Seven ideas to kickstart your writing life!

Here's the thing about the writing life: We're always starting. Starting up, starting over, starting for the first time, starting for the hundredth time. Restarting after a break, an illness, a catastrophe, a trip, a block.

One of the most valuable skills to learn as a writer is just that: the skill of starting again.

So here's a handy little list of mindsets and tricks to help you dive in--whether it's for the first time on your first day, or you're coming back from a break (as I am, this morning, after beating off a cold), or you're renewing your interest in a project you put on pause.

1. Embrace it.

I can't tell you how many hours (days, weeks?) I've wasted being frustrated over starting. Starting can be hard, y'all! And given the choice between diving into a new project or, say, eating all the cheese in the kitchen, I tend to vote for the cheese.

I don't like fighting through all the cobwebs in my brain, all the creaking noises as my word engines warm up. I don't like facing my own ignorance about the best way to dive in. But if starting is a fact of the writing life (and it totally is!), then why not make it a friend instead of an enemy?

When I shift my focus, I start to see how the break has made me better. The time away has given me a richness that I will bring to this new project. Whatever growing I've done will only benefit the work. And I probably have better ideas now.

So I decide to be patient. In spite of the cobwebs.

2. Explore. 

Beginnings are the perfect time to entertain a lot of ideas. To cast around for unusual options. You're not bound to anything just yet. 

Sometimes I've been so afraid of these early stages of beginning that I sprint through them to get to the much more comfortable phase of mundane work and crossing off to-do list items. But I think a bit of adventurousness pays off at the beginning. 

Go out to museums, ramble a bit at your nearest state park, meet new people and see them like a writer would see them. Notice everything: it's a writer's job, after all, to pay attention. To everything.

When you look at the world with a writer's eyes, you never know what you might discover. And you might stumble on an even better way to start.

3. Exercise.

In a way, this is part of exploring. Beginnings are excellent times for writing exercises. 

To be totally honest with you, I'm a long-time hater of writing exercises. Really. It's true. I bristle at most prompts, and usually don't feel any kind of idea tugging at me, other than "I'd rather not be doing this."

... Until I came across Judy Reeves's book, A Writer's Book of Days. You guys. This is the exercise book (among other things!) for people who hate exercises. Her prompts are beautifully open-ended. Intriguing little nudges to get you moving. You almost can't help but write.

And the beginning of a project (or a writing practice, or a writing week) is a wonderful time to do a few warm-up exercises, to get the ink and the ideas flowing.

My advice? Grab her book, pick a prompt, and write for ten minutes. If that makes you feel sweaty and anxious, start with five. Five minutes, picking out a path down a new road with your pen.

It will help bring new ideas into the work you're about to do. Or, if you don't know what you're about to do, it might give you a new story to pursue. You might even get hooked on the buzz of unraveling some new images, some new prose, on the spot, right out of your funny brain...

4. Make lists.

Lists are one of my favorite tools for jumpstarting a writing project.

I don't mean lists with items like "Research the setting" or "Decide on inner conflict for Josie," although those are important.

I'm thinking more like: "Ten sounds she hears in the woods during this scene--at least three sounds should be unsettling," and "Twelve weird places where the opening conversation could take place," and "Four reasons why she has a bad reaction to country music." 

I like listing out ways to add interest to my scenes, or ways to get around the cliched first attempts that my brain is sure to fling on the page. It's a way of getting more than one option, a way of tricking yourself into a more interesting writing session than you might have otherwise had.

5. Interview yourself.

This is what I do when desperate times start begging for desperate measures.

When I'm really anxious about the beginning of something, I start talking to myself (and taking notes). I do this in a document devoted to exactly this kind of conversation. I call it a work journal, but you could pick a snazzier name if you like.

I start asking myself what I'm so worried about. What's making me anxious. What I can't stand about the beginning, why my characters make me nervous, why I'm getting a twitch. I let myself go on and on, typing down the complete answers.

Or I start poking around trying to figure out why I had this great idea that led me through weeks of daydreaming to this starting moment--only for it to abandon me. I start asking why this story or this new enterprise matters to me. What captures my heart about it. What images do I keep seeing. What is tugging at the back of my brain.

So many times, this has gotten me around a huge boulder that was sitting at the beginning of my writing path. Because the more I talk about what I care about, the more I imagine the one thing that got me to my desk in the first place.

And then I know my true starting point.

I start with what I care about. Even if it's not the "first line of the book," or the first technical stage of brainstorming, or whatever. Interviewing myself helps me find out what my guts are telling me--and then I go with my gut. 

So, try this. You might be surprised at what you find out.

6. Don't get stuck.

It's good to embrace the start. It's good to explore a bit, do a few exercises, make some lists, and ask yourself questions. 

But it's not supergood to turn the beginning of the path into a campsite. 

Beginnings can be scary, but you can also get used to them. It gets tempting to just stay there, entertaining options for weeks, once you've realized that middles are plenty scary themselves. (And don't even get me started on endings.)

I've caught myself again and again staying on the first step: mired in the first chapter of a new novel, caught in the first paragraphs of an essay, or even just paddling round and round in the pool of research. 

Dare to let go. To not make your beginning "perfect" before you move on into the middle.

Remind yourself that you can fix it later, or make it better some other day. Leap.

7. Trust the mess.

So many artists and creatives recommend that you "trust the process." And it's taken me a while to figure out what this means.

... Maybe because I was too busy shrieking, "But I don't trust the process! I don't trust anything about it!"

The process of creating is messy and confusing. It doesn't always follow logical steps, even when we think it should. It's not easy to explain. You don't always write a piece--or revise one--in a clear and orderly fashion. The route that takes you from "person holding a pen" to "person holding a story" is a bewildering road, most of the time.

(If it's straightforward and easy for you, then you're very lucky. You should probably buy a lottery ticket.) 

What "trust the process" has meant for me is: Don't flip out when it gets messy. The mess is part of it.

And that's okay. Take deep breaths. Go with your gut when you can. Do the next tiny piece of work in front of you. And don't be afraid of the mess.

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Beginning a project with some degree of grace: it's a skill I keep relearning. 

Each of these list items has saved my bacon more than once. Any of them striking a chord with you?

What have you been doing to ease through the beginning steps of your work? Which list item do you want to try this week? Share your thoughts in the comments!

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If you liked any of these tips, please send this post to your writing and creating friends! Starting a project is a lonely business--let's keep each other company!

Wanna keep reading? Check out Let's keep going no matter what and The Secret.

Three fears that stop us from beginning something good (and what to do about them)

Most of the time, it's easy to think about beginning something. To dream it up. Starting a new project, or starting a writing practice at all: It feels just safe enough to talk about it. Exciting, and full of good possibility. 

Dreams feel safe. Everything is possible in Dreamville! It is a good time! Your feet don't get sore, you never run out of ideas, your skills rise to the challenge. And confetti floats down, and a feel-good soundtrack hums in the background...

Okay, maybe you vaguely account for snags and difficulties, but they are dream-snags, wispy-difficulties. They aren't enough to squash the floating, ethereal dream itself.

The actual beginning part--well, that's different.

As I make that transition from dreaming and early happy planning and excitement into the actual start--the actual rubber meeting the actual road--my knees get mushy.

Dozens of fears snarl up in my face. I find myself procrastinating, making excuses. I discover a new TV series that I MUST watch in entirety. I find any clutter unbearable and "need" to organize whatever I put my hands on.

I put off the new adventure. Or discard it completely. Or maybe I do start, but so halfheartedly that it fails. And it's kinda on purpose.

Ugh. That's just no good, watching fear snatch a beautiful beginning out of my hands.

Here are three fears that persistently try to derail me:

Fear of looking foolish.

This one's really easy to spot, because it's the voice in my head saying, "Oh my gosh. You look like an idiot."

See? Not that subtle.

This fear cannot get over the fact that I'm a writer.

You're actually going to play with a bunch of imaginary characters, and write down what they say, and then try to sell it to other people. And you call this a job. Your peers are flying planes, leading churches, teaching children, or performing dentistry. And you've got the mental equivalent of puppets on your hands, making yourself laugh, alone, at your desk.

This fear says, "You're not going to be able to tell anyone that that's what you write about, that that's what you do." And so I'm tempted to skip it completely.

Fear of hard work.

The trouble with this fear is that it has its roots in cold, hard facts. It has some truth on its side.

This is that thickening in the stomach that I get when I look at the almighty list of things that went wrong in a book. I come up with these crushingly huge revision treatises. Thousands of things that need fixing. You could probably run a country with a less comprehensive list than that.

And I absolutely quail at the sight of it.

I still think of this feeling as "syllabus shock." It's what descends during the first week of new college classes. I'd pick up those syllabus packets from my professors, look over the collected amount of work I'd be doing that semester. And slowly realize the colossal size of the undertaking.

All the hours of work, all the pages of reading. The dreaded group projects, dozens of essays, and OHMYGOSH even an oral presentation.

"Actually," I'd say to myself, in a clear calm voice (though slightly higher pitched than usual), "I don't want a degree at all. That's all nonsense. I would just like to go to my hometown and open a coffee shop. I believe in coffee. It is a noble undertaking." 

And then they'd find me three days later, wandering the wilderness preserve on campus, with my clothes in rags and my hair on end, raving about espresso machines...

(Okay. That didn't really happen exactly. But I felt like it could happen.)

Fear of failure.

This is the mother fear. The one that gives the others their power.

What if you face down the silliness of your proposed project, and what if you've even managed to believe you can do all the work. Then there's always this one:

This fear says that all your efforts won't amount to anything at all. No one will sign your project. Even if by some miracle you sell the book, no one will read it. Or everyone will--but they'll hate it. They'll write mocking-yet-accurate reviews. And also, bonus: You won't even make money from it.

All around failure.

Turning Fears Around

This is the full fear chorus I hear at the start of an enterprise: You're an idiot, you'll never get it done, and it won't be worth it.

Well. That is some fun chatter. That's a real happy party.

Listen to that too long and too loud, and you'll believe it. But that's not where we're going to stay, right? You and I, we're going to get better at beginning well.

So what works?

Wisely anticipate.

For starters, I think it can help to expect a bit of fear. After all, a taunt that's expected loses some of its power. It might still sting, but you were looking for it. You can block the punch that you know is coming--at the very least, you have a shot.

But if you're going to expect it, you also have to decide not to be paralyzed by it. 

Deciding not to be paralyzed has been huge for me. I remember that fears don't speak the whole truth. I remember that I have more options than fear wants me to believe. 

Sometimes this is as simple as announcing to myself: "I'm going to feel like running away. But I won't run."

Call its bluff.

When it comes to looking foolish, it helps to call for definitions. Pin this fear down. What the heck does foolish even mean?

Does it mean not serious enough? Not valuable? Frivolous?

I just checked my "Speaking Like Fear" phrasebook... and yeah, that's what my fear is talking about. My work isn't as smart and clever as my work "should" be. I took poetry classes. I memorized rhetorical structure and stuff. I should be all smug and intelligent with my words. (I shouldn't type kinda and publish it on a blog post, for crying out loud.)

Yeah, yeah, yeah. But here's something I learned recently: When a person is going through a really tough time, they need a laugh. They need a bit of an escape. Yes, they might also need a pilot, a pastor, a teacher, a doctor.

But they also need someone to cup hands around their very humanness. They need someone to hearten them.

They need that bit of encouragement that comes in with laughter. They need the understanding of their very selves that they find in a piece of good fiction. And that is no small thing. That's the very work of living.

So here's the absolute truth: The idea that this is foolish is an illusion.

And that goes for so much more than fiction. That goes for whatever work you do. If it's big enough and important enough that fear gets all up in arms--well! Almost by definition, that stuff is not foolish. Fear doesn't get all riled up with things that don't matter. I mean, why bother? 

Fear shows up for the big stuff. So call its bluff. You're not being foolish at all.

Grab hold of perspective with both hands.

To fight the fear of hard work, I have to change up how I'm looking at the project.

There's a falseness that creeps in when I look at a huuuuuge list of problems with a work-in-progress. There's a lie that sidles up. Because I'm looking at a list that will cover months of my life. But I can't live "months of my life" all at once.

You get what I mean?

In college, I'd look at those syllabuses, and I experienced the weight of all that work at once. But the truth is, I'd do the actual work of it one day at a time.

That's it. One hour at a time. Fifteen minutes at a time.

The pressure of all those deadlines at once--it felt like it was going to kill me, or make me a lunatic, one or the other. But I survived semester after semester just fine. Not dead. Not crazy.

Whenever I start a new book, I hear that shriek: I can't do all that work!!

And I'm learning to respond very calmly and very sensibly: "Well, you're not going to do it all right now."

You eat an elephant one bite at a time, and you write a book the same way. You do that tiny piece of work in front of you, and then you pick up the next tiny piece of work. And bit by bit (or Bird by Bird), you get the work done.

Also? You can totally give yourself breaks, refreshing retreats, and mini celebrations with each project milestone you tick off. It doesn't have to be all grim, all fingers-to-the-bone.

Fear of hard work: It's hysterical when it doesn't need to be.

Decide what success is.

All right. So, failure is real. I mean, it's really real. Stuff dies, ends, blows up, fades.

I spent four years drafting a dead-end novel that I don't know if I can ever rescue. It has a tendency to haunt me, as I work with my other projects. With each revision I start, part of me thinks: "This is the one when you destroy the story irrevocably. This is when it all goes pear-shaped."

Here's my best weapon for that: I take a good, hard look at what success is.

This fear has a very specific definition of success. Something along the lines of: a five-book contract, an advance that lets me buy a car and a cool loft downtown, three big-time awards, and eight weeks (minimum!) on the New York Times Bestseller List.

It wants my enterprise to pay off in a "legitimate" way. This means money, career recognition, and all the naysayers crying, "We should never have judged you!"

If it can't have all that, this fear says, You failed.

I have a nice long history with this fear, because I'm a recovering perfectionist: 

I have literally been sickeningly disappointed by a 100% on a test--because I didn't get the extra credit. Seriously.

But once you realize that you can be disappointed by a perfect score, you start to question just what's driving that disappointment.

In other words, that fear is completely bonkers.

To shut it up, I've come up with my own ideas about success. And instead of black-or-white requirements, it is a list of questions:

• Am I learning?

• Am I growing?

• Am I moving toward a better understanding of stories, and of my story in particular?

• Did I try?

• Was I honest?

And lately, I'm also asking more and more:

• Is this healthy?

• Am I loving the people around me?

• Am I being kind, to others and to myself? Am I being compassionate?

These questions open up a whole new paradigm. A whole new way of looking at work, at projects, at beginnings.

Those four years I spent on my first novel--I grew a lot. I learned so much about the kinds of stories I loved, and the kinds of stories I didn't so much like. I learned like crazy about the writing process itself. I tried very, very hard. And I found out just how short-sighted it is to work in unhealthy ways.

So actually, that novel is a total success. I learned things that I couldn't pay for, and started incorporating habits that are making me into the kind of writer I want to be.

That's crazy successful! That's like a whole degree in writing!

So when the fear of failure shows up, force it to voice its definition of success. And then dare to redefine it.

And then? Be bold about claiming your successes. Celebrate them! And button that fear's mouth for good.

What does fear say when it moves in close to you? What strategies have you used to shut fear up? We're stronger together, so share your thoughts on courage in the comments!

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Want to encourage a writing friend who might be struggling with fear (and aren't we all)? Please share this post!

Want to keep reading? Check out The DNA of Writerly Heroism and We Are Gonna Run For It.

Starting over: with the most essential ingredient in a writing life.

March. The first month that sounds like it might have Spring in it. Like mayyyyybe we are done with winter and colds and flu and all that frozen-toe nonsense. And it strikes me as a wonderful month to begin something.

Maybe even something kinda BIG.

For me, March holds two big beginnings: in a couple of weeks, I'll reopen my trilogy and start revising. Always a big deal. 

And then, obviously, I've restarted this blog, setting off in an updated and refreshed direction. New ideas, new look, and more clarity on topics and content ideas...

Fresh starts. Mmm. Doesn't that just get the blood going?

... And the fears yapping??

Starting something new, or restarting a current project, or taking a new turn, or updating an outlook--all those big beginnings and microbeginnings that are part of the process--they're all a big invitation for the fear monkeys to come clamoring.

Right? Right??

Hence the refreshed title of the blog: this talk about the lionhearted writing life. 

It's only recently that I've realized that courage is what stands at the crossroads of a strong writer's heart and a strong writer's skill. It takes a whole bunch of being brave to write well. Heck, it takes courage even to practice until you can write well.

For that matter, courage is at the crossroads of anything that is worthwhile. Any new direction that you're called to take.

Now that I know guts are so important to my writing life, I see things differently. A lot of things. 

I value courage more. I try to seek it out, strengthen it where I do find it, and invite it to go a bit deeper. I want to be crazy-brave when it comes to writing. When it comes to anything worth doing.

What is it that you're beginning?

Maybe you're teetering on the edge, not sure if you're going to go forward or step back. Or maybe you're in deep mid-project--which itself has a thousand small beginnings. A million tiny starts. (New chapter, new resolve, new thread, new attempt, new schedule, new routine, new week, new--)

Beginning anything takes courage.

And courage... well, maybe it gets a bit easier with community. Maybe it's a bit easier to leap when you're holding hands?

I'll be your beginning buddy, if you want. 

Let's make March the month of fresh starts.

Let's do this.

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Wanna keep reading? Check out The Comforting Power of Dumb Determination and The Truth about Terrible Writing.

Know a writer who could use this post? Please pass it along! We can all be brave beginning buddies! (And anything else alliterative!)

Oh! I didn't forget about you!

It seems like I've gone off somewhere, like I've forgotten all about you, my blog reading friends. But I haven't, I promise. Quite the opposite. For the last few weeks, I've actually been pouring hours and hours (and hours!!) into a total blog overhaul. 

I'm changing it all up.

I'm sprucing the format, looking at the design, clarifying topics, brainstorming big big big projects... All kinds of stuff. 

High fives all around.

Yesterday I listened to a podcast directed at bloggers, and the speaker said something like:

Don't tell your readers you are making big changes! Don't say that you're excited. Because then, if you change it all up and they don't like it, they'll be all disappointed and stuff. Don't set yourself up like that. 

So... I was going to tell you how psyched I am. (Do people still say psyched?) I was going to let you know that I'm throwing everything I've got at this new redesign, and that I think it will be worth the wait. That I feel more energized about blogging than I ever, ever have. And that you can tell all your writing friends about it, because I really think it will be that much fun, and that exciting, and that good.

But... the really smart blogging man said, don't do that. 

So I won't say anything.

I'll just inch off this stage with a HUGE GRIN on my face, and let you draw your own conclusions.

Okay? Okay. 

PS: It all gets real on March 1. I'll be brainstorming like the madwoman that I am until then. 

What to do after finishing a novel

It's kind of like the moment when you realize you need a new haircut--like, yesterday. Or when you discover you're ravenous, and should have eaten an hour ago. When cabin fever strikes, and you needed to take a trip last week, probably. That mad-urgent feeling. You know what I mean?

Well, there comes a point in writing a story when I need to be DONE. 

I can never quite predict what that point will be. I make these wonderful, sensible schedules; and then life happens and shakes 'em up a bit. I readjust my schedules, I get back to a slightly more aggressive plan to make up for lost time; life interrupts again. I back off, I slow down, I reevaluate.

And then I wake up one morning and say: I don't care how many pages are left. What, 60? 70? Pfft. I have today free. LET'S DO THIS.

It's the drafting marathon. That's how I closed out Book Two, and that's how I closed out Book Three: last Tuesday, I worked from 8 a.m. to 2 a.m., cranked out 65 pages, and yup, finished the book.

I slept in the next day, patted myself on the back a lot, and then contracted a serious case of NOW WHAT.

You have to give drafts room--a lot of room--to breathe, before you go back in and start revising. What to do in the in-between time? 

I've heard of very clever writers who crank out a mini-project before coming back to their major projects. Well done is what I have to say to them. That's a tempting option, but I don't have another project that close to being draftable, and besides, I'm practicing being Not Crazy.

I'm finally gonna keep things simple, so instead, my in-between list looks more like this:

1) Type in the draft, for starters! Lament the state of wrists and penmanship. 

2) Embark on a course of light, easy reading. Time to kick back, yes? Select something fun and beachy to start: Anna Karenina. (Although I have to say, the knees on that cover are giving me FITS. Cover design, people. Cover design.)

3) Sign up for a green smoothie challenge! 30 days of green smoothies. Because eating habits during the second half of a draft... not pretty.

4) And on that note: Realize how much sitting has happened. SO MUCH SITTING. Start a new workout routine. 

5) Maybe two. It was really a lot of sitting.

6) Go full throttle in the kitchen. I mean, all out crazy town. If you're not on your feet for three hours, you're not even trying. Reconnect with your love of good eating--I mean good cooking.  

7) And then make more lists!! Places to go! Things to do! Dust bunnies to vacuum! Closets to reorganize! Those file cabinets won't index themselves! 

Seriously, it's funny what I can find time for, without a draft breathing on my brain.

Oh, and hi, 2015. It's good to be here.

This is what happened to us when a story showed up.

It doesn't happen as much as it used to, but I still get that voice in my head at 1 a.m.

You know the voice?

It shows up with a list of things that I can't do anything about. And it rattles them off, accompanied by a dangerous amount of emotional pull and flawed reasoning. 

This voice is always convinced that it is right, it never lets me argue back, and it's sporting a t-shirt with the slogan "IT IS ALL DOWNHILL FROM HERE."

I haven't heard from this voice in a few months, but as of last Wednesday night, it's camping next to my pillow, knitting long unhappy scarves and crowing over my frustrations. 

It's really fun. Definitely has put me in the Christmas spirit.

It's been a long time since I've felt like my job is useless, but that's one of those happy little thoughts that show up at 1 a.m.

My family and I have been immersed in the medical world lately. I've learned to be so grateful for skilled nurses and doctors and surgeons: If you can wield an I.V. without traumatizing your patient, if you don't flinch at the word "catheter," and if you are compassionate on top of all that...

Well. You're a superhero. 

I have a long gratitude list right now. So many people, in so many different roles, have held my family together, given us the information and courage and support we needed. 

But it gets easy to think that everyone else is doing important work, while I somehow lost myself in a silly dream of putting words on pages.

The books that I'm writing--well, I love them. No matter what the 1 a.m. voice says, I still do love these stories. But they aren't important. You can't confuse my work with, say, a doctoral thesis. I'm writing about themes I love, absolutely, and this trilogy is for an age group (eleven-year-olds!) that I care deeply about, but the books are also very ...

Wacky.

(I'm secretly terrified that my friends will read them and then take five quick steps away from me. You can know me pretty well and never guess the kinds of things I'm writing about. Because... how do I put this... there are telepathic lizards in these books. I'm still surprised that they're in there, but, yup, that's what they are.

And there's a family of aristocratic assassins with funny names, and a whole town devoted to jam-making, and these spiders that became really important to the plot somehow, and a whole troop of monocle-wearing superpowered who-knows-whats. 

It's goofy, is what I'm saying.)

Right. So I've had a few interactions with an insanely gifted surgeon, and then I go back to my desk and write about lizards. And then I stare at the ceiling past 1 a.m. wondering what on earth I'm doing with my life.

Do you have these kinds of nights?

But then I remembered one very important moment, and it shut the voice right up.

See, we were in my mom's hospital room. Waiting with her as they tweaked her pain medication, waiting for her to recover just enough from the surgery to go home. We were looking out at the amazing view from the seventeenth floor. Letting her rest, grabbing coffee from the lobby, keeping each other company.

And then: we were reading out loud. 

My family has always read out loud to one another: something my parents were doing for us when we were kids, and none of us got around to outgrowing it. So my mom packed a lighthearted novel for her hospital stay, and Dad and I read it out loud.

And something funny happened. Instead of being overwhelmingly conscious of I.V. cords and hospital gowns, the smells of antiseptic, the sounds of the equipment in the room (I never knew hospital beds were so loud)... instead of all our worries about the surgery itself, and the outcome, and what the rest of recovery would be like, and if any other treatment was needed--

We all teleported. 

To 1930s England. To chauffeurs in uniform, to having tea and lemonade on the lawn, to entertaining the vicar. To frivolous women and pompous young men and imperious great-aunts. To thwarted love and silly mix-ups and endangered inheritances. It was one of those comedy-of-manners kinds of books, trivial and subtle and funny. 

The only thing I had to focus on was reading the very next sentence. Everything else faded away. Mom listened and rested. Dad and I wrapped ourselves up in the story. 

And at one point I looked up to see my mom's roommate standing there, listening to me read. She was holding onto her I.V. pole, with a feeding tube snaking into her nose, but she was with us in the 1930s, standing there in England, just for a little while. 

(She told us--in a beautiful accent that none of us could quite place--that she and her husband had been listening to us for a while, that it was lovely to overhear someone reading, instead of the noise of the TV. "There's a TV in here?" I said later, surprised. We had never even noticed.)

In other words--I tell this emphatically to the doubting voice in my head--in other words, books are still important.

Even when your family gets all shaken around and can't figure out what normal is for a while.

Even in a land of diagnoses and tests and results and lab reports and waiting, waiting, waiting.

After all, anything that can make two women forget--even for an instant--that they are in a lot of pain; anything that can move a group of people over a continent and back about eight decades; heck, anything that can keep me from realizing I'm in a hospital--

Well. That's a very powerful force. Whether the story reminds you of green lawns and sparkling lemonade, or whether it's populated with aristocratic assassins and monocled crime fighters: Stories are important.

And maybe there is no such thing as too silly, when even the silly stories can remind us who we are.

Well, THAT happened.

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Started on Day 10; finished on Day 26. In spite of oh so many things. 

I'm going to wallow in a confetti state of mind, and then, yep, make a pumpkin pie for tomorrow. Do a bit of dancing, have a day of gratitude tomorrow, and then... 

And then get to work on the next 50,000, eh? Because this novel's only half-way written, if you want the truth. And I want it done by the end of the year... oooooh, this trilogy is almost there, I can taste it!! But it is lovely to have half of the marathon over, and that with much rejoicing.

... Pfffft, what am I even SAYING??? Don't listen, I'm delusional. A crazy writing working lady just took over my brain for a second. 

I'm taking a break. I'll pretend that I'm going to write a bit for the next two weeks, but in all honesty, I'll be playing with my nieces and nephew, making up songs to sing, doing silly dances, cooking with my sisters, and generally just being family. Sure, I might nudge my writing along, a page a day, just to remember what's happening in this story, but mostly?

Mostly I'll be living.

It's good for writers to remember: we get to be humans too. We don't just write about them.

Right then. Priorities straightened out.

A merry Thanksgiving, one and all.

And then I turned into a NaNoWriMo zombie.

Remember those diagrams in your old science books: a close-close-close up of a leaf? With arrows in and arrows out? The photosynthesis diagram, that's what I'm thinking of. And your teacher saying, Trees take air and sunlight and soil, and then they make their own food! 

(Which is still pretty cool. Good job, trees.)

Right, well, I'm feeling a bit like that lately. Only instead of dealing with sunlight and carbon dioxide, I've been taking in coffee and toast, and turning it into words.

Thousands, and thousands, and thousands of words.

I joined NaNoWriMo on day ten, right? Much to my chagrin and panic.

Well, it's day twenty-one. And I just crossed the 37,000-word mark. Which means--for those of you who are keeping score, because I'm totally keeping score--I have caught up to the pack of Wrimos who began on day one.

In eleven days (I did take one off!), I've somehow ended up with 140 handwritten pages. 

And even in my kindest moments to myself, I have to admit that I'm feeling and looking a bit like a zombie. 

A zombie who is writing a novel, sure, but nevertheless: the crazy has arrived.

... Like in a conversation just now, I repeated myself four times in a row before, uh, realizing it.

So this is gonna be a bit more of a list than a post, for the sake of all our (remaining) sanity. I don't know why that makes more sense to me, but it does. Okay. 

(There's no order, there's no theme, and there's no logic to this. I'm sitting here grinning like a zombie, bouncing to some loud music, and just happy to see words move across the screen. Hi, words!)

1. Before we go any further, if you want to know: Is this lifestyle healthy? Am I taking really good care of myself? Making smart choices? The answer would be, um, No. Not at all.

2. Am I taking good care of my characters? Nope. They're in a mess of trouble, and right on schedule too. Bad for them, but good for me, and good for readers! (Yay, readers!)

3. Starbucks Chestnut Praline Lattes. Get one. Get four. Drink up. Thank me later.

4. There's a group of NaNoWriMo participants on Twitter who band together for these little word sprints: TOTAL FUN. If you happen to be NaNo-ing this month, join in! It's awesome. (The leader says something like, "Write for ten minutes starting... now! Go go go!" And when time's up, we all chime in with our word counts. So much more fun being a zombie when you have all your zombie friends!) 

5. I've come down with my usual, mid-project case of separation anxiety. Whenever I step away from the draft, I hear little whimpering noises. And it's not coming from my spiral notebook, it's coming from me. What if the book forgets all about me when I leave? What if I lose the knack (if I even have the knack) for the characters' separate voices?

What if I pass out and never make it back to finish the book, and everyone reads how seriously deeply BAD the writing is, and they'll all say, how are we going to break this to her? Well, when she wakes up, we're gonna steer her in a very different career direction...

6. That said, I do know this: Breaks save you. They really do. So I force myself to stand up and get away. Have a little dance party. (Or a big one.) And sometimes I do some mindless straightening: it gets me moving, and then I come back later and say, Hey! Who cleaned up? It looks nice!

7. Because I can't remember who cleaned up. Because most of what I do away from my book I instantly forget. I'm not mentally stable at the moment. I've been careful not to operate heavy machinery or to sign on for anything that requires a responsible adult.

8. I really wasn't kidding about those Chestnut Lattes. Seriously, friends. I love you, and this is how you know: I want you to go get yourself one. Okay then.

9. When I collapse from a day's work, I grab a gin & tonic and watch Gilmore Girls. I believe that this was also Ernest Hemingway's formula. So, it worked for him, is all I'm saying.

10. Um. 

11. Here's my super serious intention with all this mad-dashery: To finish my book in the next five minutes.

12. Kidding! Ha ha ha ha ha ha! Kidding. Not really. 

13. Basically, I want to make the most magnetic storyworld I can. Give the characters powerful voices, build their inner and outer conflicts to a fever pitch, put all the good stuff into it. 

14. Because sometimes fiction--even when you're the one writing it--is a port in a storm. Sometimes making characters face impossible odds helps you face a few odds of your own. Sometimes, when they confront their dark fears, when they band together, when they realize what makes life worth living, sometimes when they do that, they pull you along with them.

Making them courageous has made me more courageous.

15. Yeah.

I don't know if I'll get back to blog before Thanksgiving. At that point, I might just be able to type one letter over and over and over, and not actual words. (If that happens, just know that I'm saying something nice, like Happy Thanksgiving, go hug your family, or something like that.)

But truly, I am pierced with gratitude these days. For doctors and hospitals and medical centers that know what the heck they're doing. For stories--the way they open and guide our hearts, the ways they give us strength and companionship. For all the other marathoning writers participating in NaNoWriMo. For the incredible people in my family--immediate and extended. For hope. For the goldeny color of sunlight in winter. For unexpected snowy days. 

For words. All these words. For a little corner of the blogosphere where I can stand and say a few things, and then for you, sitting where you are, reading them. 

I was born with a writer's heart. And that transaction between reader and writer: it's still one of the most precious things to me. So I'm glad you're there. Happy Thanksgiving, a bit early. Have fun and eat too much pie, okay?

Okay then. I'll be scribbling. 

We the adventurers.

I'm one of those people who hates being late: I feel like my face is melting off when I'm late. And yet, it happens. Like right now. Right now, I'm technically late. Very, very late. 

I started NaNoWriMo on day ten. *face melts*

If you haven't heard of it before, NaNoWriMo is a cult of insane people who craft a work of fiction under impossible circumstances.

Well, okay, that's not the technical definition. NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month. This month, actually. Participating in NaNoWriMo means: You write a novel of 50,000 words (or more) in a mere thirty days.

Honestly, it's brilliant. With that extreme deadline, you just have to get the heck over yourself. You write really, really badly. And then you write some more. It's exciting, freeing, and a whole lot of fun. Plus, you have the comradeship of zillions of other writers--equally bonkers, equally caffeinated, churning out their own sometimes-great sometimes-terrible prose. 

It's a rush.

And super difficult. Even when you have all thirty days. Showing up on day ten, saying here I am, writers! and then kicking off your project? Not exactly a winning strategy.

But, if you've been following along with me over the last few weeks, you already know that 1) I'm not always sane, 2) I like writing at a breathtaking pace, and 3) I have to crank out the third book of this trilogy!

So I had a long conversation with my calendar. I said: Oh gosh. I have basically six weeks before the holidays really get swinging. Remember holidays? All the mental space I usually reserve for writing gets taken over until I'm all like, "Who's a writer? Do I know any writers?"

That, I said to my calendar, is what happens. 

My calendar is very stoic. But it did point out that six weeks is six weeks, and I couldn't argue with that. It nudged my calculator under my fingertips and said, what would you have to do to finish that novel in six weeks?

WRITE A LOT OF WORDS. REALLY FAST. 50,000 words in the first three weeks. That kind of fast. 

So I dove in. I signed up. And today, I cracked open a fresh spiral notebook, clicked a new pen, and got to work. The first twelve pages on Book Three. I added my word count (2940!) to my NaNo page. And it informed me that at this rate, I would finish my novel sometime in April. 

Ha! I shouted. Ha! said my calendar. Ha! said my calculator. Wanna bet?

I'm gonna have the first 50,000 words done by the end of November, and write the rest during the first three weeks of December.

And then I'll be done. And probably really dizzy. Because this will be a longer book than Book Two--probably--with one less week to do it in. Hence the dizzy. But not so dizzy that I can't string a few lights, sing a few songs, and cook some seriously awesome food.

Food. Wait. That reminds me. There are a few obstacles between now and then. Like, Thanksgiving. Oh, and my family is dealing with a scary medical diagnosis at the moment. There could be a surgery between now and then. Oooh, and this: I just started a new workout program to deal with the impending good-food explosion. Not to mention: have I actually remembered enough words after finishing the last book to be in good shape for this one?

So maybe I started hyperventilating last night, just a wee bit. 

What's your experience with trilogies? Does the third book ever start in a really happy place? Not as far as I know. The characters are not all full of high-fives and back-slaps and party hats. The ones I'm thinking of--The Return of the King and Mockingjay are fresh in my mind--are pretty dang grim on page one. 

Which is about how my third book starts too.

My poor main character. Chapter One? Is basically a whole herd of crazy that she could never have predicted. It starts with major difficulties and ends up much worse. She is reeling by page twelve.

So I gave her a pep talk. And because I'm a writer, I wrote it down. And then because I'm reeling too, I read it to myself.

And heck. I don't know where this Monday finds you, but maybe you need this too. It's a fairly multipurpose pep talk, after all. So here it is. 

Remember who you were at the start of this whole thing.

At the beginning of book one, page one. Yeah, life was quiet and "fine," but you knew you were made for more than that. You wanted to know if you could do great things. If you could tackle challenges. Adventures.

You can, and you will. Even though you don't see that now. 

Sometimes bravery means, you don't let the shadows swallow you up.

Sometimes bravery means holding one true thought in your mind, and focusing on that. Letting that truth keep you company.

Bravery means not giving up. Not giving in. 

You're already so much stronger than you were way back in that first chapter, two books ago. Even though you feel small now, look at how much you've grown.

And oh, I'm already planning the ending of this story, and your last page is good. Hard won, but good. You will be so tall and so brave that you will barely recognize the girl from page one.

Don't give up. You really were made to face challenges, to become stronger.

Go and be the adventurer you are. 

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How to survive the end of a novel.

I finish up a novel in the same way that someone else might fling herself off a cliff. (Like in BASE jumping, not like suicide. Not being morbid here.) I make a mad dash for it, and suddenly find myself in midair, no friction, no traction, no story, no nothing.

And apparently we're done.

I finished this wonderful sequel project last Tuesday at 2:00 a.m. I wrote 53 pages by hand, and then just kind of fell over.

(Okay, first I did an ecstatic little happy dance. The last paragraphs felt perfect; there was a breath-stealing twist at the ending; and hopefully it catapults the reader right into the next book. So dance I did. But then I fell over.)

For the next two days, I went back and forth, from feeling brilliant to feeling like a vegetable. Moments of bright conversation where I felt all verbal and warm and quippy, and then the next moment, I couldn't really remember my name or why I had walked into the room.

Writing withdrawal. 

I never handle the end of a draft with any real grace. I have lovely intentions: I wanted to declutter my office area, clearing psychological (as well as actual) space for the next book project. I wanted to catch up on all the correspondence and errands and undone things... everything I'd just forgotten about in the last two weeks of racing toward the end.

And I wanted to do a lot of confetti-tossing, a lot of balloon-gazing, a lot of party-party-party.

Instead I sort of floated around, jellyfish style. I stared at things, and not in a meaningful way but in an I-hope-I'm-not-actually-drooling way.

Maybe I'd burned myself out a bit? Who am I kidding. Of course I was burnt out. 

But the thing is, I've trained this funny brain of mine to invent fictions. And it's going to keep doing that, whether I'm writing a novel at the moment or not.

Frankly? My real life is fraught with enough at the moment that I don't need to be asking what if through each day. I'm full up on real conflict, real stakes, real characters, real risk. But still my brain spins.

So it's time to get back to work. Honestly, that wasn't much of a break: I had dreamed of a lot more Champagne and a lot less catching up the laundry. But I can't let myself invent any more scenarios for what could go wrong. If I'm going to be inventing, I need to put all that craziness into the next project.

Besides, I've already made an exciting little multi-colored chart. (And I cannot say no to the exciting little multi-colored chart.) If I'm very, very good, and eat all of my vegetables, and stretch well before each session, I just might finish book three in time for Christmas.

OH, THE HOPE.

I might be escaping reality a tiny bit, by jumping back into my story world again. Or maybe I'm just that fish on the dock, leaping back into water so she can breathe again. Either way, the beginning of book three is in my fingertips, or at the very least, it's right around my knuckles.

So this week I'll be catching story ideas, feeding the bears, freewriting, daydreaming. And drafting starts again next Monday.

I think it all comes down to this: You survive the end of a novel by starting the next one.