The power of an explosively good book.

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The power of an explosively good book.

I love how this quote redirects my busy, distracted writerly mind.

My ultimate goal is not to rewrite four pages a day; it isn't to finish this draft by the end of August; it isn't even to lock in my morning date with my dictionary. (Though I do keep aiming for those good things!)

Nope, my goal is to write a book that readers love. Ultimately, my goal is to love readers, to love people. And I happen to be doing that by writing the best darned novels I can manage to write.

That's the real story. The true focus.

It's good to get those priorities right again. Otherwise I feel like I'm my own personal assistant, running around with an overflowing to-do list and too many extenuating circumstances and a terrible need for an extremely long vacation. I'm worried about editing, about word choice, about finding better support systems.

Busy, rushing, fractious.

But this quote gets me thinking like a reader again.

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The DNA of writerly heroism.

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Too often, when life is being chaotic and crazy and harrowing, or in other words, life is just being lifey, I am a mad mess. Itchy, irritable, unwilling to handle the new. And extremely willing to be a chattering, rabbity, panic festival. 

These are not the occasions when I do my finest work.

And this isn't when I make clever, wise decisions.

This is when I'm shrill and defensive, bitter, venting fears. (And fears are contagious, so, let's make this a group party!) And it gets obnoxious being inside my own head, where it's suddenly suffocating and damp. 

So I stick this quote on my desk, propped against my pencil cup, to help me realize that I'm breathing too fast and too shallow.

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What we write about when we write about teethmarks.

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So, here's a vivid memory from sixth grade. We were in music class, and our poor music teacher... well, discipline wasn't her strong suit. The kids from the special ed class had joined us, and I remember my classmates verbally savaging a mentally retarded girl named Tina. During class. I watched and listened, horrified. 

I could see that Tina didn't understand everything my evil classmates were saying, but she understood enough. I could see that my music teacher was overwhelmed, the class galloping away from her, but I hated her for not acting.

And I hated myself for being helpless. 

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The truth about those interruptions.

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The truth about those interruptions.

This is one of those wisdoms I pray for. Because it's a hard thing, discerning what exactly is pulling me away from the desk. 

I have been the smarmy, glowering girl, bringing her notebook everywhere, insisting to everyone that she isn't going to stop her work, thanks very much. I'm embarrassed to say, I've been overly defensive of my time when I didn't need to be. I've kept working when I should have stopped.

Other times I do stop. Because it's truly needed. (This past year and a half have been record-breaking in that respect.) Sometimes I really do need to get up, shelve the book for the day, and permit the interruption.  

And then I've also been too delighted to step away. I would much rather participate in that movie marathon, thanks so much! Why yes, I will run errands instead of writing. I wanted to make the four-hour dinner. 

When are those breaks feeding the work?

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Be patient: we're waiting for wonderful.

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This is the quote I have on my nightstand. It's one of the last things I see every day, and there's good reason for that.

Keep going. Keep going. Hang in there. | lucyflint.com

Some times this writing gig feels like I'm pushing a pebble forward with my nose every day. And when I come back for the next day's work, I discover that a giant hand has put it back where I'd started. 

(These are usually the times when I meet a dozen new people, all of whom want to know if I've made any money publishing yet.)

Also: there have been too many days when I feel like a fraud, a slug, or a parasite. 

Which is why I make sure I read this quote. Every night.

Not in the hopes of summoning some writing-life equivalent of the tooth fairy (the plot unsnagging fairy? the I'm-adding-3-or-5-or-7-hours-to-your-day fairy?) to visit, but more for the nightly hang in there.

Because all these pebble-pushing days just might add up to something wonderful.

Hang in there. It is astonishing how short a time it can take for very wonderful things to happen. - Frances Hodgson Burnett

 

Me + future Lucy.

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Me + future Lucy.

Most of the writing advice peppering my desk falls into two categories: uplifting and butt-kicking. This is what I need. 

Anyone with me on this? You need the lift on those discouraging days, when your brain is a desert, only without anything as interesting as cacti inside. And then for the lazy days, a bit of a smack across the hindquarters to get you running again?

This quote manages to do both of those things for me. 

I definitely hope to still be writing in five years, sure. But I don't tend to think about that. I tend to get mired in the day to day. I see the obstacles between me and today's work. (Usually it has something to do with whatever mud is on my emotional boots, whatever it is I'm tracking to my desk.)

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The way to great things.

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The way to great things.

In my unofficial list of "people who have done great things," I have to include Vincent Van Gogh.

Right? I mean, he's Van Gogh. 

And when I look at big achievements, I too easily slip into imagining that they were done all at once, with trumpets fanfaring along. Confetti pouring down. That great things feel like great things as they are being made.

Which is a daunting perspective to bring to the task of writing a book. Even a book that doesn't have to be great: I'd settle for pretty darn good.  

But my writing days are made up of small moments, small tasks. Little adjustments, little ideas. 

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Write through your problems.

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Write through your problems.

When I hit a story snag, I tend to hold still and think about it.

I am absolutely an overthinker.

And I feel a brick wall slowly building between me and the story. Energy and excitement drain away. The stash of chocolate begins hollering at me from the kitchen.

But this lovely quote--and many other brilliant writing books and teachers--has the right, sanity-saving technique. And when I remember to, that's what I do: grab a pen and a blank sheet of paper, set a timer for five (or eight, or ten) minutes, and just write like crazy. Write without stopping. 

It's amazing what this turns up--how fast I can plunge into better ideas for the characters or plot, ideas that snazz up the problem I was facing. It's like: instead of edging around the lake of story ideas, I'm climbing an overhanging tree and dropping straight in. Going deep.

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Frivolity + wisdom.

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Frivolity + wisdom.

I'm homesick for reading. 

Usually I have a book glued to my hand 99% of the time. Always reading. As a kid, I mastered the art of pinning an open novel under my chin, so I could read while I made up the bed, read while "cleaning" my room, read while pulling on my pants in the morning.

But lately, it's been hard to get around to reading. And I miss it. I can tell, because I catch myself staring at my bookshelves. I'm daydreaming about rainy days: a sure sign that I need 1) a cup of tea, and 2) a stack of murder mysteries. Or poems. Or YA fiction. Or essays about cooking.

One of my reading heroes is a woman named Mary. I met her at the gym, years ago: we were in the same early morning workout class. One morning she announced that she had run all her errands the day before, she sent her dog away for the day, and she had completely cleared her schedule.

"So I can read!" she said. "I got everything else out of the way: I'm having a reading holiday."

I stared at her. This woman has discovered the secret of life. A reading holiday. 

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Throwing a party for discomfort.

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It's alarming how often I assume that change is easy. That the worthwhile things in my life should be just within my reach. That, for every period of trying hard, I am compensated with, say, a time of taking it slow. 

Little bit of strain; lot of pampering. If I'm honest, that's how I want things to work. 

Funny how often life doesn't look like that. At all. 

Actually, for the last, oh, year and a half, life has looked a lot more like climbing a mountain blindfolded. Hard going, not quite sure when I'll reach the top, and also, I don't exactly know where the trail mix is.

In other words, it's not comfortable. 

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