Category Archives: Life

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Teaching an old dog …

Ever since I left my school days behind me, happenstance has ruled my days. As a fairly normal human and stay-at-home mother of four, I observed a schedule of certain daily activities, but I also became a queen of procrastination.

Then my household dwindled to my husband and myself. I ruled my days. As of 2008, on most days, I could spend 8 … 10 … 14 hours writing, if I wanted. And I did. Housework be damned. But as of April, I have a published book. It’s up to me to promote said book. Happenstance is no longer cutting it.

Now I’m feeling the pressure to set a schedule—and stick to it. Every fiber of my being protests. But I don’t think it’s possible to go with the flow any longer and still effectively market one book while writing another. I have to decide what is worth my time and what isn’t.

I can’t do all the things the gurus advise to promote my novel. I’ll have to pick what I think will work for me. If I’m wrong, I’ll try something else. The most important thing to me is to have time to write. I accept that the marathon sessions I had for Brevity are no longer possible. Yet, I cannot write well in 15-minute segments.

Something’s gotta give. I don’t feel like myself anymore. I don’t feel like a writer. I don’t like this life.

Your turn: Are you naturally or do you force yourself to be disciplined with your writing time?

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A little fun on my blog … for me, at least

In the early days of this blog, I would occasionally declare it a Fun Friday. Sometimes I would kick off a weekend party, which amounted to silliness befitting the bunch of fiction writers who used to hang out here.

No party this weekend, but neither am I throwing out a serious writing topic or asking a heavy question. I’ve been thinking of two previous “incarnations” of me. My recent contact with two old friends brought back these memories.

One of these friends, I met in third grade. She was my best friend for many years after that. We drifted apart, after high school, seeing each other a couple of times during our young-mother years, and then we lost contact. We reunited at a childhood friend’s 50th birthday party. Then a few years ago, I had started beading jewelry and found out through email that she had already been through that phase and was selling off her supplies. She gave me an excellent deal on some silver components. So, for a while, before I started writing seriously, I worked daily on things like this:

The other me came before the jewelry maker me. From the time my two youngest sons were teens until I became a grandmother for the first time I sort of reversed time and became a “rocker chick”. (Don’t judge.) The second old friend was part of that life … though neither of us thought of ourselves as old then! I went to concerts and collected rock memorabilia and found that rock fans would pay decent money (or trade collectibles) for portraits of their idols. So, for a while I worked daily on things like this:

Now, I’ve grown old up and you all know what I work daily on.  Have a great weekend, everyone!

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The Brevity of Roses is not just a novel

In a sense, it took me decades to write The Brevity of Roses. No, it’s not a memoir I had to live before writing. It’s not a non-fiction work on my thirty years in Antarctica. It’s a novel. And not a particularly challenging novel to write. It took me that long to get to the “place” where I could write.

I reached adulthood during the second wave of feminism—the “Women’s Liberation” movement of the 1960s-1980s. But I was too involved in getting married and having babies to pay much attention to it. I had made the choices those women were questioning. I wanted to fully embrace the roles they thought I should rebel against—or question, at the very least.

As women around me put their children in childcare and sought other careers, I delighted in being a full-time wife and mother. Though I complained of constant exhaustion, I loved my life. It was hard. There was never enough money, but we survived. And judging by how they turned out, I think I did a darned good job raising my sons.

What I did not do, is take much time for myself. As I said in a previous post, I spent a LOT of time reading during those years. That was my schooling, my grand “filling up” period. That’s when the idea that resulted in my becoming a published novelist came to me. Not that I realized it at the time.

Before I knew it, my role changed. My children had grown into independence. I had time on my hands. One day, a few second’s encounter in a mini-mart sparked a question. That question sparked the idea that had gestated all those years. I could write a book. And so, it began.

What did my book popping up on Amazon last week signify? It was proof of my personal “liberation.” I no longer thought of myself only as Wife or Mom. It was also evidence of my selfishness. I had put myself first, done something just for me.  Sure, it looked like  an ordinary novel, but it was a declaration. I am Linda. Hear me roar.


Photo credit: http://brrb.deviantart.com/

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The problem with writing …

Are you a writer? Are you a reader? Do you divide your time equally between the two? When I started writing with the goal of publication, my reading time declined—particularly my fiction reading. And my non-fiction reading changed to consist almost exclusively of how-to write books.

During my years of devouring novels, I often thought how wonderful it would be to write my own. It never occurred to me that the authors of those books might not have much time to read. Although, apparently some writers manage to write and read at a pace I envy. Stephen King says, “I’m a slow reader, but I usually get through seventy or eighty books a year, mostly fiction.”

The year I was ten, I read 72 books for the Summer Reading Program. As an adult, that would have been my usual yearly average—before I began writing every day. In 2009, I  started keeping track of books read. That year, I read 24 books, 17 of which were fiction. I read 18 books in 2010, and 14 of them were fiction. I may have forgotten to include a few, but still those are pathetic totals. My to-be-read stack keeps growing (some added are yours), but it doesn’t appear I’ll do any better this year. Unless I change something.

You tell me: How many books do you average reading a year? Do you schedule your reading time?

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Why did I wait so long to get serious about writing?

Emily and Elijah at the zoo

I feel very old this week. Keeping up with small children is not something I do well any longer. Three days in a row this week, I had two of my grandchildren, ages five and seven, in my home. They were both sick with colds and still they wore me out.

I praise all who have care of little ones and still are able to write. If nothing else, the reason I waited so long to get serious about writing is clear to me now. I couldn’t even get my thoughts straightened out in snatches of free time, let alone write anything coherent. And by the time the kiddies were tucked in bed, all I could do was stare into space.

When my own four children were that young, I’m sure I had more physical stamina, yet the mental fatigue was just as bad. I sought refuge in books. I read. And read. And read some more. I took in a lot, and it mixed and fermented and formed into stories in my head, but I didn’t have the energy to write them down.

Let’s call that my writer’s training course. Long, long years of it. There are advantages to that, of course. I had a lot of life experience stacking up too. Intense research, we’ll call that. And to be honest, I’m glad I didn’t write down most of the stories that swirled through my head through those years. It was a time to watch and listen, not speak.

I’m happy to be approaching my career as a writer from a mature perspective. I’ve finally found my voice and have some things to say. Many novel’s worth.

Your turn: How does your age and circumstances affect your writing?


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Change is Always Happening

Twice before, I’ve written posts about Dani Shapiro’s memoir, Devotion, and how it touched me. Now and then, I pick it up to re-read an entry at random. A few days ago, I read this:

Change is always happening. So simple. So obvious, really—and at the same time so terrifying. A friend had recently sent me directions to her house, and in describing the way the names of the roads changed for no apparent reason, she had written:  Everything turns into something else. No wonder I didn’t want to think about this. What was the point of thinking about this? Love, joy, happiness—all fleeting. Trying to hold on to them was like grasping running water.

I’m older than a lot of you reading this. I think Dani’s realization is one that comes to most of us as we grow older. Everything is fleeting. Everything turns into something else. What was most important to you at the age of five is forgotten and replaced by real concerns at fifteen. And then again at twenty-five. And forty. And …

Everything changes. All things renew, reform, restart. I think back on the times I thought, I can’t survive this. But I did. I remember the times I thought, Nothing will ever be better than this. But I was wrong. Everything changes.  Everything turns into something else.

Grasp what you can and don’t worry about the rest flowing through your fingers. This is a lesson I need to relearn daily. How about you?


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Try to remember …

Memory, like many things, is often taken for granted—until it’s lost. My mother is in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. She realizes it, but most of the time pretends it’s not happening. “Everyone forgets things,” she’ll say, but I can tell by her voice she knows what she’s forgotten is more serious than where she set her purse or what she walked into the kitchen for.

I fear losing my memory—or precisely, losing my memories. The other day, someone mentioned an event I felt I should have remembered, and it shook me a bit that I didn’t. I thought of many wonderful events in my life I would hate to forget, but someday due to Alzheimer’s or ordinary senility, I will begin to lose those memories. My recent loss of valued Christmas ornaments and decorations reinforced my fear. Yes, I still have the memories association with each item—but for how long?

Sad to say, I’m not a writer who kept journals all her life. I wish someone had taught me about journaling when I was young. I would have had my life in written form. Ah-h, if wishes were horses … Still, it’s not too late. I could record all the precious memories I’ve retained. I’m a writer; I could do that.

New plan: whenever something from my past comes to mind, I’ll write it down. I will have my memory in written form. A memoir in its purest form. And if, when I’m ninety, I forget these things happened to me, they should still be good reading.

The Mojave Desert at 75mph

 

Note: I included this photo for those of you who didn’t see my road photos and witty repartee on my Facebook page. (Just kidding, it was the first time I tried updating my status from my iPhone, so I was too befuddled to be witty. At least that’s my excuse.)