What Me Worry?? by Jacqueline Luckett

This picture has nothing to do with writing--though it's inspirational. It has more to do with procrastination. And, when writers can't write, we do whatever we can to keep us from writing, including searching through vacation photos. 

I love deadlines. They make me work harder and faster. They’re like a lovely little itch in the middle of my back—I have to find a way to scratch (translation: write, write, write) before the darned thing (translation: deadline) drives me crazy (No translation needed: hot water with an editor, yikes!). And, sooner or later, I do.

Believe or not, deadlines push me and when I’m stuck, a big push is exactly what I need.

Right now, I’m stuck. Yes, we writers get stuck. 

I read a post today by author Trice Hickman . After many years of writer's block, Trice made herself write every day and soon that writing became a novel, then another, then another. Her story speaks to the power of determination. As writers, we must believe in our stories and ourselves. We can't give up.

I’d love to finish my third novel soon. I’m trying to finish my third novel soon. Without a contract, I feel unfocused. I don’t feel the obligation or need to meet a deadline. What works for me? Sadly, I confess that I’m not entirely sure what will get me to the finish line sooner rather than later, but here are several steps that I’ve taken this year to help (and in my book, something is better than nothing).

1— Enrolled in a once a week, online class that focuses on just writing. The obligation to meet my commitment works.

2—Connecting with my writing group (or writing buddies) if not on a scheduled basis, then as often as possible.  Again, it’s the obligation and deadline.

3—Calendaring writing times and days.  I’m not one for a lot of structure, but I’m finding that even if I don’t stick to the allotted times, I’m getting work done—and that’s the point. 

4—Trying not to be hard on myself.

5— Resisting the strong (and frequent) temptation to compare myself to other authors more prolific, regimented, successful; wealthy, tall …

6—Resisting the urge to bail on one or all of the above.

That’s what I’m trying. So far so good (refer to number 4 above!). I'll keep you posted and let me know if any of these steps work for you.

 Jacqueline Luckett has proved, at least twice, that not only can she write, but she can meet deadlines. She's the author of two novels, Passing Love and Searching for Tina Turner. She's currently writing her  third novel and working to expand her writing career by studying Screenwriting/Playwriting at the University of California, Riverside/Palm Desert MFA Program. 

WRITERS UNITE; YOU HAVE NOTHING TO LOSE BUT YOUR LANGOUR

Setting myself apart, with a magic wand

 by

Sheila Curran 

I’ve always been odd.  Happily accepted into my loving family, I didn’t feel rejected, but I did feel different.   From my aspiration at age four to grow up to be a refrigerator (I reasoned I’d have my choice of food and drink) to my penchant for wearing half slips around my head as pretend straight hair, I was always weird. 

I was also a bit prone to worry.  The likelihood of the Viet Cong bombing our Florida house was so remote, it’s laughable now.  Nevertheless, the evening news brought the war into our living rooms and into my six year old brain.  I remember praying at night to keep their planes from buzzing overhead.

          Add those two traits, high imagination and high anxiety,and you get a grown-up who isn’t eager to live in her body in the real world.  I truly would rather read about a place than go there, especially if it involves plane travel.  I am anxious about disrupting my routines, and even more worried that my daily desire to drink coffee the way I like it, when I like it, preferably alone, will be only one of many losses in an uncertain world outside my total domain.

This fear of leaving was much worse back in the year 2000, when my children were twelve and five. I was invited to go to Rome with my husband, to stay at the American Academy of Arts and Letters.   I wanted to go.  I really did.  Housing was free, food was free.  I just had to get there.    Nevertheless, I was, for week before the trip, a nervous wreck.  Beyond anything I’d ever been.   I could whip myself into a frenzy sometimes over leaving the kids with a sitter for two hours, much less a week. 

          I barely remember the three days before I left, except for a dear friend Charlotte Morrissey’s advice: Picture God’s hand on the small of your back.  Picture the same hand on the backs of your little ones.   Trust.   

Thank heavens for my imagination and for my friend.  Between such a lovely image and some pharmaceutical intervention, I made it to Rome. 

  That first night, two very famous authors were seated at our table.  At the time, I was yet to be published except in magazines. A more pragmatic soul might have rehearsed something smart to say.  I was too jet-lagged, and at the same time, exhilarated at having single-handedly kept our plane aloft, the whole way across the Atlantic Ocean, to be anything other than myself. So when the authors  asked me how my flight had been, I said “Oh God, I hate to travel.  I really do.”

          For most audiences, this statement gets bemused tilts of the head.  People aren’t sure they’ve heard me right.  But there, in a crowd of creative people, for the first time ever, I got knowing nods.  The affirmations began.  “Isn’t it awful?”  “Did you bring your white noise machine?”  “I know just how you feel.”

          For the first time ever, I thought, despite the fact that my companions were in the stratosphere of a group I’d never quite join, I felt so at home.  I’d found my people!  Or, as my writer friend Julianna Baggott says, “My peeps!”

          Since that time, promoting each of my novels, I’ve been to several book festivals.  Each time, I’d be nervous before going, for all the reasons mentioned above. Each time, once I got there, I’d find myself feeling that same moment of great relief: I was home, away from home.   

         

  

Meeting another writer, trading stories, it’s different in real time and space.  They become someone you know. You might spend an hour in a bar or fifteen minutes before a panel, but you can’t replace that experience.  Which is why I tell myself, each time I resist pulling myself out of my comfortable world to travel “for no real reason,” that there actually is a reason.  It’s just not tangible.  It can’t be measured or monetized.  You can’t bank on it.   It’s the opposite of a market force.  But none of us, if we were propelled forward by the bottom line, would be in this crazy business.   

We are all speculators in the realm of the imagination, trading a boost in spirits or a tale of woe, feeling comfort and joy at the weird and the wild.   Getting together allows us to grow in a way we wouldn’t otherwise, and sends us back to our predictable solitude with a pinch of fairy dust, or maybe just an image, that invisible hand at the small of our backs, to rise another day and begin again. 

Sheila Curran is the author of Everyone She Loved, about a woman’s efforts to protect her own family even after her own expiration date has come and gone.  Her first book, Diana Lively is Falling Down, was a romantic comedy Jodi Picoult called warm, funny, inventive and original and Booklist called ‘a gem.’   For more on dogs who stand on two feet, visit this video.

 

 

I Once had Stationery Stamped Elf-Extraordinaire!

By Laura Spinella

Just like that! But a deer!

Years ago, when I was first married, we lived in rural Georgia—and by rural I mean a place where our beloved first child, a golden retriever named Daizy, once dragged a deer’s head home. Actually, it was a beautiful slice of the South, set on a lake that made you feel okay about time drifting by. Conversely, employment was scarce (read couldn’t get hired at local newspaper) and I took a job substitute teaching. Now, you may ask, what does this have to do with authors in public forums? Well, not much. Not until I thought about how that first “speaking engagement” compared to one I might take on today.

            In my youthful (read naive) twenties, I could envision myself dazzling an audience, captivating a crowd. It turned out that my imagination produced a better effort than the actual result. I was quickly mowed over by a room full of third-graders. Truthfully, my public speaking skills scored only slightly worse than my natural awkwardness with children. Still, I needed the job. Initially, things didn’t improve much. I choked every time I stood in front of a classroom. I didn’t come across as a teacher, and they knew it, outing me faster than a store-brand Oreo. Eventually, it occurred to me that if I couldn’t be a teacher, maybe I could be a character, one with persuasive credentials.  Welcome to the classroom, Mrs. S., Santa’s all-knowing

Apparently, I was the original elf on a classroom shelf!

elf-extraordinaire. I began each morning by explaining that while my job was to cover the day’s agenda, I was also there on behalf of Santa. I’d be taking names and doing a quick onsite surveillance. Things like behavior, deportment, school work, and attitude would all be reported back to the North Pole. Nowadays, grade-school minds are probably too savvy for the tactic and my methods surely too politically incorrect. But back then, it worked like a charm in Baldwin County schools, making me an in-demand substitute for a teacher.

            Fast forward a couple of decades into a world grateful—and rightly so—that I did not go into education. However, years removed from the experience I found that published author brought me right back around. Clearly, I missed the clause in my contract stating: Oh, BTW, you may get tapped, now and again, to share your knowledge (likely for almost free) on writing, revision, rejection, editorial skills, publishing, self-publishing, promotion while incorporating other areas of interest, including but not limited to agents, editors, and the secret handshake, which is being forwarded under separate cover.

            Surprise…      

In my tenure as a published author, comparatively short when considering multi-published authors, I have been asked to speak about all the aforementioned categories. My first invite was through a continuing education program our community offers. Could I do a one-night class on publication?  Who me? I hemmed and hawed, and pretended to lose the email, which was followed by another email from the diligent coordinator. I imagined it wouldn’t go any better than that classroom of third-graders. They’d point and whisper; there’d be snickering, maybe a spitball hurled at my head. Eventually someone would raise a hand. My heart would flutter in anticipation, only to be dashed when asked, “Do you know if there’s a refund option for this class?” Honestly, I didn’t think my elf-extraordinaire shtick was going to be of much help. But wait. Hadn’t I become something better?  Hadn’t I become something real?  I’d worked hard for that book with my name on the cover. I learned a lot along the way. I had knowledge and maybe even a little insight. Certainly I didn’t qualify as a keynote speaker, but this wasn’t the ballroom of the Ritz. This was a playing field on which I had earned a starting spot.

            I agreed to the class, which was successful enough that I was asked to repeat it twice, and asked again to plan another one for this coming fall. Overall, my foray into public forums has been positive.  Although I cannot, in all honesty, let this blog conclude without mentioning limitations. Since that first class—now three years ago—I’ve adopted a personal speaking rule: no podiums. If the invitation is a podium kind of event, I’ll pass.  That kind of white-hot light is not for me. But if your crowd is casual, and they can handle an offbeat sense of humor, if your agenda includes a desire to learn a little something from someone who can put published author on her resume, then drop me a line. I just might be your gal.  

Laura Spinella is the award-winning author Beautiful Disaster, a RITA finalist and the newly released Perfect Timing. Visit her at lauraspinella.net