd otherwise miss looking at the words straight on.

Every writer's process is different, just as every writer's soul and story and journey are different. But I think, no matter who you are or how you write, one thing is true for all us: to get to the center, the core of what we're trying to say, we have to be willing to get a little (a lot) messy. We have to give ourselves permission to suck, to fail (and flail!), to wander for a while without a map. We have to give our manuscripts room to breathe, our words time to come alive.

It's a truth you can't get away from, no matter how hard you try: life is messy, writing is messy. So what the hell are you waiting for? Roll up your sleeves and dive in.

This Week I Am...

WRITING..the first draft of a new novel, a ghost story of sorts set in Louisiana. New stories are always so much fun. New characters, new drama, new worlds--so many beautiful possibilities. 

READING...this giant stack of books!

CREATING SHORT FICTION

DEEP DELTA COUNTRY

YOU KNOW WHEN THE MEN ARE GONE 

COVER OF SNOW

THE SELECTED JOURNALS OF L.M. MONTGOMERY Vol. 1: 1889-1910

THE ESSENTIAL GUIDE TO GETTING YOUR BOOK PUBLISHED

LOVING...the days getting longer and the tiny birds dancing outside my window and friends who know just what to say.

LEARNING...the meaning of the word patience.

WONDERING...if it is still too early to plant peas?

WANTING...this moment--this one, just this simple one right here, right now--to be enough.

LISTENING...to The Lumineers, "Stubborn Love"



What are you doing this week?

Classic Mystery Book Review: THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES

THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES

A. Conan Doyle

First published in 1902

Description: The legend of the hellhound that haunts the moor surrounding the Baskerville's family home warns the descendants of that ancient clan never to venture out in those dark hours when the power of evil is exalted. Now, the most recent Baskerville, Sir Charles, is dead and the footprints of a giant hound have been found near his body. When Sir Charles's nephew and only known heir, Sir Henry Baskerville, arrives to claim his inheritance, Holmes and Watson are hired to uncover the truth of Sir Charles's death before the new heir meets the same fate.

Who Should Read: Fans of Sherlock Holmes; readers of all ages who enjoy classic whodunits; wanderlusts wanting to escape into the dark, soggy, and haunted moors of old England; amateur sleuths. 

Why I Liked It: There's something comforting about a Sherlock Holmes book, like sitting down with an old friend to hear a good and rollicking tale of murder and intrigue. I read this book for the first time as a child and remember being suitably frightened by the howling beast haunting the moor. Reading it a second time all these years later, I still found myself chilled and delightfully shocked by the dark and shadowy goings-on at Baskerville Hall. The sodden, untamed moors make a wickedly perfect setting. Add in plenty of twists, an assortment of odd characters, and typical Sherlock humor, and you have a recipe for a great classic mystery best read by candlelight on a stormy evening.

Quotables: 

"'Now is the dramatic moment of fate, Watson, when you hear a step upon the stair which is walking into your life, and you know not whether for good or ill.'"

"'I seem to have walked right into the thick of a dime novel.'"

"As if in answer to his words there rose suddenly out of the vast gloom of the moor that strange cry which I had already heard upon the borders of the great Grimpen Mire. It came with the wind through the silence of the night, a long, deep mutter, then a rising howl, and then the sad moan in which it died away. Again and again it sounded, the whole air throbbing with it, strident, wild, and menacing. The baronet caught my sleeve and his face glimmered white through the darkness. 'My God, what's that, Watson?'"