Inspiration

Tonight I speak at the Midlothian Middle School Book & Author meet and mingle event. Apparently, I am supposed to speak on "anything," but they suggested either what inspires me or what inspired the latest Magickeepers book.

I have a little speech all planned. I know what inspired the Magickeepers books. But I thought about the larger question, too. What, exactly, inspires me?

When you write to support a large family, I have to be honest. Paying the mortgage inspires me. I dropped $800 last night for new bedroom furniture so my parents don't have to sleep on an air mattress when they come for the winter, so . . . that inspires me. I'm inspired, in a sense, by being ill, so I work hard when I feel well enough.

But the bigger thing? I'm not sure. When I read Margaret Atwood . . . I am inspired. When I listen to great music . . . inspired. When I see a fantastic movie, I am aware of the dialogue often, the writing contained within it . . . and I am inspired.

I love a good call story.

Maybe it's that I am relatively happy . . . so I don't think about inspiration a lot. I just do it (see yesterday's post). So I turn it to YOU.

What inspires you to write?

The Unquiet Mind

If you are a Facebook friend, you probably know that insomnia is my nemesis. Or used to be, I suppose. I still have chronic insomnia, but now I am more apt to regard it as just "one of those things" instead of my mortal enemy.

Wasn't always that way. Insomnia would strike and go one for days. DAYS! Usually by about day four or five, I would give up, take two Benadryl, and have a "catch-up" night of 10 hours of sleep. But the rested feeling would last for just a couple of days before the crazy sleeplessness returned.

I've read all the books. Oh, yes, my bedroom should be just for sleep and it should be serene. I have four children. Enough said.

And I could rattle off the myriad reasons. My senior citizen parents can't sell their house in Florida (anyone looking for a nice patio home in a 55+ community? Have I got a deal for you). Dad's pacemaker surgery. Oldest Child moving home . . . (not for long . . . moves out this month) . . . Bills. Bills. Bills. Surgery. Leg brace. Dynamo Boy. Stress. Mess. Too much to do and not enough hours in the day. A decision to leave a place of worship I once loved. Blah-blah-frigging-blah. :-)

So at some point, I decided to view insomnia as "one of those things" . . . as a gift even. It was like finding a couple of extra hours in a day. Um . . . night.

And . . . it was like opening a window into my unquiet mind.

My mind is quietest first thing in the morning. It's when I pray and when I think, "All right Universe . . . thank you for the gift of this day; let me use it wisely." My nighttime mind is different.

It riffs with dialogue. It plots. It meanders over characters. They talk to me. I can wake up at 2:00 a.m. and a major plot problem will solve. I would love to just remain in bed, confident that TOMORROW it will all still be there, but the adrenaline is already pumping with the sheer excitement. I know what's going to happen! My nighttime mind is a playground of my novels. It is a place of abandon. It's where, with a nod to Maurice Sendak, the Wild Things are.

So I wonder if being a writer means insomnia comes with the territory.

Or if I am just nuts.

Or both.

Thoughts? Do you have a quiet mind and an unquiet mind? Any other sleepless zombies out there?

Finish This Sentence . . .

. . . and don't forget to tell us why.



The person who inspires me most, living or dead is . . . . .



And have a blessed, compassionate, and joy-filled Sunday.

And They Keep Coming

I never worry if the well is going to run dry. I had started a book a while ago, rather dark, a modern-day retelling of Morgana Le Fay. I got three chapters in and wasn't "feeling it."

When suddenly, two nights ago, I realized why . . . and this fully evolved new version popped into my brain.

When people ask "Where do you get all your ideas," I honestly don't know how to answer. I can't imagine NOT having ideas.

Which got me thinking.

Maybe that's how you know it's a calling. You see, I used to love to sketch. Charcoal, pen and ink. I imagined being an artist someday. The fact that I definitely had limited talentdid not deter the teenage me. Then I considered sculpture. Or abstracts. But the thing was . . . I found that when I was in art class in school, I did fine if a teacher stuck a bowl of fruit on a table and said, "Draw this." But left with a white sheet of paper and the instructions, "Draw whatever you want"--I was without a spot of inspiration. I'd spend a half-hour intimidated by the white paper, afraid of putting my pen to it. Not sure of what to draw.

But give me a blank screen and a keyboard and say, "Write something"--and I am never at a loss. I don't have enough hours in the day to write all the things I want to write, just as I am sure for real artists, there are not enough canvasses.

Thoughts?

What's Your Run?

My dear, beloved, wonderful, generous friend Ewoh ran a race in my honor yesterday, fundraising for a cure to Crohn's disease. He finished . . . and says the run "transformed" him. Leave it to a zen guy like Ewoh to be transformed by sore muscles.

I have to tell you that the last weeks haven't been easy for Ewoh. First of all, he is on the hook for whatever he doesn't raise to his $3,500 goal. That's commitment. Visit his race site! Second, during the long training up to the race, he had walking pneumonia, sickness in his house, and all the usual ups and downs we all have as parents and writers and, in his case, working a day job.

So where did he find the guts? Read back ONE post on his blog. It's all about transforming the mind. Reframing what's got you down.

I have to tell you that the last few months have sucked around here in Orloff-land. I could give you reasons--money, deadlines . . . kids who were sick or had teachers that left a lot to be desired, big decisions, some family stuff I can't go into, a kid getting ready for college, money woes related to a kid going off to college, deadlines, deadlines, deadlines, no life, and to cap it off, some Crohn's pain, which hasn't happened in a LONG time, but I am too rundown and I know it. It's all a big, long whine-fest, though really. It's all a run.

So today . . . I am telling myself how much I LOVE deadlines, and LOVE everything I do. LOVE IT! We all have runs. Uphill, in the rain, in the cold. So I've set my sights on a new finish line.

What's your run today? And what inspires you?

And hop on over to Ewoh's. The guy is seriously awesome.

Shaking Fists at the Gods

All right . . . so let me tell you something.

My skull and eye finally feel better. My knee is a mess. A MESS! And today it gave out. As in, put my foot down, knee no longer worked. Then it came "back" from wherever it was it went. And I feel like an NFL football player with a trick knee. Hopefully, in my other life, I played for my Men in Blue, my GIANTS (who are still the CHAMPIONS until NEXT Superbowl). So the knee is going to be an issue thanks to my little adventure.

But I went to the allergist today. Who insists I carry FOUR Epi-pens with me at all times. "You are definitely going into anaphylactic shock on occasion, so inject yourself and call 9-1-1 as you're jamming it in your leg." And now to find out what's wrong.

So she looked at my arms. If you have never seen a Crohn's patient's arms, sometimes we look like a heroin addict. Mine used to be clear. Now they aren't--lots of scars and things and red marks. So she said, "I think your auto-immune system is shutting down." Hence the Crohn's arms. OK, fine. They have blood tests to see what's up. But in the MEANTIME, to avoid foods that may be triggering it, I did the scratch tests in the doctor's office.

Now, let me tell you something about having Crohn's disease. I have NO emotional relationship to food. No chocolate, no cake, no dessert, no NOTHING. No pizza. No Frito's. Nada. When you go, at times, on TPN (no food by mouth for a month at a time), you learn to not "love" food so much. But the ONE thing I love, I adore, I . . . look forward to . . . are my meals at my sushi haunts. I have lots of friends among the sushi chefs I know (as I said once, you have to eat a LOT of sushi to have the sushi chefs bring you GIFTS from Laos when they go home on holiday! I have bracelets, wedding dolls, and a gold picture of a temple). I love sushi and because I don't eat meat, I DO sometimes have tuna because it's protein, and I like it. It's not something I have every day. Maybe twice a month I get protein that way. The rest, I eat soy.

Allergic to tuna.

And lobster.

And trout (gross! I'd never eat trout).

And salmon.

In short, if I WERE to eat fish for protein, the ones I indulge in . . . allergic.

SO what collosal mind cluster f*ck are the gods pulling on me. The ONE food. The ONLY food I actually LOVE. Can't. Eat. Will. Kill. Me.

So I have decided it's a Buddhist thing. Lose ALL attachment. HENCE, there is now not ONE SINGLE food I love that I can have. None.

Except Neccos. I have documented my love for that candy here in entire blog posts!

Which brings me to the writing.

Sometimes . . . I don't care what you do for a living, what your hobby is, what your life is like, the gods mess with you.

For writers, their laptop blows up. They get a rejection letter on the day their wife files for divorce. I don't care what it is. It happens.

And it's up to you how to handle it.

So I give you a quote from Ayn Rand.

Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark, in the hopeless swamps of the approximate, the not-quite, the not-yet, the not-at-all. Do not let the hero in your soul perish, in lonely frustration for the life you deserved, but have never been able to reach. Check your road and the nature of your battle. The world you desired can be won. It exists, it is real, it is possible, it is yours. ~Ayn Rand

Anyone else feel like cursing the fates? Anyone else have a quote that reminds them . . . just get your ass up off the ground?

Share!

The Desert

“What makes the desert beautiful,” said the little prince, “is that somewhere it hides a well…”

This is a quote from one of my favorite books, The Little Prince. It's one of those books that I read and re-read, and each time, I glean a little more wisdom. If you haven't read it since childhood, I highly recommend it.

And this one quote, to me, describes the writing process. I was recently explaining to someone the phenomenon of hating the middle of your book. It really does feel like wandering around in a desert with no landmarks, nothing but sand, no water.

"What do you do when you hate the middle?" this person asked me.

I keep going. Just like deciding to stop in the middle of the desert and just sit down . . . is suicide, so it is with writing. You've got to keep going.

And it's with the hope of a well, of an oasis. And it's with the idea that if it all comes together the way you picture it in your head, then you'll look back on the desert time fondly. You'll remember how hard it was, and that will make it all the more quenching and wonderful when the book really IS good. The desert landscape that once was so horrible will now be beautiful to you.

I have my desert days. I have days at the well.

How about you?