Category: The Writing Path

The other day, I dropped in on my neighbor to deliver a plate of cookies. I love to bake cookies, cakes, brownies, pies, etc.  My granddaughters love to bake with me, and it affords quality time with them.  Sometimes, I bake before they come, and the house smells of chocolate, cinnamon or vanilla.  However, too many goodies in the house equal too much temptation to eat them.   So, in order to enjoy the creative process with my grandchildren and maintain my baker’s reputation but not partake in the results, I distribute to my neighbors whatever the grandkids don’t eat or take home.

This week, after I dropped off some chocolate chip cookies, my neighbor invited me to stay a few minutes.  We shared a bit of time in her warm and welcoming home—one of my joys.  After questioning me about my next book, she stopped and said, “It must be difficult to spend so much time on a writing project—years even—and all the while never knowing whether it will prove to be a book, and if it does, whether anyone will want to read it.  I can’t imagine the perseverance involved.”

I thought for a few minutes before addressing my neighbor’s statement. Perseverance is what keeps me at my desk when my muse is hiding herself from me, warm days draw me outside, or I’m sleep deprived.  She was asking what motivated the perseverance. I answered, “I don’t think too much about the end game when I’m at my desk.  The fact is, I relish the process, the day-to-day effort. Whether I get anything published, whether another person reads it and likes it, whether it takes years, are important issues, but they are not what keep me writing.  I love the writing journey, and what I write springs from that love.”

Several times over the years, I’ve tried to produce a blog entitled Why I Write.  After I attempted to do so three or four times, each blogs ended up in my computer’s iconic trash bin.  I wrote for many reasons, and they blended together in such a way as to confuse me about motivation.  It never occurred to me to visualize myself at my desk and ask how I feel in the moment. 

Instead, because I was abused as a small child if my mom caught me with pencil and paper, I decided that my writing sprang from a rebellious well.  I wanted the last word–always.  (Anyone who knows me knows just how stubborn I can be.)  But I knew that didn’t explain my persistence.  After all, I wasn’t always in a state of rebellion.

Then, too, writing helped me process a difficult childhood–a saving grace.  It gave me direction.  It made my life richer, helped me sort out confusing situations, and enabled me to make healthier decisions that proved to be effective.  Writing is like a best friend who holds a mirror up to me and reflects who I am—my strengths and flaws.  Receiving this grace through writing is a tremendous gift; but then again, it didn’t always explain my persistence.

At some point, I decided that being an author provided a source of identity. As a child, when I observed words that I wrote on a paper, it grounded me.  Loss of identity is a common occurrence with the abused child, and writing prevented that.  The term “I write—therefore I am” might apply here.  I considered that if I quit writing, I might disappear.  One seldom wants to disappear—yet identity, too, didn’t explain the perseverence.

After years of sorting what didn’t need to be sorted, I concluded that I love creating through words on paper. I love the fact that I sit at my desk and two hours pass in what seems like 15 minutes.   I love that I get lost in creating, forgetting all my problems. For a few hours, I drift away to invented places with people I meet in my imagination.  How much fun is that?  I get to be a professional liar.  How much fun is THAT?

When I explained this, my neighbor then understood why I keep writing, despite the uncertain results—and at last, so did I.   But despite my love of writing, from time to time I still must climb over a list of excuses like exhaustion, an unclear direction, fear of both failure and success, or lack of confidence.   For now, I’ve put them behind me and write every day.  However, most often between projects, they’ll pop up again.  Sometimes, driven by fear, they invade like a plague of locusts that need to be swept up and tossed out.

After years of navel gazing, sorting through all the reasons that I continue to write, including stubbornness, grace received and identity, I discovered clarity about persistence by answering a neighbor’s question: It’s simple, really.  I write because I LOVE IT!

Copyright: Laurel Jean Becker 10/24/2018

Those of you who understand a love/hate relationship will know what I’m talking about when I share that my inner editor is both loved and hated—and often at the same time.

A writer’s inner editor is part of the executive function and self-regulation of the brain. Children aren’t born with these skills, but they are born with the potential to develop them. The full range of abilities continues to grow and mature through the teen years and into early adulthood (hopefully).

My inner editor resembles a Type A personality. What made her so strong? A love for the written word? A desire that everything be on target all the time? A need for accomplishment or recognition? Trying to outperform my latest work? It might be any of these. Or it might be none of them. It’s hard to tell, but she continues to get reinforced.

Fact is, I love my internal editor as long as she remembers her place by improving my writing through critique group editing, learning new techniques and deciding when and when not to use literary license. She also eliminates writing that does not further plot, tightens the work by losing unnecessary wordiness, describing settings, checking historical information and assigning character traits to enlarge personality.

Love turns to hate when she gets in the way of creativity. I hate it when she interrupts to add a semi-colon or change a word when I struggle to write a first draft. She gets in my way when I read for pleasure by finding different ways to express the writers’ thoughts or wanting to rewrite a character. I think she has an arrogant streak. She just can’t stop being a real pest! When I fall asleep while reading, I dream about rewriting the last paragraph that I read. Seems she doesn’t need rest. Occasionally, after I have finished and published a piece, she glances through it to find ways I might improve it—too late. I note any error, hoping that others will pass over it and leave it unnoticed. Occasionally my heart sinks until I persuade myself that being imperfect only makes me human and lovable to my readers (?). 

At these times, I need to say, “Put a sock in it. I can’t change it now, so get over it!” That can quiet her—at least for the moment. My internal editor needs kind discipline. She needs to know she is important without having to run the show all the time. I literally talk to her when I need her to be quiet, saying, “Okay, you need to let me be while I do this.” A bit schizophrenic of me, but it works.

On the other hand, I love my internal editor when she encourages me to learn from others. I appreciate her when something inappropriate runs rampant through my mind but fails to be expressed by my mouth or on the page. I concur with her when I want to send that cranky email but she thinks better of it. I love her when she embraces my own writing with “Hey, not bad!” She is an important part of myself, and I will continue to love and hate her.

This week, I discovered something new about myself.  I know, I know, I’m old enough that everything about myself should already have been not only discovered, but patented.

Recently, I spoke to my husband about my unhappiness, while at the same time reassuring him that he is not the source of it.  However, after several months of unhappiness resurfacing, I still hadn’t found the cause. I’m a big believer in finding one’s own bliss.  No one else is responsible for it.  However, the practice of demanding constant happiness is not only a waste of effort that can lead into troublesome places, but also the source of its own angst.

So I decided to forget about being happy and focus on my other problems: time management and my book business.  I didn’t have enough time or discipline to put my marketing/writing first.  This has not always been the case.  While writing my latest book, I put 3-4 hours per day into finishing it.  But that was a while back.  Still, any connection between this lack of time management and my source of unhappiness never entered my mind.

A few weeks ago, I told my husband that others impacted and even controlled my schedule.  Also, it was no one’s fault but my own.  I told him that from now on, I wanted to work from 8 a.m. to 12 noon on my writing and marketing.  I would devote early mornings to self care (considerable time at my age 😦) and afternoons to everything else.  Randy listened to my plan and suggested I not carve out that much time for my new work schedule.  He reminded me that I, an optimist, tend to bite off more than I can chew and get discouraged.

After considering his advice, I decided to cut the four hours in half.  Instead, I chose to work from 10 a.m. to 12 noon, adding another hour in a few weeks.  Randy thought it a good idea.

And something happened!  I found the cause of my unhappiness and discovered a source of satisfaction that I wasn’t aware of before. I needed to go to work, to report into my office as if to a job outside the home.   Writing is an artistic endeavor and marketing a time-consuming, left-brain activity.  I prioritized both after home making, cooking, errands, bill paying, gardening, husband, children and grandchildren.  Outside of my hubby, kids and grandkids—who will always be my first priority—the writing/marketing needed to come next.  But I treated it as less important.  The result was anxiety over unaccomplished projects and unhappiness over a lack of control of my own life.

Control brings to mind a lot of negative connotations:  Images of people who want power over others, abusers, etc.  However, taking control of oneself, one’s life and schedule is a good thing.  I am happier these last few weeks than I have been for several months.  Let’s face it, I like being in control.

“Dear Diary:” When I was young, I had one of those lock-and-key diaries. Writing in it was like writing a letter to a trusted confidant. Even now, I hold an image of an affectionate reader in my mind when I write. That reader feels like a friend, and writing has always been my friend as well. I remember being enamored making marks on paper before I knew how to make letters. Personal experience has taught me that people who do this writing thing need it so desperately that stopping might mean extinction. “I write, therefore I am” may apply here.

I grew up in total abusive chaos, and I knew that as long as I expressed myself on paper, I was still viable. Conveying my thoughts, emotions, observations and personal truths by writing gave me—and still gives me—a friend to talk to and visual proof of existence—of my identity. Being an author and practicing the art of writing reinforce that identity—and the friendship. I can meet this special friend anywhere—in my office, on a park bench, in a coffee house, or while traveling. She is available any time, and always hears and clarifies my thoughts, hopes and dreams.

Writing is an addictive relationship—in the sense that I am driven to do it. However, unlike addiction, writing tends to lead me toward my true self and not away from my true self. It is one of the ways through which emotions can be revealed to me while being expressed by me. More than any other genre, poetry, an honest, raw discovery and sharing of self, does this best. However, all of my writing efforts contribute to self-awareness, Let’s face it, writing has made me my own best friend.

Eventually, I was able to leave the privacy of my diary and take the next step: publishing. (My first publication was when I was twelve.) I’m striving to be known through authorship—I don’t mean a best-selling, famous author. (In reality, I’m afraid of losing my privacy—a bit of a conundrum!) I want to be accepted and valued for what has made me who I am. I wrote this poem years ago in an effort to find the core child in me when I needed this best friend.

Finding Me Writing

I discover a pinpointed place
within the internal mist,
where lost rays turn
left and right
into formless gray matter,
like the first morning light
on a cloud-crowded day.

Through hovering oppressive air
that swallows precious time,
I strain to find me,
a smiling child,
pen in hand,
bent over rustic table,
bound only by an inkwell.

Stroking my eyes,
I brush away the haze.
Materialized beneath my feet,
the path leads straight,
like a trustworthy friend.
And, while she writes,
I make my way to her side.

Laurel Jean Becker
Previously Published:
Once Upon a Time, Vol. 12 #4

If you ask most people to list their freedoms, they might tell you they are free to vote, to succeed, to make choices or to pursue happiness. I doubt they will say they are free to fail. And yet, without this freedom we can be paralyzed as artists, individuals and spirits. (One opposite fear, ironically, is the fear of success—but that’s another blog.)

Fear of failing is often drummed into us as children when some of us learn that failure can result in lack of acceptance and debilitating criticism. These “not okay” communications can come from parents, teachers or peers. They can be reinforced in adulthood.  Overcoming negative messages is essential to doing and being what God intended us to be when He created us to fulfill our personal potential.

Have you ever heard the following: “Anyone who isn’t making mistakes isn’t doing anything”? Embedded in this phrase is the freedom to make mistakes. The fear of failure is chief among emotions that lead to the lack of successful living and a waste of talent. Franklin D. Roosevelt, in his first inaugural address on March 4, 1933—at the peak of the depression—made the famous statement: “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.”  He knew that fear could paralyze an entire nation.

When I start a new writing project, I am sometimes afraid of failure, success, inability, etc. But if I stay paralyzed by fear, I will accomplish nothing. I tell myself, “You are apprehensive, but that alone can’t stop you. You are permitted to fail.  Now get busy!” At that point, I can plant myself in front of the computer, take a risk and start writing.

Of course, the greater the risk taken, the greater the risk of failure. As it is, many people don’t take risks because fear dominates many of their decisions. Some writers stay within a comfortable genre, not only because they love it but because they can succeed with the familiar. To go outside the creative comfort zone and try something new requires ambitious goals and a willingness to take on diverse challenges. It can only be done with an understanding that we must accept the possibility of failure before we can succeed.

When I was involved in our local National Writer’s Association (NWA) meetings, a monthly prize was awarded to the person who had the most rejections for publication.   He would receive an NWA mug in recognition of effort. The award was meant to teach us that when it comes to publishing, it is usually the one rejected the most who gets published the most. (I won so many times that I collected a considerable mug set. :-)) It taught me to stop fearing rejection and keep making the effort to get published.

Failure is an opportunity to improve. Failed experiments often lead to discoveries not on the agenda. (Scottish biologist Alexander Fleming, while trying to investigate staph, and as a result of sloppiness, found a strange fungus on a culture—a fungus that had killed off all other bacteria in the culture. With this serendipitous discovery, modern medicine was forever changed.) Failed writing is simply an opportunity to be a better wordsmith. It is a measure of strength that failure merely propels the writer into some new attempt to succeed.

Anyone who embraces the freedom to fail will strive on, learn new things, occasionally change direction and eventually reach his goals. The freedom to fail will be his friend.

While attending a yearly conference of the National Writer’s Association where I was to receive an award, I found myself sitting across the table from a lovely, articulate woman—an attorney hoping to publish her first book.

We were enjoying the final dinner of the four-day conference and listening to the keynote speaker, a well-published author. He spoke on the importance of assistance from other writers through his journey to publication. When he finished, the attorney leaned across the table and told me that she had never come across a kinder, more mutually available group of people. “Everyone had been so anxious to help,” she said.  “It has been a wonderful experience.”

“Aren’t attorneys at legal conferences also supportive?” I asked.

She explained that, in her opinion, professionals who attend legal conferences act as if everything is a zero-sum gain. “If one wins, another loses. It can be quite competitive.”

Her statement did not entirely surprise me as I have observed similar situations.  I have worked in many environments, owned a business and attended corporate conferences. Outside of my family and personal friends, I feel more welcomed and supported with fellow authors than any other group.  Even the most successful authors make themselves available to me with advice as I attempt to reach my goals.  I also make myself accessible to others.

After listening to my tablemate’s opinion, I considered my writing groups and their importance. Several things came to mind. First, in critiques, workshops and writing organizations, it’s always about the writing—not the person. Second, when we critique each other’s work, no one comments on the appropriateness of the piece, gives his or her opinion about the content of the work or takes aim at another’s vulnerability. We know that most writers are private people, and publishing is often a terrifying exercise in self-exposure.

When in critique, each of my writing colleagues makes every effort to help the others hone their work; we constantly learn from each other. When one of us finishes a manuscript, gets published or receives some accolade, we all celebrate. In the process, we learn much about each other and bond as friends.

I am lucky to have many supportive personal friends who are not writers. I don’t know what I would do without them as they have shepherded me through tough spots. My life and I are richer because of them.

I also consider myself fortunate because of fellow authors who befriend me and help me on my journey to publication. I recognize my writing friends as essential to the balance between being with others and the considerable alone time that creativity requires. Like in the case of the keynote speaker, I know my work and life are richer because of bonds formed with and help received from other writers.

It happens sometimes. I simply cannot write. Try as I may to do so, nothing flows from my mind to the page. I do what all writers are supposed to do. I keep my rear end in the chair until I feel it turning into mush—and my brain with it. Finally, I give up. Negative thoughts run through my mind. Perhaps I’m not supposed to write. Maybe my muse has deserted me out of sheer frustration. Perhaps whatever I choose to write will mean nothing to anyone, and God knows it. The solution? I find other things to do :

• Clean. I rifle through my closets and cupboards and donate anything I can’t use to charity–or the round basket, file financial papers, shred outdated material, etc. When I get finished, at least I have accomplished something that encourages me and makes me feel like my day hasn’t been a complete waste of time.

• Cook. I love cooking and baking. I cut and keep interesting recipes that challenge my culinary skills. When the results of my efforts are served, I get lots of compliments from my family, which compensates for not being able to write a word and provides an outlet for my edible creative energy.

• Do routine things. Repetitive work releases the synapsis that allows me to “cook” my writing ideas while I’m working. This is totally subconscious and happens while washing dishes, picking up or doing laundry. I keep my hands busy and my mind free while hoping time spent with ordinary work will fill in the blanks.

• Journal. Isn’t that writing? Well, yes, kind of. But it’s not my customary writing project. Often, journaling clears my mind of the emotions and thoughts that may be lurking just below my gray matter’s surface and is beyond my awareness (especially negative thoughts about writing 😊).  Carrying negative thought and emotions can block writing flow as effectively as the Hoover Dam blocks water flow.

• Exercise: I swim, walk or use my stationery bicycle—anything that gets my heart pumping much-needed oxygen to the brain. Sometimes, the writer’s sedentary life itself can muddle the thought processes and obscure the writing path.

• Garden. Okay, I kill more plants than I’d like to admit. However, the effort puts me on my knees, feels both fulfilling and humbling and reminds me of the One who is in charge of my life path—and my writing. There is something rejuvenating about the feel of soil through fingers and the smell of fresh-turned earth.

• Take a day trip. Getting out of the house and taking in a museum, movie or play is enough to elicit creative writing. The big challenge is to find something I want to do. I’m a bit picky—or so my husband says.

• Go to a writing workshop. Better for me to find one out of town in order to put distance between my office and me. A workshop not only helps to induce ideas and provide fellow writers to commiserate with, but the drive also provides stimulating views—as simple a group of cows and complex as different cloud formations.

If none of these ideas work, I return to my office and keep my seat in my chair until my muse releases me from mental jail. Happily, I often find that by redirecting my attention elsewhere my muse gets jealous and begins to speak. Let’s face it, I’m willing to try anything to get her attention.

Sunday morning is a good time to think about the sacred.  Is the stream that comes from my muse, or the source of my inspiration, sacred? Some writers would give a resounding “yes.” And to the extent that our creative natures are connected to and empowered by our Creator God, they would be correct.

But I also believe my stream of creativity is God-inspired because I have committed it to Him. Something inside of me doesn’t want to give up the controls and also does not wish to be singularly in charge. Quite a conundrum!  Because of this internal conflict, I must keep recommitting my efforts to Him.

Something just popped into my mind: an image of a stream coming directly out of my heart. I have a way of answering my own questions—if I will just listen.  Since I put my creative process in God’s hands, I know that what flows from my heart to the page is sacred. My responsibility as a writer, as far as this sacred stream is concerned, is that I listen carefully to what my heart wants to say. Then, with prayer and God’s help, I can be sure I am standing mid-stream when I write.

This reminds me of a poem I wrote some years ago.  The river flows from God’s gift of creativity.

Writing By the River

(1)

I write by the river that flows beside me.
Beginning before I did, it moves beyond—
into eternity.
Sometimes, I dare to feel it, to stick a wary ankle
deep enough to know the water travels faster than I.
It gently splashes against my heel,
changes course, flows sideways, moves around my foot,
and meets itself just above my toes.
Joining liquid hands, it travels on—
beyond my sight, beyond my place in history.
Because it touches me,
and wends its way around me,
I am a part of the memory the river takes downstream.
It will join other memories of other people
brave enough to enter.

(2)

The sunlight sparkles against the river’s blue water,
lulls me into thinking it is its own source of light and color.
But it is not.
All of that is borrowed, like the sand it carries,
like the churning pebbles it smooths,
like the yellow aspen leaves huddled around its banks.
Just like the river’s sand,
my time is borrowed from God,
time I accept with an open heart.
But this debt need not be repaid.
It is a gift—sometimes in disguise.
When it reaches the sea,
all that the river borrows, and remembers,
will be left behind.
But for now, the river and I flow on.

Poem Copyright: 10/10/2008

It occurred to me this morning that as I begin the publishing process on my new children’s book, Weaver Pond Stories, I have been telling myself (and everyone in earshot) how much I hate marketing. I know that equal parts of fear and the need for personal privacy mixed together are at the bottom of this self-talk.  Mind you, I’ve done some successful marketing for both my husband’s and my music store and my poetry book, In the Heart of a Quiet Garden. But this morning I realized that what I’ve been telling myself about marketing could stop me from moving forward successfully.

In reality, I actually enjoyed the marketing I’ve done in the past—though at first it made me nervous. The success I had in this area gave me confidence. So, why do I tell myself that I hate it? One reason might be that I hear it all the time from my fellow authors. (Perhaps I just want to be part of the group? 🙂  Or perhaps their attitudes are just rubbing off on me.)   But the fact is that I’m just as anxious and fearful when I begin a new writing project—and I love to write! It is perfectly normal to have questions when you do anything for the first time: Can I do it? Do I have the talent? The time? The stamina? Will I fall on my face? Most authors deal with the same questions. But I can’t let the questions stop me.

So what do I do about this new self-realization? First and foremost, I need to present myself authentically: I don’t hate marketing. My experience is not sufficient to make that decision.  An authentic statement might be: I have enjoyed and been fairly successful at marketing in the past, but I am still a bit anxious as I begin this new and bigger project

Second, garnering the support of others whenever I begin a new segment of a project increases confidence. I recently did that, consulting with those who have wide experience in marketing and listening to advice as they try to guide me away from pitfalls and toward tested, reliable processes. Early on, writers find out that being a successful author requires a community of helpers—from professional organizations, critique groups and readers, editors and publishers to marketing support. No one does it alone!

Third, I need to think only of the next decision. Dwelling on a complete project and how it will begin and end is too much. What is necessary is to put one foot in front of the other—one step at a time. Besides, anyone who has been a project manager knows that a flexible decision process is important if one is to deal with unexpected situations that always arise.   It is impossible to anticipate every step, and the attempt to do so can paralyze the process.

The result of this morning’s awakening should be to change my self-talk, to enlist the help of others and to remember to proceed by putting one foot in front of the other as I move into the marketing phase of Weaver Pond Stories. I must remember that if I repeat something negative over and over, I will come to believe it—and make it true.  However, the same is true of positive, authentic statements.

As a result of this awakening, I know that I will become the writer I tell myself I am—only now it will be an authentic, positive message. Going forward, I plan to keep that in mind.