Diving Deeper

Success! I wrote several thousand words today. But not on a manuscript. No, this is an entirely different kind of project.

I’m running for school board.

Look, there are lot of world-changing directives I’d like to take on, dozens of causes I’m passionate about, but making sure our kids get the education they deserve, and that they have the resources to get that education, is one of my top priorities.

And hey, let’s face it. I’m five feet tall. I wear clunky plastic braces on my legs most of the time thanks to a genetic condition that impacts my joints. There’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that I would be positively useless in any sort of real, physical war.

But the fight for education? That’s one I can take on. When it comes to access to education, the fight for equity and equality, when it comes to getting the kids in our tiny school district the same kind of resources larger, wealthier districts have always had, I think I can make a difference. I’d sure like the chance to try.

Above all, though, I care.

I care about this community. I care about the families who live here, the teachers who work here, the children who play here. I care. And if I want to see a positive change, it’s time to roll up my sleeves and dive in.

Never Surrender

It’s been a few months since I last blogged. Bet you all thought I was done with this writing thing, huh? The truth of the matter is that I’ve had both nothing and everything to blog about, which leads me to…avoid blogging altogether.

I wanted to craft a post on how miserable catching Covid was and all the secondary problems I ended up with that caused me to be sick for over a month. (Still considered a “mild” case.) I wanted to talk about how amazing my community was for coming together to deliver food and medicine when I was in absolutely no condition to go out and husband was fishing in the remote wilderness of Canada.

I thought about writing a post on the difficulties and disappointments of being a still-querying writer after almost 8 years, of having 9 manuscripts finished, having queried 5 of them and still not having agent representation. On the last book, 9 agents requested the full manuscript to review. Most of those came back as form rejections with no feedback. 2 came back as R&Rs, which means revise & resubmit. Translation: “The agent loves it, but there are some aspects that aren’t going to be marketable. Change those up and send it back.” I’m still working on those changes. (And 2 of the 9 are still out for consideration with agents.)

I debated writing about accepting life as a spoonie, about knowing my own limitations and realizing I need to live within them. My hiking days are over. Guess I’ll just have to find new things to dive into… But only after I figure out how to walk without pain. Realizing at age 43 that my mobility is already affected, I’m concerned for what the future holds. In a world that is already so intolerant of those with disabilities, it’s difficult not to be fearful of where I may eventually end up.

Today’s appointment with the podiatrist who did my surgery in 2020 resulted in a script for custom ankle braces to help stabilize my very unstable ankles when I walk. Maybe I’ll have the older teen paint iridescent dragon scales on my ankle braces. But first, I actually have to get them, which requires another appointment in two weeks for a custom mold. Who knows how long after that until I actually receive them? (Hope I can walk without (much) pain during our first college tour next month…) In the meantime, I’ve used the wait time as an excuse to purchase myself a much needed gift that I plan on using daily for my foot pain.

I thought of writing about healthcare in general. About the $1400 in medical bills we received in the mail for husband’s monthly injections to keep his cancer from advancing despite having met our deductible in – wait for it – FEBRUARY. I wanted to talk about having to spend hours on the phone to sort out the mishap to find out we don’t owe that money at all (as we already knew and the people issuing the bills did not). The mental gymnastics already ill people have to go through in this country every time they have to deal with doctors and hospitals is exhausting.

So here it is. My post about nothing and everything. And it’s not all bad. My kids are thriving, one involved in ice skating, one in volleyball. They are excelling in middle and high school and enjoying various clubs – art, science, language, and more. They love the school atmosphere. It’s gratifying to see how much they’ve persevered despite all that’s happened in the past two years.

Their perseverance is also a lesson for me, teaching me never to give up. Giving in? Sure. Life is all about making adjustments.

Giving up? Never.

#8pmWritingSprint

Any artist will tell you the key to progressing in an artistic endeavor is consistency. This applies to painting, drawing, digital art, music composition, and yes, writing. Maybe especially writing.

It should come as a surprise to exactly no one that, six months ago, I was deep in a writer’s block. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to write–I really, REALLY did. Putting aside the very unexpected whirlwind that stemmed from my husband’s second cancer diagnosis in four years, I didn’t know where the story was going, I didn’t have a reliable outline, and I had zero motivation to sit down and get the words down. I was so paralyzed by my fear of taking the story in the wrong direction and disappointing readers that I basically took it in no direction.

Fast forward to November, a month when writers simultaneously delight and despair in NaNoWriMo, an attempt to get 50k words written in a single month, and I forced myself to get words written. I still didn’t know where the story was going, but I knew I could definitely bullshit my way through at least 10-20k words with random scenes that would probably find their way into the novel somewhere. So that’s what I did.

Hooray, block over!

If only.

I added 10k words to the already existing 30k I had for a grand total of–drumroll, please–40k. Or less than half the word count needed for this novel.

It wasn’t until January that I really found my motivation again. In chatting with author Margot Ryan on Twitter, who also seemed to be lacking proper motivation, we decided to sprint.

What’s that? Oh, no no! Not sprint-sprint. (I think we’ve covered this in earlier blogs. Lorraine doesn’t run. Lorraine’s joints will not allow such a thing to happen.) Anyway, I’m talking about a writing sprint. Set the timer, write as many words as you can get down in 25 minutes, take a 5-minute break, then do it all over again for another 25 minutes. Report back on Twitter each time with word count, and boom–sprint is over.

In January, I added 20k words to my novel. Yes, my 40k was now 60k. We’re a week into February, and guess what? My 60k is now 70k. I don’t know what it is about this sprint that forces my brain to work, but suddenly, plot lines are falling into place, characters are setting up perfectly for their next scenes, and everything about this book is cruising.

So apparently, my brain just needs the threat of being judged by my friends and peers. I didn’t want to report back that I’d stared at a blank screen the entire time, right??? I couldn’t possibly let everyone down by getting in only half a dozen words! That would be mortifying! I had to succeed. I had to shine. I had to win. Is this my leftover AP Honors student mentality from high school? Who knows? But it worked.

Accountability apparently really is key to my productivity. And consistency has played a big part because ever since that day, Margot Ryan and I have been running the #8pmwritingsprint every night, where writers at any stage of the game (outlining, writing, editing – whatever!) have joined us to focus on their WIPs in two 25 minute sessions. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. The writing community on Twitter is beyond anything I could have imagined when I first joined. I’ve met so many amazing people I’m proud to call my friends.

So if you’re in the mood to write, but you don’t know what, come sprint with us. I promise the looming threat of your peers judging you will kick your brain right into a productive session. If nothing else, we’ll be there to cheer you on! (Because no one in the #8pmwritingsprint actually judges anyone. It’s not a competition. It’s a mini-intensive. Every night.)

Community is where it’s at. And the #8pmwritingsprint has it in spades. Come join us!

Belonging

We almost bought a brand new house today. Drove an hour and a half northeast and spent all day touring a beautiful, half-built, small mansion in a spacious 1-acre wooded lot in the Poconos. Then we deliberated long hours on whether it was right, where we’d put the garden, the pool, the chicken coop, and how we’d arrange each room, whether to finish part of the basement as a play room for the billiard table, the foosball table, and the poker table.

We drove the neighborhood (not that there was much to drive, it’s not even done being built yet) and checked out the other houses in the area. We drove past the schools the kids would go to, and looked up their ratings on Niche. I even moved the money for the down payment into our checking account so we could write a check and get started. It’s fun to dream. It’s exhilarating to imagine new things and new places and new adventures. What could the future hold? Yes, we said! Let’s do this.

And then, five minutes before we were to sign the papers and hand over the money, pure terror gripped my heart.

Reality came crashing in. This isn’t my house. This isn’t my neighborhood. This isn’t where I belong! Help! Someone take me home!

*Cue the waterworks.*

We stayed in the area, had lunch, discussed our options extensively. I proceeded to spend the next two hours alternately in tears, convincing myself we shouldn’t do it, then recovering and convincing myself we should, then crying again at the thought of leaving our close-knit community where we’ve lived for almost 18 years. When we bought our house in 2003, we planned to stay for maybe 5 – 10 years. Introduce children to the mix, and it never quite seems the right time to move.

Eventually, we stayed here so long that everything is just…comfortable. I like our little house. (I wish we had more space.) I like our little yard. (I wish we had more land.) We have some of the best neighbors, one family we even fondly call our neighbros. (I still wish the noisy ones behind us would quiet down.)

But our tiny school district has some of the most caring, wonderful teachers I’ve ever known – people I’m glad teach my children every day, but also people I’ve come to think of as friends myself. They live and work here, in this small community. And three blocks away? We have a lovely little park that’s home to the local community partnership’s Christmas tree lighting, fundraiser dinners, and monthly farmers’ markets. Our community library (and my part-time job there) would be a thing of the past. The coworkers I’ve come to know and love, I’d never see again.

We often catch some of our favorite neighbors walking past our house on their daily route – walking, walking, always walking. And these neighbors are special. Because they’ve shared in our pain (and our joy) with regards to a pancreatic cancer diagnosis. And that’s a special kind of bond, too. Not many people know what it’s like to travel that path.

Here, we have the kind of neighbors who will pick up your kids from school at the drop of a hat if needed, those who will watch your kids if you need to make an emergency trip to the vet (and our geriatric doggo is already older than most dogs his breed live to see), who will mow your lawn because you’ve been taking care of a sick spouse or child, who will stop by with fresh bread for no reason at all, who will bring you homemade soup when you’re sick (or homemade chili when your kitchen is out of commission because the entire thing is gutted and being renovated).

Here, our children have friends and familiar bike routes and sledding hills. They have parks and schools within walking distance. And even though they haven’t been able to see their friends in person in over a year (minus a few masked visits on the back patio), this is where I want to emerge from our quarantine. This is where I want to celebrate the miracle of science and medicine with our friends and neighbors. This is where I want to have patio parties and barbecues.

It’s hard to give all that up for the bells and whistles of a beautiful new house with its shiny floors and inviting white farm sink. (It was a beautiful sink.) How could we trade the comfort of a community we love so dearly for a brand new place that feels sterile by comparison? In a time when Covid has most of us needing comfort more than ever, I feel like a move to someplace new (though deeply desired on some level) would make me feel somehow more lost.

And so we drove home in silence, my husband disappointed and frustrated, me sniffling from the passenger’s seat. I ran out of tissues. There was a lot of crying. I couldn’t even feel relief once we’d made the decision not to buy because I knew I was disappointing the husband, and that’s a whole other level of internal grief.

All this to say – here? Here, I feel a sense of belonging I haven’t felt many places in my life. And maybe it won’t always be that way. Maybe someday the time will be right to move. Maybe now I can stop feeling this incessant urge to pick up and go. Maybe.

But for now? For now, this is where I belong.

A Writer in Waiting

My sink is full of dirty dishes, my dishwasher full of clean. The laundry needs to be moved to the dryer and the carpets could certainly use a vacuum. But I am a writer waiting on betas. Which means I must refresh my email exactly 12,483 times a day to see if anyone has left me feedback.

What?

Yes, I know I have a problem. And yes, going on submission is far worse. I understand.

But none of this stops me from wandering the house listlessly, contemplating my own existence.

I’ve taken up learning French. Does it help?

Non.

 

The Never Expected and Always Unthinkable

If you’ve been following me for a while, odds are good that you know the health crisis we’ve been through over the last year as my husband faced a scary pancreatic cancer diagnosis last spring. The kind of diagnosis you’re not supposed to get at 43.

It was awful. It was traumatic. And until this week, I’d kind of sort of managed to tuck it away in the deep recesses of my mind. Because let’s face it—you can’t think about this kind of thing every day or you’ll actually drive yourself out of your head with worry, the kind of worry that comes with anxious, nervous energy that keeps you up into the wee hours of the morning every night with no one but your miserable self to keep you company.

And then this week someone I know on Twitter (I can’t even call her a ‘friend’—we’ve never had a single personal conversation!), a Pitchwars mentor & writer whose debut book just came out this month, a woman who is living her dream—the same dream I have—just got word that her husband had been hit by a car and was in the ICU at the hospital. I don’t know the details. I know only what she has shared on Twitter.

But her story has hit me so hard this week. So hard. Because it seems like even when things are really good, they can still be really bad. Clarissa recently tweeted about how wonderful the doctors and nurses are, about how they’re making sure that she’s taking care of herself, too. And it brought the memories flooding back.

The day I couldn’t eat because I woke up with such severe anxiety three days after my husband’s surgery that my stomach had cramped into one big knot. The nurse on shift that day didn’t say anything right away, but by 3 p.m., she gave me a knowing expression with worried eyes that I swear could see right into my soul and she asked me, “Have you eaten anything today?” I hadn’t. I couldn’t. So when I finally managed to eat a banana at 7 p.m., I made sure to let her know. Nurses are amazing. They are incredible human beings who give so much more than I ever knew was humanly possible to give to perfect strangers.

And in one tweet, Clarissa sent me right back to those horrible moments after the big surgery, the ones I pushed aside for the last nine months. My heart goes out to Clarissa and her family. I know what she’s going through. I know the fear and the worry and the feeling that nothing will ever be the same—that your entire future is nothing more than one big question mark.

I hope that you’ll join me in supporting Clarissa Goenawan and her husband in the weeks and months of trials they’ll have ahead of them. The medical bills can add up so quickly that it takes your breath away when you stop to think about it. We spent over $10,000 in out-of-pocket medical expenses last year. Without insurance, it would have been well over $300,000. Life can turn on a dime and moments like these are sharp reminders to hold our loved ones tight and appreciate all we have been given.

Screen Shot 2018-03-24 at 8.19.19 PMMany prayers for Clarissa and Choo and for a quick and complete recovery and a return to normal life.

And if you want to support a debut author in another most appreciated way, pick up a copy of her book, Rainbirds, released March 6th of this year.

 

Writers Level Up

Have you ever stopped to think about how your favorite author got to where they are, how they wrote and published so many books, how your most loved novels ended up on your bookshelf? Probably not. Most people don’t. At least, most people who aren’t writers don’t. But for those of us who write, contemplating the path to writing success is something we do on a regular basis.

I was a writer when I wrote my first story about magic roller skates in elementary school. I was a writer when I attempted my first magical realism romance at 20 and I was a writer when I completed my first full manuscript at 32. I’m a writer now with nearly four finished manuscripts under my belt.

But if you ask me to compare myself to Stephen King or J.K. Rowling or any other published and uber-successful author, my automatic response would be instant cackling laughter. Because the steps involved in getting from my little corner of the universe to theirs is as vast as the interior of any black hole.

I once thought the stages of being a writer were like a ladder, with the newborn writer on the bottom rung and super-success stories on the top. But having been involved in the writing community for several years, I’m much more likely to turn that ladder sideways and view it as a timeline instead. After all, we’re not working against gravity. We’re just working against time. (Except for you hard sci-fi writers…you might actually be working against gravity.)

The stages of writerhood tend to go as follows:

Writer's Timeline

Newborn Writer—Realizes affinity for writing, attempts stories, dabbles in ideas.

Fledgling Writer—Has at least one finished manuscript, probably raw and unrevised, but oh-so-beautiful.

Emergent Writer—Has begun to realize the importance of community and is eager (if terrified) to get feedback on finished or in-process works.

Working Writer—In a constant state of writing something new, editing something old, and getting feedback from a much loved tribe.

Querying Writer—A working writer who has moved into querying literary agents.

Agented Writer—A writer who has gotten agent representation, but is mired in revisions before going on submission to publishing houses.

Subbing Writer—Agented writer whose work is on submission to publishing houses, but has not yet been accepted.

Accepted Writer—Agented writer whose subbed work is accepted & who has been offered a deal with a publisher.

Counting Writer—Writer who counts the days until their publication date and hops from foot to foot, eager to relay news they can’t share until their publisher has given them the green light.

Published Author—Writer whose work has been published and theoretically read by people who don’t share their home or genetics.

Working Published Author—Published writer in a constant state of writing something new, editing something old, and getting feedback from agent and much loved tribe. Also, writer who fears they will never be able to write a second book.

Multi-Published Author—Writer who has published a handful of books, has stayed the course despite the high barriers to entry and has begun to feel as though they just might ‘do this.’ Still works a day job to pay the bills.

Professional Author—Writer who has published books that have earned enough in royalties to actually constitute a salary.

Uber-Successful Author—Writer whose books have become movies, whose characters have become household names, whose pages have been read again and again. Also, writers who may seclude themselves for protection from overwhelming fanbase.

What’s most amazing to me is the willingness of writers at every stage of the game to help those who are one or two steps behind them—Working Writers who draw out Emergent and Fledgling Writers and encourage them to join critique groups; Agented Writers who cheer on Querying Writers and who offer to help revise query letters; Published Authors who help ‘push’ a Counting Writer’s work because they know the book that’s about to come out is insane and they want their readers to know about it; Multi-Published Authors who run online writing contests that offer Querying Writers a chance to have their work seen by agents. So. Much. Love.

So much love on so many levels. And that’s what makes this community worth being a part of. In the past, I’ve compared writing to video games and this model is consistent with that idea. Expect to see me tweeting #WritersLevelUp to encourage writers of all levels to keep going. If you’re dedicated, willing to work, and passionate about what you do, there’s only one person who can keep you from leveling up, and that’s you. So get involved, get passionate, and encourage others to do the same.

(And if you’re a writer on one of the further rungs on the timeline, feel free to let me know if there’s something I’ve missed. I think I covered the basics, but as a Querying Writer, my ideas of what happens next may be skewed!)