How to Survive Writing Life Culture Shock

When you dive into the writing life--especially if you're going full tilt, full time--you might experience culture shock. And frankly, it might be severe.

Wait a sec, you might be thinking. Isn't this taking the whole "travel" metaphor a bit far?

Nope. 

When I was in college, I spent a semester studying in England. We were prepped with a discussion or two on culture shock before we left. 

Okay. Things will be different, I thought. So I went with my teeth gritted a bit, expecting to enjoy my host country, but also to face a bit of culture shock as well.

Guess what. I had absolutely NO culture shock symptoms at all. I wanted to stay there forever. (Sniff. I love you, England.)

But fast forward to, oh, about 24 hours after college graduation: I developed a major case of culture shock. Which lasted about seven years.

Learning to check my instincts before crossing a road was SO EASY compared to navigating the full time novelist's life!

Culture shock + the writing life. Let's talk about it. 

I love this description of culture shock, from the University of North Carolina - Greensboro. (Not my college, but they do an awesome job of discussing symptoms and adjustment.) 

They define culture shock as "the way you react and feel when the cultural cues you know so well from home are lacking."

What do you think, lionhearted writer? Did your cultural cues shift when you started the writing life?

All the things that made sense in your normal job, or in school--when they disappeared and were replaced by the writing life's cues... how did that go for you?

I found that I was desperate for a syllabus. I wanted someone else to have a plan for my writing life. I missed feedback at every step of the way--from fellow students, from professors.

And I couldn't figure out why working all day and night was burning me out instead of getting stuff done. The harder I pushed, the worse things got.

Here's what I found: All the skills I had developed to do really awesome work in school were the exact skills that set me up to do really badly as a full time novel writer. 

Seriously. 

So did I get some major culture shock? Yup. 

And not just metaphorically. I had the symptoms. 

Check out that list on the U of NC page: I developed a BUNCH of them as a full time writer!

This is a little embarrassing, but seriously, I checked pretty strong on: tiredness, irritability, depression, crying for no reason, homesickness, and (ahem) hostility toward host nationals. (I hated hearing about other writers doing well. Like I said: embarrassing.)

I have finally crossed through that stage, but I think I could have passed through it much MUCH faster if I realized what the heck I was dealing with. I could have learned to adapt, I could have thought like an expat, instead of just fighting it all.

I love the tips for coping on that study abroad link. Seriously, these are GREAT for writers. Let's translate them into writer-speak:

Learn as much as possible about the writing life. 

Not just the writing craft, but the writing LIFE.

That's a huge part of why I have this blog in the first place: because all the books on craft weren't helping me get better.

It was only when I learned more and more about how other writers  survived, how other writers tick, how other writers navigate productivity and creativity... only then did I start to calm down, and figure this stuff out.

So what can you do?

• Read writer's memoirs! Books about how other writers deal with this funny writing life. (The Writer's Desk is a gorgeous and very pick-up-able intro to the writing life.)

• Gulp down interviews with other writers. (The website Writer Unboxed has an incredible archive of interviews. Read 'em all!!)

• I will crawl over shards of glass to hand any writer a copy of Page after Page or Chapter after Chapter by Heather Sellers. More than any other books, these helped explain to me what it feels like to be a writer. 

Find logical reasons for the cultural differences.

So, the writing life doesn't look like a bunch of other kinds of lives.

It is not the same thing as a full time student life. Or full time work with a boss and clear instructions. Okay? 

If you've only ever been a student, or if you've only ever worked with fairly clear guidelines--you might feel like your identity has gone all shaky on you. 

You might feel like you've been tossed in a lake with a pen and paper. (And if so, yup, that's right on track.)

It's a fluid kind of life, with room for creativity and curiosity. You learn how much discipline you need, and how to keep discipline from choking creativity. (And creativity from choking discipline!) You learn how to push yourself and how to let yourself rest. 

And it's darned hard! 

I spent so much time highlighting the differences between the writing life and my former life. And then I reinforced  those differences by fighting the writing life. And fighting hard.

I kept thinking: it shouldn't be this way. It should be a lot more like college.

That kind of thinking didn't help me. At all. It kept me locked in culture shock for a long time:

I shouldn't have to have an apprenticeship. I should be able to write a perfect novel in a year. Other people should understand exactly what it is I do (and be encouraging, for pete's sake).

Creativity should follow neat, organized paths. I should be able to stay perfectly on my predicted schedule. Every day should be productive in a quantifiable, check-off-that-box kind of way.

That kind of thinking helped me graduate with honors. I did really great in school. So, yay. Yay for that. But it was time--past time--to let that thinking go.

To tuck those ideas, that way of working, in a box with some tissue paper, and put a freaking lid on it.

If, say, creativity followed neat and organized paths, guess what. IT WOULDN'T BE CREATIVITY. It might be, say, website coding, or architecture, or algebra. But it wouldn't be CREATIVITY. 

See what I mean?

What about you? What are your biggest arguments against the creative writing life?

Maybe it's time to acknowledge that this kind of thinking helped you do whatever it is that you did before. Maybe it even helped you do really, really well. And that's great. Really.

But it will strangle your writing life. Time to let it go.

Don't whine about your new culture.

Ahem. Right? We need to resist the temptation to get together with other writers to have a big moaning festival.

I'm only one week into my No Whining Challenge, but I'm already discovering three great benefits to refusing to whine: 

1) If I can't vent about something, I find that I can laugh about it. And not just in a bitter way, but I can genuinely find it funny. It's like all that whining energy puts on party hats and makes me laugh. I can't explain it. But it's a good thing.

2) A bigger sense of gratitude. When I'm not clouding my general outlook with a lot of complaining, my vision is clearer to see all the good stuff. Which has been pretty cool.

3) If something's really bugging me and I can't whine about it, I channel all that energy into just fixing it. Shocking, right? Instead of griping, I can, you know, DO something about it.

So instead of whining about the writing life (the instability! the disorganization! the many tempting chances to go insane!), find what's funny about it. What's genuinely humorous about the writing temperament, the quirkiness of what we do, the way writers talk and think.

See the freedom with gratitude. 

And if something's really nagging at you--try to fix it.

Talk to someone who has acclimated to this new culture.

YES! Meet other writers! Seek friendships with the non-whining people who are navigating this life, and who are doing a decent job of it. Find 'em on Twitter, on Instagram, through other social media channels...

Or hey, talk to me, I'm right here! Ha ha! But seriously, leave a comment or catch me on Twitter @reallucyflint, and say hello. We can talk about this totally unusual writing life!!

Talk with your new writing friends about how your old cultural cues worked and how these new cues are so different.

Talk about how your sense of expectations changed, how success is totally different, how freedom sometimes feels like it's strangling you, how all those books on creativity make you feel squirmy.

And learn about how this other person has made their adjustments, what mindset tricks they use, how they think about it now. This can be so so helpful!

Know that you can make it.

You really can. (Heck, if I can do it, I'm pretty sure anyone can!) 

If you're writing at all, if you're drawn to the writing life, then some part of you, somewhere in your personality and psyche, some part of you really will thrive in this life. Some part of you is urging you to jump in.

And the rest of you? The rest of you really can catch up. I promise.

The writing life is a pretty broad and forgiving thing, when you get used to it. There's a lot of room for variety. As you adapt, you'll find ways to make it your own. One day you might wake up and find that you're right at home, talking and giving directions like a native!

It helps if you aren't super strict with yourself as you adjust. Give yourself so much grace. Don't demand perfection. Don't try to push yourself harder when you're still learning the ropes. 

That study abroad page has a list of character traits that are good for helping you adjust and cope: And even though they say that they're helping you travel to a new culture, I think that they are IDEAL for a writer's toolkit!

A tolerance for ambiguity? YUP.

Open-mindedness. Flexibility. Curiosity. Sense of humor. Ability to fail.

Yes to all that.

Look, friend. If you really want to be a writer, but are having the hardest time adjusting, I totally hear you. 

Try this. It really is more than just a nifty metaphor this time. Try thinking of it as culture shock. You learned how to survive in your old culture, and you probably were really, really good at it.

But this is a new place. 

Don't beat yourself up. The new culture simply won't look the same as the old, in so many ways. The cues are not the same.

Don't hold yourself to old standards when you're in a new land. At the very least, you'll be uncomfortable. At the worst, you'll be a bit of a wreck, kinda like me. 

What is the thing that you trip over the most, the cultural cue that is the most frustrating and infuriating? The thing that makes you snap, and holler about how much you hate writing, you hate this crummy life? What is that thing?

Try to see it in light of this new culture. Maybe there's a reason things are different here. Maybe the reasons are even understandable, even good somehow. Learn how other writers made that adjustment. Make friends with writers who are adjusting right alongside you.

Practice flexibility. Practice your sense of humor. Let yourself fail. 

And become a citizen of a new (and ultimately super wonderful!) culture.

---

What is the toughest part of adapting to this new culture? Or what are you overcoming; what have you overcome? Let us know in the comments. Let's be a writing community that supports each other! 

The Habit We All Have that Poisons Our Writing (Yikes!)

Have you ever gone on a trip with a total whiner? Someone who highlights every disappointment, every inconvenience? 

The smell of the room, the weird guy over there, the long line at the restrooms, the shoulder bag is way too heavy, these prices are ridiculous, feet are aching, ohmygosh is it really about to rain, these exhibits aren't really all that great, these streets should be better marked, CAN'T get my MAP folded back up . . .

You know. Whining.

It's funny: I love traveling. Love it! I itch to explore new places. And yet... I do my fair share of whining.

*slaps forehead* 

What's up with that? Here's my theory. I think I love idealized travel. Right? Travel with neat edges: clean restrooms, low humidity, good hair days, smooth traffic, no exploding shampoo in the suitcase.

The kind of travel that doesn't really exist.

So the part of me that loves idealized travel is the part that cannot believe that all these difficulties and irritations exist.

So I nitpick. And whine. About all the inconveniences.

... but have you heard what G. K. Chesterton said about inconvenience?

He wrote, An inconvenience is only an adventure wrongly considered; an adventure is an inconvenience rightly considered.

Meaning: it's all a matter of perspective.

Meaning: all my whining IS TOTALLY OPTIONAL.

What about you--are you a whiner?

(Go ahead and 'fess up. It's good for the soul.)

Do you whine about travel? Or, more to the point: Do you whine about your writing? 

Oof. I know. Me too.

It's so easy to love writing, to love the writing life, and find out that what you actually love is the idealized version.

The writing life where everything moves at the pace you would choose. Where you never have to throw out that 500-page draft you spent over a year working on. (Who, me?) Where you get money just for TRYING HARD.

Where the words come fairly easily, and any struggles--if you must have them--are beautifully cinematic and cause other people to buy you drinks. (As opposed to telling you to get a "real" job.)

Whining about our writing because it's not the "ideal" writing life. 

I think we need to stop doing that. 

Just go cold turkey. Give it up. No more whining.

To be clear, by "whining" I don't mean: Identifying an obstacle or pointing out that something is wrong. I'm not saying that we shouldn't recognize what isn't working well, or that a situation is difficult. 

By all means, let's stay realistic.

But let's also realize that all our whining is actually optional and not super helpful. And that by turning all setbacks into inconveniences, we just might be missing some adventures.

Need a bit more convincing? Okay. 

Here's what I find when I whine, whether it's about my writing, or about anything else:

Whining means: putting words out there. (I tend to whine in a journal a lot, so I'm literally writing my whines down. I'm using all my writing muscles to whine.)

And it doesn't make things better. Real whining? It's just moving the mess around.

In housecleaning terms, it's taking a pile of clutter and marching through the house with it, spilling papers and paraphernalia all through the rest of your living quarters. Giving yourself MORE to deal with, not less.

I'm not saying that we should never have a negative thought. I'm not saying we need to lie to ourselves, or to Pollyanna our way through life.

What I am saying--and what I've seen at work in my own writing life--is this: When I whine (whether with my mouth or pen or keyboard), I drain words and energy and emotion and courage right away from my writing.

After a big whine festival, I feel like I'm sizzling with ideas for more whining. I feel a bit worn out and self-righteous and like I could write a whole treatise for Why This Thing Is Wrong.

And also, like watching a movie with a gin and tonic. Because now I'm tired, and I feel like I need a break. 

From stewing and rehashing and complaining about something that--frankly--I probably won't even remember a week from now. Something that definitely Does Not Matter.

Usually I'm inflating a petty drama or a misunderstanding. I'm blowing a ton of hot air into it, so it turns into this massive balloon of a mood that sweeps me up and away. 

I'm focusing on conflict that isn't my novel's conflict. I'm rehearsing and recreating dialogues that aren't coming from my characters.

I'm spinning this whole narrative sequence--all those novel skills at work!--and using up my creativity for some silly, petty nothing.

That's whatcha call Counterproductive.

And here's the other thing: Whining dulls us. 

G.K. Chesterton might say that it keeps us from seeing adventures, opportunities, and new ways of thinking.

When we inflate the inconvenience version of things, we can't possibly see the positive version. We go blind. (This is never good for a writer.)

And it messes with our voice. Have you noticed that all whining sounds pretty much the same?

There's a tone and a direction, a sourness. Whining deflates a personality, and turns it into plain old bitterness. Which smells and sounds like everyone else's bitterness. Gross.

Lionhearts! Let's NOT DO THIS. Okay? 

It's toxic. It's bad for our writing, and probably it isn't super for any other part of our lives.

Let's boot it out of our writing hearts. Let's not use our pens to jot down a million reasons why something is no good.

Let's stop dwelling on petty dramas and inconveniences. Let's stop trading our good novel words for energy-draining, personality-zapping dullness.

ICK.

No more letting our moods stomp away with us.

I didn't really plan this, but I've decided to do something. I'm all convinced. I'm sick of being the whiner, of finding creative ways to voice my disapproval of things that don't actually matter.

So I'm gonna give myself a challenge. Thirty days. Of NOT WHINING. 

Of not dwelling on inconvenience. Of not venting and venting and venting. Of not rehashing things that irritated me. 

Without whining, I'll have more room in my brain for my words. More room for my wonderful work-in-progress. Yep, it's worth it. So I'm going to close the door on complaint.

#30DaysNoWhining

You are SO welcome to join me. Let's stop letting moods poison what we do. 

Let's see adventures instead of inconveniences. 

Thirty days. Starting right now. 

The Mistake We're Making When We Think Our Surroundings Don't Matter

Writing seriously for about ten years now means that I've written in basically every possible situation.

In crappy motel rooms and gorgeous hotel suites and cozy b&bs. Crouching on staircases, or in weird back corners. On trains. In boats, planes, and cars. Sitting on a curb, a park bench, a porch, a rickety lawn chair. In concert halls and airport terminals and dingy hallways. 

Everywhere. 

That's one of those great things about writing, right? Our material is everywhere, inspiration can be any place we choose, and our necessary tools (a pen! a notebook!) are super portable.

We can write in any situation. Any environment.

And while that's super, while that's great, while that's an extremely useful skill to have, I've been making this huge mistake about it.

I figured that: Because I can write in any situation and environment, then my main work environment doesn't really matter.

Meaning: I wasn't putting all that much thought into the way my writing desk/office area looked.

I keep my notes vaguely organized (kinda sorta), and most of my pens and markers make their way into some mugs I have for that purpose--

It isn't an ogre pit, is what I mean. But I also haven't made it a very big priority.

And then I came across the Beautiful Living website by Rebecca McLoughlin. I started devouring her blog posts, especially this great series on spring cleaning and what it means to edit your space. (Not decluttering, but editing. Read about that. It's genius!)

And I had this revelation.

See, she talks a lot about how your space reflects a certain image of yourself and your life back to yourself. 

So you have to look hard at your space and say: do I actually like or agree with this version of myself? Is this the direction I really want to go?

(Think about that a sec. It's a really big deal. All the stuff we have around ourselves: it's all SAYING SOMETHING. Crazy, right? But it totally is!)

I looked around my work area with new eyes after reading her posts. And I asked myself:

Is this the Lucy Flint that I want to keep being? Is my writing space pointing me in the direction I want my writing to go? Is it clean and fresh and inviting? Does it feel both cheerful and yet professional? Does it stimulate my imagination and beckon crazy-amazing stories out of me?

Um, NO. Basically just a lot of no.

It wasn't awful. But it wasn't remarkable.

So this week, I've done a total overhaul of my work area. 

• I went through my bookcases and found 95 books that I was hanging onto but didn't actually like or want to reread! WHAT?? Ninety-five! That's a freaking lot of books! I pulled them out and now all my favorites (and I still have a lot, so don't worry) have room to breathe.
   

• I cleared out all my desk drawers and cluttery spaces. I got rid of the dried up pens and crappy pencils and broken supplies. I recycled this huge cascade of papers that no longer mattered. 
   

• I made a ton of decisions about what to keep and what to get rid of. (If I ask myself "Do I need this?" I can always think of five very compelling situations where I'll NEED that thing. And then I don't get rid of it. But when I switch the question and ask: "Can I throw this away?" I tend to think, "Yup, I can definitely live without that!" Isn't that funny? Reframing the question totally changes my response. SO FREEING.)
   

• And I'm coming up with ways to add more beauty and imagination and quirky creativity to my space. Artwork that inspires stories. Beautifully lettered quotes that get my mind spinning. I've been exploring this awesome catalog of free desktop backgrounds from DesignLoveFest. Totally fun! I'm planning to add some flowers in a great vase. I'm gonna find a gorgeous candle for crying out loud.

I still have more to do before my space is as inviting and stimulating as I'd like it to be. But I'm SO glad I took the time to really look at it and make changes!

I can already feel more mental energy and creativity surging around in my mind. Every time I walk over to my desk, I feel this inner leap of happiness. 

And THAT'S a great way to approach another day of writing!

So what about you? How's your writing area looking?

Can you get rid of anything that's holding you back or reflecting an old version of your writing self? Does anything in your writing space remind you of feeling discouraged or un-confident? Bleh!! Get rid of it!

What would happen if your writing space reflected your most brave, inspired, and delighted writing self back to you? What would that even look like? What kinds of tools would you have? What trinkets and what artwork?

Grab some time today to make a few changes. Kick out the crap. Bring in some beauty. 

The rest of your writing week is already jumping up and down with excitement.

---

Want a few more ways to shake up your Monday? YEAH, you do. 
Read this post to get inspired to have a little dance party of one.
Tell perfectionism to take a hike.
And use your obscurity to get, you know, super-duper awesome in every way.

It's gonna be a great week, lionhearts.

Making It Easy to Write

Yeah, I know. The words easy and writing don't usually belong in the same sentence.

And maybe writing will never be truly easy, but I think that we can all agree that--on the best days--it can be easier rather than harder.

When my writing is going okay, I lean deeper and deeper into this practice of staying connected to the work. 

Because isn't disconnection half of what's hard about it?

If my characters are strangers, if I can't remember the knack of their voices, if I've lost the atmosphere of their world, and the thread and threat of the conflict has evaporated...

That's when writing feels impossible. That's when I start giving up.

But when the world of the novel stays alive in my mind, when all my mental machines for writing stay on and humming, when the engine is warm:

Those are the enchanted times when I get three new ideas during dinner, when I step out of the shower with a paragraph written in my head, when I hear a chance phrase from someone else and solve a major plot concern instantly.

We want to keep that engine warm! It's a massive game changer in this whole enterprise.

We have to never stop writing. 

No, I don't mean we're tied to our desk, and I don't mean we never have a day off. I mean that we never let the engine get truly cold. 

In Chapter after Chapter, Heather Sellers describes the practice of "positioning," a term she got from her writing friend Eric. 

She says that he decides exactly what he'll be working on the next day. He makes a list, staying businesslike and professional about it. He sets out the files he'll need, getting everything ready for the next morning.

"Purposeful book authors ... lay out their things, mentally and physically preparing for the next writing day. ... Everything is set up for the next day, like dominoes, and in the morning [Eric] just has to get his butt to the chair, flick his finger, and the process immediately has its own momentum."

Heather describes her own positioning process while writing a collection of short stories: every evening she would review her notes, touch the printed pages of her draft, and glance over her outline.

Nothing intense. Just a nightly visit to her writing studio.. But this kept the book alive in her mind, day after day after day, in spite of massive changes in her personal life.

James Scott Bell, in Plot & Structure, describes his habit of writing 350 words in the morning, practically first thing.

He says it's a good jump forward on his quota of words. But I think it also keeps that story alive, by immediately connecting writer to words at the start of the day.

I've found half a dozen ways to stay connected to my story, and to keep that writing engine warm:

• When I'm in the thick of drafting, I always start the day's work by rereading what I wrote yesterday. (I'm not allowed to cringe too much.)
   

• If I'm drafting by hand (and I usually am), I also type the previous day's work. Usually, I tweak it a bit as I go, and this light editing gets my brain all kinds of warmed up.
   

• When I get up from my desk during the day (you know I have those dance parties!): I jot a few notes. Whatever I already know about what comes next: any details, any fragments. It's like a quick Polaroid of what I was writing toward. 
   

• If I have to leave for a longer time--doctor's appointment, coffee date--I'll take a much more complete snapshot. I layer in more details, roughing in a view of the rest of the scene. Even if a whirlwind of distractions follows, that next bit of writing is safe. And it doesn't take much for me to get back into the groove.
   

• At the end of the work day, just like Heather Sellers and her friend Eric, I make a plan. I'll look at my notes, my outlines. Maybe tidy up the clutter. Set out all the working pieces in places of honor. 
   

• ... And when I'm really, really working hot, when the days feel like I'm living more in the book than in the "real world," more in ink and paper than in oxygen and carbon, I do one more thing: I sleep next to the manuscript. It's right there next to me in bed. Yes. I do realize that this is TOTALLY weird. But there's something about the notebook sitting there, with all those words. It feels like the book is truly alive, like my brain is still connected. The last thing I want to do is break that spell. So instead, I try to put a huge sign on my subconscious, saying: I'm Still Here. (It's a little less weird if you think of a newborn baby sleeping in the same room as its parents. See? That's normal, right? And you never know when the manuscript might wake up in the middle of the night and need you to rock it back to sleep...)

If you've ever had a block. If you've ever had a rough day. If you've ever totally lost the thread of what you're working on because life showed up. If you've ever been in a groove and then so unexpectedly fell right out of it. 

If that's ever happened to you (and that's all of us, right?), then you owe it to yourself to lean in. To make the most of the good times. 

Learn how to stay connected to your work. Refuse to take the good days for granted. Don't start skipping out. Don't trust the sunshine to stay forever.

Keep the engine warm; keep moving forward.

Make it easy (or at least easier) to write.

Do you have strategies for staying connected to your book? I'd love to pick up some new tricks... Do share!

The Enormous Virtue of Showing Up

It is amazing how well writing will go for you, so long as you just show up. 

How many character insights, how many brilliant plot twists, how many excellent words: They appear on beautiful ordinary days. It doesn't always take a huge effort, or an intervention, or an outside critique.

Sometimes it's just the page and a writer who chose to show up. Nothing flashy.

What does that mean, showing up?

Well, it doesn't mean being a zombie. Propped up and semi-conscious (with or without the questionable diet): Nope, doesn't work. 

I mean being present. With every part of yourself.

You've gotta show up physically.

I know, I know, your body is in a chair, so it's easy to think you can check this one off right away.

But to physically show up, you also need all senses active and ready. Aware of your body.

Because when you're writing, you'll need to rely on sensory detail, on description that is rich and vibrant and feels like a real person experienced it. 

... And that's true whether you're writing a multigenerational saga or an oven manual. We're never allowed to write as if we're robots.

Physical energy is crucial too: It's too easy to be half-asleep, slumped in the chair.

But writing is an exhausting thing--for me, at least. It takes real, physical energy to get words on a page. So eating smart, exercising regularly, sleeping well: That all feeds into a quality writing day.

You have to have all your tools physically ready too--your reference books, all your notes jotted down on scraps of paper, pens that work, batteries in your keyboard, four cups of piping hot coffee. 

You've gotta show up mentally.

You can't write when your mind is full of other things.

It's easy to lose the battle here. To get swept into a rant, instead of into writing. To fall down a rabbit hole on the Internet, blinking fuzzily at your computer as you realize three hours have passed. To consider your evening plans all morning long.

Trust me, I get it. And I do it too. SO MANY TIMES.

But it's pretty hard on all my characters. Their precious real estate in my mind is suddenly crowded with ideas that have nothing to do with them. They're pushed into the background, as all that prime thinking goes to other (less important!) things.

Unfocused writing might as well not be writing at all.

It takes a conscious effort to boot out everything but the work itself. It's not something that resolves on its own. 

To get back on track, I have to say--out loud, sometimes--I'm done thinking about that. I'm done trying to come up with the perfect retort that I should have used two nights ago!! This time is for WRITING. And so I'm going to WRITE.

(It sometimes helps to run around your office with your hands in the air as you shout this. Or maybe that's just me. But seriously: it clears the mind.)

Ask yourself, what's getting in the way?

Are you upset about something? Or--and this can be a tricky one--listening to the wrong music? Singing along happily and thinking about driving with all the windows down, and not so much about this fragile scene, these quiet characters.

We have to show up. We have to arrive at the desk with full writer brains.

With memories tingling in our fingertips. With our imaginations brewing carafes of imagery.

Mind sharp. Vocabulary present. All those words raring to go.

You've gotta show up with a whole heart.

This might be the sneakiest no-show of all. Because yes, we can get the sleep we need (or at least the coffee we need), and we can clear our minds of interference.

But it's still possible to hit the draft absently. To be less than our whole selves.

There's no room for emotional insensitivity in a writing life. And emotional darkness is just as dangerous. Bitterness can dampen the real insights we might otherwise offer.

Henri Matisse said, "Hatred, rancor, and the spirit of vengeance are useless baggage to the artist. His road is difficult enough for him to cleanse his soul of everything which could make it more so." 

Isn't that true??

How's your heart doing these days?

I've found that when I let envy fester in my life, when I let a kind of callousness creep in, when I'm actively bitter about something--my writing goes down the tubes.

Yeah, I might muster up some funny sarcasm. Yeah, it might seem like some of the words are sharper. But the core of it, the real goodness of it, is off. 

Even when it's just me writing in my room, just me and all my characters: I have to stay open-hearted, stay sensitive to people.

Aware of human fragility and human strength. Conscious of complexities. Striving for forgiveness--or at least understanding--for the real live people I know.

Showing up with a whole heart means coming at this enterprise with an intent to do good. To build a bridge from this heart to a reader's heart. To build that bridge with words.

Doesn't really work if we're also harboring the emotional equivalent of a bridge bomber. You know what I mean?

We owe it to ourselves, our work, and our readers to keep our hearts clear of all that useless baggage.

This is our commute, my friends. Even if your office is just a few steps away from your bed (or even if you're working in bed!): this is the road we take every day to get to work.

We show up. In our skins and our bones, in our sharpened minds, in our huge hearts.

It's a pretty serious commute, when you think of it like that. It's not a small thing to show up.

Even on the ordinary and average days: That's enormous. 

But I think our calling is worth it, don't you? 

So when writing asks us to show up with our biggest self, let's be up for it this June.

The Goal When Things Are Going Well

When life gets extra hard, have you ever looked back at the calm before the storm--the bright times--and thought: Wow. I had it so good, and I didn't even know. I had no idea!

Yes? Me too. 

And usually I'm looking back at a time that was simply ordinary. Plain old normal. But normalcy takes on an extraordinary sweetness when life goes crazy, right? 

Wouldn't it be great if we could lean in closer to that normalcy, if we could appreciate the ordinary, while we still have it? If we could hold on to the days when everything is fine, when life and work are humming along?

And then--take it a step further. Because when things in our writing, in our lives, are going well, it's an opportunity.

It's a chance for us to run faster. 

To work without fear. To dive into the deepest places. To stretch further. To open our hearts wider. To risk more.

During the month of June, we're going to focus on where things are going right. And we'll take full advantage of them.

After all, it's the month of summer solstice (for the northern hemisphere at least! sorry, southerners!). The month of light and warmth.

Is there anything more ordinary and yet more wonderful than full summer sunshine?

So we'll celebrate the goodness, the richness.

And then we'll focus on strength. Building on what's going well. Taking advantage of all that solar power, turning light and heat into good power.

Because when you're strong, when your writing muscles are all warmed up, you are primed to cover some serious ground. When life is calm, you have a chance to become more flexible, to try more things, to attempt flight.

It's a month of brilliance and optimism. 

Let's talk about the bright times. Let's make much of the sunshine. And then let's get crazy strong.

Perfectionism Doesn't Love You (So It's Time To Declare War)

One of the biggest enemies to a healthy writing life is perfectionism. 

Of course, it won't tell you that. It has a fantastic propaganda machine going. It has this great lie it tells. 

Perfectionism says: I'm the way to make sure that your writing is any good. Believe ME, and I'll make sure that you write something worthwhile. 

But don't believe it. It's a trick. A scam. Because perfectionism won't sign off on ANYTHING. And in the meantime, it will make you totally miserable, if it doesn't shut you up entirely. 

And anything that annihilates your confidence and keeps you from working--that's not a good thing to keep around your writing life.

So we need to kick perfectionism out.

Here are three places where perfectionism tries to run your life (and what you can do instead).

Perfectionism panics in the face of growth. Perfectionism sees challenges as occasions for grand despair. Because, it reasons, you won't be able to do it well enough. You won't figure this new skill out.

It can't bear the early stages of a new skill. It's anti-mess. It can't tolerate rubble. It doesn't do process.

Perfectionism is usually the thing bleating "I can't!!" into my brain when I try something new. What it means by that is, I can't guarantee that I will be able to do this perfectly; I can't guarantee that I won't look foolish. Which means that it is Not Allowed. Back away. I can't do it.

That is a big, paralyzing message. 

One of the best ways to fight it: Write crap. 

Yes, I've said that before. Yes, I'll keep saying it. 

When perfectionism flares up and says, NO, you'll do it wrong, this is what you need to do. You need to lean in and DO IT WRONG.

Seriously.

Flail on paper. Be sloppy. Stutter.

Write the most one-sided character you can. Fill up your dialogue with "Um, like, totally awesome, I mean, OMG and LOL and stuff." Throw in the profoundly dull plot twist. Set the next scene in the most unoriginal place possible.

Then sit back and admire your handiwork. In spite of everything, YOU HAVE WRITTEN. So, refuse to panic. And listen as perfectionism does a long, slow death rattle.

Can I tell you a secret about what you just wrote? Everything changes when you call it a placeholder. It's just hanging out in your draft until you know how to do it better. That's all. It's doing its job. Holding that place. And everything is fine.

Writing doesn't come out perfect. Ever. Improvements come slowly. But they don't come at all if your hands cramp up and your brain squeals and perfectionism marches you away from the desk.

When we focus on what we can't do, we miss everything that we can do. And you can do so much, lionheart. So very much.

Perfectionism blasts a message of "This is terrible" whenever reading your writing. It might tell you that it has your best interests in mind. It wants your writing to sound good. And this isn't good.  

Argue back. Decide that there's something more terrible than really smelly writing. What's really terrible is choking up to the point of not writing at all. What's terrible is walking away from writing, because you'll never be good enough.

Remind yourself that no book, no article, no piece of written anything can be declared perfect. Perfection in writing is massively subjective. You won't get there. You just won't. 

Embrace the idea of versions. Of all your works being works-in-progress. You'll improve it on the second try. You'll do as a 2.0 version.

(Obviously this doesn't work in all situations, but it does work more often than perfectionism would ever guess. You can have a second version of a blog post, a conversation, an outing, even a birthday. There are so many times when you can simply try again. And it's just fine.)

Counter that brittle idea of "perfection" by aiming for Good Enough. This, like so many excellent tricks, comes from Heather Sellers. 

Listen to how she describes it:

"Do the best you can" means you put honest-to-God everything you have into your book. You can't call it Good Enough until you have stretched yourself, dug deep, pushed yourself, and really truly...given the book everything you have. ... You bring the book up from the very depths of you....

When you are giving it your best, nothing is held back. ... When you give it everything, everything, there are still going to be flaws. And that's when you say, at the very end of the day, Good Enough. 

Good Enough isn't settling. It's celebrating the truth." -- from Chapter after Chapter 

Isn't that beautiful? You give it everything you have. And that means that there will be flaws. And that's okay.

Tell perfectionism that--insist on that in your mind--and watch it blow up. 

Perfectionism has an all-or-nothing point of view. It doesn't allow for complexity. If it sniffs out a few flaws (and it can always find a few flaws), then the whole piece, the whole book, the whole writer, is rotten. 

When I dive into revision, perfectionism looms over my desk. I find myself making a massive list of revisions I need to make: I need to fix everything. All at once. When my tally of changes hits triple-digits, I finally catch the smell of perfectionism's bad breath. 

To fight this, I get rebellious. Audacious.

I countered my 100+ list of revisions by radically deciding I would only focus on three changes.

Perfectionism spluttered. "What about seventy-five?" it said, very seriously.

"THREE," was my answer. 

And I set off on one of the happiest revision experiences I've ever had. With each chapter, I focused on just dealing with those same three issues, over and over. Calmly.

And as perfectionism leaned in to point out a dozen glaring errors, I'd cover my ears and shriek, "Only three!!"

You have to do a lot of shrieking if you're battling perfectionism. It doesn't respond to subtle. It doesn't understand polite.

You've got to be rude. Get in its face. It wants to take your writing life away from you. Get aggressive.

Really, it comes down to this. You need to realize--deep down realize--that perfectionism doesn't have your best interests in mind. It just likes being loud and feeling smug. It's empty. It doesn't have anything to offer you. It won't keep you safe.

So don't let it boss you around.

The Best Book I've Read on Managing My Creative Work

The process of writing a novel used to go something like this for me: 1. Have idea. 2. Have PANIC.

Because suddenly there is a massive lot of ideas showing up (if I'm lucky), and they're each bringing a dozen more ideas (if I'm lucky), which translates into a million things for me to do. If I'm lucky.

Which is great. Which is grand. Which is why I love this big crazy career in the first place.

But it also kind of feels like trying to catch the whole Earth with your teeth.

I get overwhelmed. That's what I mean.

How do you deal with a massive idea overload, with the zillion steps it takes to complete a writing project? How do you organize it, how do you survive the slog, how do you--?

Enter: This book.

You guys. You GUYS. Making Ideas Happen is SO GOOD. (The title alone just kinda calms me down.)

And I deeply appreciate that Scott Belsky is writing for creatives. He's writing to the artists and designers and jewelry makers and entrepreneurs and to all of us lovely writers. 

He's helping us get organized. 

He dispels the whole myth that organization could zap creativity, or that creativity only occurs in chaos. He gives reasonable and reliable tips for how to become more organized, and how to deal with long-term projects.

Which, hello, is what we all need. Because if a novel isn't a long-term project, I don't know what is.

So he talks about how to break down your huge projects into smaller steps, how to be more prone to action than to procrastination, how to deal with every stray idea that floats through your head. 

He gives you a bazillion ideas for how to execute your ideas: how to act on them, how to lean into the process, how to keep going through the huge massive middle of your project (which he calls the Project Plateau--how much do I love that name?!). 

How do you keep working hard? How do you use the people around you--their willingness to support you, their creativity, their unique skills? 

And then how do you lead yourself well? (Because you know I LOVE that topic!) Are you motivated by the right things? How do you stick it out through failure, through uncertainty, through discouragement?

And he has a pleasant, encouraging tone all the way through, that left me with a huge pile of notes and a deep sense of empowerment. 

I mean, listen to this:

"It is not naïve or a cliché to say that the creative mind holds the answers to all of the world's problems. It is merely a fact. And so, you should balance your desire to use your creativity with a sense of responsibility.

Please take yourself and your creative pursuits seriously. Your ideas must be treated with respect because their importance truly does extend beyond your own interests. Every living person benefits from a world that is enriched with ideas made whole." -- Scott Belsky

Right? Right?? 

He is extremely passionate about helping us creative sorts figure this out, because, basically, that's how to save the world. 

Suddenly learning how to manage the different stages of a project takes on--if not a sense of the glamorous--a real weightiness. It keeps me taking this seriously. It isn't just "oh, shrug, who cares, it's just a novel." 

And coming from that place, that dedication, I feel like I want to implement the ideas in this book. ALL of them.

I think you will too.

So, go ahead. Grab a copy.

And then let's make some ideas happen.

It's Easier to Grow When You Make It Fun

It's not a national holiday (yet), but today is my younger sister's birthday. And because of that, we're going to kick off our month-long discussion about growth by starting here: 

With fun.

Why? Because my younger sister was born with the motto: Let's make it fun. (Whereas I tend to focus in on projects with an unconscious motto of Let's make it GRIM.)

When she decided that she wanted to learn how to cook, she transformed herself (over the period of a few years, sure) from someone who did very little in the kitchen, to a darned fine home cook. 

1. She found people that she was excited to learn from. She subscribed to a fun food magazine and immersed herself in the Food Network, printing up the recipes that caught her attention each day. 

2. She was obsessed with getting the best tools she could... and she got them in bright red: her favorite color. Because high quality can be fun, too.

3. She practiced. A lot. She kept going even when a recipe was a bust. And she stretched into the areas she was most excited to learn.

All right, it's pretty straightforward, right? And some of you might have this learning style already. But for those of you who come at new skills with a LET'S MAKE IT GRIM mentality, well--we're in the same boat.

Let's see if we can't learn from my sister's tricks.

1. Who would you be excited to learn from? Who is writing well, or teaching how to write well, but doing it with an attitude that you admire? 

I've developed a really low tolerance for learning from people who seem to be yelling at me. Know what I mean? I don't need to be reminded that writing is hard, or that I'll never learn everything I can about this craft. I don't need a grumpy teacher.

This is why I talk up Heather Sellers' book so much: because her attitude is so grace-based. And Eric Maisel is massively encouraging, so he's a good one too. Barbara Abercrombie and Judy Reeves are favorites for the same reason.

And what about blogs and websites? I've recently discovered Writerology, She's Novel, Eva Deverell, K.M. Weiland, and Joanna Penn, all talented writers whose attitudes are encouraging and you-can-do-it, while still being wonderfully helpful.

2. How can you get the best tools in the best colors? 

Some of this means your environment: How would your writing space react to the idea of growing and learning? Do you have a brittle work area, a place that's only geared toward one thing? 

Or can you drag reference books across your desk? Do you have places where you can tack up inspiring quotes or mood boards for characters? Do you need to buy yourself some quirky blank notebooks, some astonishingly lovely pens? 

Austin Kleon recommends having an "analog" area in your work space, a place where you get to deal with real paper and real pens and markers and scissors... the physical, tactile side of creation. Even if you prefer to write on your computer, consider creating a place where you can actually touch the tools of creation, trace letters with your fingertips, and use the smelly markers.

But the other side of the tool question is this: What are you working on?

I've caught myself using subjects I don't like to practice skills I'm not good at. Friends, it is a BAD COMBO.

Like: researching something I really don't care about. Doing a writing exercise with a subject that doesn't make my heart skip a beat. Working on dialogue with a character that I didn't like. 

Yikes! We owe it to ourselves to write about what we love, to bring our passions right in to our writing exercises, and to making our characters profoundly NOT boring. 

3. Practice taking a lighthearted view of failure. Counter it by continuing to stretch.

Perspective goes a long, long way when you're learning something new, when you're growing a skill. 

Do you make everything a life-or-death issue? Because--as you know by now--I tend to do that.

I've always admired how my younger sister can shrug off difficulties more easily than I do. Sure, when a recipe didn't work out, she didn't like eating a mediocre meal. But it wasn't the end of her world, either.

And besides, she'd also tried some cupcakes to follow. And those just might have turned out to be a win.

Can we borrow that attitude with our failed attempts? The crappy paragraphs that aimed so high and didn't make it? The writing exercises that came out all cramped and muddied?

Can we tell ourselves that it's not the end of the world. There's revision. There's another try. There are new techniques. There are other paragraphs. And tomorrow is a new day.

Challenge yourself. Refuse to think: I HAVE ZERO TALENT, I WILL NEVER RECOVER FROM THIS.

Let's be more like my sister. And let's say, "There are always cupcakes."

How to Grow When You'd Rather Not

Growth is one of those ideas that it's pretty easy to get excited about. I mean, it's spring up here in the northern hemisphere. The leaves are all young and fresh, and flowers are being flowers, and the lawn mowers are droning all day.

Spring. Growth. It's a good season, right? 

Which is why it sounds like a great topic to blog about in May. Let's talk all things growth, I thought, feeling adventurous and wholesome.

Then I thought: Oh, crap. Would that mean I'd actually have to grow???

(Hands up if you're with me on this.)

I like the idea of growing. Of getting better. I really, really do.

I mean--that's everything I'm about.

But at the same time: I'm so tired. And the word "growth" starts to sound like "one more thing to do."

And while I'm shooting this theme in the foot, why not keep going? Here are the reasons why I'm not interested in growing:

• Face it, I'm pretty comfortable with how things are. 

• This works well enough for now. I can make do.

• I'm too distracted, too many things going on.

• What else would I have to change? What would I have to give up or do differently?

• It's a hassle. I'm anti-hassle.

• Growth is messy and untidy and awkward. And I already did adolescence once, so let's not.

• Daredevil is on Netflix. 

I know that those are all bad answers. Even the ones that feel/are true.

Because if I'm not growing--not absorbing nutrients, then pushing out in active growth, steadying myself through rest, and then pushing out again--if I'm not up in that whole cycle...

Then I'm probably doing something else. Something Not Good. 

Honestly, I doubt that "Become Stagnant" is on anyone's to-do list as a writer. And (unless you're a cavity) "Decay" probably isn't on there either.

So theoretically, at least, we can all agree that growth is a good idea.

So how do we reconcile that with the above list? The hassles, the distraction, the awkwardness?

By aiming ourselves at quiet growth. At the slow continuous stretch. At incremental change.

Not at big, flashy, time-lapse-photography kind of growth. It doesn't have to be a huge disruption; it doesn't have to be all or nothing.

Can we avoid going stagnant, can we avoid getting dull as writers, without burning ourselves out, either?

I'm voting for YES. 

Let's look for ways that we can slip subtle, quiet, steady growth into our routines. Ways to make growth a habit, to keep it manageable, to stay nurtured, but to keep stretching nevertheless. 

Heck, maybe we'll even grow at growing. Is that a thing? Can I say that?

Because my overarching career goal is: Write a better story than the last one.

And as far as I can tell, that translates to: Always be growing.

So let's stretch a little this May.