Day 3 - Relief

TODAY, I'm off the hook. I'm taking a class at the Writer's Center tonight--a 2 1/2 hour course designed to shake up my creative mind and get me writing.  

So I'm sure to generate well more than my required 150 words. Whew.

Name Change, Purpose Found

As I've written fairly often, I've not been sure about the purpose behind this blog.  

Not that it even deserves the term, honestly: I've barely posted in months, and haven't been able to justify taking the time.  (Wedding, seriously busy new job, blah, blah, blah...)

But this weekend I think I've gained a sense of purpose for this space.  A reason for blogging. An actual goal.

Starting tomorrow morning, and taking a break between September 20 and October 13 (during which I'll be writing into a notebook in Barcelona, Fez, and Marakkech, far from electronic crutches like a laptop and email) I am going to use this space as my writing "home."

Every day, Monday through Friday, I will write 150 words.

They may not be good, they may not link together or inspire other ideas, but they'll be there.

And we'll see where they take me down the road.

I'm on notice. 150 words.

I'm committed to it. 150 words.

I've got to do it. 150, 150, 150 words.

Wish me luck.

Managing

Managed to almost finish a first draft of another story this morning before work.  

I don't actually know if it's any good, but that honestly doesn't matter. What matters is that I wrote. Whether or not there's anything to it, whether or not it's any good, it does give me hope.

And a writer's hope is dearly needed right now, amidst too much of the stuff of life.

In Leslie Pietrzyk's August 7 "Work in Progress" blog, she describes the experience of a former student of hers who has committed not to a period of time, or a successful story, but to the deceptively simple task of writing 200 words a day. 200 words.

The concept resonated deep inside. I  could do 200 words a day.  Before the gym, on my lunch hour, at night before bed.  200 words.  I really could.

As I struggle with life, wedding, partnership, full-time writing job, and some small attempt to lose the 20 pounds I've gained in the past year, writing hovers like a mosquito -- a vixen-fairy -- just outside my ear.  I whine and complain, and only, occasionally, feel the gift of inspiration.  

But 200 words? 

When the 200 words are an Edinburgh church visit shared by the narrator and the best-friend's husband she knows she loves?  Now that's something to keep hope in play.

Provincetown

We got back from Provincetown last night, ate Duccini's pizza, read through some wedding RSVPs, and went to bed. It's 6:34 a.m., and time to rediscover the gym.
It's also time to see if, once again, I can hold on to the powerful creative wellspring that Provincetown always seems to connect me with. And time to wonder, once again, how best to take the writing insistence and translate it into everyday life.
It's a question many struggle with, and a lucky struggle to have, but I do still wonder:
How, day-to-day, do I choose writing over other things?
I'm getting married, and the to-do list seems neverending, constantly crowding my mind. I'm busy and engaged at work (blessed be!) writing stories about animals, people, and projects from around the world. I have a partner I absolutely adore, a ready family, a cacophony of friends. I have twenty extra pounds on my frame.
And I have these characters and places and conflicts pushing against my brain.
Today, I will take "Nina" (the newest member of "the British women" cast) to work with me. Try to steal time at lunch.
But that's the problem isn't it? Stealing time.
Why do I feel unable to make time instead of steal it? When does -- How does -- the writer win out?

Work

Hi Kids:

Just an update to publicly announce the degree to which I'm enjoying my new job at Conservation International. Just this morning, my first big "story package" for our website appeared on the main page, as well as being featured in the e-newsletter.

Check out "For the Birds" here!

Good Things

Project Runway is back on TV,
My new website is live,
Alyson wants The Tree Museum,
(an agent might be interested, too).
We leave for Provincetown in two days...(sigh)
and
Matt bought me a new Maggie O'Farrell novel last night.

Sometimes, buried deep inside the madness resides a ridiculous passel of joy.

Relativity

I'm a little bit sad, today. Yesterday, when I bought myself the post-birthday world by lionel shriver at d.c.'s beloved, iconic, and a little bit pompous Kramerbooks (which is, gratifyingly, open at 8a.m. before the office opens its doors), I noticed that the paperback version of Maggie O'Farrell's Esme Lennox was not on the shelves. In fact, I'd gone in to Kramerbooks that morning looking for other novels by O'Farrell, and found none.
The Borders downtown coughed up a similar lack of her work.
Then, last night at the Borders in Clarendon, I noticed piles of the hardback Esme on the discount display, priced at $3.95. It just doesn't seem fair.
Now, post-birthday, on the other hand, spilling forth in copious piles from the front table at Kramerbooks and Borders, is certainly a worthy novel. Deeply, almost viciously observant, the novel is an encyclopedic journey through one woman's mind preceding and --primarily-- following a decision with repercussions beyond any she imagines, or plans. So it's worthy of its audience, for sure.
But shouldn't Maggie O'Farrell have a place at the superstar's table? And for that matter, why did my sweet little first novel wither so quickly on the vine?

The Post-Birthday Book

Last night Matt gave me (a) a new iPod, (b) Mary Oliver's new poetry collection Red Bird, and (c) a 'coupon' for a book of my choice.
Surfing her words, I cried twice at Oliver's God-exposing poetry. I dreamt stories overnight; there is this crashing swell of creativity swirling around me. It's heady, but (awake at 5:30 a.m., typing madly about adulterers in Britain and a terrified boy in an invented world) also suggestive of an undertow.
And this morning I chose the post-birthday world by Lionel Shriver. Kismet. Like Matt, it was meant to be.

Six Down

So the rejections just keep coming. It's hard. I won't lie--I knew this novel has flaws, but I also feel it has a lot going for it. I still believe that, and the rejections I'm receiving seem to confirm it.

Most of the agents seem to be reading it through to the end, and more than a few have sent me very thoughtful, constructive comments. Now if only one would sign me on!

Luckily, I've got a few days between jobs (leaving the Chesapeake Bay Foundation, joining Conservation International) and I can make some important revisions to the plot and depth. I think the novel needs to be richer, with a clearer focus. Perhaps six equally weighted characters isn't what this novel needs. But is it two? Three?

But he don't fall down.

OK, I rallied. Found three new agents last night, two with whom I can establish tenous (even not-so-tenuous) connections, and will spend tomorrow morning sending queries to them all. This novel is good, and it is true to me. I am not a snide, smartypants, Brooklyn whiz kid. I write caring novels about good people in tough situations. The kind of love to read. I have to believe that others might too. Stand up, dust off, walk tall. Happy Monday, all.

Weeble Wobble

Tonight I received my first rejection. This newest round of showing my neck is in service to my new novel, The Tree Museum, for which I've just sent a round of 8 query letters to agents. Two agents--as I knew they would, due to friendly author connections--agreed to read it. To my stomach-churning joy, a third agent emailed on Friday morning saying she'd like to read it as well. Tonight, she said "No."

It's hard. I mean, I'm well aware that this life of mine requires a thick skin, and I think I have one--I told Matt that I'm like a weeble wobble where rejections are concerned. Even a short one like I received tonight--friendly, but curt--can be considered a blessing if I twist and turn it long enough. But it still hurts. This novel--every novel every dreaming novelist writes--is a precious, precious thing. It hurts to have it turned away.

So I'll seek out more agents (there are still 7 great ones in play) and send more queries, and keep believing in this novel, for as long as I can. And if I stop fighting for it, I pray it will be to make way for the next one. I've got some ideas. I don't stay down.