The Gift of Insomnia

Insomnia in small doses is a writer’s best friend. As long as it remains an occasional visitor and leads to quiet, uninterrupted writing time, I welcome it. In this case I brought it on, though not intentionally. I forgot to say “decaf” when I ordered my coffee at 7 PM. I find that I can often fall asleep after an evening coffee, but wake up perky a few hours later (of course if I don’t make up the sleep I will crash at the other end of my day).

I had a revealing exercise in this morning’s wee hours: I dug up a mission statement on my writing that I had written when Gavin was an infant. Eventually, amid cobwebby piles of 3-ring binders, I found two documents that I had nearly forgotten. My personal mission, although I have not consciously referred to it in half a decade, still rings true: To empower seekers to maintain or grow closer to the beliefs that life is good, we are all in this together, and that there is a God. I want the sensuality and sincerity of my writing to bear witness to hope, and to refresh and renew the human spirit. I had also completed a stream-of-consciousness response to the question, “My passion is…”: Living life in full appreciation of the gift it is. Continuing to learn. Being a good steward of what has been given. Being real. Shedding light on true beauty. Offering peace. Writing about all of this in a truly unique, compelling way. Making my son proud.

This resurrection of notes on my mission and my passion revealed two things. The negative aspect of dusting off my ponderings was the realization that I had not honored it enough. The words may be corny, impossibly lofty, but for me they represent what I really give and gain from my writing. These are words that deserve more respect, a place on my office wall. On the positive side, the writing I am doing now resonates with the sentiments I penned years ago. I can hear the harmony between then and now, as if played on invisible strings. This is how I feel purposeful passion. It feels like music.

I flip open a book by Barbara Sher, who wrote I Could Do Anything if I Only Knew What it Was. I saw her on public television once and I loved her no nonsense way of inspiring action. She is not the kind of motivational speaker who lives in la-la land. She understands that people have jobs, financial worries, families and can not just move to a desert island and pursue their dream of painting seaside scenes. She has a way of saying get off your rear and take some action in so many words, and of making it sound completely possible. Today she virtually shouts at me from her book: What you’re really supposed to be doing is whatever makes your heart sing. Another resonant chord is struck. My heart is singing now, and it sang for the last two evenings when I worked on my book, so I guess I should keep writing.

I am plowing through books this morning, looking for a specific quote about the universe conspiring with the artist, about how things have a mysterious way of coming together. And the universe is having its fun with me: I can’t find the quote. But I do find this whammo quote instead, by Frederick Buechner (Of Fiction and Faith):

There is something deep within us, in everybody, that gets buried and distorted and confused and corrupted by what happens to us. But it is there as a source of insight and healing and strength. I think that is where art comes from.

It is nice to search for that something deep and find that it is still there, ready to serve as a wellspring.

For now, though, I must leave the wellspring gurgling below its cover and go back to sleep.

Wordsmithing

It is one of my small pleasures to be given a piece of writing and asked, what do you think? I let the words fall over me and search for their message as they pass. I tuck, prune, and tighten with my pen. I think of new ways to say old things. I scribble marginalia. It is a vast relief to read something other than what I’ve written, a treat to enter the mind of another writer. It almost doesn’t matter what I am reading; I relish the opportunity to wordsmith.

Most of the time these pieces are medical, for work. When I was new to the medical writing world, I wrote a piece for Pilgrimage called Words through a Stethoscope. I wrote about the precision that medical writing and medicine shared, and also about the limits of my new endeavor: Sometimes I would plead for the life of a medical nuance or colloquialism, while a senior editor squeezed the rules around it until it was sterile and bland like a big fat post-amputation dressing. But I looked for creative opportunities everywhere: I made sure my words were smoothed over until they flowed instead of splattered on the page. I got to put words together for a living, perhaps not the kinds of words I’d dreamed about but words nonetheless.

Writers and editors that I know sometimes use wordsmithing in a derogatory way, to mean oh, that writer’s just rearranging words aimlessly. There’s no real substance to her suggestions. And I guess there is wordsmithing for the sake of wordsmithing, like the woman who pipes up at every meeting just to hear her own voice out loud. But a real lover of words would never be driven by that kind of agenda. A real wordophile treats even technical words with reverence and enthusiasm. When words must be cut away, as they usually must, they are disposed of with an efficient, quiet respect.

I woke up thinking about my first career transition, from nursing to medical writing. And now I am thinking about the next ever-so-gradual leap, from medical writing to creative writing and editing. I keep making mostly small submissions while I try to cook up big ideas. Since I like to wordsmith so much, particularly when I need to pare a piece down to fit, I’m starting a Word Count Guru business on the side. What a joy it will be to turn this passion into some income!

Last week, I wrote a blog called Something’s Coming. I later realized I had a blog by the same name in April. Reading it back, I see it embraced the same delicious hope, perhaps at a higher intensity driven by the advent of spring. I agree with what I wrote in April: There is a story somewhere beneath all of this sweet, ordinary life.

Today is another chapter in the sweet and ordinary: a final swim lesson for Gavin and then some shopping. If Gavin naps I will resurrect my latest book chapter. Starting my day with writing feels like a taste of chocolate before breakfast.

Something's Coming

I disobeyed my writing office’s primary rule today. It’s an informal office, and the rule was jotted years ago with a Sharpie on a Post-It, which I then taped to my monitor (those Post-Its don’t stay up long term without a little reinforcement, and this rule needs vigorous reinforcement!).

The rule says Write First, Surf Later. It evolved because I endured this whole phase where I spent my writing time with online groups and newsletters. I was pretending to be a writer, and maybe I needed to hobnob before I broke away and started to actually write. But Web surfing is a vast and tiring endeavor. One link leads to another, and another. I needed to spend my energies more wisely. The limited time I have now goes mostly toward writing, with a little surfing as a wrap-up reward. The sign helps.

But I’ve had this feeling that something good is coming, so I had to check my e-mail (which inevitably leads to surfing). I submitted a piece via e-mail last week (don’t you wish more publications allowed this practice?) and have attributed my something good feeling to a prescient sense of imminent acceptance. No acceptance letter, but I did find some contests worth entering and some presses worth noting. Thanks again to Hope at Funds for Writers .

Of course, the something good may have already happened, and now I am greedily expecting more! I had the afternoon off yesterday and got to shop first for others and then for myself. The gift and toy stores where I shopped for others wrapped my packages with flair. I then strolled around Marshall’s, musing about how to spend my gift card. I emerged two shirts, a throw rug, and a kid’s puzzle later, feeling satisfied. On top of that, I took the wrong coffee off the pickup counter at Starbuck’s. It was a scrumptious chilled mocha. They let me keep it (since I had already sipped it), and gave me the one they had made me, too. No wonder I only slept for about five hours!

I am working on queries about my book, and am teetering on a scary precipice. Once I’ve sent the first query I risk rejection and even failure. Initial feedback on my draft has been encouraging, although one writer suggested that only amateurs start a query with a question (and I thought I was so clever!). Another writer suggested I spend three months researching agents. This sounded ridiculous to me, as I am the act first, fill in with research later type. I have researched some, but now I want to start my query process. Perhaps I can restrain myself while I research a bit more. But definitely not for three whole months: I’m afraid I would burst from the delay.

I was inspired not long ago by The Prizewinner of Defiance, Ohio, a memoir about a mother who subsidized her large family with contest winnings: jingles, poems, essays, and the like. She was a feisty, clever mother who used her very limited time (she had 10 kids) to simultaneously fulfill her creative impulses and earn some much-needed cash. I don’t think I’ll ever reach her level, but once in a while I hit it right. I’ve won a handful of contests, mostly small potatoes but one was an all expense paid self-publishing package. The latest one I entered was, if you can believe it, a love letter to witch hazel. Surely worth the 3-paragraph effort for the $1000 prize and the chance for a trip to France. Oh, and of course a lifetime supply of witch hazel (which I actually do use so I was not prostituting my talents).

Another Saturday, another swim lesson for Gavin, although this time my mom will join us in the pool. Then off to the Deep River Ancient Muster, which is a huge event in our area. I heard the drum tattoo last night as Gavin and I hunted for fireflies. Later today and tomorrow I get to give out nearly all of those daintily wrapped gifts I bought yesterday. My friend Pam’s daughter and my visiting niece will get Calico Critters (the hottest new girl’s toy – I was amazed by the volume of choices). My 16-year-old niece will get a jewelry set, which a teenager in the store helped me choose. I am hanging on to one box, Gavin’s birthday gift to my mom (she reads the blog so no details here). I will get the satisfaction of a gift well chosen and hopefully well received. Maybe that’s my something good. Whatever it turns out to be, I am delighting in the guessing game.

Not an Elevator Speech

It is a why did I go decaf morning. I have worked long hours this week and have to work more this weekend. But first, I get to blog. Infinitely more uplifting than writing about my work project, herpes in HIV. I won’t go into the pictures I have had to view.

My book is taking shape, although it seems way too short. They don’t hire editors to put text in, do they? My theory is that all this technical writing, the day job, has made me way too succinct in my creative life. I am thinking about authentic ways to add some meat to the book’s bones. I don’t think increasing the font to 18 will fool anyone.

Despite my undernourished draft, I wrote my first draft of a query to an agency yesterday. A big New York agency on Broadway. Just the thought makes me starry-eyed. I had fun touting all the compelling aspects of my unfinished book. It’s an e-mail query, and I struggled with the balance between grabbing the reader and sounding overly slick. I also had to restrain myself and not just run off and send it in an enthusiasm spasm, not without second, third, and fourth opinions.

I thought about posting my draft to my writing group, but I have become very possessive of it. There are two factors at work here: I have this loopy notion that someone will steal my idea, and I don’t want to be deflated by a less than flattering critique. But as I write this, I realize that I have to take this step (and hope there are no essay burglars in my group!). Honestly, I don’t think anyone but me would want my idea. It’s a bit offbeat, and some might say too academic. I’m not sure if this makes any sense, but you’d really have to be me to write it.

I have to find an exciting, pithy way to explain it. Marketing types call this the elevator speech. But I’m not sure the kind of writing I do lends itself to elevators. A bit of history, reflection, memoir, some writing exercises: it’s the opposite of edgy. Instead of a finding a hook I find a nice, soft pillow. Pillows are wonderful, but how exciting can you make them sound?

I know I am in for the long haul. I read once in Poets and Writers about an author who lost her whole book in a house fire. As I was leaving to pick up Gavin, I hesitated on the porch and remembered that author. Where was my laptop? Where was my disk? I was running a bit late but went back inside and grabbed the disk anyway.

I got an early start on my weekend. I get 4 paid half-day Fridays off this summer, a nice little perk. I had to forego my half-day for a project last week but made sure I left early yesterday. I was pretty flattened from some heavy work to stay on deadline, and only felt capable of getting my nails polished. But sure enough, after that breather, after someone massaging my hands with mango lotion, dipping them in paraffin, and making them look glamorous, my hands (and tired brain!) felt ready to type again. Reviewed my last chapter, typed my first book query. Gavin and I had a nice supper and walk to the beach at my mom and brother’s place. I watched Gavin’s delight as he jumped in the cool evening sea. Today, more water sports (swim lessons). Gavin floated solo (not clinging to me) for the first time last week. Life is good.

Long Weekend, Long Range Plans

My biggest challenge these days is the need to cushion myself from stress, from things that sap my optimism and energy. Work has gotten busy, and I woke up thinking about it. Then I came downstairs to my quiet, early morning home office, which is usually my haven. The same Male Someone who was hurtful last week left a message in my e-mail box, sounding manic. Then another e-mail hit. He is full of “revelations” that make sense only to him. I feel sick in the pit of my stomach. My only revelation is that he is getting sicker, and there is nothing I can do about it.

Is it selfish to want to write in spite of the chaos that swirls around me? Despite the guilt that I sometimes wrestle with, I know that for me writing is sanity preserving and life affirming. And have I mentioned fun?

I hang onto the dream of a life that lets me write full time, but I was given serious pause by something I read today. Hope Clark, of Funds for Writers, wrote a small editorial on going freelance. Her advice for making the big break included having enough funds for a half-year of bills, having a decent health insurance plan, and being able to estimate your full-time income from your part-time efforts. This advice is both wise and discouraging.

Six months’ worth of bills: my mind doesn’t want to calculate that intimidating sum! The excesses of our twenties (credit card spending: young people take heed!) are haunting us into our forties. We are chipping away at our debt, but progress is painfully slow. I do have an ace card: when the time comes to go freelance, I can get medical writing work while I pursue more of the writing that I love. But what’s the point of making a big break if I am simply doing what I do now, but in my basement?

Obviously, I need to spend less and save more, something that is so much more easily said than done. But it can be done. It fits so well, too, with my belief that my life requires more simplicity. More dinners home, more “no” responses to invitations, more hours (okay, I’ll settle for minutes!) on the porch.

I was inspired by the book Choosing Simplicity years ago. The authors surveyed people who made conscious decisions to cut down on their chaos quotient. This wasn’t a new spin on the rural flower child movement: for some people simplicity meant country living, for others it was moving to the city so they could walk everywhere. For some it was growing their own produce, for others it was job sharing. The book is a great reminder that there is more than one way to simplify and save. It’s time to dust it off again.

Hope Clark’s advice to measure your freelance income capacity by the part-time writing you produce now is a call to action for me. I submitted a piece yesterday, but my serious submissions to decent paying markets are few and far between. It’s time to get serious. While I pine for a book contract I need to write some “bread and butter” pieces. How-to articles seem to be my strong sellers. I had better start advising the world, and quick!

I have come around to my Saturday morning optimism again. There’s a lot to do, but on this long weekend I have 4 days open before me. I look forward to swim lessons with Gavin, shopping with Mom, a July 4th party, an overdue outing with a friend. Hopefully we will dust off the deck and have some quiet family time, too. I’m already scheming for some writing time on Monday or Tuesday.