Switching blogs mid-stream

For those of you waiting to hear how I did on the writing retreat I mentioned in my last post, please go to my new blog, Healing Through Writing. It went so well I made a bunch of phone calls and extended it another three days.

I will soon de-commission this blog. I appreciate the patronage of the friends and colleagues who have followed these freshman blog entries as I cast around for my "true" material. While I certainly have plenty to say about the writing and re-writing life, an abundance of other worthy blogs exist on the topic, and if you are interested in hearing more from me on writing craft, please go to my Writing-Partner website and sign up for my free quarterly newsletter, Nibs. I'd be happy to send it along.

As writers, I think we are all trying to figure out what point of view we have that differs from the norm. In my case—like it or not—it is the way I've used my writing to heal from my first husband's suicide ten years ago. Before then I was a dance critic who had begun journaling to establish a greater sense of self; since then I have been seeking the transformative power of fiction and creative nonfiction. I did not want this horrific event in my life, yet the fact of it exists, and I must co-create with it the way a tree grows around and accommodates barbed wire—the tree can't stop its growth, nor can it will the fence to move. 

I have many resources for healing body, heart or wounded soul, but writing is one of my favorites. It is on this topic that I will now focus my blogging efforts. Point of View being the pervasive thing it is, the underlying theme of healing has run through all of my blog entries to date, even on this site—I simply want to solidify the theme through a new title. Please make the jump and come along with me!

Leaving a legacy

This is a picture of our summer home in northern New York. When I see it I think of love. Many generations of our family have vacationed here, and my extended family's archival slide show is a 50-50 split between Christmas shots and pictures of smiling faces at the lake.

A few years ago it became apparent that the hundred-year-old camp needed a new roof. My aging parents couldn't afford it, so ultimately my husband and I purchased the camp. But it turned out the roof was only one problem in a structure pieced together through the decades by weekend carpenters armed with determination, enough brawn to swing a hammer, and enough paint to make it look good in the end. (I also suspect a wad of bubblegum or two.) They had succeeded in turning what was once a hunting shanty into a two-story camp, but without the proper forethought and foundation work, it was no longer safe.

My good friend Doug, principal architect of Lifespan Design Studio—after he could breathe again, laughing as he had at my stories of how the door at the bottom of the second floor dresser opened on its own when you hit the spongy floorboard, or how the bottom two stairs were movable because they obstructed a doorway—designed us a wonderful new camp, pictured above. "New roof" to "new camp" was not an easy transition, though. We had to say goodbye to spaces that housed many happy memories, some centered around family members long gone. We had to set difficult financial priorities that made our retirement years feel less secure.

But we took a deep breath—and then, the bulldozer. In a few months, our camp went from the oldest on the lake to the newest.

Last year I happily made the 13-hour round trip drive to the lake nine times to check on progress, deliver materials, and work (now I'm glad gas prices hadn't yet spiked)—because I loved the new camp from the moment I first saw it. The pain of our decision-making faded away with the smell of mildew we had once thought was an integral part of the camp experience. And the new bedrooms and open communal spaces inspired a thought: what a great place to have a writing retreat. Guests could write on the porch overlooking the lake, on the shore, or down on the dock. Ideas could simmer on the back burner while paddling, hiking, or swimming. We could have popcorn parties to discuss work in the cool evenings while gathered around the fireplace.

I'm heading up there alone, the day after tomorrow, to give the writing retreat idea a personal test run. The memoir I'm writing is difficult, making me all too willing to be distracted by the phone, appointments, and e-mails at home. I think that I could hang with my writing for longer blocks of time surrounded by the wild beauty of the Adirondack foothills. So for six whole days, I am going "rustic." (That used to mean no indoor toilet facilities—now it means no Internet.) I want—I need—to write this story of healing since my first husband's suicide. Even if it doesn't see publication I hope it to be my legacy, handed down through the generations of my family.

Then I uploaded the above picture to this blog and realized my husband and I have already created a family legacy. If the last camp survived a hundred years by determination alone, a good foundation and a design addressing our needs should net us at least double that, wouldn't you think? I guess that's what I'll be writing about while I'm there: the way that, after the deterioration that resulted in my first husband's suicide, the boys and I laid a foundation for a new life designed to suit our needs. 

I'll let you know how that goes next week.

Great ideas and chocolate chips

This morning I judged the 9th grade projects at Boyertown Junior High West in Boyertown, PA. We watched kids take on roles such as architect, interior designer, recreation facilities manager, marketing director, and landscaper to create and present a group land development project that would contribute to the betterment of their hometown.

Their goal to "win the room"—to be the best presentation that any one panel of judges saw—is analogous to winning the bid for the construction project. But steeped as I currently am in the process of submitting a novel to agents and helping other writers develop their manuscripts, I saw another analogy. 

Like glancing over a clean manuscript, slick presentation was easy to assess. Dressing nicely, speaking with confidence, and organizing the material well created a great impression right off the bat. The first group in our room quickly racked up points in these areas. 

Another presented well enough but left a memorable impression with the originality and cohesiveness of theme: to bring the beach to Boyertown, which is a good 120 miles inland. They incorporated sand boxes under balconies in their 3-D rendering of the facade, painted the building in peach and seafoam green, and carried through all of their elements a unified theme of stress reduction. The marketing director was full of ideas of how to get the word out about their new facility.

When the presentations in our room were over and it came to deciding who had "won the room," the score sheets for these two groups were tied. Moving to a more subjective vote—who should win—the judges' tied again, 3-3. We considered declaring the tie, but since there were only three presentations in our room, that meant that while no one would "win" the room, one team would definitely lose. The judges did not feel comfortable with this result.

We haggled for a while over details. Both groups had worked hard on their presentation materials. The first group forgot to include a required element in their presentation, the second went above and beyond expectations in that same element. Yet this alone didn't seem enough to decide the outcome. (We tried to let the fact that the first group handed out homemade chocolate chip cookies stay out of the equation.)

The question we ultimately had to ask ourselves is, if we were truly thinking about investing in one of these facilities, where would we put our money? Which would we want to have in Boyertown?

When posed that way, the question was pretty easy to answer—the money element often has a way of clarifying things. We eschewed the slick presentation and went with the solid, original idea that had an integrated marketing plan. Years down the road, when the faces of those slick presenters had long faded from memory, it would be the idea that really mattered anyway. I am writing this just three hours after leaving the junior high and I frankly have already forgotten the theme of the other facility.

I think there is a great lesson for us in our writing here. Especially for someone like me, who can easily spend an hour crafting, deconstructing, and reforming a paragraph: sometimes beautiful words won't be enough to get someone to invest money in your project. You need that great, memorable idea with a solid marketing plan to reach your audience.

Therein lies the great mystery of writing: what the heck comprises a "great" idea? The uncertainty can drive you nuts. But the yearning to find that special idea that grabs you and doesn't let go is the thrill that entices writer, agent, editor, and reader alike.

Now. A good idea AND beautiful sentences? Throw in a good chocolate chip cookie and I'm in heaven.

Graduation card

A special young woman I know will graduate from college this Saturday and my first inclination was to go to the store and buy her a card. It's amazing how I've internalized that advertising-driven prompt. As if Hallmark could come up with something better than I could—I know her, and I'm a writer!

But what is left to say about graduation, except perhaps to note that the spelling of the word is what will prompt many to hand-write the word "congradulations" at the bottom of the Hallmark card they picked out? Thousands of graduation speeches will be delivered at schools across the country in the coming month; it's all been said before. But since I've never been asked to give one, I thought I'd devote some space to it here.

For many high-achieving college prep kids, high school graduation was expected and—despite the hoopla and the certificate from the state senator—just a blip in the continuum. College graduation is different. It seems like a threshold between safety and the big bad unknown; between the person who has been reacting to known variables and the person that will be revealed.

That's not the case with this young woman, who despite her considerable accomplishment will have no proud parents watching her walk with her class. The obstacles she's already hurdled reveal graduation as nothing more than a moment in time, a line drawn in quicksand. Don't get me wrong: as the three degrees framed on my wall will tell you, I'm a huge believer in education and I adore ritual and I'll take any opportunity to revisit accomplishments that make me feel as though my life exhibits forward thrust. But at 23, this young woman already knows that school is only part of the education picture, because life has its own way of distributing its lessons. By pulling the rug from under your home life to the point that you must completely re-define the concept of family, for example. Or handing you your own life-or-death health scares. Or by planting within you a dream that cannot be satisfied at your first hometown college, requiring a lone drive across America to try again. 

I know people who, when confronted by any one of these challenges, would choose to wilt within their own victimhood. Yet this young woman has faced them all. Her innocence was crushed long ago—she knows life isn't going to be fair. So, unwilling to wait for dumb luck to turn the tide, she has not waited for graduation to provide life's starting line. Instead, she stacked the odds in her favor before graduation by pursuing an unpaid internship in the highly competitive field of television journalism, a move that has paid off with an entry-level offer at a major network. She has replaced the dysfunction in her birth family with the rewards of love freely given to close friends—one wall of her apartment is plastered with photos of them—and by caring for her Pomeranian, Burklee.

This young woman knows that graduation does not magically commence anything. It is an opportunity to give thanks and see how far you've come, but so is every day. Day by day, life will continue to reveal her inner strength and beauty and call forth the maturation required of her. For the grace with which she has accepted this, I want her to know that she is an inspiration to me. I'm glad to know her and I'll be thinking of her on Saturday. This is her graduation card.

And, so that I don't disappoint:

"Condradulations," Elizabeth!

Deadlines: When to keep ’em, when to ditch ’em

I'm not talking about hard deadlines here—you know, the ones you'd better heed to keep your job. I'm thinking about the artificial deadlines, the ones on that Post-It on your computer: "Fourth draft completed by April, get agent by December, publish next year." When you are self-employed—and if you're anything like me, you're self-employed by Madam Scrooge herself—such deadlines are useful motivators.

But sometimes stuff happens. Stuff like illness (heart disease from no exercise + too much chocolate + too much caffeine), injury (eye strain, carpal tunnel), and road rage (from swerving dangerously near the car in the next lane while jotting down notes). We try to ignore the kids or parents or house or even our own physical symptoms because if we know one thing it's that "seat of pants in seat of chair" trumps all. So we keep going despite added writerly pressures like frequent rejection and utter lack of job security and WAY too much time spent alone. 

And then we break down. You know the symptoms: nagging self-doubt, sudden crying jags, the need for more and more sleep, and a whole lotta "This is a bunch of hooey and who the hell did I think I was trying to _________ (you're the creative writer, fill it in!), all the while telling yourself that if you could just roll up your sleeves and get some work done you'd feel a heck of a lot better.

Perky and optimistic as you might know me to be, I've just come through such a period, and I have learned that when you are off your game is NOT the best time to expend even more effort to achieve an arbitrarily set goal. Better to ditch it so you can rest and restore.

One of my favorite self-help authors, the late Richard Carlson, suggests we don't need to get better at handling the stress in our lives, we need to become more sensitive to it so we can avoid the stressors determined to get the better of us. He might explain it this way: Before finishing a race course you set for yourself, you sprain your ankle. You don't (hopefully) pop up and say "I just need to run around the block a few more times and it will get better." You heed the pain and rest until it regains strength. There is no glory in finishing the race while injuring yourself further.

Stress is also an injury—an injury to the spirit. It would be equally ineffective to roll up your sleeves and work harder while suffering the effects of acute stress. Yes, our goals are important to us—they see us through when we are whiny or distracted. But when our spirit is injured and we are stressed out and everything exhausts us we must replenish. Chances are, if you worked for a solid week in such a state you wouldn't achieve the results possible by resting for several days, restoring your equilibrium, and working more efficiently.

What I am learning is that effort is not always the answer. Sometimes we need to detach and wait so that the phoenix that is your wise, clever, creative self can once again rise from the ashes within. 

On Vanity Publishing

For years I have written articles for the Lehigh Valley Arts Council advocating that artists get paid for their work. Artists pay for an education, work to hone their craft, and try to make the most of resources and talents God gave them. Re-read that last sentence thinking about your plumber--his education, his honing, his gift. Is an artist's worth any less? The human soul craves artistic stimulation just as the body thirsts for water. But can you imagine a plumber ever paying for the opportunity to come to your house and fix your pipes? 

Writers shouldn't be barred from monetary gain just because we admit to sometimes loving what we do. Creative writing, if it produces a good story, creates a product with a monetary value in the market place. I'll be the first to agree that the traditional route to book publication is maddening. The process is sluggish and skewed toward celebrity and all of its pesky checks and balances would be a lot easier to defend if they resulted in any kind of consistent quality. But if droves of weekend writers are willing to spend money hard-earned in other endeavors to see their work in print, why should traditional publishers bother paying anyone anymore?

Traditional publishers are willing to take on publication risk because their process identifies books that, in their experienced opinion, might be able to reach target markets. To the extent that their marketing budget allows, they are motivated to sell books because this is how they make their money. For vanity publishers, the commodity is not the book, but the author--specifically, the desperate author. By charging fees, the vanity publisher is motivated to get as many authors through their doors as possible. Selling books would be gravy, because they get a piece of that action as well--but it isn't as crucial.

No matter who publishes your book, you will have to take on the task of promoting it. That's a given. Will you start this process at ground level, with a traditional publisher, or in the hole, after paying for publication? 

For obvious reasons, vanity publishers often disguise themselves as traditional publishers at their websites, and unsuspecting authors don't find out until wrapped up in the euphoria of receiving a contract. Don't let that ego-crushing scenario happen to you. Before you submit, check out a publisher's reputation at the following websites:

Preditors & Editors

Writer Beware Blogs

Absolute Write Water Cooler: Bewares and Background Check

Missing Max

My children are both off to college now. Empty stretches of time loom before me and yet, surprisingly, my writing life seems more difficult. One look at my 2006 planner compared to this year's shows how my sons' activities structured my days and focused my writing time. They also provided me with small victories that helped bridge the long spans of inconclusive behavior required to write a novel. Yes, today's rewrite of Chapter 12 requires changes in later chapters that might take weeks to address, and the whole thing may or may not be better once I make them, but in the meantime... the boys got their homework done-YAY! Got to all their extracurriculars on time-WAY TO GO, MOM! Ate nutritious meals-EXTRA POINTS! Had no cavities-WOOHOO!

I miss the boys, but I'm happy they're out in the world testing their own balance. It was time they stop gripping the handrails created, for better or worse, from decisions I'd made. And it's not like they've disappeared. We're in touch on a regular basis, since I still give them advice they didn't ask for via e-mail, and they must write back to tell me off.

Yet still I fight bouts of sadness. Thanks to some perspective from my husband and a disproportionately visceral reaction I had to the recent news of my sister's dog's death, I think I discovered the root of my problem: I miss Max.

Max, a cock-a-poo (technically, three-quarters cock and one-quarter poo) was my close companion for 15 years. He was never destined to go find his own life; he was utterly happy to share mine. He had commandeered the Lazy-Boy recliner in my office, where he would wait patiently while I worked at the computer. If my gaze drifted from the screen, Max would sense the movement and lift his head to look at me, waiting to see if he could be of some assistance. If a problem needed extra thought, he was always happy to go outside and walk with me until a solution could be found. When clients came to meet with me, he'd jump off the chair to give them an intimidating sniff. "You'll have to excuse my secretary," I'd say. "Get back in your chair, Max," and back he'd go. We were so close that when I was under stress he was, too: we each threw our backs out a few weeks before my second wedding.

At her wonderful web page listing ten pieces of advice for writers, Jennifer Weiner lists having a dog as item 6. Max has been gone a year now, but I've been hesitant to get another pet, since this is the first time in 23 years I've been able to walk out the door without making sure everyone else has urinated, and it's great to go on a vacation without having to line up sitters. But I'm learning there can be a down side to too much freedom--we need our responsibilities. On my walk today, just thinking about getting another dog perked me right up. Hmm... 

Don't get me wrong, my husband is a great companion, but he's only here in the evenings, and he's getting sick of me asking him to fetch and lick my face. I'm not on the way to the pound just yet--you know, just to look--but we'll see how long I hold out.

And Max, if cyberland connects up in some magical way to doggie heaven: I miss you, buddy.