I am an associate professor of human services at a regional Midwestern university. I am also a writer of fantasy and romance, hoping to get traditionally published. I have one husband and am owned by four cats.
My hair is very thin on top. Very thin. Thin enough that I would get hair transplants if I could afford them. Thin enough that I’m considering wearing wigs if I could get rid of visions of the styles my mother used to wear when I was growing up.
So far, I have gotten no closer to the Big Audacious Goal. That goal was to sell books at a writers’ conference. I’m not totally sold on the goal, which is probably why I need to have the goal. Frankly, I’m afraid I’m going to fail selling any books. I think the goal is too audacious for me, as it plays with my insecurities.
I didn’t think I could find a BAG that would seem too big, either. I’m surprised to discover this. There are a dearth of writers’ conferences that are achievable. The ones in this area are too big and overwhelming. The one I would be most comfortable in no longer exists.
I have never learned to speak the language of these slate-edged hills; silence speaking eloquently things I almost understand
I think I have heard you walking softly, barefoot and daydreaming; wonder if you've heard me calling out my name, an owl's whisper. In the Catskills, do the sleepy towns tell tales? In the Catskills, do the sleepy towns tell tales?
This is all I remember of the song. I wrote it 30 years or so ago, and I really haven’t visited it since I wrote it. I couldn’t even remember this much earlier this morning. I wrote the words down somewhere, but I don’t remember where I put them.
I looked on my computer and I found it! I found it!
I have never learned to speak The language of these slate-edged hills – Silence speaking eloquently Things I almost understand
CHORUS: I think I have seen you walking Softly, barefoot and daydreaming Wonder if you hear me calling Out your name, an owl’s whisper In the Catskills, Do the sleepy towns tell tales? In the Catskills, Do the sleepy towns tell tales?
Looking in the deep blue patience Of your eyes, I falter, losing All my words of consequence Everything I meant to say
CHORUS
In the wind that blows around The hills, I thought I felt your smile Gather up my words again And try to ask what you were thinking
CHORUS
I used to be a singer-songwriter until I divorced my guitarist. I had an okay voice; my guitarist played a semi-finger-picking style and wasn’t very disciplined. We were never going to be anything but those folksingers who attended open mic occasionally. But I loved the words.
Most of what I wrote was about crushes I got while spending my daily life in a small town in the foothills of the Catskills. I had lots of crushes; I have lots of songs to reclaim.
I can’t sing now; I’ve lost my voice in all but my talking range. I suppose I could get it back with practice, but it’s hard having the heart to practice when reminded of how much I’ve lost.
I started to sing this, and I could sing without obstruction to my voice, although it was not as strong as before. The lost is not so lost anymore.
Sometimes I get into those soul-searching sessions when I wonder if I’m doing the right thing with my time, whether there’s a better thing to do with my time, and what that better thing to do would be.
I think of this a lot when it comes to writing. I’m not tired of writing, but I feel like I’m slowing down a bit. It doesn’t help that I have two books I’m writing at once, one more than the other. I’m having a problem with only being able to write smoothly at Starbucks and not at home. I’m not sure what the focus problem is, but I think the low-level distraction of a coffeehouse helps me write.
I’m also dealing with the scourge of writing — the nagging little voice that tells me all I write is crap. It’s quite persistent. It’s killing my joy and distracting me.
On the other hand, writing is my favorite flow activity. It occupies my mind better than few other things. I can lose time while writing; it’s almost hypnotic. My other flow activity is moulage, but I really don’t get too many opportunities to do that. And I don’t know if there’s anything to pass my time that I enjoy as much.
I want to hang on to writing; I want to continue being a writer. I want to sell my work and have others read it. I’m going to have to find ways of overcoming the problems.
This is an exercise I give my students in personal adjustment (positive psychology) every year. For a week, find each day a good thing that happened. Note it, then explain why it happened to you.
I feel like doing it today.
Thing 1: I got to work and there was a parking spot in the closest lot. As it was noon, this was a big thing.
Why it happened: because I didn’t wait till the absolute last minute to get to work.
Thing 2: I got a little quality time with Pumpkin
Why it happened: Because we adopted Pumpkin off someone’s porch and give her love and pets.
Thing 3: The weather is gorgeous.
Why it happened: Probably global warming. Not so good. But I’m enjoying the weather, because it’s supposed to drop to the 30s tomorrow.
Maybe this will help me appreciate the little things!
After my somewhat cranky post of the other day, a friend of mine suggested I look at the little things rather than wait for something momentous to come. And she was right. Big things don’t come into our lives too often; smaller sources of joy visit us regularly.
For example, this same friend gave me an emotional support pickle. It lives in my office. It looks like this:
The emotional support pickle really helps on stressful days. (Sometimes every day is stressful.)
We’ve been having unseasonably warm weather with highs in the 50s and 60s. Surely that’s a little thing to be happy about. And having four cats, four weird cats. The posters in my office styled from two of my book covers.
I love shiny new happenings. Who doesn’t? But there are always little things to cheer me, to get me through.
It’s still February, and I could use a change of pace.
When I was younger, I would wish for something weird to happen when I felt like this. It didn’t happen as often as I wanted it to; I don’t know what made me so much of a drama queen back then.
I understand the sentiment, however. My life has become predictable, tedious, and dull. To work and then home. Eat at A&G on Friday (it’s Greek Night, of course). Work, writing. Sometimes I go to Starbucks to write.
I would like something unpredictable (in a good way) to happen.
Are there good unpredictable things that happen? Or are unpredictable things only tied to dire diagnoses and loved ones dying (neither of which I want)?
Am I just asking the universe for a cosmic cookie? And what’s the problem with that?
Spring Break comes in just two weeks (and a day). Maybe I’ll be able to find a change of pace then.
I shy away from writing about dark subjects in my blog. It’s strange because I’ve had several dark times in my life. I don’t want people to think I’m pandering for attention, even though the reason writers post their works in the first place is to get attention.
I won’t write dark for dark’s sake, nor will I use gratuitous trauma as a shortcut to character development. Yes, someone’s past will contribute to their character. But I won’t use trauma as the only character trait or even the main one, and only if it’s pertinent to the story. (See also the “fridging” phenomenon—killing a girlfriend character to motivate the main male character.)
Writing about dark topics in my stories is something I must work my way up to every time. For example, the body count in Apocalypse. I had trouble killing anyone, but a developmental editor told me that the last battle had to look hopeless, so I killed eight characters. I also, ironically, edited that book for gratuitous darkness because I had tried the cheap way to make it darker.
Sometimes an entire book is dark. Carrying Light, one of the two I’m currently writing, is a dark novel, being that it’s written at the cusp of the collapse of the United States. Apocalypse is dark, because the fate of humanity hangs in the balance. But it was hard to write these dark enough at first.
In the end, I think darkness needs to balance light. That’s just me; I know there are people who write dark all the time, with lots of death, depersonalization, and alienation. I can’t write there, because all my writing adopts a quote from ee cummings: “The single secret will still be man.”
One of the things on my bucket list is to spend a little time in Longyearbyen, Svalbard, Norway. It is a town within the Arctic Circle, the northernmost settled town in the world and one which has 24 hours of daylight in summer.
These are why I want to go there, to be as far north as I can get and to experience a 24-hour day. The wildlife nearby would also be an experience, but I would have to carry a big gun and I don’t think me with a gun is advisable. Maybe there are group tours?
Polar bear warning signs in Svalbard, Norway
I suspect there’s not a lot to do in Longyearbyen. That doesn’t bother me, because I want to be involved in writing for at least some of my time there. There is a cafe there that looks like a great place to write.
Longyearbyen is on my bucket list. Not Hawaii or Paris or England (unless I can visit the Shetland Islands), but Longyearbyen.
Words Like Me 