Snap Out of It

One of my favorite films of all time is Moonstruck. I consider it one of those perfect little films. First, it was written by John Patrick Shanley,who also wrote the play Doubt. When that film comes out--with Meryl Streep, no less--it will be a must-see film! I also love Moonstruck for the casting--dead on and perfect. I love the scene, especially, between Olympia Dukakis and John Mahoney. But what I especially love is Cher telling Nicolas Cage to "Snap out of it!"

I ended up recalling this scene because I was interviewed yesterday for an article in a magazine on "people to watch in 2009"--and with three book releases, apparently, I am worth watching go stark raving crazy. But more importantly, I was asked how I manage my time. I mentioned him and said there really is no such thing as time management in my life. But then I thought about it seriously. And I reached the same conclusion I often do.

Snap out of it.

You see, somehow, by virtue of writing being in the arts, I think I used to get invested in what I "needed" to create. I needed candles and music, and a quiet place. A room of my own, so to speak. I needed uninterrupted time. I needed to be in the zone. I needed to be free of emotional pain. I needed to not be worried about anyone in my life. I needed . . . I needed . . . I needed . . .

One the absolute blessings of being 40 years old and pregnant--with three other children to care for--is you find out pretty damn fast you don't need any of that. I turned in a book two days before giving birth and one four months after.

One of the blessings of Demon Baby is his ability to give my life a clear-eyed and sharp-edged reality. It was as if he were born specifically to tell me, in craptastically clear terms, "Snap the crap out of it, Mom." (For lurkers who are not regular readers, he is three, brilliantly diabolical, and his favorite word is crap. Preferably said VERY loud and in the vicinity of old ladies in the grocery store who look at him like he is the anti-Christ.)

In fact . . . I work. Relentlessly but not tirelessly (BIG difference). I work and work and work my craft at odd times, in stolen moments, before dawn, at 3:00 a.m. I work it that way because I have to and there's nothing heroic or different about it simply because what I do is in the arts and what someone else does is nursing or teaching or slinging hash or building a road. There's no huge mystery to the creative process. I mean, yes, there is. Like I really CAN'T tell you where I get my ideas from or why I have a Muse who lives on cocaine and cigarettes if the sheer volume of ideas she gives me is any idea. But there's no mystery to the WORK of it. You sit your ass in a chair and snap out of it.

Well . . . I've got to run. That Muse on cocaine and cigarettes just phoned in a new idea.

Thoughts? Ever feel like you need to snap out of it? Ever feel like you have to tell someone ELSE to snap out of it?

Make It Count

Mark Terry commented here on my blog the other day under the So You Want to Be a Writer post. Like many of Mark's comments, it was brilliant, so it got picked up over here, in its entirety on Stephen's blog as a post unto itself. And really? That ass in chair thing? True. To which I might add . . . make it count.

I write every day, sort of. I might write on my blog and then have my day explode into a cosmic clusterf*ck of Demon Baby exploits and nuclear destruction, chauffeuring duties for children, and overseing projects like Baby's Girl's French poster. Oh, and phone calls, laundry, dinner, and general cleaning up of mayhem caused by the very short little fellow who seems to believe that joy is exponentially related to how much mess you make--and he might well be right. But give the kid Play-do, and I will be combing it out of dog fur for weeks.

But . . . even if I don't write every day in the way that those without four kids or those whose kids are all in school write . . . there is a weekly output that is significant. At the end of the week, I have something to show for the fact that I write fiction. Pages, chapters, something.

Once a proposal or submission goes to my agent, the next "something" is already multiple chapters into writing. Has to be. I don't have time to ponder, I don't have time to fret over whether it will sell or not. I'm just too busy working.

And thus, after reading Mark's comments the other day, I realized that Demon Baby has taught me a lot of things. He has taught me the meaning of the word craptastic. He's taught me that most of the little aches and pains in life can be solved with a blue ice pop (but not red, pink or purple). But most of all, he has taught me to make it count. People with day jobs, if they are going to write fiction too--probably learn the same lesson . . . or fail. It's like any athlete who streamlines a workout, or musician who has their practice routine down to a science. Somewhere along the way, those who are successful learn that in any given workout or routine, there is x amount of time you can waste and then you better make it count. It's not just ass in chair, but what you are really doing in that chair that can make or break you. With each book or manuscript if you didn't learn what doomed the last one? Then you might as well sit in the chair and take a nap.

People ask me all the time, "How do you do it?" I don't. Not successfully. My house isn't neat, my laundry's not folded as of this writing, and there is a questionable bit of mold growing on some cheese in my fridge. But when I write, it counts. It has to. My life too easily blows up. Every minute of writing has to count. I've learned to separate the vanity of saying "I'm a writer" and thinking that I have time to meander my way through rewrite after rewrite after rewrite after big thought after big thought. And replace it with a working mentality. I have to make it count. Each day, every day, day in and day out, month after month, and gulp . . . year after year. My Writers' Cramp group has been in existence 15 years now. I've never (I don't think) missed a meeting. Maybe once or twice. But even after giving birth to the Demon . . . two weeks later, I was there, breastfeeding while critiquing. I've gone to group sick, tired, depressed, angry, fretful, happy, worried, REALLY tired (did I mention tired) and always . . . with pages.

So what are you doing to make it count each day? And if you need help, I will happily Fed Ex you the Demon Baby so that you, too, can learn to make it count.