Monthly Archives: January 2017

Writer’s life: the heights and the depths

Let me introduce you to the THE HEIGHTS

An almost literal conversation (well, okay, monologue) I had with (okay, fired at) my husband last night:

“I mean, my book is good, right? Yeah.” {chews gigantic piece of zucchini} “Oh yeah, it’s so good. It’s got it all. Seriously, think about it. Like the part where she realizes her vanity deceived her–I love that. Don’t you love that? And then there’s, like, science. Races. Chases. Sequins. Gambling. Really rich people. Super high stakes. Evening gowns. Betrayal and secrets and capers. I mean, like, capers?” {pauses to chew sweet potato fry dunked in ketchup} “Everyone loves capers. They’re just so fun. My book is super fun, I mean, like, I wrote a super fun book.” {sip of wine; thoughtful expression} “I just wonder, like, what do you even wear on the red carpet? Do you just go to Macy’s and buy a dress?”

{mind races ahead of ‘conversation’: do you do your own make-up? Hair? Do you hire someone to do it for you? How much does this cost, and how do you find the right person, especially if you’re flying in from out of town? Does your publisher pay for any of this–or the producers maybe? Are you paying your own way there, I mean, that doesn’t seem fair? Or maybe it’s tax deductible, but does it matter, because you’re probably making millions? And if you wear something from Macy’s, will people think that you’re a total cheapo?}

And then there are THE DEPTHS

An almost literal* conversation (okay, monologue) I had with my husband the other week, and the other night . . . and the other one too.

*some artistic liberties were taken, none of which exaggerate or inflate IN ANY WAY the sentiment at hand. The drama is real, people.

Self: “It’s like, I don’t feel motivated at all. I’m trying to write this stupid fantasy book and I don’t even know how to write fantasy. How the heck do you even write politics? I don’t even know! I don’t know how to do intrigue! It’s like, there’s all these motivations, everyone wants different things, I don’t even know what they’re supposed to want . . . it gets so . . . confusing.” {casts self on bed in despair} “Honestly babes, I don’t know if I’ll ever write a book again. I don’t think I have it in me.” {looks at ceiling and emits mournful sigh} “Like, this is the end. I’ll never feel inspired again. I can’t even work out what my heroine is feeling. It’s, like, so confusing. I mean, what do you even feel when you kill your own brother-in-law and leave him for the wolves to eat and then disguise yourself as a boy in a traveling caravan?” {flops arms upwards in gesture of complete resignation before this insurmountable challenge} “I mean, I don’t even know who she is, now that I think about it.” {sits up in bed} “OH MY GOSH. I don’t know who my heroine is! I never did! No wonder I can’t write this stupid book! I’ll never be a real writer!” {expression of horror due to profound and disturbing revelation washes over face} “Baby, I think I actually have no imagination!”

Husband: “Um, you’ll write again.”

Self: {plummets into depths of pillow} “I think I need to go to sleep now.”

Husband: “Hey, wanna do something fun?”

Self: {grunts} {by grunt, husband is meant to interpret: “Fun is dead. My book is dead. Life is dead.”}

When the muse hightails it

The muse. I feel like whenever writers write about her, it’s to say you don’t need her. I’ve read half a million blog posts saying a version of this: you can’t wait for the muse; you just have to write. She doesn’t rule you. If you let her, you’ll never have the kind of artistic output that can produce a living. You can’t afford to wait for her to sprinkle her fairy dust on you and make the world shimmer in that special way–you put your butt in a chair and just start writing (drawing/painting/composing/etc) in the bleak, shimmerlessness that life can be and through discipline you will achieve your goals and WRITE THAT NOVEL! And by the way, stop being such a wimp because work is hard and writing is work and if you thought otherwise it was because you romanticized the writer’s life and it’s time you grew up and put on your big girl panties, because you’ll never become a real writer unless you’re wearing them, and they only come in a size large, because that’s what writing does to your butt in case you hadn’t noticed (I had).

I’m sure it’s true and I just have to find the right underwear store that sells these elusive ‘big girl panties.’ But I have to say that since the muse walked out of my life some time in November, leaving me high and dry as I embarked on my first YA fantasy project, it’s been a real challenge.

(See? Only people who are wearing big girl panties use classy words like ‘ a real challenge’ when they really mean ‘apocalyptically difficult at a zombie-slaying level when your only weapon is the raw chicken breast you were about the sauté for dinner and everyone in the world is dead except you.’)

(Which begs the question: why are you sauteing a chicken breast when your death is imminent? And what happened to the pan, which would be a much better weapon?)

Ah, Miss Muse. She fueled my last three projects, and it went something like this: as soon as I was done with whatever I had to do work-wise for my pay-the-bills job, BEGIN TO WRITE. Write, write, write. Get slightly upset that I have to stop to eat lunch, or pee, or answer the phone. There aren’t enough hours in the day to write as much as I want to write. 5pm has arrived and I don’t even know where the past three hours went. Got to stop writing and get back to husband and kiddos. I love them so, but . . . it’s so hard to stop. [drags herself away from keyboard] Go home, play with kids, have dinner, get kids to bed. Kids are in bed. Innocent grin at my husband. What do you want to do tonight, sweetums? Oh, what do I want to do? Well, I don’t know . . . I mean, I was thinking, maybe read a little, maybe, like, hang out, I don’t know . . . okay fine, WRITE, WRITE, I MUST WRITE. [make like a lightning bolt for my favorite writing chair and lose myself in a storm of typing]

(yes, my husband may not love the muse like I do)

Anyway, spouse-abandonment aside, that’s my life with the muse. Even when I hit tough spots with each story, I had the inspiration/drive/urge to power through, and I did.

Oh, muse, muse, you fickle, wonderful, passionate, cruel being/thing.

See, with my pay-the-bills job, I don’t have to feel anything in particular to get stuff done. Blue or over-the-moon, peppy or lethargic, I can open a spreadsheet or an invoice or whatever and enter information. I can compose an email and draw up an account summary for a customer. But this writing thing–it’s different. The kind of energy it requires comes from somewhere in the region of my soul, and when it feels empty in there, it feels near impossible to write.

But writing with the muse? She sucked me into her vortex where I wanted to spin forever. In her grip, time slipped away as easily as wind through open hands. Words wrote themselves. Characters demanded to speak, and my obedient fingers clacked away just trying to keep up with them and kill them at the appropriate moments and with the appropriate amount of blood.

I wish I knew why the muse left. Maybe the muse is like a drained battery and just needs some recharge time? Maybe I’m working on the wrong project? Maybe the rest of my writing life will be an empty, museless wasteland?

The thing is, regardless of the reasons for her infidelity (and this is the scariest thing to face), I need to learn how to write without her. I need to learn how to start when it’s incredibly hard to start, keep going when it’s incredibly hard to keep going, and keep typing even though I can’t wait to be done and 5pm seems as distant as my 115th birthday when I will gum at a piece of overly-frosted cake with my toothless maw and smile blearily at a child that may be named Clarence, or Mary-Lou, or might actually be a cat instead of a child.

This is my New Year’s resolution (and even as I type this I can feel a foreboding sense of failure)–to learn to write muse-less.

Oh crap. I’m half-certain I can’t do it.

But aren’t the best goals the ones that stretch you?

(I hate stretching)

The ones that make you work hard?

(I hate working hard. In the deepest part of me, I’m pretty sure I’m essentially a lazy slug whose chief delight is to lie in a pile of her own goo)

The ones that you climb like a hiker attacking Mount Everest and reaching for the summit?

(Sounds a little dangerous. Have you considered sitting on the couch and watching someone else climb Mount Everest?)



Hike ’em up! Snap them into place!

Get out of the slug-goo and KILL THE ZOMBIE WITH THE CHICKEN BREAST!

And by that I mean, as soon as this blog post is published, I’m opening the scary Word document and facing the gritty part of being a writer. Because I want to be a writer. No–I am a writer. And this is part of it.

Expect an update at some point–but in the meantime, how do you handle uninspired stretches?