This is a quick NaNoWriMo update – as I anticipated, this has been a slow week for writing, due to some other work that had to come first. I am just over 16,000 words and that is fine given all that is going on. I have written something for my novel every day this week, so consistency has been good. That’s what I am learning this month, that consistency is the way to getting things done. Next week is going to be better, I don’t have so much on my schedule.
Have a good weekend!
Ramona
Hello and thank you for checking in on me! I have received so many encouraging words – here, face-to-face, and through email. Last week I told you about my commitment to participate in National Novel Writing Month, also known as NaNoWriMo. I’ll need to complete 50,000 words by the end of November; this is my weekly update.
Great news – it is Day 4 and I have 12,730 words on my work-in-progress! I set a faster pace for the first week because I know that I have other projects coming up and the holiday, so I wanted to get off to a strong start. I am having a blast, and like the characters that I am writing about. Wish me well, I am going to keep it up!
NaNoWriMo, National November Writing Month, begins next week on November 1. For 30 days, I will join hundreds of thousands of writers around the world, working towards one goal—to complete a novel of 50,000 words during November. This is my first time participating in NaNoWriMo and I am excited.
I usually write shorter pieces, such as essays and profiles, and I have never completed anything this lengthy or large or imposing in my years as a writer. But I have various stories floating around in my imagination, stories that I want to explore, and I decided it would be a good challenge; I want to see what I can create after a month of focused work. I will need to write nearly 1,700 words every day to get to the finish line, but I am certain that some days will have me zipping past that goal, while other days will be a struggle to get down the first few sentences.
On December 1, I do not expect to have what could be truly called a novel, at best, it will be a messy draft, a jumble of words, twisted plots, and characters. Part of me wonders if by rushing through this process, I can develop any real sense of what it means to write a novel. I know that the real work of writing comes in revision, not in the first draft. I did not learn how to swim by putting on a swimsuit, or run by choosing running shoes based on color. After November, I may have to walk away from this work for a while, giving it time to settle in, and go back later and revise it into something that can carry the label “novel.” It doesn’t matter; I am thrilled by the prospect of trying to tell a story that is interesting enough to hold my attention for its first 30 days.
Accountability is a good partner, so I will post my word counts here every Friday during November, which will keep me focused on my progress and let you know how I am doing. If you think you have a good story in you, and want to join me, you can sign up at NaNoWriMo or just start writing on your own.
Starting word count: zero, but lots of ideas…
It took a while before I felt comfortable calling myself a writer. Saying that you are a writer elicits so many questions. Some are easier to answer, such as, “What do you write?” or “Are you working on a novel?” When I respond to the first question, I explain my love for the essay form and that my favorite genre is creative nonfiction. That term sometimes requires explanation—isn’t all writing creative?— but then I add that I use the tools of the novelist while telling a true story. This seems to help them understand, and I can point them to examples, essays, books, or magazine pieces that fall under this genre.
The second question is a bit trickier, because many people immediately think of novels when you say that you are a writer. I savor novels too, with their characters and plots, evocative descriptions, and scenes. I even made an unfinished attempt at a novel many years ago, but I did not finish it. I didn’t commit the time, the plot began to flounder, and I put it aside.
Then comes the inevitable third question “So have you written a book yet, are you published?” Even though I have been published, I had to learn that being published, the frequency of it or the recognition it can bring, cannot be my sole reason for writing. If I have labored over a work, then it is often my intent to send it out, to share it with others. But first, I had to get over imagining the book cover, the catchy title, book tours and readings. I was left with only one course of action – I had to sit down and put the words on paper. All of those imaginings are great for inspiration and ideation, but until I place the words on the page, wrestle, tease or play with them until they are properly positioned, it’s all make-believe.
Writing forces me to deal with my desire for perfection. Every time I sit down at my desk to begin a new piece, I wonder how it is going to turn out, or if it will be any good. At first. But the best part of writing is that I give myself permission to just let the words come, whether they are in a rush so swift I cannot contain them, or if they come as a measly drip, drip, drip, one tentative word at a time. When I finish the day’s writing, I always am slightly amazed at myself, not because the writing is so incredible, because it is not most of the time, certainly not right away. I am amazed because I sat down with the intention to write and I did it. I kept a commitment to myself, using a gift that I let languish for years because I was busy doing other stuff. I used to want to be like those people who discovered their vocation early in life, wishing that I had started sooner on this writing life. I have made peace with that dream, because I have lived long enough to have rich and varied experiences, and enough years have passed that I have perspective and insight about what I have gone through.
I believe that everyone is an artist of some sort. Creativity has to be nurtured, but it must also be explored. This exploration takes place when we become more aware of the diversity of thought, experience, style, and culture around us. Without this awareness of different perspectives, an adult tells a child that her picture “doesn’t look quite right,” and believes it. A writer tells a story, and because it is so foreign to your worldview, you dismiss it, instead of looking for the kernel of truth or insight, or even humor, that might be present.
I am partial to the written word, but I also have explored sewing, pottery, singing, dancing, and improving my French and Spanish. I go to hear other authors read, visit museums, poke around in small shops, searching for other ways to look at and feel the world. We are all artists of some sort, and to the question, “How do I get paid for it?” my advice is not to wait to figure out how to make money at it, at least not right away. Practice, explore, get better, and then consider if this craft is something you love enough to pursue whether it feeds you or not. I think you will be enriched by the experience of exploring your creativity, whether it becomes your livelihood or not.
An essay is not simpler, though it may seem so. An essay is essentially an argument. The writer’s point of view is always absolutely clear. The writer is trying to to make the readers see something, trying to convince them of something. In a novel or play you’re trying to show them something. The risks, in any case, are exactly the same.
– James Baldwin
Summer is almost over, the yellow school bus stops in front of my house each morning and afternoon, and one day soon I will wake up, the morning will be chilly, and I will know in my bones that it will not be getting much warmer for months. I’m okay with all of this because the summer has been pleasant—travel, family reunions and visits, long walks along the river. I began this summer with a few goals in mind and I have met most of them.
Setting some goals was helpful, and through this practice I examined how I spent my time and which things I said I wanted to do but did not finish. I felt a shift, a prompting to change direction and I am clear about the stuff I do not want to do, or at least that I won’t do for the next few months. Here are just a few: Continue reading
As I get older, I am becoming more like my grandfather. I needed a break after writing and went out for a walk when my true inclination is to get ice cream. It is hot today, in the 90s, and my day started early, probably in the same manner that my grandfather would have started a sweltering summer day — early, and in the garden.
Like a farmer or gardener who has learned to become familiar with rain forecasts and the path of the sun as the day passes, I know that if I want to work in the lower part of my backyard, the section filled with daisies, hosta, violets and peony leaves, I need to be out there early, before the sun has swept over the tall trees and the neighbor’s fence. Today’s project was simple — weed the flowerbeds, yank up the vine with its slender tendrils that thicken and choke the less resilient plants. I had chopped some limbs off a bush a few days ago, but left the shorn branches in the yard, so those need to be carried off to the yard waste bin.
On days like this I recall my grandfather’s yard, his backyard in particular. The lawn, though small, was always neatly trimmed, the geraniums and petunias spilled out of pots and whirly-gigs spun around at the slightest of breezes. He had summer parties there until the year before he passed away. He was always busy in that yard, tending to a plant, painting a chair that needed a refresh, working a little bit every day. If I happened to stop by, he would offer me a drink of something cool and there were always nuts or candy in the dish on the cocktail table in the living room.
Always a fine dresser, on those days I would catch him in his work clothes, a pair of old chinos, a tee shirt, worn but never raggedy. I wonder if working in the yard was as meditative for him as yard work has become for me.
I could call what I do gardening, but I prefer the phrase yard work; it captures the honor of simple labor and tending to nature. Every time I go outside, I feel a deeper connection to the earth, and to God. When I was little I played outside but never got really dirty; childhood allergies and asthma gave me a pass from outside labor.
But now I love the work, the dirt under my nails, the recognition of what is plant and what is called weed, the sharp tools, each one designed for a purpose. I like my three pairs of gloves, red, yellow and gray, and know that on some days I will be so immersed in my work that two pairs might get soaked from working in a dewy patch or digging in the moist soil. No bother, I simply set them out to dry in the sun and grab the third pair.
I am learning to accept the bugs, bees, and butterflies that coexist to make my little patch thrive. I laugh when I remember how I jumped the first time I saw a toad sitting in a cool spot near the back fence, too sluggish to move away, but seeming to say, this is my home too.
After a morning in my backyard, as the sun rises to the point where the shade is no more and the rays are making me sweat, I decide that I have done enough for one day and it is best to stop before I get too hot, too tired, or the work becomes a chore and the element of calm dissipates. I have learned that this translates to other areas of my life, learning when I have done enough, and can stop to rest.
I take a shower, have a light breakfast and then I am ready to work some more, only this time at my desk. I can write now. And when I am done with the day’s writing, I will walk again. When I think of my yard work and walking, that is when I feel connected to my grandfather. He never owned a car, preferring to take the bus, walk, or when he was older, had his children drive him to the grocery store or run errands.
Tomorrow I will start my morning in the front flowerbed, picking out the plants that will otherwise overtake the others, watering the roses, sniffing the basil that is in a small container on my front step. I will fuss over the two pots of ornamental grass that I rescued from the twenty-five cent rack at the garden store, and look for a small sign that they are recovering from a lack of water and too much sun.
I will be grateful for this small connection to the earth, remember my grandfather and begin the day’s work.
When I was in college, there was a girl in my dorm who loved pigs. I don’t think she was from a farming family, but she just found them to be adorable little beings. She had posters of them in her room, maybe even a few other pig-themed items. Aside from Wilbur in the book Charlotte’s Web, I thought of pigs as messy creatures, ones that lolled about in muck, ate and snorted at the same time, fleshy pink blobs with mottled brown spots. The three little pigs, with their homes made of straw, sticks and bricks were more industrious, but a wolf ended up eating two of them anyway. It was hard to fall in love with a pig.
I am from Cincinnati, home of the Flying Pig Marathon. This race winds through the city, its hills and neighborhoods, it even crosses the Ohio River into Kentucky for part of the race. It is a major attraction; over 30,000 get involved by running the marathon or one of the shorter races. The name Flying Pig sets a hopeful tone for runners, but it is also a nod to Cincinnati’s past. Cincinnati was at one time nicknamed Porkopolis, because it was the home of stockyards, slaughterhouses and the railroad system that carried meat to the cities of the Midwest. In the 1800s, the pigs were herded though the streets. The Flying Pig name evokes this history.
Any consideration of my running this race is quelled by the reality of what it would take to complete it – time spent away from goals about which I am more passionate, focused training, regardless of seasons, and the commitment to start and finish no matter the weather on race day. So I pursue other goals; a marathon is not in my future, although I did a half marathon many years ago. I have already decided I will run a race this long when pigs fly.
I dream of trips I want to take, books I will write, time spent with those I love, people that I want to meet. I visualize how I will feel when I choose the fruit over the chips, master the rollover in Pilates, or decorate the small cottage where I can go to restore my spirit. I imagine hikes I will take, strolls around botanical gardens, new cities I will explore, a girls’ trip with my daughter and granddaughter when the little one is older. And while I dream, visualize and imagine, I also plan. I write these ideas down in notebooks, jot them on my smartphone, or give them a home in my mind. At times, I share them with a friend, so we can dream out loud together, or give each other the support and accountability that a dream needs.
Sometimes I ask myself, what does the wish represent? Why is it important, are you sure that is what you really want, or is it a stand-in for something deeper? Then I sit with the thought, turning it over, volleying it back and forth as if in a tennis match, until I understand myself better or decide I can let it go.
I need to make sure that the dreaming and planning does not descend into grasping, craving, and yearning. If it seems like I am heading in that direction, I ask the why question again, and remind myself that where I am right now is a blessing, that I do not always have to be setting up the next thing.
Yet I love the idea of possibility – that there is more in this life if I open myself up, if I am less afraid, take a chance, work, ask for help and guidance, and yes, plan. Last month I was in a bookstore back home, and I came across this quirky statue of a fleshy pink pig, sitting on its haunches, snout lifted upwards, wings on its back as if it is getting ready for takeoff. The statue is ceramic, and if you look closely you can see the cracks in the glaze trailing off in a million different directions, each line leaving traces of its journey. I like that despite the apparent cracks in the piece, it is whole, entire, it has not fallen apart. Like me. A pig can fly.
I came across this quote while reading Julia Cameron’s latest book, It’s Never Too Late to Begin Again. In June I am starting a couple of projects that I’ve been dreaming about for a while. It’s time to get to work and I am excited. Any dreams that you have been holding inside? It is time to begin…
“It has been said that success can be boiled down to two simple rules: 1. Start something. 2. Keep going.”
-Julia Cameron
Things looked quiet Saturday morning but within an hour, the campus of Calvin College in Grand Rapids, Michigan was bustling – full of writers, readers, editors, publishers, and the friendly students who responded to our questions about how to get around. I was there for the biennial Festival of Faith & Writing and this was my second time.
The word faith has many meanings depending on whom you ask; it is kind of like the words religion and spiritual. Faith implies a search for something deeper to define us, but also implies that as much as we search, some things that we profess to believe remain a mystery. I am okay with that. From name tags to tote bags, you saw the word “Reader” everywhere; reading is the heart of the Festival. Through writing, reading and discussion, we can come together to talk about the many issues in the world and in our private lives.
The writers were from various denominations and beliefs and much like through writing, they seek understanding, at times through their faith, and at other times, in spite of it. The focus was always on the writing, but a few authors addressed the process of finding an audience or getting published. Bob Hosack, executive editor with Baker Publishing, emphasized the importance of having a platform because writers are expected to bring an audience with them. As writers, we have heard that before, but for some in the room it confirmed the importance of building a community.
Over the three days, I listened to panels, started the day with poetry readings, and took time to jot down ideas for my own writing. There were more speakers and panels than I could possibly attend, but here are some of the highlights and quotes from the Festival:
Zadie Smith, novelist and essayist, spoke on creativity, saying “Creativity is more than finding the perfect product for the perfect audience.” Her book, Changing My Mind, is one of my favorite essay collections.
Poets Susanna Childress, Barbara Crooker, Tania Runyan, and Anya Silver graced the audience Friday morning by reading their poems on motherhood in all of its forms, and the connections between motherhood, faith and writing. Their readings took place in the College Chapel and it was a perfect setting for sharing the sacred and challenging bonds between mothers and their children.
Dani Shapiro asked an essential question, “Aren’t we all stumbling towards a faith that works for us?” and described her journey, from growing up in an Orthodox Jewish home to embracing Buddhism.
David Dark – “Maybe we already have an audience, a few people who are interested in what we have to say, and maybe that’s enough.”
I took notes, met many authors, had a meeting with an editor, browsed the exhibit hall, bought home books to read and share, and tried to immerse myself in discussions about writing. The writing life can be quiet and solitary, like the campus was at the beginning of each day, but at events like these we gather to share our love for writing.
Mark this date on your calendar, April 12-14, 2018, for the next gathering for the Festival of Faith & Writing.
Happy reading and writing!
