Conscious Writing

Today is your reminder that writers also need to tend to their physical needs.

While you’re writing, be sure to schedule time to stand up, stretch your neck, rest your eyes, shake out your wrists, crick your neck.

Your body will thank you and your writing may flow better if you aren’t kinked up and hurting.

Are there people who helped you become the writer that you are today, or otherwise encouraged and supported you? Take some time today for some silent appreciation for them. If these people are still with us – and if you want to – consider expressing your appreciation in person or in writing.

I have a few.

I excelled at writing and literature in high school. As a rule, my teachers were both appreciative and encouraging. They didn’t know it, but those few minutes of acknowledgement and affirmation every day gave me the respite I needed to survive the other 23 hours and 10 minutes of bullying, criticism, and invisibility.

In college, my best friend was the first person to tell me that I was smart, that I was talented, and that I could do anything I wanted. He was also the first person to ever brag about me to someone else. I’d never heard anyone say that I was a good writer and that others should come to me for help if they needed it. After 20 years of being treated like an imbecile by my family, like an unclean misfit by my church, and a punching bag by my peers, that was a life changer.

After college, I kept in touch with many of my literature and writing professors. K Edgington (that’s not a typo…her first name is K) was the first teacher or professor I could speak to as a peer, or at least an older sibling. Funny, funky, sarcastic, and one of my early feminist role models, she taught creative non-fiction. I learned a lot from her about connecting the personal to the universal and following the threads of memory and how our experiences repeat and resonate through life. Publishing one of her stories in my DIY zine in the early 90s was a highlight of my creative life. I was so honored that she’d allow me that pleasure.

She also passed along one of the best compliments I received about a story I wrote. When David Bergman, another of my college professors (poetry), assumed the editorship of the Men on Men series of anthologies in the early 1990s, I submitted a story. It didn’t make it into the anthology, which is good because I would probably be embarrassed by it now. However, David told K that the story was at the top of his B list for the collection and that he thought I had the talent to make it as a writer, if I had the perseverance. I floated for days after I read that. I still get a tingle.

Sadly, several of my college professors have passed, but I still remember the lively grace of Ruth Ann Patterson and the curmudgeonly wit of Ted Grant. Ted wasn’t the most congenial person but he was my first creative writing teacher in college and the first person who took my creative ambitions seriously, if not always gently. He wasn’t warm but he was very smart and had excellent taste in writers. I learned a lot from him.

When social media took off, I had the chance to connect with Greg Seagle, who was a great writer and even better teacher. Greg was the warmest and most personally invested of any of my writing teachers. You could see his delight when a student showed promise or surprised him with a plot twist or turn of phrase. He was so happy to find and nurture those sparks. Greg passed away in 2012, but I still think of him often.

It occurs to me as I write this that I am the same age or older than my writing professors were when they passed. A Google search shows that Ruth Ann and Ted were 44. Greg wasn’t much older than I am now.

Life didn’t take me the direction I wanted, and I haven’t “made it” as a creative writer, but I still treat it seriously and am determined to persevere. Whatever I make of myself, I have K, David, Ruth Ann, Ted, Greg, and others to thank for it.

In today’s exercise in a Year of Living Consciously (Day 330! Almost to the finish line…), Gay Hendricks suggests that we practice active, generous listening as away to accept others for themselves and to become better friends, colleagues, and family members.

Boring!

However, active and dispassionate listening is a vital skill for writers and one that requires practice to master.

When we engage in conversation, humans tend to bring along some bad habits that we are taught in the world. At worst, we don’t truly listen to what another person is saying, but merely wait for our chance to speak. We miss nuance. We may miss information, as we guess how the other person is going to finish a sentence, rather than hearing them out.

We also have a habit of trying to impose our thoughts and emotions onto the other person. When a friend comes to you with a problem, your first instinct may be to help. However, while your motivation may be well-intended, the result may not be what’s needed. Rather than listening to your friend speak, your brain is trying out ideas that may fix their problem, regardless of whether that idea is terrible, already been tried, or doomed to fail in a certain situation.

As a writer, practice active and unfiltered listening. Pay attention to what they have to say, without any agenda, other than to absorb what they say.

And how they say it. And how you might be able to use their tone, phrasing, word choice, cadence, and gestures in your writing.

Like many Americans, today I’m experiencing the lingering effects of the post-Thanksgiving dinner food coma. Instead of forcing myself to be productive, today I’m going to indulge in sloth. I joke about binging TV but sometimes I go weeks without even glancing at Netflix. The list of movies and shows I’d like to watch someday would be out of control except that most sites remove programs before I can get to them.

But sometimes, doing nothing is what the mind and body need. It’s a shame that the holidays – which should be a time for family, rest, and reflection – are almost always a whirlwind of non-stop activity. The next few weeks will be no different. I’m tempted to trade my time off around Christmas for a week in January, when I would be entirely justified in doing nothing.

But I won’t. So today is the day. I ain’t doing squat.

Yesterday was a day of rest and family time, but today I wanted to expand on what I’m grateful for this year.

My family didn’t have much in the way of holiday traditions. We did the normal things, but often without enthusiasm, and we didn’t have any special traditions unique to us. I’m envious of friends who have those memories, whether it’s a visit to a special place every year or a decorating or baking ritual or new pajamas and a book each Christmas Eve. In our house, it wasn’t Christmas until someone cried.

So the whole go-around-the-table-and-say-something-you’re-grateful-for thing doesn’t come easily to me. When someone suggests this around my siblings and me, we snort, share nervous glances, and divert attention to the food. So this doesn’t come easily for me. The fear of acting corny is strong.

But anyway, in no particular order.

I’m grateful for my job, which most will find a weird thing to be grateful for. But, I genuinely like what I do, my skills and input are respected, and I’m adequately compensated. A few of my friends might be able to say two of those things, but I can’t think of anyone who has all three. I work hard and I’m good at what I do, but I also appreciate how lucky I am.

I’m grateful that all my eye surgeries are behind me and that the outcomes were good.

I appreciate that my life is relatively drama-free. There’s always something, but I know that my list of somethings is a lot shorter than most. My health is good, my finances are decent, my free time is my own. Tomorrow may bring woe, but today is alright.

I like my apartment building. The people are quiet and mostly nice, and the staff are wonderful. They do a great job looking out for us.

I’m grateful for you. Thank you for reading.

Taking a brief pause today but still expressing my gratitude for what I have and wishing my readers who celebrate a restful and very happy Thanksgiving holiday.

So, now that I’ve made this commitment to my creative goals and work, what else is holding me back? Honestly, lots of things, but I’m going to talk about procrastination.

I tend to live in a state of dishevelment. My home isn’t in such disarray that I’m at risk of featuring in an episode of “Hoarders” but there are dishes in the sink, a stack of empty CD cases on my nightstand, and a breadmaker that I got for Christmas last year that’s still in the box. The ridiculous thing is that it takes about an hour start-to-finish to tidy up my apartment. I always feel better after I’ve decluttered. And yet, the next pile of stuff – folded laundry, new comics, unopened mail – will take over soon enough.

Writers love to procrastinate. It’s kinda our thing. Go to any social media site for writers and there they are. Writers talk about writing, post memes and quotes about writing, complain about how much they hate writing, post the cover art to the book they haven’t finished writing, ask about agents and publishers…you name it. What they aren’t doing is writing. The real difference between published and unpublished writers – or even between great and mediocre writers – isn’t talent. It’s having a butt in the chair.

I wasted many years of my youth doing this. I joined writers’ groups. I wrote book reviews for my local paper. I volunteered to write a newsletter for a nonprofit. I wrote press releases for small theater companies. My dream was to write fiction, but somehow that became a task for another day. One day I’ll have time to write. When I’m settled, I’ll write.

I’ve made progress the last few years. I wrote several novellas and some graphic novel scripts. None of those are ready for the light of day, but I wrote them. I didn’t think about writing them. They exist.

Procrastination is a difficult habit to overcome. The solution is different for every person. For some of us, it’s a mindset. For others, it’s a problem with time management or a function of neurodiverse thinking. But the change is worth the effort.

Blogging has helped me tremendously. I’ve had a number of false starts over the years – blogging sounds easier than it is – and finally developed the right approach for me. I have my plan and I write every day. I don’t always have time to post every day, but I write every day. And when I finish my blog post, I roll into my creative projects.

Breaking down big projects into smaller components helps. I don’t have to write 1,000 word blogs posts every day. Some of them are longer, some are 100 words. I have the same goals with my novel in progress. Some days I outline a chapter, some days I write a few pages, some days I might only get a paragraph or two about setting. But the work moves on.

What have you left incomplete today? Is there a task you’ve promised to do later? Is there a dirty spoon in the kitchen sink, an empty toilet paper roll in the bathroom, clutter on your desk? Pick a task that will take only a moment to complete. Wash the spoon or drop it in the dishwasher. Do you feel lighter or more relaxed with that silly thing off your mind? Put that habit on repeat and apply it to your creative work, too.

For now, I’m going to go put away some laundry. Maybe later I’ll remember why I’m saving 75 empty CD cases.

Yesterday, I wrote about time – losing it and making the best use of it. For me, that means paring down my outside interests, simplifying my life, centering my highest priority goals and wishes, and making a commitment to walk the talk. When I was younger, I often asked myself, “If not now, when?” At my current age, the inquiry has evolved: “If not now, you won’t.”

I also mentioned that the task can feel daunting. I have a lot of dreams I’d like to fulfill, and an unknown time in which to make them happen. Committing to a creative process and large ambitions can be scary. Like changing jobs or getting married, big creative dreams are prone to triggering cold feet.

Am I talented enough to write the stories in my head? Some of them will require a lot of research. One or two will be structurally challenging. Will I have the time? I hope I have a good 30+ years in front of me, but I might get only a few. What am I sacrificing to give myself the time to write?

Some days, a life of binge TV and day drinking seems attractive.

Making a big commitment is scary stuff. Naturally, we fear failure. It’s human nature to dread hard work, even when we enjoy the work and desire the outcome.

But commitments are also a source of power. Making a commitment is taking ownership – of yourself, your dreams, and your future. You are deciding today what you will do tomorrow and the day after and in the months and years to come. You are embracing a vital aspect of yourself and promising to bring it forth. You can step to the altar dreading the possibility of divorce or excited about the prospect of spending the rest of your life with your best friend.

This dichotomy is also at work in our creative lives. When writers and artists make a commitment to our work, we are also tapping into a larger creative font. We may feel small compared to who has come before us. Our talents may feel miniscule compared to our vision of what we wish to create. We might feel inadequate to the task. We get cold feet. We wonder if there’s anything new on Netflix.

But it doesn’t have to be that way.

When we feel this trepidation, when we hesitate at the point of commitment, we can choose to indulge our fears or we can choose to experience awe. We can accept that we are part of a grand tradition of writing and art. We can tap into the source of creation and become one with it. Instead of feeling small, we can revel in belonging to something bigger than ourselves.

When I review what I want to accomplish over the next few years, it feels like too much to ask. I’m not certain I’m enough. But when I set that aside and focus on what I must do today, I feel that familiar rush. I get to write today. I have ideas to express. I can complete a small goal that brings me closer to fulfilling a larger dream. I brought forth something that didn’t exist a few hours ago. I made magic.

If your creative journey brings you to a point of hesitation, take a few moments to make the choice between fear and awe. Then take a deep breath and say “I do.”

I have an odd relationship with time and it gets weirder the older I get. I’m not alone in feeling that time moves more quickly the older we get. I used to think this phenomenon resulted from my skewed perspective, but we know now this is a fairly common observation among adults.

Whether that is a function of perception, memory, or obligation is hard to say. Does time feel accelerated because we have so much of it banked in our memories? Or because our experience helps set our expectations for how the next portion of time will unveil itself, barring some surprise? Does novelty of experience make time slow down, such that children experience it passing more slowly while adults can’t seem to catch their breaths? Or does time seem shorter because we have so much more to do when we’re older?

I suspect humanity needs to make a few major evolutionary jumps before we can even begin to understand it. However, we all reach a point when we realize that we’ve reached – or surpassed – the halfway point in our anticipated lifespan. I don’t expect to live into the triple digits and – barring some breakthrough medical discoveries about the aging process – I don’t want to. So, if there’s anything I want to experience or accomplish, time is fast dwindling.

I have more ideas for stories and novels than I will have time to write in this lifetime. That’s not a bad problem to have, honestly. However, even setting aside the ideas that are barely more than scribbled notions, I have enough projects to keep me occupied for a decade. On the one hand, it’s daunting to look at a project list and know that I might not get to an idea until 2035. On the other, breaking those projects down into discrete tasks and manageable time commitments gives me confidence that I can – bit by bit – turn these notes into novels. Looking ahead, the idea of a 10-year commitment to noveling is daunting. Who knows what next year brings? On the other hand, I like the idea of celebrating 2034 with a dozen completed projects and maybe a few of them in print.

Whatever your relationship with time, whatever your goals, I wish you luck. Don’t hesitate. Don’t dawdle. Our time is now.

In popular fiction, readers want to watch characters struggle, whether that fight involves a domestic problem, serial killer, natural disaster, or demon. They also want to see your characters change. In modern fiction, even Superman, the epitome of the perfect character, requires a moment of reflection and insight before the credits roll.

The good news is that adversity drives your character change. Solve one and you have a head start on solving the other.

In genre fiction, you might be able to get away with a simple good v. evil conflict. For 40+ years, audiences have loved watching Luke Skywalker fight the Empire, thereby evolving into a great warrior. But does Luke really change that dramatically? His biggest character change happens at the beginning of Star Wars, when he agrees to travel with Ben Kenobi, after first refusing his call. While Luke faces constant challenges, his basic goodness does not change, even as he becomes a better and more noble fighter. (Yes, I’m ignoring more recent developments. For me, the Star Wars saga ended in 1983, and that’s all I’m going to say about that.)

However, if you’re not writing Star Wars, your story will resonate and become memorable if you are able to layer in character change that arises from the fight. While it might be easy to rely on showing that your hero is stronger or cleverer or more resilient than they believed, that’s a low bar when the antagonist is literally trying to kill them. Exploring emotional misconceptions or blind spots can add depth to your characterization and help your reader connect to your heroes.

The short path to character change has two steps: experience and wisdom.

When we are in the midst of conflict, our wisdom tends to shut down. To paraphrase Calvin and Hobbes: “The idea of being dragged under the bed and devoured by monsters has a way of gripping the mind.” When we go through adversity, we react emotionally: fear, anger, humiliation, disappointment, pain. If your character is attacked by a killer in their basement or walk in on their spouse having a fling with a stranger, they aren’t going to take time for philosophical reflection. However, after the fact, they will have learned something, such as never enter a dark room unarmed or always call if you’re going to come home early. This is the beginning of wisdom.

Your characters can also learn from each other. Your protagonist’s best friend may warn them that their marriage is on the rocks before a painful revelation occurs. Your hero’s sidekick might insist on accompanying them into that dark basement because they know a killer is on the loose. While your hero may doubt this caution, new information will demonstrate its wisdom.

As you put your characters through their paces, challenge yourself to create an emotional learning point from each major antagonistic encounter. Connect what threatens your hero to what your hero needs to learn. Your scene portrays the events and your hero’s immediate reaction, while the scene sequel, which can be brief, gives them the moment to reflect and learn.