As I said in my ode to RBP, one of the most important things I’ve learned through all of this is that THERE IS ENOUGH FOR EVERYONE. Of everything. Creativity, talent, attention, success, money, ideas, time, love. Everything.
As you know by now, I eat books. Reading only one author for nine months was like sustaining my vampire existence on animal blood instead of human blood. (HA!!) It was hard to go hungry. I would try to pick up some other author, thinking it couldn’t possibly be as dramatic as all that, but it was always true, right up until the very end. Apparently, I couldn’t read while I was in that new territory, writing my first draft of my first novel.
As I also mentioned, there were two reasons for this. First, especially in the beginning, the voice I found was fragile, susceptible. I didn’t want it to be unduly influenced by someone else’s voice. Chances are, if you’re a published author (one that I’m reading anyway) you have a strong voice. I wanted my characters to remain purely mine, as purely mine as they could be. I didn’t want to start trying to mimic John Irving.
The other reason was jealousy. It worked one of two ways. Either I became enraged that whoever I was reading had managed to get published and took up some of the finite amount of pages available in the Universe.
Or.
My heart sunk, my self-esteem plummeted to new lows, I became certain that I would never be able to compete professionally in a world where Cormac McCarthy existed. More often the latter.
I didn’t know then what I know now. And that is: THERE IS ENOUGH FOR EVERYONE.
I read something a while ago that talked about how when I’m thinking about my goals, focusing on being a “being a famous writer” doesn’t serve me as well as having a desire to touch people’s lives. That makes sense to me. Sure, I want to be on Oprah’s couch, but only part of that is my ego. The better part (hopefully the bigger part) wants to leave Oprah’s studio and head right for some high school auditorium where I can talk to hundreds of girls who have torn off pieces of their soul bit by bit by their own actions, so that we can talk about how my book shows that nothing is irreparable.
Yes.
That’s the thing. When I’m offering myself up to be the transcriber, I am hearing things only I can hear and saying things only I can say. My stories are told through the filter of MY life, MY brain, MY heart. No one else has that perspective. THERE IS ENOUGH room in the world for both me and Cormac. That guy can write the crap out of anything, but he can’t write about a woman’s transformation or a sustained, touching, intricate female relationship or motherhood and marriage in quite the way that I do.
I am blessedly aware that I tell stories that have been told a million times. I’m cool with that. I don’t need to have an original thought. But I am telling them in a way that only I can, seeing things through eyes that belong solely to me.
And I don’t have to worry about not getting published because of the finite amount of pages available in the Universe. Or that I’ll never get another worthy idea again or that someone else will write it better than me. Those are falsehoods, lies my mind tells itself when it wants to feel badly or have an excuse to quit.
THERE IS ENOUGH FOR EVERYONE.
And I don’t have to stop myself from encouraging someone in my life who also has the desire to write because what if they grasp onto success before me or what if they write it better or what if they surpass me on the road to our dreams. That is my pathetic, wimpy, sniveling little ego trying to sustain itself on the worthless premise of lack.
THERE IS ENOUGH FOR EVERYONE.
I am surrounded – and I mean surrounded – by other artists. Some of these people are farther ahead on the path than I, already published, already successful, and some of them are trudging along, not yet seeing the worldly fruits of their labors, still struggling to gather up enough guts to stop listening to the terrible voices and forge ahead.
Before I knew that THERE IS ENOUGH FOR EVERYONE, I had a tendency to believe somewhere in the deepest, darkest part of me that these people and I were somehow in competition. Instead of being grateful that I was surrounded by an ego-bolstering, supportive, inspiring, ass-saving community of creative geniuses, I actually looked at them as the enemy.
Thoughts like that can make your life very, very tiny.
I am my very best self when I am encouraging others, when I take every opportunity to hold them and their work up to the sun, and say, “HEY, LOOK AT WHAT YOU DID!!!” or “You’re so good at telling the beautiful truth!!!” or even better “I’m so happy for you!”
THERE IS ENOUGH FOR EVERYONE!
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
An Ode, of sorts, to Robert B. Parker
As some of you may know, one of my all-time favorite authors died recently, and I thought I’d spend a little time reflecting on what he brought into my reading and writing life during his too short life, and very prolific career.
I am a reader. My husband says I eat books. My love for reading is as much a part of me as my brown eyes or fat toes. I was nine years old when the magic happened. I was at my dad's house for Christmas break and someone in my then-stepmother's family had given me a set of five books in a series called Couples. Change of Hearts; Fire and Ice; Alone, Together. You get the picture. There was a different teenage couple gracing each cover, dressed in all manner of '80s hideousness; primary-colored stripes galore, big frosted, feathered hair, high-waisted pleats, suspenders even. I'm sure you can imagine. They were teenagers in the ‘80s, with crazy, exciting lives. They pulled me into their world and out of the discomfort of my own. I had escaped successfully for the first time.
After that, the sky was the limit. I read everything I could get my hands on, at least until I discovered boys and drugs. My voraciousness coupled with my mother’s forward-thinking led her to pass on to me any literature she had fallen in love with and me to eat it promptly.
Getting my hands on something like Spenser is still the stuff for which I live. A whole series of scrumptious characters I loved spending time with, previously undiscovered by me, and thus coming in one big bunch. (I’m experiencing something similar right now and it’s just as thrilling – no big talk.) At that time, I probably had 30 books laid at my feet. I gobbled them up, and when I ran out, I waited with baited breath for my next installment. I also read most of his non-Spenser fiction (only one of the westerns, sorry to say). Love and Glory is still one of my all-time favorite love stories, yet another impossible love. I’ve probably read it six or seven times. I lent my copy out and have yet to remember who I lent it to, but if I had it in my house, I’d read it again right now.
Robert Parker is one of maybe four authors that can consistently make me laugh out loud, one of three whose fan club I have actually considered joining.
Externally, he had everything I want to have as a writer; wit, charm, soul-piercing insight.
Internally, he had everything I need as a writer; discipline - writing five pages a day no matter what, and the value of love - married to the same woman for 44 years, he dedicated nearly every one of his 30 Spenser novels, and probably a good deal more of his other works, to Joan.
Also, I learned all I know about writing a fight because I’ve read every one of his Spenser novels probably 12 times. When I wrote my first physical fight, I relied heavily on what I learned listening to Spenser’s head as he pounded on some well-deserving punk (and occasionally got pounded on himself). (I have to say, I also relied on Dan saying, “NO, Gaaby, they don’t need to TALK about it. They’re guys. They’ve made each other bleed. Move on.”)
A while ago, when John Hughes died, I read an essay written by a woman who had struck up a correspondence with him when she was a teenager, in the height of his career. It was a beautiful, touching piece and I cried when I read about how she had reached out, as only a tenacious teenager can, and made him notice her, and thanked him for his contribution to her life. She was fortunate enough to get to know him and to glean some knowledge about life and her art because she took that chance, or felt compelled sufficiently enough to act.
I’m sorry to say, I never even attempted. That’s the kind of bold move I am hesitant to make. What if nothing ever comes of it? What if I feel silly?
So Robert Parker never knew how much I loved him, and now he never will.
A long, long time ago, Bestie B told me to send my manuscript to Steph along with a letter telling her how hers were the only words I could read through the year I was writing my first draft, how I read them over and over because, one, I wasn’t threatened by her voice; two, I felt inspired by the relationships she was able to create and how they made me FEEL; and, three, I found something new inside them every time I read them over. Silly as I feel writing this, being able to go back to the safety of those books over and over again somehow brought me to a place where I was able to realize one of the most important things I’ve learned on this journey, that there is enough for everyone.
“That’s ridiculous,” I said to B when she proposed this idea. “It probably wouldn’t even get close to her.”
B, of course, said with the confidence that comes with being a teller of truth, “If it is meant to get into Stephenie Meyer’s hands, I believe God can have it hand-delivered.”
Hmm. Something to think about.
I am a reader. My husband says I eat books. My love for reading is as much a part of me as my brown eyes or fat toes. I was nine years old when the magic happened. I was at my dad's house for Christmas break and someone in my then-stepmother's family had given me a set of five books in a series called Couples. Change of Hearts; Fire and Ice; Alone, Together. You get the picture. There was a different teenage couple gracing each cover, dressed in all manner of '80s hideousness; primary-colored stripes galore, big frosted, feathered hair, high-waisted pleats, suspenders even. I'm sure you can imagine. They were teenagers in the ‘80s, with crazy, exciting lives. They pulled me into their world and out of the discomfort of my own. I had escaped successfully for the first time.
After that, the sky was the limit. I read everything I could get my hands on, at least until I discovered boys and drugs. My voraciousness coupled with my mother’s forward-thinking led her to pass on to me any literature she had fallen in love with and me to eat it promptly.
Getting my hands on something like Spenser is still the stuff for which I live. A whole series of scrumptious characters I loved spending time with, previously undiscovered by me, and thus coming in one big bunch. (I’m experiencing something similar right now and it’s just as thrilling – no big talk.) At that time, I probably had 30 books laid at my feet. I gobbled them up, and when I ran out, I waited with baited breath for my next installment. I also read most of his non-Spenser fiction (only one of the westerns, sorry to say). Love and Glory is still one of my all-time favorite love stories, yet another impossible love. I’ve probably read it six or seven times. I lent my copy out and have yet to remember who I lent it to, but if I had it in my house, I’d read it again right now.
Robert Parker is one of maybe four authors that can consistently make me laugh out loud, one of three whose fan club I have actually considered joining.
Externally, he had everything I want to have as a writer; wit, charm, soul-piercing insight.
Internally, he had everything I need as a writer; discipline - writing five pages a day no matter what, and the value of love - married to the same woman for 44 years, he dedicated nearly every one of his 30 Spenser novels, and probably a good deal more of his other works, to Joan.
Also, I learned all I know about writing a fight because I’ve read every one of his Spenser novels probably 12 times. When I wrote my first physical fight, I relied heavily on what I learned listening to Spenser’s head as he pounded on some well-deserving punk (and occasionally got pounded on himself). (I have to say, I also relied on Dan saying, “NO, Gaaby, they don’t need to TALK about it. They’re guys. They’ve made each other bleed. Move on.”)
A while ago, when John Hughes died, I read an essay written by a woman who had struck up a correspondence with him when she was a teenager, in the height of his career. It was a beautiful, touching piece and I cried when I read about how she had reached out, as only a tenacious teenager can, and made him notice her, and thanked him for his contribution to her life. She was fortunate enough to get to know him and to glean some knowledge about life and her art because she took that chance, or felt compelled sufficiently enough to act.
I’m sorry to say, I never even attempted. That’s the kind of bold move I am hesitant to make. What if nothing ever comes of it? What if I feel silly?
So Robert Parker never knew how much I loved him, and now he never will.
A long, long time ago, Bestie B told me to send my manuscript to Steph along with a letter telling her how hers were the only words I could read through the year I was writing my first draft, how I read them over and over because, one, I wasn’t threatened by her voice; two, I felt inspired by the relationships she was able to create and how they made me FEEL; and, three, I found something new inside them every time I read them over. Silly as I feel writing this, being able to go back to the safety of those books over and over again somehow brought me to a place where I was able to realize one of the most important things I’ve learned on this journey, that there is enough for everyone.
“That’s ridiculous,” I said to B when she proposed this idea. “It probably wouldn’t even get close to her.”
B, of course, said with the confidence that comes with being a teller of truth, “If it is meant to get into Stephenie Meyer’s hands, I believe God can have it hand-delivered.”
Hmm. Something to think about.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Freedom from Self-Obsession
For the past two years, I have been in what has proven to be – finally standing on the outside - a self-centered, creative coma. It was pointed out to me by a very important man in my life in a very blunt but loving way that, while I expect nearly everyone to wait with baited breath for whatever I might next produce, I give little thought or energy to anyone else’s work. It has been as if I have expected all of the creative attention in the world to be turned my way through these years. While I may have needed a certain amount of . . . coddling, let’s say, at the beginning, I certainly have grown enough confidence to shove off on my own, without everyone’s eyes needing to be pointed my way.
You know I’m a little dramatic and a lot self-effacing. It’s probably not been that black and white. There are a few people who have come to me for encouragement, who were obviously coming to me as a sort of mentor, and my ego could handle that and I could be enthusiastic about their work. But I think, though Bestie A might disagree (mistakenly), if you are anything like a peer, I may have discounted YOUR need or desire for MY participation in YOUR process.
I sat at my dining room table with Besties B and C sharing with them what this man had said.
“You know,” B said, getting that look on her face that made my internal compass prepare itself for hearing the truth, “we’ve all been in this with you for two years. And we’ve been IN IT. Maybe it’s time to take a step back.”
The breath was just a tiny bit knocked out of me, but I recovered quickly. And, actually, felt no small amount of freedom. AAAHhhhhhhhh. I could stop thinking about myself. What a joy! I could grow up just a little bit more and start treating the people in my life like they deserve to be treated, once again.
I’m pretty accustomed to public learning. I think that’s why I can tell you the uglies. My friend Jessica started a beautiful blog about what her family has gone through after finding out two of their children have Autism.
http://spearsfamilyproject.blogspot.com
My favorite part of her first post is at the very end, when she talks about advice she was given to stop her 3-year-old tantruming daughter (not yet diagnosed) from harming herself when Jess was nursing her infant son.
“One lady told me to spray her with water when she did it. You know? Like a cat. I had to try that one for posterity. I started nursing Cale with a spray bottle full of water by my side. Sure enough, she started screaming and banging her head on the floor. So, I squirted her in the face. She stopped and looked at me then started to scream and bang again. I squirted her in the face again. She screamed louder and louder and I squirted and squirted. Pretty soon she was soaked and screaming so loud her whole face turned red and water was dripping out of her hair and off of her big red screaming dripping wet face. It didn't do her any good, but I sure felt better.”
I mean, that is SO BRAVE. And I know how she felt when she wrote it. She felt clean. The secret is out and she’s the one who told. She might have thought for a moment, ‘I shouldn’t be saying this about my children,’ but she went past that and told the truth and got the gift. And someone else will get the gift too. Maybe a lot of someones will. Part of the power in that is the power of potential identification; experiencing someone else’s thoughts, however they be expressed, and realizing you’re not the only person in the world who feels the way you do.
Certainly, there’ve been artists that are self-involved and pompous and exclusionary about their work (not just me). But what I get to do since recognizing this (late in the game though it may be) is admit it and try to become better. That’s not the kind of person I want to be; a creative vortex, consumed with only myself, my ego too fragile to give anything to anyone, yet expecting everyone to give to me. I’ve experienced that from the other side, and it was one of the most heartbreaking experiences I’ve had.
So, the conclusion? I’m going to look out. From now on, I’m going to turn my eyes toward you and your beautiful gifts and I’m going to write about them, instead of me. And if something exciting should happen along the way, some lucky agent agreeing to represent me or when I win the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award, I’ll tell you about it. Meantime, I think we can all breath a little deeper knowing we're getting a break from the self-obsession.
At least on this blog.
You know I’m a little dramatic and a lot self-effacing. It’s probably not been that black and white. There are a few people who have come to me for encouragement, who were obviously coming to me as a sort of mentor, and my ego could handle that and I could be enthusiastic about their work. But I think, though Bestie A might disagree (mistakenly), if you are anything like a peer, I may have discounted YOUR need or desire for MY participation in YOUR process.
I sat at my dining room table with Besties B and C sharing with them what this man had said.
“You know,” B said, getting that look on her face that made my internal compass prepare itself for hearing the truth, “we’ve all been in this with you for two years. And we’ve been IN IT. Maybe it’s time to take a step back.”
The breath was just a tiny bit knocked out of me, but I recovered quickly. And, actually, felt no small amount of freedom. AAAHhhhhhhhh. I could stop thinking about myself. What a joy! I could grow up just a little bit more and start treating the people in my life like they deserve to be treated, once again.
I’m pretty accustomed to public learning. I think that’s why I can tell you the uglies. My friend Jessica started a beautiful blog about what her family has gone through after finding out two of their children have Autism.
http://spearsfamilyproject.blogspot.com
My favorite part of her first post is at the very end, when she talks about advice she was given to stop her 3-year-old tantruming daughter (not yet diagnosed) from harming herself when Jess was nursing her infant son.
“One lady told me to spray her with water when she did it. You know? Like a cat. I had to try that one for posterity. I started nursing Cale with a spray bottle full of water by my side. Sure enough, she started screaming and banging her head on the floor. So, I squirted her in the face. She stopped and looked at me then started to scream and bang again. I squirted her in the face again. She screamed louder and louder and I squirted and squirted. Pretty soon she was soaked and screaming so loud her whole face turned red and water was dripping out of her hair and off of her big red screaming dripping wet face. It didn't do her any good, but I sure felt better.”
I mean, that is SO BRAVE. And I know how she felt when she wrote it. She felt clean. The secret is out and she’s the one who told. She might have thought for a moment, ‘I shouldn’t be saying this about my children,’ but she went past that and told the truth and got the gift. And someone else will get the gift too. Maybe a lot of someones will. Part of the power in that is the power of potential identification; experiencing someone else’s thoughts, however they be expressed, and realizing you’re not the only person in the world who feels the way you do.
Certainly, there’ve been artists that are self-involved and pompous and exclusionary about their work (not just me). But what I get to do since recognizing this (late in the game though it may be) is admit it and try to become better. That’s not the kind of person I want to be; a creative vortex, consumed with only myself, my ego too fragile to give anything to anyone, yet expecting everyone to give to me. I’ve experienced that from the other side, and it was one of the most heartbreaking experiences I’ve had.
So, the conclusion? I’m going to look out. From now on, I’m going to turn my eyes toward you and your beautiful gifts and I’m going to write about them, instead of me. And if something exciting should happen along the way, some lucky agent agreeing to represent me or when I win the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award, I’ll tell you about it. Meantime, I think we can all breath a little deeper knowing we're getting a break from the self-obsession.
At least on this blog.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Big Talking
I’m a big talker. Like many other revelations I’ve come to in public here, big talking is something that’s plagued me much of my life, maybe ever since I sat on that counter at summer camp when I was two, helpless to get down without the assistance of my mother who had apparently lost track of me. “I’M BUMMED OUT AND PISSED OFF!” I shouted, trying to get the attention of whatever adult was close and able. What I really wanted to say was, “Can someone help me off this counter?” but what came out was what a friend of mine would term “blather.” Loud nonsense.
Apparently, my moods and neurosis ebb and flow. When I put myself in a position where I’m exposing myself and my trains of thought (however many there may be), I am subjecting anyone who takes a peek at this blog to what might be just the tiniest bit of . . . wishy-washiness. Today I feel differently than I did the other day when I professed my “love” for my new novel. Oops.
It’s really not as fun, it turns out. I mean, the first book is about love and pain and music and redemption. FUN! This second is about women and sisterhood and family and cancer. Um . . . not as fun? The other day when I was complaining to Bestie C about the sad state of my affairs and how none of the Besties are really “into it,” she said, in not so many words, “Gaaby, be realistic. It’s not like we’re going to get all excited, ‘Ohhh! She’s got diagnosed today! I can’t WAIT to read!’ Or better yet, ‘She’s dying! Woo hoo!’” Apparently it’s just going to be a different experience. But I’m not sure I want to have that experience right now.
So back to the big talking. I say I’ve moved on, I say I’m in love again, I say it’s exactly like it was, but, of course, it’s not. So I’m going to put it down for a little while. I’ve decided I’ve been trying to force a solution, and all that big talking was just a symptom. I’ve got about 100 pages, and it’s good, I like it, but I’m just not that into it right now. It’s been a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of writing consistently, and I’ve got to do something to jump start things. Now.
It turns out the most painful thing about waiting for me is not writing, and I have to say, that fact comes with no small amount of joy. I’m excited that I’ve gotten to the place where I’ve let go of the results sufficiently enough that I’m not checking my email 45 times a day or in pain with anticipation. I’m just living my life, knowing that it’s going to happen, just maybe not in my time or in the way I think it ought. I can remember, though, on most days that every step of this way has brought me farther along the path. I have honestly just continued to move forward in this process, and I feel like I can trust that today. Fairly well-adjusted, right?
Except for the last stronghold I have on not letting go: I'm not writing.
So, among other things, like considering entering my novel to win the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award, I think I’m going to try something different. Maybe essays, or a short story, and I think I need a deadline, so I’m going to look into some more contests. I NEED fire, and I’m apparently not conjuring it up on my own. Instead, I’m awake at 4:22, having been awake for a little while now, and, after spending a sufficient amount of time on Facebook and reading entertainment articles about Jennifer Garner and Ben Affleck and how they keep the love alive, I’m at the end of page two here, getting some of the words out of my head. I’m certain I could be putting my laptop to better use.
Apparently, my moods and neurosis ebb and flow. When I put myself in a position where I’m exposing myself and my trains of thought (however many there may be), I am subjecting anyone who takes a peek at this blog to what might be just the tiniest bit of . . . wishy-washiness. Today I feel differently than I did the other day when I professed my “love” for my new novel. Oops.
It’s really not as fun, it turns out. I mean, the first book is about love and pain and music and redemption. FUN! This second is about women and sisterhood and family and cancer. Um . . . not as fun? The other day when I was complaining to Bestie C about the sad state of my affairs and how none of the Besties are really “into it,” she said, in not so many words, “Gaaby, be realistic. It’s not like we’re going to get all excited, ‘Ohhh! She’s got diagnosed today! I can’t WAIT to read!’ Or better yet, ‘She’s dying! Woo hoo!’” Apparently it’s just going to be a different experience. But I’m not sure I want to have that experience right now.
So back to the big talking. I say I’ve moved on, I say I’m in love again, I say it’s exactly like it was, but, of course, it’s not. So I’m going to put it down for a little while. I’ve decided I’ve been trying to force a solution, and all that big talking was just a symptom. I’ve got about 100 pages, and it’s good, I like it, but I’m just not that into it right now. It’s been a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of writing consistently, and I’ve got to do something to jump start things. Now.
It turns out the most painful thing about waiting for me is not writing, and I have to say, that fact comes with no small amount of joy. I’m excited that I’ve gotten to the place where I’ve let go of the results sufficiently enough that I’m not checking my email 45 times a day or in pain with anticipation. I’m just living my life, knowing that it’s going to happen, just maybe not in my time or in the way I think it ought. I can remember, though, on most days that every step of this way has brought me farther along the path. I have honestly just continued to move forward in this process, and I feel like I can trust that today. Fairly well-adjusted, right?
Except for the last stronghold I have on not letting go: I'm not writing.
So, among other things, like considering entering my novel to win the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award, I think I’m going to try something different. Maybe essays, or a short story, and I think I need a deadline, so I’m going to look into some more contests. I NEED fire, and I’m apparently not conjuring it up on my own. Instead, I’m awake at 4:22, having been awake for a little while now, and, after spending a sufficient amount of time on Facebook and reading entertainment articles about Jennifer Garner and Ben Affleck and how they keep the love alive, I’m at the end of page two here, getting some of the words out of my head. I’m certain I could be putting my laptop to better use.
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