|I’ve had enough questions – or big enough questions, at least – that I’ve decided to give myself the space of more than one post to tackle them. (This might also be a move calculated to give me time to think about some of the more complicated or more philosophical ones. I’m not an expert, here. I’m just some goob who has been trying since first grade to write things other people might like to read.)
It seems only fitting that we begin with beginnings, and it’s also the question that prompted this series of posts.
I’ve been asked a few times how I handle various writing difficulties. While I put very little stock in my authority to speak about writing in a way that would benefit anyone else’s process, I’m not so sure of my rightness that I’m unwilling to be a bro.
Because I do better on topics like this when I’m addressing specific questions, this is an open call. I will already be talking about how I deal with difficulty starting things. I’ll consolidate any questions I get here and do a single post. Got any other writing woes you could stand to hear a fellow struggling writer weigh in on?
|And just like that, six months after starting, another novel is done.
I trivialize the effort and attention this thing actually required, of course, but only in the name of pointing out that it took me six years to complete its predecessor. The disparity is entirely due to the degree of focus I was able to devote to this latest work. It’s not-so-astounding, the things you cannot do when you’re surrounded by people who don’t believe in you and an environment that wants you to be doing anything else. Also not a revelation but encouraging at the same time to confirm that, in the right place with the right people, I do in fact have it in me to do this work.
I’m a writer, guys. I write books.
You know what else I’m good at? Editing. Time to do some of that now. The work of getting this stuff out into the world…? That’s ongoing, but steps are in motion.
In 1977, Disabled protesters and allies won the 504 regulations that benefit Autistic children today. The protest was a 23 day sit-in at the Health, Education, and Welfare office. That protest was made possible by support and protection from the Black Panther Party.They stood up for us. It is time to return that love.
In a world where disabled people are murdered by their caretakers and loved ones all the time, and the public shakes their head, says, “That’s terrible, but you can understand where they were coming from,” we don’t need movies that position the life of a disabled individual as the starting point for a discussion about assisted suicide.
That is in fact grossly, staggeringly inappropriate.
With the dog-sitting money I’ve earned, I finally felt like it was okay to pick up the discounted copy of Scrivener that’s been on hold for me since I won NaNoWriMo, even as an experiment without knowing whether it would ultimately end up being my cup of tea. When I asked around in advance if people had any thoughts to offer on the software, mostly what they told me can be boiled down to, “It’s all right, I guess. Better than Word for plotting, maybe?” My decision to buy it was motivated by that slight recommendation, because plotting is an area where I actually could use some help. Especially help staying organized.
So I busted out my new toy and started constructing a file of interconnected notes, to help me graph out what needs to happen next in my w-i-p. This, right away, is already something I could not be doing in Word. As I began to play with the various ways to interconnect these notes, I quickly fell down a rabbit hole of customization options so granular it’s like I’m building my own virtual writer shed plank by plank.
What people who are unwilling to offer too strong an endorsement of Scrivener maybe do not realize is just how highly some people value this level of personalization in their digital products.
Buddy, I’m sold. Now I just need to stop choosing Full Screen backgrounds and get back to work.
For the last few days, I’ve been dog-sitting, which really is to say that I’ve been on a paid writing retreat with a sweet side of dogs. It’s basically perfect, except for the dogs’ notion of what constitutes acceptable personal space when I’m trying to sleep.
The house I’m in right now is in a cute little borough adjacent to mine, a bit further removed from downtown and a bit more rural. Over the weekend, I needed to put something in the mail. By the miracle of modern smartphone magic, I was able to locate the nearest postal branch, about three miles away. Being from Phoenix, Arizona, I barely registered the distance. That’s nothing by car in a city of flat, straight grids. That would practically still be inside my neighborhood.
I proceeded to follow the disembodied robot voice’s directions for those almost three miles – down backroads, between hills, under bridges, across three towns each smaller and older than the last – finally to a small blip of a borough that literally consisted of little more than a steel factory, a very interesting Eastern Orthodox church, and the brick post office. With every wooded downhill bend past yet another sign welcoming me to the township of _______, I felt ever more acutely how far I am from the place that spawned me. It wasn’t a feeling of homesickness, exactly, because I very much do not want to be back there. But it was definitely a realization of just how far I am outside of what I’m familiar with in this place. A kind of environmental culture shock.
It was, in the moment I was able to articulate the nature of the weirdness I was feeling, surreal and disorienting. It was a moment I didn’t want to be having, my intense hatred for where I came from and my breathtaking relief to be where I am now coming at one another from strange directions and doing battle upon the field of my contentment.
I’ve been remembering that feeling at odd times since then, the sense that I am in a foreign land and just a little bit lost here, and reminding myself that I haven’t even left the country I was born in.