So Much Joy

I've had a rough spring, for oh, so many reasons.

But it's all over. Sure I got a few more sets of papers to grade, and two more sets of final exams... but my classes are fine. Good students, people trying hard, a bunch of people who are really getting into literature. And that makes me happy, willing to grade whatever comes my way.

That's not why I'm better.

In reality, nothing has changed. Only my mindset. I'm doing what I love, and I'm making time every single day to do more of it. A friend of mine here, walking one morning with me, was listening to me telling her (during spring break), "I'm mostly done with my grading, and then I just have my writing and painting."

She corrected me, called me on the destructive word I had used: Just.

Thank God she's an artist. She understands too well how easy it is for artists to negate their abilities, to lessen what they do, to push it off into the corner because it isn't work.

But it is. It's my work. It's what I do. It's real, and tangible, a mixture of artistic ability, perception, insight, and meaning. It's hard to do. It takes practice, revision, lots and lots of work.

She made me say it: "I am a writer."

That statement has made all the difference. I'm writing now. I'm starting on one book, revising, and then I'm attacking the next one. I'm going to send one off--time after time--while I revise the next one, and the next. I have four novels, each one of them with some kernel of truth worth working on.

So I will work. And work. I can't promise to love every minute of it, but I love what I do.

I am a writer.

Having It Both Ways

I am both writer and editor.

Being a writer makes me a better editor, too. Not because it makes me a better writer--oh, no, I don't delude myself in that--but because I understand what a writer is going through during the editing process. Though I've taught English for 20 years, I have never forgotten the feeling of receiving an essay back--with comments and a grade--assessing the effectiveness of what I've written.

I know what a writer wants when he or she has me edit. That is the very thing which makes editing so hard. The writer wants two things, always two things. The problem is that these two things do not exist together. One cannot have it "both ways," so to speak. In fact, the very act of seeking professional editing guarantees that one will not receive one of the things one desires most.

What do writers want? Well, if writers are willing to spend hundreds of dollars having me edit a novel, it's because they want someone to examine their work for holes, errors, weaknesses--anything that might lose a reader's interest, or get in the way of the suspense, or confuse, or irritate. They want my insight--as an honest, knowledgeable outside reader--to help them see what they can't see on their own, so that they can fix it.

And that is no problem.

But that is not only what writers want. I would say that this is only a practical want. What writers want, deep in the recesses of the most secret part of their hearts, is something else entirely.

We all want it. We want it in other areas of our lives. It's called validation. Appreciation. That joy others express when they view something we do as wonderful.

What my poor authors want is for me to write back and tell them I would edit their work, but it's already perfect as it is--that I wouldn't change a thing, and I'm sending back their check in the mail this very day.

But if I told them that, I wouldn't be doing my job. My job is to tell them what isn't good. Sure, I also get to tell them what is good, and I do, but they don't need to know that as much as they need to see what isn't. I might be able to suggest effective ways to fix what isn't good, but that doesn't make it hurt any less.

Believe me, though. I know it. I know it because I am there, too. That's why I have sat on four completed novels all this time. I go back to my work, time after time, and I see that it still isn't ready, that it still needs work.

That is why I don't trust the reader who only sends me good feedback. I know the truth, and I know this reader isn't telling me the truth.

She is only telling me what, deep in my heart, I really want to hear.

But that is not enough.

Travel Tuesday: The Ideal Writing Spot

I will eventually get to real places... I promise. Right now, though, it's so much more fun to travel back into my brain, at least in the parts where they ugly voices aren't living right now.

(The ugly voices are living in most of the dark corners of my brain right now. You'll hear them speak for themselves tomorrow.)

For now, let's consider the ideal place to disappear to and write one's novel. NaNoWriMo is coming up in November, and I'm already making plans. Since I am holding down 8 jobs at the moment, though--yes, I said 8, and only three are volunteer--I can't quite go on vacation. Still, my little writing closet could use a fake window of sorts, one that looks out onto a blissful, almost real scene, as if I'm really on vacation there. Like this one.  

See, there is the lovely little Alpine valley, tucked into the mountains, and I'm sitting in my writing room gazing at the clouds as they float by. *sigh*

Only I'm not writing. And that's a problem.

consultoriapsiquica.blogspot.com

I need to try something else. I know. How about a beach?

Yup, this is the ticket. A sunset at the beach. For a little added depth I could buy a CD of wave sounds, complete with birds calling and wind blowing. 

Ooh, I need a margarita. Or at least a bathing suit. And sunglasses. 

But I'm still not writing. 

Perhaps the key to all of this is that I need to stop thinking of doing my writing when I'm on "vacation." When I'm on vacation, I shouldn't be writing. I should be on vacation, watching reruns of TV shows I haven't seen in 20 years (or at least five), painting my toenails, swimming, doing stupid things. Not writing. 

Writing is work. It is. It's like my other jobs--it takes some of my time, requires preparation, and sometimes I have to do it when I don't particularly want to. And when I denigrate it by filing it with my "leisure" activities, I don't get to it. And I have to. It's my job. And it's a job I love, one that deserves my time and concentration--without one of these stupid windows.

And that's what today is about for me. I had my Labor Day. I played tennis, watched TV, read, washed my car, and swam with my kids. I played. Sure, I did a little cleaning, but mostly I was on vacation. 

But now it's a Work Day. Let's see how many of my jobs I can get done today... including writing. 

The Persistent Voice

I have three hours of Zumba today. I have to lug kids everywhere, shake, shake, shake all over the place to earn my income, dash to the store, do dishes, cook, tend to the house, get papers signed and faxed, and the list goes on.

Why am I still happy? Why do I have a cheesy grin on my face here, at the very start of the day, when no item has yet been crossed off? Because I also have a book waiting for me, the end of a novel I've been happily editing, a few good ideas to flesh it out, to make the climax nail-biting.

And I know, once I'm showered, once I've cleaned and fed everybody, that I'm sitting down here, at my beloved Mac, and working on it. That is the most beautiful thought I can imagine at this point.

More about that later. For now, it's off to make the kids' lunches!

Turning It Over in My Mind

For the first time in my life, since the first church message board started putting up adages to edify us all (or get us to go to church), I found one to be profound and thought-provoking.

It read:

The soil does not get plowed

By turning it over in one's mind.

Well, hallelujah! Finally somebody--or some church pastor--is getting me off my duff and working. In the three days since I have seen that sign, I have finished the last of the painting, unpacked the last box, and cleaned up my whole house.

Now I can write. And that means you will see me a whole lot more often. Once I've completed some writing for the day, I'll be checking in here.

Hope you come back and visit as I rev it all up again! I have two play ideas, four novels to revise, and another five to write (so far). Lots of work, but finally I can do it!

Writer's Block

I worked very hard this academic year. I taught twelve classes, four of them completely new, and I have worn out my grading hand pretty thoroughly. I thought when summer came that I would want nothing more than to write.

I guess I was wrong.

Over the past four weeks (yes, FOUR), I've managed to do dishes, play piano, do laundry, go shopping, sweep, and even vacuum more than write. I think I have spent more time cleaning out the cat box than I have writing. I have used every excuse there is, but the truth is, I've had a bit of a block.

For perhaps the third time in my life, I have writer's block.

It doesn't feel good. My stomach squirms, I spend far too much time playing free games on Yahoo, I eat more, I'm bored, and I feel pretty foolish.

I have done writing-related activities. I just finished going through my fourth resource for the Oxford play I'm planning (discussed in an earlier blog). But research isn't writing, and my doctorate is no indication that I love research. The books on Oxford so far--barring one--have been pretty lame, too, filled with assumed information in much the same way that biographies of Shakespeare are filled with assumptions. Every author is snide, too. The Stratfordians sneer at the likelihood of Oxford (or anyone else) authoring a single word of the plays, and the Oxfordians sniff back. It isn't pretty, it isn't nice. Furthermore, it isn't me. That's why I'm not writing a stuffy textbook expounding to the world the "truth" that I have "discovered." I make no assumptions about what the truth is in this case, mainly because until I die and go talk to all of these people myself, I won't know what really happened. (It kind of reminds me of faith--I can't fault someone's beliefs just because they don't coincide with mine, for I can't know that I'm right.)

Anyhow, while I'm slogging through the research, I'm not loving it, and it's causing me to avoid the computer, the books, everything to do with writing.

Solutions? I'd love it if you have some. I certainly don't want to start teaching in late September only to realize that I didn't write a word all summer.

I've decided to skip the research for a week. I can renew the books indefinitely (it's not like anyone else wants to read them), so they can be waiting when I actually want to "work" on writing. For now, I'm going to play. I'm going to plan out adventures, revise my novels until they are bright and shiny and ready for publication. And if I get in a rut, I won't let it last. I'll just switch gears and find something I want to write instead.

What do you do when you get stuck? How do you resolve writer's block?

Feeling Lazy...

Remember the Simon & Garfunkel song, "Feeling Groovy?" Okay, so I'm too stressed to feel groovy, but with two new classes looming in front of me (they start tomorrow), I have no choice. Yes, I'm prepared. Yes, I've taught them before. Yes, the syllabi are turned in and probably copied by now (I hope), and yes, the first class is merely me up at the front scaring the pants off all the students by telling them all the course requirements.

But I'm still tense. Instead of singing, "Feeling Groovy," I'm humming "Feeling Lazy." I have two more syllabi to create, for two classes beginning in October, and I really need to have the courses completely set up this week, before the rest of my classes get out of hand. 

But each time I get online, I balk. "I don't want to!" the baby voice inside me whines. "It's Sunday!" she continues, "Why can't I rest on a Sunday, just one day per week?"

Unfortunately, the truth is, I can't. I need to get this done. So even this blog entry, yet another attempt to stall, must end. I need to get to work. No lazy days for me!

It's Pouring!!!

The last few weeks of summer were just sliding along, peacefully. And then I began class. Okay, two classes. A wonderful set of classes, a little grading here and there, some new things to learn.... It wouldn't be too hard, I thought to myself. No more than 3 classes at a time. 

But I had made the mistake of applying for a bunch of jobs last year. And now that they are almost ALL panning out, I am up to my eyeballs in classes. I have two online classes right now, which end in October, I pick up two more (perhaps THREE) starting in mid-September, and then will likely pick up FOUR more in October, on an 8-9 week schedule. WOW!

I'm hiring a maid. In fact, I'm probably going to pay for an hour or two of babysitting a few days a week, right after school, just so I can get all the grading done. Can I pay someone to sleep for me, and transfer it? Who needs sleep anyway?

It's not like I'm an art teacher, who gets to play soft music in class while everybody sits around and paints a vase of flowers. Grading papers takes a while. I have to grade hundreds of papers in a single class--and to have 1-2-3-4-... oh, my God, EIGHT classes in a single semester (maybe NINE), well, I must be insane.

If one of my future blogs ends with gibberish at the end and trails off to nothing, you'll know I've gone off the deep end. Please look for signs I've lost it, and call the authorities.