While the finished writing product is a “going out”—we share it with the world—the act of writing is a “going in.”
We delve into our hearts and minds and souls, trying to understand the thought or concept from every angle. We look for validation of our own beliefs yet are (hopefully) open to re-evaluating them if what we uncover challenges them.
If we do our job well, we come away from the process with a better understanding not only of the subject matter but of ourselves: how we felt and thought, where we were on track and where we were sadly mistaken.
Writing and wisdom go hand-in-hand, unless we write blindfoldeded, refusing to see and hear and learn.
What did you discover about yourself while writing?
Monday, November 9, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
“The great advantage of being a writer is that you can spy on people … Everything is useful to a writer…” Graham Greene
Writing can grant us an immunity from what would normally be thought of as “bad behavior.”
The bottom line? Being a writer allows us to do or say what non-writers wish they could. It’s like a undated hall pass, allowing us to go when and where we like, all in the name of writing.
What freedoms has being a writer given to you?
- Eavesdropping is considered rude, unless you’re a writer, in which case it’s called “research.”
- Asking personal questions is inappropriate, unless you’re a writer, in which case it’s called “interviewing.”
- And telling the world about traumatic family experiences is referred to as “hanging out dirty laundry,” unless you’re a writer, in which case it’s called an inspirational story.
The bottom line? Being a writer allows us to do or say what non-writers wish they could. It’s like a undated hall pass, allowing us to go when and where we like, all in the name of writing.
What freedoms has being a writer given to you?
Monday, October 26, 2009
“I don’t believe I’ve had more than two hours a day to myself…I am a cauldron of seething frustration…”—Michele Murray
When my children were little, I used to get up at 4 AM to write my copy for the newspaper before they awoke and required my full attention.
Years later, when I would visit my parents for a week or two, I used to keep the same schedule, so my writing would be finished before my mother came downstairs and asked if I was going to work all day.
And during those years when my full-time work was in a field unrelated to writing, I would have those frustrating moments when whole sections of writing would pop into my head but never make it to the paper because I had other work to do.
Even now, living alone, I don’t have 100 percent control over my time. Deadlines and marketing work, household tasks and family obligations find their way onto my to-do list, leaving me with just a few stray hours here and there for the kind of writing I want to do.
It’s a balancing act. I'm walking a tightrope from one obligation to the other, trying to keep my frustration under control. It’s not that I don’t want to do all those other tasks or respond to those other needs. It’s that I have this nagging feeling that my time is limited, my opportunities far from boundless—and if I don’t do it now, I run the risk of never doing it.
Years later, when I would visit my parents for a week or two, I used to keep the same schedule, so my writing would be finished before my mother came downstairs and asked if I was going to work all day.
And during those years when my full-time work was in a field unrelated to writing, I would have those frustrating moments when whole sections of writing would pop into my head but never make it to the paper because I had other work to do.
Even now, living alone, I don’t have 100 percent control over my time. Deadlines and marketing work, household tasks and family obligations find their way onto my to-do list, leaving me with just a few stray hours here and there for the kind of writing I want to do.
It’s a balancing act. I'm walking a tightrope from one obligation to the other, trying to keep my frustration under control. It’s not that I don’t want to do all those other tasks or respond to those other needs. It’s that I have this nagging feeling that my time is limited, my opportunities far from boundless—and if I don’t do it now, I run the risk of never doing it.
Monday, October 19, 2009
“I get more and more impatient with bothering about things.”—May Sarton
When I give talks about being a home-based entrepreneur, I’m often asked if I get distracted by the household tasks: the yardwork and garden, the laundry and shopping, the little things (vacuuming) and big things (tearing up carpeting) that are part-and-parcel of owning a home.
Most of the time, I can keep these distractions under control and on a schedule, working them in during those times when my creative juices have dried up.
But sometimes I find myself in the aggravating position of trying to accomplish two distinct tasks simultaneously: writing my book while harvesting peppers or finishing an article while painting the office.
It’s not that I don’t know how to prioritize. It’s that sometimes, two tasks occupy the same level on my to-do list, jostling each other like two kids vying for the front seat in a car. No matter which one I choose, the other one cries out for attention.
This is when, as my friend Lee says, I just have to “suck it up” and accept that there is no happy resolution. I need to close my eyes, pick a project and do it and then, when it’s completed, work on the other one.
I can’t be in two places at one time or be two different people. I can only do what I can do to the best of my ability and energy.
Monday, October 12, 2009
“Poverty is very good in poems, but very bad in practical life.”—Henry Ward Beecher
Somewhere down the line, people have gotten the impression that those in the creative arts (writers, singers, actors and painters, to name a few) shouldn’t be overly concerned with cold hard cash. We should get our pleasure from the act of creation, they say, not from a bankable check.
And while it’s true that there is an innate joy in making something out of nothing, whether it is a painting, a novel or a character, the reality is that there is no small pleasure in being able to pay our bills and eat. This means that, on a regular basis, we need to put aside our creative hat and put on the business one, the one that helps us negotiate fees and contracts, market our abilities and, in general, behave as both the manufacturer of the mousetrap and the mousetrap itself.
All this takes time and worse, it takes energy. And when we hear more refusals than agreements or get more rejections than acceptances, our faith in our abilities can take a beating.
Oddly enough, this is where writing can help. Engaging in the very act that we are trying to sell reminds us that we can do it and we should do it, and if we keep doing it, the money will come our way—as long as we let the world know what we are doing!
And while it’s true that there is an innate joy in making something out of nothing, whether it is a painting, a novel or a character, the reality is that there is no small pleasure in being able to pay our bills and eat. This means that, on a regular basis, we need to put aside our creative hat and put on the business one, the one that helps us negotiate fees and contracts, market our abilities and, in general, behave as both the manufacturer of the mousetrap and the mousetrap itself.
All this takes time and worse, it takes energy. And when we hear more refusals than agreements or get more rejections than acceptances, our faith in our abilities can take a beating.
Oddly enough, this is where writing can help. Engaging in the very act that we are trying to sell reminds us that we can do it and we should do it, and if we keep doing it, the money will come our way—as long as we let the world know what we are doing!
Monday, October 5, 2009
“How much time we lose in seeking our daily bread!”—Paul Gauguin
When I tell people that I am a writer by trade, they imagine that I spend all my time with paper and pen or at the keyboard, crafting stellar sentences and perfect paragraphs.
The reality is, as a working writer, I spend at least 50 percent of my time doing “business”: making marketing calls to find new work, pitching article ideas to get new assignments and figuring how to make a $500 freelance check cover $1000 worth of bills.
And this past year, I think I have spent more time looking for work rather than working—which leads to no small level of frustration and dissatisfaction.
To counter these negative feelings, I set aside a few hours one day a week just for my own writing—the fiction and essays I do that make me feel good about myself and my creative abilities. That small space of time won’t adversely affect my income level but it will definitely improve my overall mood.
How do you handle the necessary interruptions to your creative time?
The reality is, as a working writer, I spend at least 50 percent of my time doing “business”: making marketing calls to find new work, pitching article ideas to get new assignments and figuring how to make a $500 freelance check cover $1000 worth of bills.
And this past year, I think I have spent more time looking for work rather than working—which leads to no small level of frustration and dissatisfaction.
To counter these negative feelings, I set aside a few hours one day a week just for my own writing—the fiction and essays I do that make me feel good about myself and my creative abilities. That small space of time won’t adversely affect my income level but it will definitely improve my overall mood.
How do you handle the necessary interruptions to your creative time?
Monday, September 28, 2009
“I choose a block of marble and chop off whatever I don’t need.” Francois-Auguste Rodin
That was how Rodin answered when someone asked him how he made his statues. And it is good advice for writers as well.
Sometimes we become caught up in adding something here and something there, “over-decorating” our work with adjectives, adverbs and prepositional phrases. We forget the first rule of minimalist design and good writing: “less is more.”
There’s a fine line between enhancing and cluttering up. And while the three-word sentences that exemplified first readers (“See Spot run”) might be a little too minimalist for most of us, paragraph-long sentences are definitely the other extreme.
You want enough—but not too much. A soupçon, not a soup bowl, of creative seasoning. Just what the piece needs—but not everything it (or you!) want.
Sometimes we become caught up in adding something here and something there, “over-decorating” our work with adjectives, adverbs and prepositional phrases. We forget the first rule of minimalist design and good writing: “less is more.”
There’s a fine line between enhancing and cluttering up. And while the three-word sentences that exemplified first readers (“See Spot run”) might be a little too minimalist for most of us, paragraph-long sentences are definitely the other extreme.
You want enough—but not too much. A soupçon, not a soup bowl, of creative seasoning. Just what the piece needs—but not everything it (or you!) want.
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