10 Minute Writer

I have decided this year that I will not write articles, e-books or anything else that promises writing success. I have decided this year to focus on one thing: my novel. In fact, this blog will be neglected a little because I don’t want it to take away from the precious few minutes I have daily to write. Additionally, I’ve eliminated all of my internet reading time to mostly things that will make me a better fiction writer. And I’ve picked up Twitter again, but I’ll explain why later.

As a result of this decision, some remarkable things have been happening — I’ve learned MANY new things about myself, and I am very encouraged.

1. Honesty is Better Than Talent. One of the few blogs I do check on regularly is Stuff Christians Like. In this entry, Jon Acuff gently explains why honesty in writing can do more for the world than eloquence. This is a huge relief. I’ve got this honesty thing down cold. I’m not very successful at hiding my warts, so I just let them all be shown. I believe that perhaps God can use me in my writing because it comes so easy and so natural for me to be real.

2. I Should Never Regret Not Getting My MFA. In a very round-about-way, a light bulb went off in my head after I read this entry on Chip MacGregor’s blog. Literary writing is not me. Maybe it was my pride, or maybe I had delusions of grandeur, or maybe I’ve just idolized education a little too much, but I’ve always thought that the “best” writing was exclusively literary (like the type that gets in The New Yorker). Over the years, I’ve tried to read great literary works and then tried to emulate them, but something was always off, and I didn’t know what. Then I would watch The Simpsons (before Season 12) and sigh and say, “Oh, if I had been a fly on the wall in the writer’s room!” Duh. To be true to myself, I should not see myself nor aspire to be a literary writer. Rather, I should stick to what I do best: Comic storytelling. I was disappointed in this for about thirty seconds, thinking that I had “settled”. Then some Twitter friends reminded me that literary writing will not make me happy, it will attract fewer readers, be far more difficult to market, and I’ll just be frustrated. This was a wonderful light bulb moment. So, no MFA for me, thank you. ( Let’s all watch Seinfeld, instead!)

3. Marketing Isn’t Scary Keeping in mind that I do not yet have a product to sell, I learned something about book marketing from my new friend Jody Hedlund. This blog entry discusses how marketing teams work with an author’s strengths to make more sales. Oh, really? No crazi-ness? Somehow, this all made sense to me and I feel better about what hopefully will be a future objective for me.

4. That being said, I am really good at Twitter. This is a fun and easy way for me to gradually build a platform. I get about 10 followers a day (and if you’re not following me, please do so here) This is a better fit for me than daily blogging and it’s a fantastic place to spew all those random thoughts that jump in my brain. I need to stick with what works and not worry about what I’m not doing.

These four things really encouraged me over the last week. I firmly believe that much of this came about because I committed to a specific focus. I didn’t have to take a class, join a critic’s group or even do much but hang out in my kitchen and learn.

Woo-hoo!

I have a double whammy today. Triple if you count that I kept the kids up to watch the Super Bowl.

I have a relationship in my life that I’ve recently realized is abusive. I found out recently that this person is insisting on working on a non-writing project with me. So there is a possibility that my next few weeks, including my birthday, will be stressful.

If I were reading this, I would say, “why don’t you tell them NO!” I’m afraid it’s not that simple, I’m not that strong, nor am I convinced that it is the best answer. Rest assured, I’d love to.

My second whammy, which might be a direct result of the first, is that even though I am writing like a mad woman on my novel, and I’m generally pleased with its progress, I’m second guessing everything. I’m stuck in an glue trap of doubt. I’m afraid, almost to the point of paralysis, that I am not any good.

Now that I have all of these thoughts down, I can see that they are intertwined. My possible Post Traumatic Stress Disorder life can’t handle both of these events simultaneously. I am a mess. What do I do?

A few minutes ago, in a frantic effort to find a solution, I tweeted to #writers “Where do you go when you are discouraged about your writing”. I got about four answers. I was surprised at how often chocolate was mentioned.

This is funny, and I certainly might try it. But I think I need a more permanent solution than the frozen Hershey bar that I stashed last Halloween. I need to know. TO KNOW — from the core of my being, from the inside out, that I am safe, that I am accepted, that no matter what I write, I am not defined by it. That I am loved. (Not a message that this abusive relationship has communicated to me.)

If the project was cancelled, I’m sure I’d feel better about my writing. If I stopped navel gazing long enough, I might even see that both of these things are out of my control. I might see that God, who loves me, protects me, sustains me, gives me ideas and works through me, will work both of these issues out.

But I’m so used to fretting, I’m so accustomed to disaster, my default setting is sobbing over rejection, it’s hard for me to grasp hope in both hands.

I believe that there is a God. I believe he made me. I believe that my past, my present and my future are held in his hand. I believe I will suffer, yet I will not be harmed. I believe He wants me to draw nearer to him in this and rest.

So I guess I’ve found my solution for the whammies. But I’ll keep chocolate around too.

My kid went down the icy hill on his face. I didn’t see it. I was a few yards away pushing his little sister in the swing. I just heard him crying. He cries when his peas touch his carrots, so I wasn’t overly concerned. Until he came up the hill and I saw him.

The ice scratched his face up so badly, it looked like he got in a fight with an alley cat. Blood was slowly seeping out of the cuts. Bruises were starting to form. My four other children were playing happily, and we had just been in the playground about ten minutes, so I didn’t want to pack everyone up just yet. I wiped the blood off his face with someone’s ski hat and had him sit on a park bench, trying to comfort him and also trying to call my husband.

If there is ever an area when my own insecurity and ignorance comes through, it’s when my children are sick and injured. I need a Super Mom to descend on me and tell me exactly what to do in situations like this. I have to guess on my own. I’m never sure I’m making the right choices. If I were a parent of one, trips to the ER might be a lot more frequent. But because I have a crowd to deal with, I want to attempt to meet their needs too.

My husband wasn’t answering his phone. All this did was make me more panicky. My little boy’s injuries were really only scratches, but the bruises and blood (and his whimpers) made it appear to be much worse. It doesn’t help matters that my active imagination (and too many episodes of House) are magnifying these injuries, from which the logical conclusion is this: I’m not doing this right. My children are suffering. I am a bad mother.

I told my big kids I would allow them to stay fifteen more minutes and then we would go home. The wind was picking up and those of us who were standing around were getting very cold. I tried calling my husband two more times. Still nothing.

I needed my husband to tell me what to do. I needed him to see these injuries ( I tried taking pics with my phone, but Sad Boy wouldn’t cooperate and the lighting was terrible) and make a diagnosis. I wanted the responsibility of potentially causing more harm to my children to go on someone else’s shoulders. I needed to someone to see that I was an emotional mess and needed comfort too.

Within minutes, my other son fell off his sled and came up the hill crying. His nose and upper lip were scratched up and there was more blood. But not as bad as his little brother.

That settled it. We were done. I called everyone over and led them to our van. I couldn’t think of anything we needed more desperately than hot chocolate and motrin. ( I could go for a drink, but that will have to wait until after dinner.)

I am such a pansy. I got home, finally spoke to my husband, felt like an idiot for the fear and anxiety this little adventure caused me. Their injuries are just scratches and bruises, that is all.

But yet, that lie, the one that says I am bad. I fail. It’s my fault. That lie is still there.

Two weeks ago, my husband and I got into an argument. And while the episode was over soon enough, what lingered was the emotional bruising I gave myself. For days, I recounted the precise words that were said by both of us, (never regarding that my husband had forgiven me completely) and concluding, that the reason this issue was brought up to begin with was my fault. I am bad. I fail.

I don’t know what made me think this — perhaps it was divine mercy — but at some point on Wednesday (the argument we had was on a Friday) I realized that there was a simple solution: Step away from the lie.

My husband loves me. He and I have been married for 13 years. We have five children. If I were truly a failure, if I truly deserved rejection, if it were all my fault, wouldn’t he see it too? ( He is meticulous, analytical and picky. He has strong opinions and never settles for second best. So how is it he picked me to marry unless there was some value here?) Let’s even go beyond my husband, let’s look at someone who loves me deeper.

What does God say about me? I can get a clue about this from what he said about others. There was a woman caught in adultery,(John who was guilty, who failed, who was clearly at fault and Jesus said to her: “Neither do I condemn you. Go and sin no more.”

I am not used to seeing myself as uncondemned. I’m used to seeing myself as a mess. I’m used to having others point out my faults, then pulling out even more faults and then calling me names for good measure. I’m used to having arguments led to eerie, malicious silences that might last for days, broken only by a joke. I’m used to every mistake being broadcast to others. I’m used to shame. I’m used to pain. I’m used to despair.

It’s difficult to put down these lies, even though they’ve choked me for years. In my Bible reading, I’ve found that not only does it please God when I attempt to do so, he gives me strength to do this. He knows how weak I am.

My little boys’ injuries are going to heal just fine. We’re trying to figure out a funny remark when they’re seen at church. ( “You should have seen the other guy!” “It was a Siberian tiger in our backyard! It’s okay — I took it out.”) They’re going to grow up stronger and more resilient for it. And if they ever play organized sports, they’ll probably have far worse (of course their mother will need sedatives).

And I’ll grow up too. I have an amazing healing grace that pours over me. It heals, restores and gives me strength to believe the truth. I am not bad for I have God’s righteousness. I do fail, but I have power in me to succeed. And whatever fault I have, God forgives me.

And that’s even more comforting that Motrin, hot chocolate and a good stiff drink.

I didn’t think I was ready for this. But, maybe it’s better than I just jumped in without thinking too hard about it.

Here it is . . . .
My Facebook Fan Page

They say it’s never to early to start marketing. They also say not to stick your tongue on a metal pole in winter, it’s the thought that counts and money can’t buy happiness. They sure do know a lot.

Sigh.

Someday, I hope, I’ll be a famous novelist.

I’ll see my name in print. I’ll have links on Amazon.com. I’ll have a fan page on Facebook. I’ll be cleverly reclusive, leaving my readers wanting a little bit more.

I might grace them with a personal appearance at a bookstore, signing autographs in copies of my book. (I’ve already decided what I’m going to write in them. There’s a secret message for you on page 72. Love, Katharine

And if that bloated, self absorbed image isn’t enough, here’s more. Inevitably, someone will say to me. “Where do you get your ideas?” And I’m going to look them straight in the eye and say, “Kmart.”

As ridiculous as that sounds, the truth is even more so. The truth is, I don’t know. (Not that anyone’s asking that question of me who is not 11 years old and lives in my house.)

I had just an idea this last week. The idea was hiccups! My poor protagonist was having a hard day trying to please a lot of different people. She was scurrying around her job, doing her regular Tuesday morning duties and allowing for various plot points and character developments to seep through. But there was a problem. There was no unifying conflict, no tying thread, no glue to hold the scene together.

After stewing on this for a day or two, the answer came to me: she has the hiccups!

After that EVERYTHING clicked. I sped through the scene, laughed at myself in several places and completed it in record time.

I don’t know where I got the idea. I was not suffering from them. No one in my family was. It just came like a lightening bolt into my little brain.

I’m not telling anyone this to brag about my brilliance — but, I guess to eliminate this question from our future book signings. To ask where do you get your ideas is to suggest there is a retail store or a website or a physical place that we can order them (now with free shipping!)

I don’t think inspiration is like that. I think that it comes through concentration, practice, observation, analysis, patience, and luck. No one ( I am assuming this from my vast book signing experience) really wants to hear the answer quite like that, they want an easy answer, albeit an equally ridiculous one. If those short cuts to inspiration were true places, then no one would be original. And that would be tragic.

The hiccups idea was perfect for Chapter 18. But this week, I’m on Chapter 19. Oops. Can’t revisit the whole hiccup idea. I have a different POV character, different conflicts, different setting, different mood. The only thing that’s really the same here is the author.

Well that’s not entirely true. I’m different too. Unlike the brief moment of despair last week when Chapter 18 had not yet gelled, this week I’m going to trust that lightning is going to strike again. Oh, how I wish I did have Kmart to deliver my good idea because I looked for it today on websites that contained country music lyrics, armed forces terminology, definitions of famous Indian recipes and Facebook. And yet, nuthin’.

That’s okay. Something will happen. I have faith in my creative process. I’m learning to trust mine. You can trust yours too.

(And I’ve changed my secret message. Now it’s on page 147!)

My last entry was about waiting on God’s Big Plan for my family — a plan which we truly thought was going in one specific direction. It did not. It still might. But at this writing, there is no definite plan to do anything but to wait and maintain what we have.
Since my last entry, several months ago, my emotional life has had the journey of a lifetime. First, the anticipation of a move and a new adventure had me in a plane of unsurpassed excitement. Subsequently, the realization that our plans were not to be threw me into a place of utter despair. I had a really bad November. I cried for three days straight and maintained my home and my family life in the most shabby way possible.
Thanksgiving, however, was spent with relatives in Oklahoma. I was still numb from the disappointment — but somehow there, away from my troubles, God revealed to me a side of his perfect plan. While I was there, my eyes were opened to see, with unprecedented clarity, the depth of God’s love for me. I returned to Boston a new person. So new, in fact, that the desires of the fall, the obsession to move houses and cities was completely gone. My former discontent (and I have a lot to be discontented about) had somehow vanished. Instead, I was filled with a joy and a peace that I had never encountered.
Which was a perfect way to enter the Advent Season.
Our Christmas was very busy, and at times stressful, but I can’t remember a time when I enjoyed it more. It is worth noting that I had spent most of my 2009 begging God to improve our situations by Christmas — thinking that one more holiday season in our circumstances would be far too much to bear. Yet, we endured one more. This Christmas was vastly different. It was full of joy and peace, not disappointment and heartache.
I faced the New Year with a temptation to lay down my agenda before the throne of God once more and say, “Do these things in 2010, please.” As if he had forgotten or neglected to accomplish them in 2009. In hindsight, 2009 was filled of wonderful, unexpected, abundant blessings. Few of which graced that year’s agenda. So, perhaps the 2010 list should be discarded.
Instead, I face my many ideas with a new perspective. I have many ideas — I am impulsive and easily distracted excited. But perhaps I need to see the ideas that fill my agenda as cheap, silly things, not even worth my attention until the King beckons them and breathes life into them.
Which brings me to the problem of this blog. What do I do?
I am skittish about “building a platform”. I am convinced that Twitter, as helpful as it can be, is a time-sucking force, of which I have little self-control. My true passions lie in finishing my novel and I can see how too much time blogging can take away precious time from my novel. (Now in progress for three years.)
Clearly, the best thing about this blog, is the relationships that are built from it. That alone should propel me into it. But I confess, I am a swirling mess of confusion, disappointment, distraction, guilt and fear. I’ve seen what happens when plans don’t work out — and it’s painful. Yet, I’ve also felt the overwhelming healing and peace that comes from a Father who is in control of all things. Even my failures.
So, I think, after spending a half hour or more of collecting my thoughts in the best way I know how, is to continue with this blog. Slowly. My husband says I should take my own advice and lower my expectations. Ten minutes a day, perhaps? Only once or twice a week instead of five? Write as a cathartic exercise, expecting release, not as yet another way to influence the masses and make money.
I’m not making any promises. I’m going to take this one day at a time. I’m even going to wrap up this entry, because I am still a busy mother of five. I still have bread to bake and football games to watch and Wii Golf scores to increase with my boys.
So, dear readers. I think I’m back.
Trusting God Ten Minutes At A Time.

Oh man, I wish I could spill the beans here, but I can’t.

We’re still waiting on my very smart and talented husband to have a meeting with a prominent capitalist. This man is a believer, so I started praying that he would have dreams about my husband. I think, sometimes, God uses dreams to symbolically tell us his will. So, I was praying two weeks ago that Mr. Capitalist had a dream that a bald man (my husband) would enter his office, bringing him something valuable, like, for instance, gold.

Yesterday, my husband was wrapping a gift. It was a book about innovative corporate life and he wants to give it to Mr. Capitalist at their meeting (which we hope is next week!). The only wrapping paper in the house is from Christmas — and it’s gold!

You think that’s weird . . . on the morning of September 8, I woke to the sound of worship music. My husband is an early riser and usually gets up the rest of the house with music. The song that was playing was by Hillsong “He is mighty to save, he is mighty to save . . “. I slowly woke up and grabbed my Bible. I didn’t know what to read, but I breathed a quick prayer, “God, give me a fresh word!” In the back of the Bible is a list of certain topics, I picked “encouragement” and turned to the page number (not the reference, mind you.) The page indicated was devotion about hope and about trusting in God. Hey, this is good so far. Next to the devotional, it had a list of scriptures to look up. The first: Zephaniah 3. So I turned there and as the music was playing, I read these words:

17 The LORD your God is with you,
he is mighty to save.
He will take great delight in you,
he will quiet you with his love,
he will rejoice over you with singing.”

I read it exactly at the time the song was playing those very words!