Winter, Walking Casts, Writing Books. Going on...

At the nearby track where I walk when the roads are icy or I’m recovering from yet another injury, or have time only for a quick two miles, on many mornings on the inside field, a freelance soccer coach takes groups of youngsters through what to me seem like advanced skill drills. A blur of motion, legs, soccer balls. I have almost no interest in the game, but what I love is that no matter where on the track I am, or even how windy it may be, I hear the lilt of the coach’s rich voice, his island accent, urging his players on.

When he first appeared, I noticed that no matter what mistake a player may make, no matter how much one of the kids may be struggling, what comes out of this man’s mouth is: “And, we go on.”

 At first, I couldn’t decipher it, thinking I’d heard: “andweeego own…” But then I got it, and realized he was encouraging his charges, constantly—and more, suggesting that errors, small or large missteps, don’t matter as much as going on, without pausing to worry or feel sorry.

I learned to love hearing him, and some days when I was driving to the track, hoped fervently the coach would be there, boosting those hopeful, keep-on-trying kids. When I hear him encouraging them, especially on days when I’m considering cutting my walk short, that small push is enough.

 And, we go on.

 And so, I do.

Like now. 

Middle of winter in New Jersey. And though I’ve lived here all but a half-dozen years of my life, I’m always and inexplicably a bit surprised at what happens (snow, ice, bone rattling cold), and also a little dismayed (Seasonal Affective Disorder, otherwise known as the daily gray day doldrums). Toss in two new broken bones in my foot, and here we are indeed: February, slightly depressed, too much forced sedentary-ness, staying home far too much.

 And, we go on.

Keeping me going just now, as I clump around in an awkward walking boot: teaching (this semester, an MFA course, “Reading as a Writer,” which I developed several years ago); writing (barely trudging around the track, but showing up); editing and coaching (absolutely nothing better than helping writers polish their drafts, manuscripts, and skills).

Yet, some days, when it all gets to me—like the gray and icy 13-degree day last week when my foot ached and I ran out of British crime dramas to watch—it’s my non-writer, feeling crummy but determined to do something activities that keep me going on. That is, I organize. Cull closets and shelves, then toss, sell, or find ways to give away. I’ve culled my office, notably my bulging bookshelves, three times recently. A neighborhood social media page ensures the novels and memoirs and biographies I part with find new readers nearby.

Most recently, I’ve been thinning my writing craft bookshevles. This group (pictured) is ready to go. (I've either got a duplicate copy, or read it and got what I needed from it, or for some reason it didn't speak to me but may be just what another writer needs.) And I’d love to give them to you, my blog readers and writing and reading friends. Want one? Email me with your U.S. postal address and I’ll send it via media mail at my cost. (If you can make good use of several, and are willing to share mailing expenses, we can do that too.) That’s it. Books to a new home where they can maybe inspire another writer.

Here’s hoping your winter/pandemic/getting-back-to-normal/whatever projects and activities are feeding you.

 And, we go on together.

 P.S. I have two open editing slots for winter and three for spring, to take on full manuscripts, and room for a few new coaching clients. And of course, editing/feedback for shorter works is available almost anytime. Get started here or email me.  

I'm Good at Titles. But this time, I'll defer to the Queen.

In a 1992 speech, England’s Queen Elizabeth II characterized a year filled with turmoil for her and her family: “…it has turned out to be an 'Annus Horribilis'.” 

Can I just say, about the last 12 months for me and my family: Ditto.

Let’s get this over with quickly: One year ago this month, we lost my mother-in-law (at age 100). Later that day—Friday the 13^th if anyone is keeping track—something quite upsetting befell one of my kids, who was 200 miles from home, alone. (It’s not my story to tell, so I won’t, except to say: who mistreats a person when they’ve just confided they lost a beloved grandmother that morning?). That Monday, I landed in the hospital for five days with a nasty case of pancreatitis, Zoom-watched the funeral, and had gall bladder removal surgery. A few days after I arrived back home, my other kid spent Thanksgiving Day in the hospital, 100 miles from home, alone. The next day his car died on the NJ Turnpike.

My husband Frank and I have been married for 33 years, and I had never seen him more beaten down and frightened as when he dropped me at the door to the Emergency Room. This was eight months into the Covid pandemic; we live in crowded New Jersey, in the county with, at the time, the highest Covid infection rate. Alone was the watchword for every family experience that month: grief, fear, pain, the unknown. Alone in the ER, the hospital rooms, alone without a wake or normal funeral, our kids alone far away dealing with their problems alone.

Last week over dinner, the four of us (three at home, one via Skype), recalled how difficult last November was for us individually and as a family—and that the difficulties didn’t end then. From last December through this October—individually and/or collectively—we’ve weathered break-ups, college career derailments. Jobs were lost, teaching gigs disappeared. Clients, facing their own difficulties, cancelled. My husband’s business wobbled; our finances strained. For more than one of us, there have been more/other surgeries and health challenges and injuries.

Have you noticed yet that this blog post—my first in more than a year when I haven't featured a guest blogger—is not about writing?

Or maybe it’s all about writing. In the middle of all that muck, I reluctantly, and probably permanently, put aside a developing memoir manuscript on a beloved topic. I sadly turned down some memoir manuscript editing projects I knew would require more of me emotionally than I could, at the time, give them.

I nearly stopped writing altogether. I did stop writing for a long while.

And me, the writing coach, editor, and writing teacher who typically counsels any clients and students who are worried they’ll never write again, “Be kind to yourself,” could only hear a mental loop about what a lazy writer I was—for not writing as my life lurched from one crisis or emotionally, physically, and financially debilitating situation to the next.

I am trying now to be kind to myself. It’s not easy. Yes, the writing is there, waiting, and yes, I’m making eyes at it again.

The easy analysis would be, as Nora Ephron, once advised, for those of us who write nonfiction about real life: “It’s all copy someday.” Maybe. But it’s not easy copy. At least not yet.

Yet, we’ve all come through. Me, my beloved husband of 33 years, our two adult sons—we are all okay, together, close, healthy (or nearly so). Frank reinvented his business. My ankle is healing, finally and very slowly, after the worst injury in a life already plagued with constant ankle injuries. Hearts are whole, bodies (mostly) healed. Sometimes, money solves problems: a new car relieves worry, new (ankle-friendly) shoes make everyday routines secure. Sometimes (more often), people do: a wondrous new physical therapist, a son who realized what Frank’s business needed and then did it, everyone focusing on doing rather than complaining.

Sometimes, the old chestnut proves itself: time heals, or at least allows us the time needed to move along, move on, move toward or away from people, situations, emotions.

I may never write about any of it beyond this back-to-the-blog post. I may, like the Queen, simply slap the annus horribilis label on it and watch as it moves away in the rearview mirror, as I, we move… 

Onward…

Images: Flickr/CreativeCommons - Queen (Mags); Jacket (Sajith TS); Hurricane (NASA Goddard Space Flight); Sunrise (Andre W).

 

Working for a Living, Living Like a Writer, Working with Writing: Not the same as making a living AS a writer. And that's OK.

“I admire that you make a living as a writer.”

A young woman writer said this to me at an event recently.

I’m quick to correct her: No, I don’t.

Because it’s the truth.

I make a living, I tell her, because I’m a writer.

Each January I calculate how much I earned from each of the activities I get paid for and in which percentages in the previous year. I want to understand where the money comes from, where the time goes. (I hate math and I'm bad at it; my husband cannot understand how I was once the statistician for the men's ice hockey team at Syracuse University, but I digress: check out the Percentage Calculator.)

In 2019, some 33 percent of my income came from editing book manuscripts, essays, and book proposals, and acting as a writing coach. The largest amount, 40 percent, was earned by teaching in an online MFA program, and about 23 percent from teaching other writing classes and speaking and leading workshops at conferences, retreats, and libraries. That leaves just 2 percent from book sales and royalties and another 3 percent from paid freelance writing.

That’s it. That last figure is how I did not even get close to making a living as a writer. My income right now comes mostly from helping others with their writing, their writing life. 

This is fine with me, for now. Many years ago, I did in fact make a full time living as a full-time freelance writer—back when there were scads of print magazines and newspapers doling out living wages for articles. But now, my husband (also self-employed) and I have two kids in college, live in one of the most expensive areas of the country (northern NJ, 10 miles from NYC), fund our own health insurance and retirement.

I’m not complaining. I’ve chosen this. Although often it feels like I’m cobbling things together with whatever comes my way, I’m also fairly methodical about seeking opportunities, proposing things, applying for gigs. It’s good that people notice I’m busy, that I work a lot—mostly because that often leads to future work.

I guess that’s what the young woman above was reacting to—my busyness, perhaps combined with getting published enough (in short forms, though often in unpaid literary journals) so that it appears I spend a lot of my time on my own writing. I don’t.

Depending on the cycle of the academic semester, and how much freelance editing/coaching work I have in the house at any one time, my own writing gets done—much like most writers on the planet, I suspect—in between. When there’s a lull, some breathing space. Over holiday breaks and on Sundays and very late at night and occasionally when I need a respite from others’ words and writing problems and editing needs. I like to think this reality helps make me more understanding of the time management, energy, and brain-drain challenges my writing clients and adult MFA students deal with daily.

So, to the dear lovely young writer above—who I might add said this to me at a reading/speaking engagement for my memoir where I was (a) getting paid; (b) trolling for prospective clients; and (c) hopefully selling books: No, I don’t make a living as a writer. But thanks. Right now, it’s enough that I make a living among writers.

Now then. It’s Sunday morning and I have my (abbreviated) work day mapped out: edit four more essays in the manuscript of a client’s essay collection; finish the schedule for the three-day memoir workshop I’m teaching next weekend about 130 miles from home.

Then, maybe, if I’m not too tired, and if my husband is still mainlining playoff football, and if I have anything left in the tank, I want to work on an essay of my own I’ve been tinkering with for three months…

Image, top: Flickr/CreativeCommons - Trending Topics 2019

Yep, I Still Did it.

Every New Year's Eve, I make two *I Did It Lists* for the year that's ending (one professional, the other personal), I choose my super-secret word for the next year, and I toss out old make-up and expired stuff in the bathroom.

I won't bore you with make-up and cabinet clear-out. But I would like to say a few (hundred) words about the two lists and one word.

Some years ago, I wrote the first "I Did It List" blog post, encouraging myself and other writers to look back with acknowledgement of our writing life accomplishments--no matter how small or un-measurable they may appear to anyone else--and be proud that we...stuck with it, wrote, sent work out, learned something, tried, explored, experimented, revised, rewrote, changed, learned.

Not only the obvious, usual standards of writing accomplishments, like number of pieces published, sold, or finished, agents landed, book deals inked, submissions accepted, freelance checks cashed. Instead, I want to look the other perhaps small yet meaningful things that kept us on course, kept us stimulated, interested, productive, curious writers--at whatever level or frequency our lives, jobs, obligations, hopes, and goals allowed.

If you did it, and it made some difference in your life as a writer, it qualifies for the list.

An *I Did It List* shifts focus to what brought us pleasure and pride, and encourages a pause. To say to ourselves: see, you moved ahead as a writer after all. You stayed in the game. You took a few (maybe baby) steps. You didn't quit. You did something. Probably many things...

Read the rest--and find out the meaning of the word just below, by clicking over to my newsletter here.

Happy New Year and wishing you all much success on all of your creative endeavors in 2020!

Images: Flickr/CreativeCommons

One Year Book Anniversary: Traditional Gift is Paper, the Modern Gift is a Clock. Both make sense to me!

Today is my book’s first birthday, or perhaps the right term is first anniversary. STARTING WITH GOODBYE was published a year ago by University of Nevada Press. I’m so grateful to everyone who supported the book and me through a busy year.

Yesterday I had lunch with a lovely student-turned-client who is working hard to make her first book manuscript shine as brightly as possible. She asked the question I don't always know how to answer: So, what has it really been like? 

I tried to explain. These past twelve months -- during which I spent a lot of time promoting, marketing, publicizing, interviewing, and making appearances on behalf of the book, the book, the book -- well, they weren't always what I thought they'd be. Sometimes events turned out so much better than I could have hoped; people and organizations surprised me with their welcoming warmth, tangible support, and wonderful moments. Other times, well, let's just say, things played out differently. (As they do in life, not just in publishing!)

What I wanted this other writer to know is that it was a year full of extremes: excitement, exhaustion, exhilaration, eye-openers, errors, and enriching experiences. Alternately fun and frustrating, busy and not, a year of learning what to focus on and what to let go.

I learned not to watch sales numbers (so much else is crazy-making about the book journey, why find another way to worry?), not to compare my book's trajectory with any other authors', and not to assume that everything promised will actually come to pass. 

I've learned that the very best moments are not about crowds or high number of likes/shares/followers or what BookScan has to say. No, the best moments are when I am talking to a reader, one reader, who has something to tell me, some story that floats in the air between us, something that my book, my words, have invited her to share. I always want to listen. 

As a nonfiction writer who mines my own life for story fodder, I can’t think of any better response to what I've written than someone who wants to tell me their story too. It's my belief, or at least my experience, that memoir authors write the things we do, about universal experiences we all have in common, because that is how we find it easiest to connect to other human beings.

When I think about how lucky it is that my book has created these connections, I'm still a little bit stunned. There were times when I asked myself (and frankly some people asked me directly!), how readers would react to a memoir like mine. STARTING WITH GOODBYE, after all, is about the unpredictability of grief as it snaked through my life in the three years following my father’s death.

There were times I worried that readers would not want to engage with this kind of tough stuff, with a book that might seem as if it's all about sadness. I had to trust that readers would give it a chance and along the way find that it’s not all sad, that even a story that pivots on grief can also be about funny, odd, and surprising events, about wacky relatives, about the weird things people say and do around grief that make us laugh when we shouldn’t but really need to (think Chuckles the Clown’s funeral episode on the old Mary Tyler Moore show). 

Not only are readers embracing all those parts of the book, but I've had remarkable conversations about how those moments are part of grief too, lighter moments that get us through. I've been encouraged and enlightened by readers who get my larger message: that, as much as we might want to deny it, grief has visited (or will come) to us all at some time, and that if we are curious about grief, embrace it and see what we can discover from the experience, the less scary and more unifying it can be.

When I talk with readers, everything else seems to fall away -- the stress of scheduling book events, the struggle to keep the book in the public eye, the subtle background pressure to keep priming the publicity pump. 

What remains is why we write in the first place, why I write. I write because I love to read and the page is the place where I find the stories that help me understand myself and others. Sometimes I read the stories others write, sometimes I write those stories myself.

I wasn't able to articulate all of this to my client at lunch, but perhaps I didn't have to. If she's lucky and continues to work hard and takes some risks, she will have her own manuscript-to-published-book path to follow one day. I hope it is for her just as exciting, exhausting, exhilarating, eye-opening, and enriching. 

Guest Blogger Ele Pawelski on the Value of the Ubiquitous Writing Group

Ele Pawelski’s novella, The Finest Supermarket in Kabul, was published by Quattro Books in December 2017. Her short stories have appeared in the Nashwaak Review and Flash Fiction Magazine. A ten-year Toronto resident, this avid adventurer has also lived and managed human rights projects in Afghanistan, South Sudan, Bosnia, Kenya, Uzbekistan, and Kosovo. Ele teaches International Development Law and is writing her next book, a novel featuring parallel stories about a German mother and son trying to find each other after becoming separated during World War II.

Please welcome Ele Pawelski.

I found Moosemeat Writing Group long before I became a fiction author. Thankfully. Otherwise I’d probably still be a struggling memoirist.

In 2010, when I joined Moosemeat, I sought to expand my circle of friends and find a group of like-minded artists willing to help shape my ideas into something readable. The year before, I’d moved to Toronto after working overseas on development projects for twelve years and was still trying to find my footing back at “home.” I liked writing and a few friends suggested I put my experiences of life in post-conflict environments like Afghanistan and Bosnia into a book. I knew how to write academically, but creative writing was a different beast.

So I did what everyone with a problem does: searched online. Moosemeat’s website called out for writers of any ilk. I was in!

Moosemeat’s history goes back to circa 1995, when a group of committed writers wanted to continue meeting up after having taken a writing course together. The name was provoked by an animated debate over a story in which the main character has 10 pounds of moosemeat in a freezer. At least that’s what I’ve heard; Moosemeat membership has completely turned and the originators are long gone. Certainly the moniker gets a laugh, especially when we call ourselves meese or the herd

Eventually, Moosemeat would become the foundation of my writing accomplishments. But first, I had to get up the confidence to submit a story! I remember that meeting very well. I’d submitted a satirical narrative entitled, “Where Taxis Go To Die,” which poked fun at the poor quality of taxis in war-ravaged countries.

Moosemeat’s format is straightforward: in advance of every meeting, two writers submit pieces of less than 6,000 words, either a stand-alone short story or part of something longer. Generally, attendance is between four and fifteen individuals who provide feedback one by one. The writer also has a chance to speak at the end. In addition to regular meetings, once a year, the group collaborates on a chapbook of flash fiction stories and hosts a public reading for contributors. 

I could feel sweat gathering under my armpits. The critiques came fast and furious – it was overly funny, not enough of a story line, too little information about my work colleagues, not enough depth…I got sweatier. When it was my turn to talk, I barely said anything, crushed that my story didn’t seem to work for most members. Upon reflection, the earnestness of the reviewers was obvious; they wanted to help. And a lot of their comments were useful, if only to point me in new directions.

It got easier. Two more similar stories later, I was far less sweaty, and had determined that writing a funny memoir in the style of Bill Bryson was not going to work as I had envisioned. In the process, I read and critiqued a lot of short stories, and listened to the critiques of others. I started to see what worked and what didn’t work on the page. Notably, there isn’t always agreement amongst the meese, which confirms the absolute subjectivity as to how much and why a reader enjoys a certain story.

For example, during a recent critique, half of us thought a short story that ended with no character development was fine as it indicated the protagonist stuck to his guns, while the other half wanted to see some learnings. This kind of diversity signals it is crucial to write to a target audience. But more importantly, it hooked me on the value of other people’s opinions and how those could enrich my own writing.

About a year after being in Moosemeat, I sent out the first chapter of The Finest Supermarket in Kabul. I received an immediate, and very encouraging response via email: “Let me just say “wow!” The verbal feedback at the meeting was also quite positive, but in addition, the previous twelve months had prepped me to take all comments constructively. Over the following three years, I presented the middle and last chapters. Again, the critiques were affirming and helpful, and motivated me to dig deep in terms of a generous re-write when I put the story all together. While I could have submitted the rewritten chapters for further critique – no problems in doing this if a writer chooses – at this point, I felt the story was ready for more directed suggestions.

In exchange for wine, two meese agreed to look over the entire draft novella before I submitted to my publisher and give structural and big picture comments. After I signed on with Quattro Books and incorporated my editor’s suggestions, I convinced one more moose to give me line edits, and check for typos and verb agreement as the story had changed from past tense to present. Without this roster of beta readers, I would have been severely limited as to who I felt comfortable and confident in asking for this kind of help.

Moosemeat has no fees, and membership is fluid, ranging from authors with more than one book under their belt to aspiring novelists to writers who enjoy putting pen to paper but are not looking to publish. The only criteria are the willingness to give honest feedback and periodically submit a story.

Being part of a writing group has spurred my writing to evolve in ways I could not have imagined eight years ago: I’m confident writing in the third person and have tried out the second; I can fashion a decent story arc; I get that a twist at the end doesn’t always make for good reading; and finally, I treat writing more like a job than a hobby. The fact that meese are also excellent cheerleaders means I’m unlikely to drop out anytime soon. We each email the group with any good writing news, attend each other’s writing events, and go out for beers from time to time. What’s more to want from a bunch of random creatives!

Connect with Ele via her website, Twitter, or Facebook. Find Moosemeat here.

Friday Fridge Clean-Out: Links for Writers -- July 28, 2017 Edition

> An end of a book review era: Michiko Kakutani of the New York Times, steps down.

> At the Brevity blog, Jennifer Lang, on how she conquers the loneliness and isolation of writing alone at home, and is building a writing community post-MFA while living abroad. 

> If you can't get away for weeks, sometimes, you can still claim your own mini writing "residency," as Chloe Yelena Miller did.

> At The Millions, check out the Booker Prize longlist (including four U.S. titles).

> Department of Shameless Self-Promotion: If you are headed to HippoCamp17: Conference for Creative Nonfiction Writers, here's an interview with me about my breakout session, "Submission Strategy: Beyond Wish Lists, Tiers, and Industry Buzz," and my Lightning Round talk, "I'll Take Titles for a Thousand, Alex."  > And over at The Bookends Review, I'm interviewed by poet and anthology editor Carol Smallwood.

Have a great weekend!


Image Flickr/CreativeCommons

Friends Don't Let (their writing) Friends Go It Alone

Recently I've had several occasions to mentally review a rather longish list of people who have been helpful to me in my writing life over the past ten years. 

In either some rather large way, and/or in many smaller ways, folks have lent encouragement, provided helpful introductions to others, listened, read pages and offered feedback, and given me sound and thoughtful advice--including some of the hard-to-take kind of counsel that I almost certainly ignored for a while until, finally, I was truly ready to hear. 

Lately, I'm simply feeling thankful. Lucky. And a lot more aware and comprehending of the genuine need and significant benefits of a true literary community, one that operates on mutual respect and reciprocity. I may not be able to "pay back" each kindness or bit of assistance in equal measure, and there are certainly some professional leg-ups and/or personal favors that aren't even in the category of possibly paying back anyway. 

But I've come to accept that this is okay. 

Because I realize that every time I try to help a writer in any small way I can, it acknowledges and honors those who've have helped me--sometimes in ways or at a time when I have wondered, why? Why is this eternally busy, extremely successful, definitely stretched-to-the-limit person--who surely has more important or inviting writing-world requests/tasks to attend to--inexplicably helping little old me?

As my father once explained long ago when I asked why he helped so many people--in business, in the neighborhood, in the extended family: you help because you can. Because you have been blessed with something you can share. Because you remember what it's like to need help. Because when you help someone, they'll help someone else. And so it goes. 

Dad also taught me not to be afraid to ask for help. You may have to swallow hard and psych yourself up first, but ask. I've been asking a bunch lately, and trying not to feel guilty about it. Trying to remember that most people actually want to help others. 

Sure, some folks will disappoint (I've heard a few No's recently). That's okay, too. That's why--as Mom once said--you need more than one friend, so that when you want to go to the pool and your bestie isn't around (or is temporarily mad at you), you won't have to sit in the hot backyard alone.

Some days you grumble about the stuff you don't have on your writing resume yet, the things may never get to publish or do, the writing world goals you are sure you can't possibly accomplish. 

Other days--like today, for me--you look around and see nothing but blue sky. Because you're being held up.

Image: Flickr/CreativeCommons-EmsiProductions

The Many Hats of a Writing Life. What's one more?

So many writers wear other hats, and I'm not just talking about non-writing careers or day jobs. I mean the different hats they don within the literary world that usually don't come with fat paychecks or profits: editing journals, publishing literary websites, running boutique publishing houses, organizing book festivals, hosting a writing conference.

I'm one of those folks who some days worry my hat rack is about to tip over. Often, I have to remember what my husband said when I headed out to Family-School Association meetings: Just. Say. No. Because I was already on two committees, or had just wrapped up five years of booking assemblies.

So I have said no to otherwise interesting sounding, tempting literary "side jobs" that didn't feel like a good fit, or conflicted with something I was already doing, or when I did not have an extra ten minutes.

But then something comes along, appearing in that sweet, rare spot (that maybe lasts two days) when I (usually incorrectly!) believe I actually do have a bit of "spare" time, which coincides with a piqued interest in the job (hat) in question. That's when I forget everything my husband taught me, my arm shoots up, and I say Yes.

My newest hat is editing craft essays about nonfiction writing for the cool literary site Cleaver Magazine. After I was published in Cleaver in June, I struck up a friendly online exchange with editor Karen Rile. She messaged me one night to see if I'd take on the job, knowing I was interested.

It was my good luck to inherit an inbox with a few good submissions already waiting, and it was even better luck to work first with writer Andrea Jarrell on her piece, doing exactly what I love—exchanging editing ideas with a writer whose work is already excellent.

 Andrea's wonderful piece will resonate with many memoir writers. In "Becoming an Outlaw (How my short fiction became a memoir),"—which is, on its own, a lovely bit of memoir—Andrea brings the writer into her writing process, her mind, and her heart. Along the way, we learn how she managed some of the bigger obstacles of memoir writing: finding the boundaries between narrator and major secondary characters, navigating the possibility of hurting a family member with our story, figuring out why she's writing at all, and how that knowledge helped impose an organizing principle on the manuscript.

I hope you'll take the time to read Andrea's work at Cleaver. And, if you're interested in writing a craft essay, we're open to submissions.

Images: Hats - Flickr/CreativeCommons-MCroft; Cleaver article illustration - Candice Seplow/Unsplash

The Jeopardy Clues to Crappy No Good Writer's Luck

I love the television show Jeopardy. I record it to DVR every night, and my husband and I watch it later before the news comes on. In the arena of our family room, I always win! One of our cousins was a contestant once, a poet I know competed once, and tonight a former writing workshop participant will appear.

But this post isn't really about Jeopardy. Jeopardy was just a convenient hook. This post is about something else, but let's play a little Jeopardy shall we?

Here's our clue:

Two physical injuries, which in combination spell disaster for a writer and editor who was so recently happy that the academic semester was over, and was ready to deep dive into her own creative work.

And the correct answer would be:

A broken wrist on the dominant hand and falling so hard on one's posterior, that sitting for more than 15 minutes, even after 10 days, is all but impossible.

Yep.

Well at least I got a nifty bright red cast on my right arm (yes, I asked the orthopedist for a colored cast, just like a little kid). As for the other end and the other injury, the less said the better. (Except to say: pillows, a jerry-rigged standing desk, and Mineral Ice.)

Writers, do not go out in the backyard to plant flowers alone when all the outside steps are still wet from days of rain, your entire family is 100 miles away, no neighbors are outside to hear you scream, and your phone is in the house.

I'm writing this using voice dictation, which works great for emails, texts, and posts, but I can't seem to get the hang of it for any real writing. For that, I'm tapping away with the left (spastic!) hand, and two fingers on my right hand, making a zillion errors. But I am writing still, though s..l..o..w...l..y. I'm lucky that my editing clients and adult students have been understanding. And I'm lucky to have a husband and two sons who are all helping out. But enough about that.

On the good-news front -- and frankly, I needed it, as this latest accident was the latest in a series of incidents that are adding up to a not-so-lucky year thus far -- a few short essays have been published recently.

One piece, "Break a Leg," appears in Cleaver Magazine. It recounts a small mistake I made while working with horses as a teenager, and how that reverberated through the rest of my riding life -- and beyond.

The second short nonfiction narrative is running over at Purple Clover, and (depending on what you click/enter from) carries both my original title, "A Father, a Road Trip, and the Polyester Mafia," and the clever one editors gave it to improve clicks (to be fair, it uses a line I wrote within the piece): "Goodfella: I liked being the rich kid whose father may or may not have been in the Mafia."

I'm the smallest person in this pic
(probably  the last time that was true!)

I'll say this about it. I was born, raised, and still live in a part of New Jersey where The Sopranos took place. In fact, part of the pilot was filmed across the street from my son's preschool (all the moms thought it was going to be about opera singers!) and once when they were filming a half mile from my house, I nearly rear-ended a Hummer because I was so distracted by the sight of Tony walking out of the funeral home on our main drag.  This story pivots on a road trip to California when I was a child and overheard my father acting like he was a mafioso. (wink wink)

And that's the story from here for now. 

Image: Flickr/CreativeCommons - horse, Blake Hall; Jeopardy, ShawnMSmith;  others, mine

From Lemons to Lemonade, with Writing, Loss, and a Speeding Car in Between

Winter and early spring have been a chaotic few months, bitter and a little hard to take. It began with knee surgery for my husband, followed a few weeks later by the loss of his much-loved father, with whom he worked, side by side, for nearly 40 years. 

Then, about three months of  recurrent illnesses (and tests and a bit of surgery) for me, and finally--as if my family wasn't already feeling like we'd gotten hit by a speeding vehicle, an actual speeding vehicle turned a quarter of my husband's  brick and concrete warehouse into a drive-thru. (Fortunately, hubby was 20 feet away from the crashed wall--though 20 seconds before he was right behind it.) Seeing your husband bowed first by loss and then by the physical destruction of the place where he and his father built their business, is something I don't yet have words for.

Yes, life goes on. As life went on the last few months, I kept writing, because--well, that's what we writers do, right? We write. Nonfiction writers especially write about what's swirling through our lives, buffeting us with emotions and situations we'd rather avoid, or don't understand, or find confusing, stressful, emotionally demanding. We write, not sure why some days, or where any of it may lead.

What I've been scribbling over the winter of discontent may or may not ever amount to anything. Right now all those hand written pages are just pages, just notes and half-simmered thoughts and ideas of what may make a good essay--one day. For now, it's just marinating. Another day, I'll peek under the lid and see what the stew holds, maybe ladle out something that looks or smells promising.

Meanwhile, the writing life went on, goes on...

~ The academic semester is ending, and later this week, I'm heading to the campus of Bay Path University in Massachusetts to see our first creative nonfiction MFA class graduate--and meet most of my online students for the first time, as they read from the creative work I've witnessed them conceive, craft and revise and rewrite, for the past two years. 

~ My fingers are crossed that a 2017 AWP panel proposal will be accepted. 

~ Fall courses are penciled in.

~ The rejections arrive, are duly noted. And the essays and short memoir pieces and pitches go out again.

~ An essay close to my heart has been accepted by a print journal I admire (with a fall publication date).

~ I've sent off a rewritten memoir manuscript--this time a more traditional linear narrative (transformed from a linked essay collection). Will YOU cross your fingers for me on that one?

Meanwhile, it's spring (though the continuing cold weather in New Jersey suggests otherwise). The crappy winter is in the rear view mirror. Summer is ahead. And, lemonade.

Onward...

Images: Flickr/Creative Commons -- Lemons (BobBertholf); Lemonade (LaurenAllik-Floating/Vibes). 

Single Words, A New Year, Lentils, and Being Human

Here's the message from my newsletter, sent out on New Year's Eve. Enjoy! (Why the pic of lentils? I learned last night that a pocketful of lentils at midnight on New Year's Eve is good luck for the coming year. I didn't have any pockets. I hope it works even if you dropped them in your purse.)

Hello Friends,

 

What kind  of a year did you have? If you're like me--human, and an adult--I'll bet it was mixed: laughter and love, tears and sadness. Since the roller coaster is, in fact, normal, one can only be thankful, try to find the horizon.

 

Isn't that what writers do? Look back, think about life, try to make some kind of crazy sense of it all, write it down.

 

In that universal way then, 2015 was a good year, exactly in the natural human rhythm, the universe pushing and pulling.

 

Work: I saw a lot of my writing published, spoke at conferences, got nominated for a nifty award. Family: the extended clan welcomed three new babies, a beloved aunt turned 100, a son grew Eagle wings.

 

Highs, and huzzah.

 

There were lows, certainly. The "best" part of that was having people to link arms with. We cried, wiped tears, cracked inappropriate jokes.

 

Onward.

 

I have my new secret word of inspiration all picked out for 2016. Do you?

 

It may seem like a silly or inconsequential thing, choosing a single, simple word. Though writers know: a word--well, that is power. Some days, it is my secret year-long word that lifts me, reminds me the coaster will climb again.

 

I hope, as you welcome 2016, that your roller coaster car is cranking skyward. That when it races to earth, someone is next to you, arms strongly linked.

 

Next year, let's all be human together.

 

Onward.

 

Lisa

 

Image: Flickr/Creative Commons - nick mote

The Top 20 Writing Posts of 2015

Here are the top 20 posts on the blog from 2015, based on reader traffic. Among them once again are fabulous guest bloggers and author interviews. I'm in their debt for offering excellent advice to other writers, and sharing personal stories of their writing lives. (The list doesn't include any of the popular, regularly appearing Friday Fridge Clean-Out posts, rich in writer resource links. Find them here.)

Thanks for reading!

Sandra Hurtes on How a Writer Stays Committed With No Promise of Success 

Laraine Herring on The Baby Story Monkey 

What Not to Say in Your Cover Letter to a Literary Journal (or possibly, to any media venue, ever) 

 

Anna Whiston-Donaldson on a Paperback Release after the Hardcover

Donna Talarico on HippoCamp2015, A Conference for Creative Nonfiction Writers

Listen In: Storytellers Summit Presents 20+ Creative Conversations (including little ole me)  

Publication Venues Everywhere, How's a Writer to Choose? 

Guest Blogger Lisa Alber on Hope After (Traditional Publishing) Rejection 

Kate Walter on Finding the Narrative Arc for Your Memoir  

Vincent J. Fitzgerald on That Writing Thing I Always Wanted to Do  

Linda Sienkiewicz* on her Debut Novel and the Twisty Road That Got Her There  

The Mother's Day Essay I Didn't Write  

Adam Boretz on BookLife & PW Select Editor  

My Husband and I Didn't Have a "Meet-Cute" Moment. So of course, I wrote about it.  

Where Essays Begin: Sudden news, old friend, odd lyrics, far away 

Reading in Small Chunks, Taking in Big Wisdom from Abigail Thomas's New Memoir 

Linda K Sienkiewicz* on Lessons from AWP on Book Promotion for Anxious Authors 

Lisa Lenzo on her short story collection, Strange Love 

Of Writing Goals, Hope, the Old Year, a New Year, and One Word  

Lucy Ferriss on Why She Had to Learn to Write Badly 

*Both of my friend Linda Sienkiewicz's 2015 guest posts are on the list, which means you probably want to be reading her blog too!

Image: Flickr/Creative Commons - Paul Inkles the UMF