The Balloon

Pirate Boy loves balloons. He loves to bat around a balloon, punching it up into the air, trying to keep it from touching the ground. But give him a helium balloon, and after a few minutes, he is happy to release it, a huge grin on his face.

I used to want to tie these balloons to his wrist, or to his jacket so he didn't lose them. But after a while, I came to appreciate (all right, not from an environmental standpoint), the magic of watching a released helium balloon disappearing up high and dancing away against the backdrop of a clear blue sky. I understood why he loved that--the sheer freedom of his balloon sailing away.

I always learn a lot more from my kids than they will ever learn from me. The last year, I have tried to hold fast to a few things--even the last vestiges of faith. I tried to hold on to friendships with people who were not really my friends. I tried to hold on to ideals that didn't really connect to the reality of my surroundings. I even, a little, tried to hold onto the idea that this house was not really big enough to add two more people to it. I tried to hold onto stuff. And without realizing it, I held onto fears. And grief. I recently was diagnosed with lupus, and I even tried to hold onto the idea that I could continue punishing my body with a relentless schedule.

When I looked around, I realized I was in a--to me--barren wasteland, holding on to my pathetic little balloon. I never in a million years expected to survey so bleak a landscape spiritually, physically, and emotionally. I never expected betrayal and grief. They came from nowhere--likely when I was holding onto my damn balloon so tight I didn't see them creeping up on me. So I did what Pirate Boy would have me do. I let go of my balloon and watched it sail away.

Every last thing, faithless person, dead ideal, bit of now-useless faith, all of it flew up. And now it was time to start over. And that, I have decided, is just fine. It might even be magical in the ways of a balloon catching a wind gust.

And all this got me thinking . . . what are you holding onto? Starbucks has often advocated submitting, submitting, submitting your writing. Because it's a learning process. There are writers who shield their work from honest criticism--holding onto a balloon, I suppose, rather than hear they have work to do and craft to learn. In this new landscape of publishing, a LOT of people are letting go of balloons and choosing new ones. And that's OK. But I am so utterly weary (!) of the snarking and shrillness that comes with people choosing NEW balloons and then holding onto THEM just as fiercely. Because the thing about balloons is you can hold onto yours so tightly your fingers and palms turn red. But it's only when YOU are ready to release it that the balloon travels across the sky.

Take a chance today.

So what are you holding onto?

That Other Thing

Okay, so the other day, before I got all ga-ga over fulfilling my dream to see David Sedaris live, we discussed that whole ass-in-chair thing. It just has to happen if you want to write fiction. Too many people "aspire" to write a novel. Far fewer ever type "the end."

But there's that other thing. Faith, belief, dreaming, whatever you want to call it. Delusion? Because ass-in-chair is something you do. You either sit your ass in the chair . . . or you don't. It's a bit like exercising. You either put your sneakers on and go for a walk or go to the gym. Or you don't. But dreaming, faith, belief . . . far tougher. Take it from the daughter of an atheist. I know my dad would LIKE to have faith. It makes it a little easier to get through the rough patches in life. I have told him about Buddhism, Jesus, God, unitarianism, logotherapy--the whole roulette wheel of faith. So far, nothing's "stuck." Faith is one of those elements that you have it or you don't . . . and unlike exercise, while you CAN exercise your faith, you can't DECIDE to have faith. It just doesn't work that way.

Yet again, I was intrigued by a commenter on Konrath's blog. Actually, it's an interaction between two commenters. Go to comments 17 and 18. Where do you cross the line from faith to delusion? It's a valid question. How can you stubbornly hold onto faith when all signs point against it? WHO are you seeking confirmation of your faith from? How do you know yours is the dream meant to keep alive while that guy next to you is churning out dreck.

Nathan Bransford asked something along those lines here. So . . . big topic today. What are your thoughts on keeping the faith, letting go, why you write, blah, blah, blah.

Faith

As the daughter of an atheist, I know how elusive faith can be. You can't force it. You can't argue it into someone's heart. You can have a little faith or a lot of faith, but if you have NO faith, the chasm between none and a little is a far deeper divide than between a little and lots.

So it has been with my summer. For a variety of reasons--the economy (feeding a family of six creatively on less), gas prices (trying to drive less, but there's only so much I can do with that one, especially since my Oldest Daughter chose a college an 11-hour drive from here--and we must get all her crap from Here to There), a looming college tuition bill, personal issues, and so on--things in life have seemed less steady for me than they have in a while. I always toss it up to the universe, "I'm unafraid to work hard." And usually things work out. But it's the FAITH that's been elusive. That still, certain voice that comes to me in the quiet with a serenity and peace. THAT voice . . . well, where the hell has it been?

As an optimist, it's not like I haven't tried to wave some sunny fairy dust over everything, but like forcing faith, it's not a simple thing. And it was only natural it would eventually trickle to the writing.

I turned in two manuscripts this summer. I am delighted with both. And now I'll be tweaking them in rewrites. I feel a huge sense of joy opening the Magickeepers file knowing where it's going to go--from this level to THIS one. But soon I will be in proposal stage. Every writer is in that stage at some point or another, in some fashion of another. I will be in the What's My Next Step stage. In my What Shiny New Idea Holds Promise stage. I may EVEN be in my Maybe I Want to Go Back to University and Do Something Else stage that occasionally breaks through in my life.

I don't know how it is in "real" jobs. But the one or two "real" jobs I had, I went to work, I worked at the same job--even when I got promotions as an editor, I was still editing--I collected my paycheck, I saw the same people, etc. Being a journeyman writer is different. It's always an up and down thing, filled with uncertainty, with periodic pronouncements of doom--NO ONE IS READING, the wise publishing gods say.

It's a profession that requires faith. In your book, in your ideas, in yourself, in some Holy Grail of being published, landing an agent, finishing your novel, selling through, having something that editors want--we're ALL in some way or another riding a wave of faith.

I don't know that everyone feels this way. I don't know that anyone talks about it--at least maybe not in the same terms. But I feel, for me, the only way I survive is by nurturing the still, small voice inside. I sustain it through my blog, through writing friends who "get" the journey, through getting some sleep (AMAZING how much better I feel when that happens). And through waiting for the voice to recover from bouts of ennui. Knowing it must still be there, just resting, waiting for the next Big Thing to excite her.

So there we are today, with my cup of coffee, my Demon Baby yelling at me, and my Ravel playing on my iPod.

Thoughts?

The Penitent Man

Someone I adore wrote to me recently about the fear of sharing his work. It holds us back sometimes, the fear of putting our stuff out there. Rejection is a sure thing on the way to an agent or a sale. Once we're published, it's reviews--good and bad. Criticism.

Sometimes we delete whole works with the press of a button. I ripped up many a short story. I shred the sheets of looseleaf (ahh, those days before computers), tears in my eyes. I suck. I really do. I berated myself mercilessly.

We tell ourselves that. I know, for me, I have published many books . . . but there's always the book that's a reach, that I am not sure I am writer enough to pull off. I'm not smart enough, talented enough. I don't have enough coffee!!!!

I told my friend, we need to be like Indiana Jones. My favorite scene in all the movies was the one where Indiana took the leap of faith.

The penitent man will pass.

That's what he whispered. Hand on his heart. Short of breath. Heart racing. Put his foot out over that chasm. And there the bridge appeared.

In my real life, I like to think I am a penitent woman. Too many coincidences have occurred in my life that I take as a sign of the divine. I am blessed a thousandfold. I pray--unceasingly most days. My candles flicker for friends in pain or struggling. For ME when I am struggling. They flicker in a sign of solidarity. Of faith. Of compassion. I pray for Tibet. For peace. For my children.

As writers, the penitent also pass. We have faith in our work. We have faith in the friend who offers to read our work and help us. That we are entrusting our work to someone who cares. Someone who wants us to succeed, not bring us down.

Take a leap today. With me. Put your stuff out there. Write a query. Share a chapter with someone you trust.

The penitent will pass. A chalice awaits.

Thoughts?

And to my friend . . . you know who you are. Have faith.

Faith

In my 2008 Red Dress Ink release, Freudian Slip, God is a woman, Albert Einstein is a cosmic social worker, and every mortal is struggling in their human journey. My main characters, Kate and Julian, each face the greatest challenges of their lives. Kate must overcome grief and the collapse of the world as she once knew it after 9/11; Julian must confront the fact that, in reviewing his life, he now sees he was a total a**hole. And considering his life is in the balance, and he could travel to either heaven or hell, he has very little time to contemplate just which direction he's headed--he's been shot and is dying.

And in looking at the manuscript of this book today, I realized this theme is in every book I've ever written--and possibly every book ever written by anyone:

Hebrews 11:1 Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.

I don't mean in a God-sense, though that is sometimes there. I don't mean in a Bible sense. I don't mean in a Buddhist sense (and most Buddhist are not theists so . . .). I mean in a sense of FAITH, the very irrational decision to believe in something you cannot see. I mean in terms of this definition of the word:

Belief that is not based on proof.

I can go back to every book I have ever written and the actual heart of the book is that moment when the main character presses forward despite all evidence to the contrary that they should give up. They proceed in blind fath, on hope, on the evidence of things not seen.

In Spanish Disco, Cassie Hayes knows she is likely never to get her hands on the sequel to the American literature classic Simple Simon, written by the very unbalanced Roland Riggs, but she proceeds on faith that perhaps within him, the sequel lies, unwritten but ready to emerge if only the right editor can coax it out of him.

In Diary of a Blues Goddess, the character of Nan sums up the journey of the heartbroken characters in the book: If God takes you to it, he'll take you through it. When I think of Dominique, the drag queen, whose journey from gay boy to trannie was frought with being disowned, with his father punching him in the face and breaking his nose, it was still a journey of faith. Of the unrealistic hope that despite his "differentness," compounded by race and loss, that he could evolve into a beautiful queen and win a prince.

In The Roofer, Ava must find within her the faith to believe that there is life away from the Westies in Hell's Kitchen, that there is something beyond the concrete playground of violence where she grew up. That faith is symbolized by the painting on her wall--found at a flea market. She and Tom hung this horse painting as a sign of what they each believed was possible--a farm, a world away from the spector of their father and murder. Somewhere inside Ava, that faith remained even if it was barely a glimmer throughout most of the book.

My desk is a vertiable altar of faith in something. Buddha statues mingle with Catholic candles to St. Jude, the patron saint of hopeless causes. And that, as I look at the candle flickering, is the ultimate statement. A Patron of Hopeless Causes. And yet . . . we hope.

Thoughts? Is the theme of faith part of your work? Your life?