Writing What Matters

Fess up... you have embarrassing stuff you've written that you would just about die if anyone read. Not like bad fiction.... Not blog posts from the past that might have exposed just a little too much. I mean the really embarrassing stuff. Diaries never meant to see the light of day. Journals. Gulp... poetry. That teenage angsty stuff you thought was all insightful and awesome and groundbreakingly emotionally gut-wrenchingly honest. That kind of stuff.

I've got notebooks and boxes full of it. Cringe-worthy material I can't quite make myself get rid of, because it is so honestly, heartfeltedly where I was at the time.

And there is probably embarrassing stuff I've written out in the world somewhere... letters and poetry I wrote for someone else and stupidly gave away.

I say all this because Jean and I were quite the prolific poets in our day. In a way, much of our high school days were documented by torn scraps of notebook paper dotted with free-form verse and slipped under desks back and forth. It was so much a part of our friendship, it wasn't like I could ever forget that.

Still, it came as a bit of a shock today when her daughter posted some of the poetry Jean had written for her and her brother when they were little. Jean kept journals full of her writing for years and years, and told her daughter if she ever died, to burn them or publish them. So her daughter has found them, and is reading through them now, and posting some of it.

I think, of all the gifts Jean could have given to her kids, this is the very best. It is a history of her love for them, of the years they can't remember.

I think of the notebooks, letters, poetry and journals I think of burning sometimes. But if all my kids have of me in the end is my novels, it doesn't real tell them a lot about me. And if all I have is this blog, it's only the tiniest bit I felt safe sharing. I'm wondering now if this is enough. Maybe it's time I write some more.

The friend who first told me I needed to be writing books several years ago was also the person who told me I should be writing poetry about my son when he was born. I wrote very little, overwhelmed with colic and sleepless nights and total lack of creativity. But I did eek one out, albeit a rhymed and metered one. I suspect I was in need of some sense of order in my life at the time! :)


To my son, who is now 10:

Eyes that search the room for me,
blue as the ocean, wide as the sea.

Little fists so tightly curled,
yet loose enough to hold my world.

Quiet breath, sighs so deep,
Cries of pain traded for sleep.

A tiny boy, perfect and whole,
small as a tear, big as my world.

Commitment

I think I may be a closet commitmentphobe. Closet mostly to me, because it's something I don't want to recognize, even though everyone else in my life is probably rolling their eyes over the idea that this is a revelation.

I think it must have happened sometimes in college, or shortly after. Middle school, high school - man you couldn't get me out of committing. I did it all. Including lots of things I wasn't good at. And not only did I jump in to participate, I usually led it. Gads, that just gives me the heebie-jeebies now. I am sweating just writing that, which I think is clear indication times have changed.

Now I say, "Maybe" A LOT! To my kids: "Can we watch this program tonight?" "Can we play this game after dinner?" "Can I have a piglet birthday party?" "Can I invite so and so over to play?"

Maybe.

As I get requests to help out in choir and church and the kids' school and local community groups, I look at the emails and then just file them. Under maybe. Because I can't say no, but I am afraid of saying yes. Afraid that I already have too much on my plate. Afraid that I will get into a position where I'm not comfortable. Afraid I will be over my head on time and ability. Afraid I will be stuck doing something I don't like for a long time with no way of getting out except to break a promise. And once I really commit, I dig in like a pit bull and can't let go.

Maybe.

Maybe the problem is that I don't know how deep I want to get into something until I am at that deep point. I don't know I'm over my head until I can't breathe and I can't see any way out, and won't let myself out.

I had two commitments I started here this year. One, to run ten miles. Another, to write a new book.

The ten miler thing is going great. I'm already up to eight and a half, which is about three times more than any other time in my life, and for which I'm pretty proud. It takes a lot of commitment too. I run almost everyday. Whether I am tired or not. Whether my schedule is otherwise filled or not. And I am never ever sorry I did it.

The writing thing is harder. Because after waffling back and forth on several book ideas, I committed to one in particular. One which resonated with me, which I felt an emotional attachment to. One that I plotted and semi-outlined and developed the characters for. One which I wrote pages and pages on. Until I just couldn't anymore. Because it depressed me.

The book came out of the murder of one of my good friends. It wasn't about her, but it did deal with many of the issues that came from her death: random evil, forgiveness, ways in which people grieve, and how they heal. Seriously, I think it was a really good idea, with a great plot and tremendous depth of character.

But I just couldn't do it. Day after day, my own emotions still a bit raw, coming to that place where I was back in the darkness. And finally, I had to let go.

I had a dream last night that my friend came back - that she had 24 hours to spend with her family and friends again. And when she left, it felt as though she died a second time.

My dreams cling to me when I am awake. What I feel in my dreams is what I wake with, what I carry with me all day until something more powerful can shake it off. And today I felt the loss again, and the emptiness of saying goodbye.

And I realized that while the book might have been good, it was good to let it go. Maybe just for now; maybe forever. But I really don't want to go to that place everyday right now.

I think it was a smart decision, albeit a hard one. But now I am even more fearful of committing. What if my new books ends the same? And the next one? And the next one? I am afraid of saying, "This one is it." I've got a new book I've started. One I look forward to visiting every day. A character that is fun, and complicated, and a setting to die for. I am excited about it. But will that last?

I'm hating that the only answer I can give to that is: Maybe.

I might actually watch the Oscars if every speech were like this one:

"To tell stories for a living, lucky me!"

Megan Mylan, Acadamy Award winner for Documentary Short

What would you do to get published?

Detective mystery writer Dennis Lehane was recently interviewed in Entertainment Weekly. After five bestselling whodunits, he's hanging up his detective hat for historical fiction. He says, "I was never comfortable with them anyway. I'd be writing these figgin' whodunits and I could care less. I wanna tell everybody on page 2, he killed so and so, he done it! If you look at my books in that regard - and I'll be 100% honest about my flaws - you can see how I was whipping out the kitchen sink just to obscure s---."

So he's done with them.

Which begs the question, if he didn't like them so much in the first place, why did he write them?

Because they were marketable? Because he could garner interest with them? Did he like to read them and think he could write them?

I find this so interesting because, with the publishing industry as tight as it is, I've found myself asking, what is more marketable? What kind of book is more likely to get my foot in the door?

And I tried. I tried to write something I thought might be easier to break into the industry. I just couldn't. Not that I couldn't put the words on the page, but I couldn't fall in love with it. It felt like crap.

I've contemplated the idea of writing as a job. Sometimes jobs aren't always fun. Sometimes, you do what you have to in order to make a living. Do I want to write badly enough to veer from what I am most drawn to? Is that smart, or selling out?

For those of you who are writers, why do you write what you write? Would you write something else if it was the only way to get published? And is that the smart thing to do?

Who Me? I'm Not Jealous At All!

I've dreamed about my future library since I was in fifth grade, drawing architectural diagrams of my future home in my spare time, half of which was a huge library. Floor to ceiling books, wood, huge windows overlooking cliffs that drop down to the ocean below. A desk for writing.

Entertainment Weekly has been featuring writer's writing spaces lately. Some sparse rooms in NY apartments, some more traditional library looks.

Not too long ago, they showed Patricia Cornwell's library, and it almost took my breath away. It's not exactly what I pictured for myself (including all the foresnsics paraphenalia and skeletons), but it's strikingly similar. It's the windows and wood, I think.

So here it is. For those of you who drool over such things. I think if you click on the photo you can see it full screen.

Happy Valentine's Day

Wherever you are, I hope you have a little bit of love in your life. Today, and everyday.