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.  

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

What's on Your Writer's *I Did It List* for 2017?

Here on the blog, in 2010, I first shared something I’d been doing privately for years: the “I Did It List”—looking back and noting what I’d accomplished in those quickly disappearing twelve months, even if it wasn’t what I’d set out to do. I’d been making a personal “I Did It List” since my kids were small, since I was sure I hadn’t done a single motherhood thing right all year. The list assured me otherwise.

At some point, I began to make an “I Did It List” for my writing life. The idea was—still is!—to pause and take note of all the small things, big things, and in-between things I could say I finished, learned, tried, succeeded at, explored, completed, was challenged by, overcame, and took part in over the year.

By design, the list is not (only) about what got published or where, what I earned, what job or gig I nailed. It’s wider, and deeper, or in some cases, shallower than that. An “I Did It List” for writers, I’ve always sensed, has to include and acknowledge so many other things that happen across an entire year, stuff that counts. The things we do—sometimes without our even stopping to realize it—that keep us growing, learning, and developing as writers.

I write my "I Did It List" without reference to the list of intended goals from the previous January. This kind of list-making isn’t about accountability or productivity, but about acknowledgement and recognizing what makes a writing life year in broader terms.

Since that first post, I’ve been asking my blog readers to consider privately writing their own “I Did It Lists” and many folks have let me know that it was an eye-opening, gratifying experience. Some have shared their lists publicly (though that’s not a criteria or even the point). I I love the wild range of items various writers have listed. Here’s a small sample:

 . began researching more publication markets and then kept track of submissions 

. finally stopped putting two spaces after sentences

. tried a new genre

. was a beta reader for a friend’s manuscript

. organized a writers group because none existed nearby

. read lots more than usual

. started, and sustained, a new early morning writing routine

. saved up and finally went to that conference

. published first (poem, short story, reported feature)

. cleared a spot for a writing corner

. took a writing class online

. taught a free writing class to senior citizens

. submitted beyond the comfort zone

. wrote and placed first book review

. found a social media home and began promoting work in a way that felt good

. filled out that MFA application

. ripped up that MFA application

. got re-started and kept in motion on a big writing project that had been stalled

. tried new software 

As writers, we are too quick to dismiss our small(er) accomplishments, the small steps or steady strides that carry us forward toward larger goals. Especially at this time of year, we may be tempted to focus on what we didn’t finish, didn’t get done, didn’t accomplish—and then shoot straight to a new must-do list for the coming year, one that too often smacks of recrimination.

First, let’s pause to look back and take note of the ways we’ve already begun moving in the direction of our dreams. The list is a way of noticing ourselves as do-ers.

A writer’s “I Did It List” is a clear reminder that there isn’t just one goal, one imperative, one project or avenue of development, or only one fun and enriching writerly thing to accomplish. My past lists remind me of what brought me fulfillment, of the new creative people who came into my life, and how I added to my skills, confidence, and understanding of why I write after all. 

So, here’s your invitation to write your own “I Did It List”. Find fifteen quiet minutes before January 1, 2018, grab a piece of lovely paper and your favorite pen, or open an inviting new blank page on your screen, or find the ideal place in your bullet journal. 

Write across the top, My Writer’s I Did It List, 2017. Go ahead. Take the pause. Pat yourself on the back. You can even get started by listing just one “I Did It List” item in comments here, so we can have a collective “We Did It List”!

While you’re at it, or after you’ve done your own list, I’d love if you would share a link to this post, and encourage your other creative friends to make their own “I Did It List”.

Cheers!

 Images: Red pen - Flickr/CreativeCommons-Phing.; Woman writing - Flickr/CreativeCommons-RoryMacLeod;  list-maker - free clip art.

One Writer's Thoughts on New Year's Eve -- and The Year's Top Posts

Before the day gets away from me, and it's 2017, and I forget how much I like tied-up endings (in life, if not in prose), these are my thoughts, post-shower, pre-breakfast. I use the word "should" not in the bullying, guilt-inducing way, but in the prodding, goal-directed, self-to-self pep talk way. Sort of.

I should write a final blog post for the end of the year.

I should go buy the dessert I'm expected to bring to tonight's party.

I should finish my office decluttering, the day-after-Christmas project that always stretches to just before dinner on New Year's Eve.

I should finish my January and February submission calendar.

I should write down my *I Did It List* for 2016, the one that's been swirling in my head for a month, the one I urge every other to undertake, the one I've been avoiding because OUTSIDE of my little writing world, the year was, in some ways for my own family, for friends, for the country, as Queen Elizabeth once called 1992, "an annus horribilis."

I should help my husband put together that new Ikea file cabinet for my office, but since I stink at almost all DIY projects that do not involve words, I'll leave it to him and my son.

I should hit SUBMIT on my first piece of short fiction I told myself I'd finally send out into the publishing world this year. (But my nonfiction soul is waging a loud and occasionally snarky "But is it really any good?" and "Who says you can write fiction now?" fight).

I should finalize the two syllabi for Spring semester. Or at least write down the day next week when I'll do it.

I should write a note or at least a tweet to that writer whose finely written nonfiction narrative piece I just read in a nice journal, and tell him so. Because it's something I always mean to do and often forget to do, and because I know what it's like to be that writer, hearing something nice about something you've written and wonder if anyone will appreciate. (UPDATE: between drafting this post and proofreading it, I did this. I feel better already).

Finally, I suppose I should...fill and organize that new filing cabinet; re-order all of my office bookshelves so the newly acquired books aren't stacked in a heap; bring my clip file up to date; get my tax info ready; overhaul my blog; finish reading the three books I'm in the middle of.  Nah, just kidding. I'm not doing those six things at all!

But all the rest? I'll be doing all of that today. Not because I should, but because I want to and my writer's mind won't let me rest until I do and because I promised myself that once I do all of this, I can go to that party tonight and feel a little bit lighter. Until I sample the dessert I'm going to buy.

Hope your New Year's Eve works out just the way you want. See you back here in 2017.

Oh, and because I forget to do this last week, here are the most popular posts of 2016:

This Week in WritingWorkshops, Post-Election

The Post-Conference, Post-Vacation Post

I've Run Out of Other Cheeks, and There's No Room Left on the High Road

When a Targeted Submission Fails: Rinse, Revise, Repeat

Writer Communing with Notebook: Early Morning Conference Insomnia (the good kind)

How to Get Into That Journal (Or, how to get into any journal)

Guest Blogger Susan Breen on Prepping for a Pitch Conference

Author Interview with Nancy Davidoff Kelton on her memoir, Finding Mr. Rightstein

School's Out, Writing and Editing is In

The Jeopardy Clues to Crappy, No-Good Writer's Luck

Happy Best American Essay Birthday

The Circle of the MFA: What I learned 10 years ago and what I'm passing on (I hope)

Stuff My Writing Students Say, Part 19

Happy New Year !

Images - all Flickr/CreativeCommons: Lights:-NicMcPhee/UnhinderedByTalent; Tacks -HDValentin.

Friday Fridge Clean-Out: Links for Writers -- June 17, 2016 Edition

> Joshua Becker, at the Minimalist advises, "Accomplish More with a 3-item To Do List." My comment at that post: I have been doing this for years. Didn’t know it was a real thing. I just call it my 1-2-3 Rule. Long to do lists are overwhelming. But who can’t do 3 things?  (And there -- you've just gotten one of my *secret* coaching tips.)

> Read and weep (a little - in the spirit of what my father sometimes said: Beware what you wish for - you might just get it.) "Lisa33 and Me -- The Harrowing True Story of a Six-Figure Advance," at Rottingpost.

> One of my bigger editing pet peeves: dialogue tags other than said or asked.  (Okay, very occasionally I can see the need for something like whispered which usually can't be communicated via the dialogue itself. Then again, I'd probably opt for action, if appropriate, like...he leaned close to her ear and...). My writer pal Linda Sienkiewicz weighs in with "Nancy Pontificated."

> The Wall Street Journal reports that HarperCollins launched a Facebook Live initiative, featuring live video with authors interacting with readers on HC's FB page daily (and also on the individual authors' FB pages).

> At Book Riot, Kelly Jensen with "33 Ways to Have a More Bookish Summer." Why not? (hat tip Buddhapuss Ink)

> Writer Beware examines the BookLife Prize in Fiction.

>Love food and literature, and are local to New York's Hudson Valley? Check out Read and Feed on July 30. Details: "Basilica Hudson, in partnership with CLMP, the Community of Literary Magazines and Presses, announce READ & FEED, the launching of a projected annual event bringing together artisanal makers of food with artisanal makers of literature." Tickets here.

> At Writer Unboxed, Donald Maass asks (and does a pretty good job of answering) 

"What Makes Fiction Literary: Scenes Versus Postcards." Be sure to check out the many good comments too.

> Finally, if you have not done so yet, do read Maggie Smith's excellent poem "Good Bones" at Waxwing Magazine. It's rare for a contemporary poem to "go viral" but apparently that's what has happened this week. Read it and, if you're paying even sideways attention to U.S. and world news lately and are weary and disheartened, you'll know why it's struck such a universal chord.

Have a great weekend!

Image: Flickr/CreativeCommons -FaceMePls

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

This blog, which I've been publishing for eight years, continues to bring me into contact with many wonderful writers. Sometimes a single email exchange grows into a week-long or month-long (or longer) conversation; often, I invite that writer to contribute a guest post. That's more or less how I found Sandra Hurtes, who emailed me after reading an interview here with Sue William Silverman, one of her "writing heroes." Sandra is an adjunct assistant professor at CUNY and also studies watercolor painting.

Please welcome Sandra Hurtes.  

When Poets & Writers began its “Why We Write” column, I felt the topic was made for me. I understood the myriad reasons why I put pen to paper and fingers to keyboard. I hurried off an essay, noting my early life as a painfully shy and compliant child and how through writing I had found my voice and myself. When my essay was rejected, I was surprised. Until I went back to work, rewriting, going deeper, and not stopping until I cried. I discovered that it is only through the laying down of word after word after word that I can get to the center of anything, whether it’s a personal essay or a book I’m teaching in a freshman comp class.

As a freelance writer, I’m guaranteed nothing. Not publication. Not a reader. Not a dime for my efforts. And so being aware of the gifts writing bestows upon me is vital; it keeps me returning to the page.

I didn’t always feel this way.

Though I had an early sense that I was a writer, and dreams of literary success, it wasn’t until I was 44 that I settled solidly into my chair to begin the work. It was the 50th anniversary of the Jews’ liberation from concentration camps; my parents were survivors, and I needed to be part of the emerging global conversation. I loved every second (even the tearful ones) of working on my first fully realized essay, “A Daughter’s Legacy.” It first landed in The Jewish Press, then it was republished in The Brooklyn Woman, The Jewish Journal of Greater Los Angeles, and a small Israeli magazine. The thrill of fulfilling my goal and discovering the joy of writing set me on fire. The following year, I wrote four essays that all found homes in Na’amat Woman, The Philadelphia Inquirer, The Washington Post, and The New York Times.  

When the Times called to tell me they were publishing my essay, I was giddy with happiness and nerves, certain I was headed for the big time. The Times piece led to messages from editors and agents who wanted to meet me, and the rush of attention filled a need I didn’t know I had. From my job as an office temp, I called in to my answer machine every half hour for messages. When the Times called to relay agent messages, I was ecstatic. But when there were none, I felt deflated. I was aware of this internal dynamic, and it made me uneasy.

I met with agents and an editor to discuss projects. My ideas included an essay collection or a memoir; I'd already begun a memoir draft. But each person I spoke with was interested in a novel; they assumed I’d been writing for years and had one ready (this was in the mid 1990s, before the memoir mania). My period of "fame" ended with no agent, no book deal, and a bit of insecurity.

I continued to write and publish essays. Sometimes readers wrote to say they connected with me; I loved that. Sometimes an editor reached out; that was an incredible high, underscoring my belief I would eventually make it big—a book turned into a movie turned into a move to Los Angeles to a house with an ocean view and writing as my day job. But in the real world, I still had no finished book manuscript. Wanting to have a book out in the world was a wonderful goal; but for me, it was also a deeply personal form of validation.

I branched out into writing service articles and hoped I’d make a living as a freelancer. This was still a time when you could call up editors and run ideas by them. But the few times I did, my voice trembled.  I felt as if I was putting my life on the line. I mailed my queries instead of calling, most of which received form rejections. Still, studying magazines and coming up with fresh topics was fun; sometimes I wrote entire articles on spec. I loved writing for its own sake, but each time I looked over my shoulder at peers who had agents or books on tables at Barnes & Noble, that pure love shifted. I became competitive and jealous.

I started the novel I thought might be my ticket to success while also working on my memoir and everything else I could squeeze in before, after, and during office jobs. I sent a self-help article to a magazine editor who had loved my Times piece. She left me a long voice mail. Sandra, you don’t have the skills for journalism. You should stick to essays. I’m passing on this article.  I sent it to a rival magazine, and six months later I received an acceptance. But by then I had given up waiting and instead placed it with a poor-woman’s (aka trashy) version of Cosmopolitan. 

My disappointment was blinding. The ups and downs of the freelancers’ life were too painful to manage. I continued to work on my novel, and believed in it enough to hire an editor. But it never quite came together in terms of character development.

One day, I told my mother I didn't want to write anymore. “That makes me very sad," she said.“I hear my voice in your words.” In that moment, I settled back into my chair and thought a lot about why I write.  

Since then, I've gone back to school for an MFA and I’m now an adjunct English professor teaching four classes a semester. I write all the time, mostly preparing lectures. It sounds dull. But the first time I prepped to teach Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, I spent hours exploring how a scientist’s brilliance led to his demise. I was on fire with the process of learning and from the gift I was able to give myself (and my audience of students).

I discovered I could labor over essays, and if they didn’t find a home it was okay. When they did, I was gratified when I heard from readers. As for the most organic book project I had inside of me—the essay collection—I self-published On My Way to Someplace Else. My goal was to contribute a body of work on the Holocaust, and I exceeded that by garnering excellent reviews.

My second book, The Ambivalent Memoirist, has a quirky style of short, digressive chapters. I didn’t look for an agent. I found closure in writing memoir and have closed that "book".  A line in the Publisher’s Weekly’s review -- “Writing as art and psychological salvation is at the heart of this book.”  -- showed me more about what writing means to me.  

Being published in newspapers and magazines is important to me; the reach it provides into other people’s minds and hearts is significant. I still want that. But I no longer feel competitive or even aware of what other writers are doing. I’m wedded to my process that allows me to grow and develop in ways I could not have, had I not become a writer.

Note from Lisa: Sandra would like to give one lucky blog reader a copy of each of her books (print or Kindle, your choice). Simply leave a comment by the end of the day on Saturday, February 28, 2015. US postal addresses only for print). Visit Sandra's website to learn more about her.

Images courtesy Sandra Hurtes.

Guest Blogger Laraine Herring on The Baby Story Monkey

 I'm pleased to present another guest post (her third!) from someone I respect a great deal. Not only do I enjoy reading and learning from her work, but since we first corresponded about four years ago, Laraine Herring has provided me with inspiration and motivation, excellent advice, insightful critical feedback on my memoir manuscript, many laughs; plus the gift of reading and offering feedback on one of her novel manuscripts. (I'm certain I got the better end of the deal on that one!) I've watched with admiration as she's further shaped and defined an already full writing life that includes college teaching, writing novels and craft books, and nurturing fellow writers through innovative in-person and online ventures.  

Please welcome Laraine Herring.  

I’ve tried many different ways to help my writing students become more comfortable with the essential writer’s quality of vulnerability. They want so badly to “get it” quickly, to be masters of their work, commanders of their ships. They don’t want to screw things up. Feel exposed. I understand. I do, but I have to somehow convince them that not only is it OK—it’s essential—to not know everything all at once.

Writers must spend many hours, days, and months in a space of not-knowing. It’s human nature to want to squirm away from this place. Not knowing makes us feel vulnerable and that can create tension. But our work’s deepest heart is revealed to us slowly, through committed practice and patience.

One semester, my beautiful, normally mild-mannered students turned vicious when speaking about their own works-in-progress. It was as if a tiny evil creature slipped out of their mouths wielding Wolverine-like knives to cut down everything in its path before it had a chance to grow. Where did this venom come from? And what purpose might it serve if we could look underneath it? What lives within the bully?

This class used words like drivel, failure, garbage, crap, ridiculous, absurd, and on and on to describe their early drafts. Mind you, they did not speak about their classmates’ work in those terms. They reserved those labels for their own still-wriggling drafts, treating themselves and their own creations worse than they would ever dream of treating another’s work. At first, I pointed out what they were doing, but that didn't stop the behavior, so I tried an experiment

I went to the dollar store and bought a bushel of brightly colored stuffed hanging monkeys.I brought the monkeys into class and gave one to each student. “This monkey is your writing,” I said. “It’s your early draft. It’s your beautiful creation.” They looked at me like I was crazy, but I was used to that. “Go ahead,” I continued. “Say mean things to it. Tell it it’s worthless. Stupid. Drivel. It’ll never amount to a decent monkey.” And they would try, but of course they’d end up laughing because they were fully grown adults being asked to yell at neon stuffed monkeys. It was absurd. Right?

I’d hold their monkeys’ heads, pressing down on the forehead to make the monkey look sad when they yelled at it. The class started to understand what they were doing. They were destroying something precious with their words. Something new. Something still in the process of becoming.

No one is so intentionally mean that they’ll slice down new creatures on purpose. They didn’t realize the effects of their language on their creative process and their writing lives. They didn’t know what unconscious damage they were doing to their own growth as artists.

When my students could personify their work -- which I encouraged them to refer to as ‘baby story monkeys’ to help reinforce the vulnerability of this new relationship -- they could begin to enter into a more mature place with the work. They could begin to allow it to be what it is as it moves toward becoming what it would be. I see what you’re saying–I think it’s the verb tense that was off.  Personification of the draft allowed them to understand that early drafts and final drafts cannot exist within the same form. As long as they judged their work from its first breath, the work could never trust them enough to take the necessary risks involved in evolving into its future.

Becoming is a fragile thing. We have to hold our work gently so we don’t snuff out its life.

There’s an insidious type of arrogance that most of us carry to some degree that erroneously convinces us that we are the one who is perfect, who will never make that mistake. That arrogance also sneaks in masquerading as negative self-talk. If it can convince us we’re not good enough in the beginning, then we’ll be able to avoid the risks necessary to grow.

However this arrogance manifests in a writer, underneath it lives fear. Fear of not being able to write the story that comes to us. Fear of not having the discipline or persistence or patience to finish. Fear of what might be possible. Fear of the amount of work involved. Fear of being seen. Of speaking a truth. Of being human. If we can cut down something before it has a chance to mature, then we can assure ourselves, through the magic of the self-fulfilling prophecy, that we’ll never have to deal with what could have been. Strike first. Assume the power position and eliminate uncertainty. Eliminate vulnerability. Eliminate mystery. Three elements, as it turns out, which are non-negotiable in the creative process.

Avoid meeting them and you avoid everything. 

Note from Lisa: You can join Laraine on February 28 for a deep-dive virtual (and affordable) retreat: Your Story’s Inner Genius. Early registration ends January 31; registration closes February 21.  Laraine also teaches annually at The Kripalu Institute for Yoga and Health, works as a premium consultant with Tracking Wonder  and is the founder and Head Monkey of Fierce Monkey Tribe.

All images courtesy Laraine Herring.

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

My end-of-the-year, start-of-a-new-year newsletter went out about 10 days ago. If you're not on the distribution list, here's the main story, one I hope will speak to writers setting out with new goals for 2015. The full newsletter is here (along with a link to sign up for future ones).

Last year, my word was HOPE. Each year I choose a word, or short phrase, as a beacon of sorts. It helps me remember my way when the writing life (and life, period) acts up.  

 

I wanted to remain full (or at least mindful) of hope, as I sought to publish a memoir-in-essays. As I let go of freelance editing and writing jobs that I enjoyed and which provided part-time income, but were preventing me from developing longer range projects and nailing down teaching jobs. As I worried, as always, about income and health insurance and when and why and how to publish and in what venues.

So I hoped.

 

Some things worked out (teaching jobs, journal publications, editing projects); others didn't (a book publishing offer, mainly). Life acted up, as usual.

 

The manuscript was a finalist in a few contests. Some publishers expressed interest. Some are still considering it. Some sent (what seemed to be) sincere notes:  the best of the worst of the rejections, was from my #2 wish-list publisher, and read in part, "...This is so very lovely, and comes so close, really within a whisper, of what we like to publish. But, alas...".

 

Alas.

 

Another publisher invited me to resubmit after/if I revise the individual essays into a linear narrative -- advice I've heard before (even from myself), thought seriously about, and up to now, have rejected.

 

A mentor of mine who did that told me, "It was like breaking the back of each of those essays." But she did it, and something else, different but lovely, emerged.

 

Could I break the backs of those essays I loved and labored over? The ones editors at various literary journals over the last eight years read, accepted, edited, and published? Those I carefully shaped, revised, polished?  The ones I thoughtfully envisioned as singular, segmented, stand-alone?

 

It's time to think. Maybe my word for 2015 will carry me through. 

I keep my current year's word private, in a perhaps juvenile attempt to protect its potency. It's a word that seems to suggest two contradictory ideas (contronyms, they're called, words like cleave, bolt, strike). 

 It's a new year. Do you have a word? 

 

Don't tell me. Tell yourself, over and over. Whisper it, or shout it. Write it down, in your heart, on the inside of your forehead, on your desk, in the air you breathe.

 

Alas, it may be what carries you through your writing year. I hope so. 

 

Images: Flickr Creative Commons: Hope Sign (Pol Sifter); Words (Joe Fife)..

 

Writing Inspiration Redux: 15 Posts Writers Keep Reading

In case you missed a few, and before we move on to all new material, here are the 15 most trafficked posts from 2014 (exclusive of the Friday Fridge Clean-Outs). I'm pleased so many are guest posts from my valued contributors. (And yes, I know "Top X" lists should be published before the new year begins; this is what happens when you schedule a post in advance for December 30, 2016). 

1. Saloma Furlong on Old Fashioned Virtues in a Digital Age: Perseverance and Networking

2.  Donna Baier Stein on Rejection, Writers of a Certain Age, and the Persistence of Hope

3.  C. Hope Clark on Why Writing What You Know Doesn't Mean You Know How to Write

4.  Alison Strack on Attending the Sirenland Writers Conference in Positano, Italy

5.  Beware of What You Wish For (and What You Don’t): My Teaching Writing Update

6.  Kim Ablon Whitney on Writing Niche Novels, Writing What You Know

7.  Why Thank You is the Creative Nonfiction Writer's All-Purpose Response to Critics and Admirers Alike

8.  Nancy M. Williams on How Claiming Her Passion Transformed Her Writing Career

9. Janna Marlies Maron on Nonfiction, Art, and Publishing Under the Gum Tree

10.  A Reading, A Writer in the Family (no, two), A Coincidence (or not)

11.  Of Print, Pixels, and Publication

12.  Faye Rapoport DesPres on Combining Individual Essays into a Cohesive Collection

13.  Jennifer Walkup on 11 Ways Publishing a Book is Like Having Kids

14.  Acceptance After (Multiple) Rejections: It Only Takes One Yes, One Editor, One

15.  Banish the Inner Writing Critic? Maybe Not so Fast.

Thanks to all my readers!  And by the way, I'm now scheduling guest posts for the first half of this year; let me know if you have an idea.

Image: Flickr/Creative Commons, Kevin Dooley

One More Year-End List for Writers: I Did It. Did You?

For the past couple of Decembers, I wrote here about what I call my *I Did It List,* and encouraged other writers to draw up one of their own before the year ends. While I did make my own list a few weeks ago, I haven't mentioned it here, yet. Actually, the blog's been unusually quiet since mid-November, as I grappled with the end of an unexpectedly busy teaching semester. 

But then  Erika Dreifus reminded me today about the importance of the list and why I feel so strongly that writers write one. So, with a few hours left to 2014, here goes.  

 

The idea, in brief, is that you sit down at the end of the year and list all the things you accomplished – big, small, significant, minor, planned, surprising: whatever you find worthy of patting yourself on the back about. Most of what goes on my list is related to writing and work that is tied to literary endeavors – publishing pieces I'm proud of in particular venues, teaching a new class, hitting income goals.

 

But occasionally more general things make the list, things that contribute to my writing/work life, or to my life, but aren't the kind that result directly in publication, assignments, jobs, or books: one year, I listing having remade my home office after 23 years; another, that I learned more about photography; this year, I listed that I read more for pleasure than usual and began touring colleges with my younger son. 

I've written before about why I think the process of making and thinking about this kind of a list  matters a lot more than scratching out the tired old writers' New Year's resolutions (Write more! X words per day! Get a book deal! Write every day! Quit procrastinating on Facebook!).  

 

And, I find it a lot more instructive, helpful, compassionate, and interesting than the self-recriminating lists many of us make (if only mentally) of all the things we had planned (resolved?) to do and did not get done, the list of letdowns, perceived failures, rejections, and false starts.

 

You can see some of my thoughts about why the *I Did It List* is important -- and what kinds of things you might considering putting on it, and why it's different than a list of goals -- here, here, here, and here. 

 

One of the caveats I put on myself (though you are welcome to ignore) is that I keep my full *I Did It List* private. I don't post it here or anywhere; it's for me, only. Sure, during the year, I've mentioned  things I'm proud to have accomplished on the blog, or posted on Facebook. But I like knowing, when I'm making the list, that it isn't for publication. The list, I believe, reads quite differently than if I knew others would be reading it. But make your own any way you like, and do with it what you want.

 

 The other "rule" I have is not to make the *I Did It List* some kind of accountability activity, holding it up against any list of goals I've made throughout the year. For me, it's not about whether or not I succeeded at X or Y, but about what I did.

 

Did I try something new? Learn something?   Say YES to something and have it work out? Make some interesting mistakes? Some of the best things on my list this year could not have ever appeared on any "to do" list, because they represent my taking a leap when an unexpected invitation, request, or prod was provided -- and having it turn out well, not-so-well, disastrously. But you know what, I did it!

 

Here's what I was thinking today: My *I Did It Lists* are beginning to represent for me, an answer of sorts to that wonderful Mary Oliver poem/question; it's what I've done, this year, with my one wild and precious life. As I'm making the list, I love remembering, then writing something down, and thinking, "Oh yeah, I did do that. Cool!" 

Before the new year starts, or in its early days, look back for just 15 minutes, and write your own *I Did It List.*  If you're like me, or dozens of others who have told me what the experience was like, I'm betting you'll find more on there than you imagined, and feel pretty darn good about it in the process.

 

Images: All Flickr Creative Commons.  Mary Oliver quote, Julie Gibbons; Red notebook, Alexander Levin; Woman in snow, Benjamin Staudinger; Happy man, Neal Fowler.