The Bridge

You know you have a phobia when you dream of it.

I grew up in the shadows of this bridge for some of my early life. Every once in a while, someone would commit suicide by jumping off the Tappan Zee. Or an accident would send a car over the guardrails and into the Hudson. For some reason, I always pictured a murky death . . . the bridge became a kind of monster. When I was little, I liked driving over bridges. I guess it was something to look at from the backseat of my parents' car. But when I got older and actually had to DRIVE OVER bridges . . . a phobia set in.

I have this thing . . . about driving over bridges. I can't be in the outside lane. I prefer being firmly in the middle. And when I am about halfway over, I have a brief moment of freakout. I picture myself unable to control my vehicle suddenly, and careening over the side. Or someone smashing into me and my two front tires hanging over the edge. It doesn't matter that this is a fairly silly scenario only seen in movies. It's my phobia and I'm sticking to it.

So last night, I dreamed I was driving over the Tappan Zee and I suddenly could not control my vehicle in high winds. I was riding on two tires, leaned over to the side. WORSE, it wasn't even that I couldn't control my vehicle because of outside forces and wind, it was as if all the experienced driving I've done in my life, including being the solo driver taking my kids to NY and Florida (and to Florida it's for 15 hours at a pop) left my brain, and I was suddenly inexperienced, unable--literally unable, to keep to my own lane because . . . I sucked as a driver.

In the words of Rainman: "I'm an excellent driver."

But I realize, in the light of snowy day . . . that driving over the bridge is a metaphor. I can apply it to my life, but I can also apply it to writing. There isn't a book that it written (at least by me) completely sure . . . I always fear I don't know what I am doing, I'm gripping the wheel, I'm wobbling. The halfway point is often frought with panic. Too far to turn back, but the end . . . high winds are coming and I fear I don't even know what the hell I'm doing.

When I reach the other side and I'm on terra firma . . . I think, "I'll remember this for next time." But it seems no matter the bridge . . . um . . . book . . . the fears and panic are rather the same. The steering wheel is gripped harder in the same points, the water below is always terrifying.

For me, right now . . . in my wip, it's not being sure I can pull it off. As usual, the characters are not a problem. This time, it's the complexity. I'm worried I'm making it too simple . . . that I won't do the plot justice.

But everyone has their spot on the bridge. What's yours?

Facing It

First . . . a brief aside about filming the other day. The interview went very well. The film crew was lovely, the interviewer asked great questions. Then they had to have me look like I actually DO something all day. I paged through a coffee table book on Russia and took notes (while, conveniently, there was product placement on my kitchen table). They showed me typing. I type at incredible speeds, but still look at the keys and generally use about five fingers TOTAL, not five on each hand. Weird, yes, and the camerman discovered my "secret" as I typed--and laughed. I think he thinks I'm a little eccentric.

They filmed me in slippers (I didn't think my feet would be on camera). Then they filmed me sitting on my front step drinking coffee and staring, for inspiration, off into the distance. In fact, I think they showed me drinking coffee a lot. So if schoolchildren suddenly beg their parents for espresso machines for Christmas, you'll know why.

All right . . . down to the blog at hand. My Evie chapter wasn't working. It wasn't awful, but it wasn't as strong as the opening chapter. And this was now the opinion of four people--Mystery Beta, Writers' Cramp, and ME.

"But I know who Evie is in 2018," I said. And I realized that was where I needed to start. And as I wrote a new chapter for her last night, it flowed. There's even sex in it. (Usually, I take readers to the bedroom door, but oh, yes, you see Evie naked.) But as I wrote, I know why I had resisted.

The crux of Evie's story is her facing a fear so huge . . . so awful . . . and it is my unvoiced fear. As I pore my way through science texts and NY Times Crossword Puzzles, and I constantly cram more and more stuff into my brain . . . it is with the fear of losing that brain one day to Alzheimer's or dementia. In Evie's case, because there is a virus that mimics those diseases, people KNOW what is coming.

I have horrific fears of things happening to my children--but I couldn't even attempt to write a book about that. THIS fear though . . . this is the one I don't talk about. My mind is my playground. My mind is ME. My mind is full of memories of people no longer here, and memories that are mine alone. I've tucked them away, along with the recipe for cold soba noodle salad, and the phone number I had two houses ago, and the memory of the son of the town's garbageman who gave me my first kiss in first grade. Actually, I believe his father OWNED the town's garbage collection company, so he's probably very wealthy. Maybe he should look me up.

But yes, all that stuff cataloged and arranged--I picture file cabinets. Friends, lovers, science, math, books I've read, movies I've seen, Saturday morning cartoons, getting my tonsils out, weddings, funerals, the view from my room in Bermuda (I used to live there) . . . my children's births. Where I was on 9/11. The people I gathered around me that day. It's all there.

Beyond that, I realized something profound about writing last night. The words flowed near midnight. And I realized that we spend a lot of time telling ourselves to up the conflict, to make events dangerous, to raise the stakes. But sometimes, if you want to write something powerful, it's not about raising the stakes for your characters . . . it's about raising the stakes for YOU. How honest are you going to get? How close are you going to let this novel get to you?

I'm writing about my greatest fear. And when I open the file, I want to turn away.

And that my friends . . . is a very good thing.

Thoughts?

What's Your Flying Monkey?

The Wizard of Oz is one of my favorite movies. As I recently discussed with a new acquaintance, all of life can be summarized by the Wizard of Oz. I even did a whole long series of blog posts a while back about Oz.

But this post is about Flying Monkeys.

Because I can remember the first time I watched the Wizard of Oz. My parents built this up for weeks--the FRENZY over it. After all this was PC (pre-cable), and movies like this didn't come on every day of the week, 24 hours a day. My God, but at some point, every station ran a FLAG and the Star Spangled Banner to signifiy that they were done with programming for the night. Remember those days?

Anyway, so we watched it. I remember thinking I wanted a Scarecrow friend of my very own. Perhaps a Munchkin. I remember asking my parents if Oz was REALLY over the rainbow. And I remember feeling absolute TERROR at those Flying Monkeys. Yes, since I've grown, the whole idea of a Zombie Apocalypse is pretty frightening, but Flying Monkeys? Come on! They cannot be reasoned with. And they can pull the straw out of your best friend! And they come out of nowhere. Shrieking across the sky.

I've decided Flying Monkeys are fear itself--at least for me. Flying Monkeys can keep me from writing. I simply can't write through anxiety. Flying Monkeys fill me with doubt. The good news is I usually slog through it. I have two days of panic and then roll up my sleeves and fight them off.

Mark Terry has a great post about getting serious. A must-read. Getting serious for me is battling my Flying Monkeys right now.

Every writer has a Flying Monkey. What's yours?

Threatening

First . . . a Buddhist quote.

A further sign of health is that we don't become undone by fear and trembling, but we take it as a message that it's time to stop struggling and look directly at what's threatening us.
~Pema Chodron

I freely admit, I have trembled at facing a book. Facing a deadline. I have. I have trembled at sending proposals to editors--pouring my heart into an idea and then knowing an editor has the power to reject it out of the gate. I recently talked with a writer friend about how rejections don't stop because you're published. It's just the tenor changes. Now it's your numbers are weak, your readers expect x, this isn't hot anymore, this is too deep for commercial fiction, I didn't like this character because she's too b*tchy, women won't buy this, men won't buy this, teens won't buy this. Take your pick. I can tremble over things like that.

Sometimes I fear I am not "writer enough" for the idea I have. It all seems so perfect in my head, but when it gets there up on my computer screen, I cringe.

But really, it's not the work, the editor, the agent, the rejection, the deadline. It's the fear behind it that threatens us.

The fear of pain (of rejection), of facing the idea that we have to work harder, that maybe we're not as talented as we thought we were and then what does THAT mean, the fear that we've poured so much TIME into something that perhaps will not come to be no matter how much we want it, the fear that our habits of procrastination and disorganization will be our undoing and we simply won't make the deadline. All those external things that we tremble in the face of . . . we must stop struggling against. What is REALLY there?

I often think of Buddhism, of philosophy, of faith, of listening for the still small voice that is God, as going into a damp forest and turning over a rock and shining a flashlight at all the creepy millipedes under there. We have to face the ugly stuff, but if we leave the rock turned over for long enough, something wonderful will happen. Because eventually, the sun will arc over the forest and a little of its light will filter down through the leaves and touch the formerly hidden earth. The millipedes will squirm away, and we will be left with some rich soil in which to dig our fingers.

So . . . what threatens you? What makes you tremble? What are you facing today?

Earning It

There are a few things that I suppose are rites of passage. Badges of honor. Life experiences that place people in a position of wisdom. When my oldest daughter asks me questions about my opinions on matters like abortion, gay rights, the existence of God, the death penalty, gun control, immigration, she knows she's going to be subject to what I think is my accumulated wisdom. I've earned, I think, my opinions.

So it goes with writing, I think. A friend of mine recently asked a question about someone who, shall I say, spouts off some pretty confrontational opinions on just about anything and everything having to do with writing. My friend asked, "But can he even write?"

A point to ponder on blogs that get nasty out there (had the unfortunate experience of stumbling on one yesterday).

And it also bears thinking about when it comes to writing a novel. I know a lot of people with really great ideas. But you have got to finish one all the way through to earn that wisdom about what it's like to be in the "sucky middle section" and write your way out of it.

You have to wrack up a few rejections. Pitch when you're nervous. Take a meeting when you have a horrible cold and aren't on the top of your game.

In short, writing is definitely a solitary business . . . it's sitting your ass in the chair and starting at the beginning and then writing through to the end. But there are some aspects of it that have no shortcuts. That you have to earn. You can fear it . . . but have to go through it anyway.

We earn our writing stripes. So my wish for the year is we all gain some collective wisdom. We fear something and do it anyway. Thoughts?

Under My Rock

If you've ever gotten up at 4:00 a.m. to write because you are on deadline, or you have ever lost sleep over your work in progress . . . if you've given up all sorts of free time and activities to pursue writing . . . if you have agonized over whether or not you are a hack, whether or not you even HAVE a book in you, or THIS book in you, you have probably asked yourself . . . WHY? Why do it?

As I tell elementary school kids when I talk about writing . . . a writer isn't something you BECOME. It is something you ARE. You may become a better writer, or a publishable writer because of long hours practicing your craft, but you were born a storyteller, a communicator, a writer.

Which brings me to this blog post. I know writers who have been working and working, unpublished for a while, when they each got a request from an editor. In a couple of cases, it was a request from an agent. Those editors and agents wanted to see "the full." And . . . in each case the writer "choked." Never sent it. Talked themselves out of it. Didn't actually have it finished and didn't ever finish. Whatever the scenario, it's a hell of a lot more common than you might think.

And somewhere along the way . . . I think, for them, they froze when the writing became less about the PROCESS--"Hey, I'm creating"--and more about the GOAL--"I want an agent; I want to be published." And somewhere, that shift became a death knell on creativity. The writer froze. It stopped being fun.

So now what?

Well, for me, when I am "stuck" someplace in that regard, I have to look at WHY. And usually, when I lift up that particular rock in that particular dark recess of my particular mind, and shine a flashlight at the creepy-crawly bugs, what I find is FEAR. Because if you SEND your great magnum opus to an editor who requests it or an agent who wants to see more, and they reject it, you can no longer avoid the truth--which MAY be that you're not ready. Which MAY be that all those insecure voices in your head are right. And so . . . you freeze up.

Or it may be something else entirely.

I know writers that never, ever finish anything. Ever. They convince themselves that it's no good and move on to the next great idea. And they keep doing that over and over and avoid the agent search. They don't have to get a professional opinion. They've already got a veritable Greek chorus of opinions in their head.

So how can you make the shift from writing for the process of it, to writing for a goal? And keep it fun, still a joy (if joy includes the occasional banging of the head against the desk)?

For me . . . it's a reminder, a constant reminder, that this biz is subjective. You need to find ONE editor or agent who likes your stuff. It's somewhat a numbers game and not giving up. And I think you need to not think of each work as your "only chance" to break in. It may be the third book or the tenth. You have to be in it for the long haul, not the forty-yard dash, and so it's OK if along the way you take some rejection, or you learn that you still have a lot to learn. If you give yourself that permission . . . . then it's still a process on the WAY or the PATH to the goal. But the goal is there--up ahead--somewhere. You don't know when. You don't know the timing. And that's OK. That's just how the universe works.

Thoughts????

The Drawer and the Mattress

When I finished my first novel, Spanish Disco, I shoved it in a drawer. I can even tell you which drawer. My grandmother's hutch, which I inherited, in the bottom drawer. I never told my parents I wrote a book. I never even told the father of my children I wrote a book. In fact, though I was in a writers' group, I think most everyone thought that was a little hobby or an excuse to drink wine and eat chocolate cake once every two weeks.

But I realize that my instinct to shove it in the drawer was rather like hiding my stories under my mattress--because that's what I used to do when I was a kid. I loved writing. I would write volumes of stories, and I can still remember sitting with a legal pad, writing my stuff out in longhand, LOVING the blank page that I was getting to fill up with something new (even then I had Shiny New Idea Syndrome). If I didn't like what I did, I'd crumple it in a ball and toss it across the room. And I would take it as some badge of honor, some fictional medal of angst, if there were dozens of wads of paper strewn around my room like snowballs after a snowball fight.

At first, I wanted to show people (parents, grandparents, aunts, cousins) what I wrote. I showed teachers. Everyone said I was a wonderful writer. But really, who are we kidding here? Aren't they supposed to say that? So after a while, I stopped showing my writing, feeling it was better left under the mattress, where it belonged to only me. Where no critics could reject it. Where it was safe.

But really? It was the Inner Critic I was probably hiding it from. If I showed it to someone and they hated it, then I might have to admit all this energy I was putting toward writing was for nothing. I'd have to admit I was a talentless hack and was doing nothing more than filling up paper. With stuff. None of it publishable. All of it better left in wads of papers in the circular file.

And then, I met my agent. And he asked about my writing in conversation, and I said I had a book in a drawer, and he said send me the book in a drawer, and it STILL took me a bit to send it, and he pestered me to send him the book in a drawer, and I did and he LOVED it, and it sold in a couple of months, and that was four years ago. Yup. Only four years ago from drawer to book. Well, actually, it sold almost six years ago, but was in production in while--and during that time I wrote my next and my next one.

And it still provokes anxiety, taking my stuff out from the mattress and the drawer. But it's part of my journey. I had to risk showing things to people other than the other two I drank wine and ate chocolate cake with. Though God knows I learned most of what I know about writing from that group. Still . . . risk? It was like jumping off a high wire not knowing if there was a net.

And it still hurts when things get rejected, or an editor doesn't like something or I find a snarky comment somewhere. Almost enough to make me go back to the drawer or the mattress. But I guess, with each book, it gets easier.

So tell me . . . do you hide your things in a drawer? Under the mattress? Do you hide from your inner critic or those ones out there somewhere? What are you hiding from?

Peace,
E