Top 5 Reasons to Start a Women's Writing Group

I'm starting a new new women's writing group on Monday, here in Narberth, called Girls Write Out. (Thank you, I like the name too.) Why?

1. Writing is an isolated activity, and can feel lonely. Writing together in a group, giving and receiving feedback has been essential to my development as a writer.
2. A number of women I know express something like this, "I really want to write, but I don't know how to start." Or "I'd love to write but I struggle to make time for it." Or "I have a book I want to write, but I'm stuck." I relate to these obstacles, and I wanted to make a space where women can gather and write, together, in a supportive community.
3. I have started and been a part of other writing groups, some of which helped me a lot, some of which damaged me quite a bit. I have come to believe that a writing group needs a leader, someone to establish ground rules and ensure the rules are respected. This allows everyone to feel safe, and when we feel safe, we do our best work.
4. I believe we all have stories to tell, and I want to encourage new writers, and established writers, to claim their stories, write their stories, and share their stories.
5. Writing is how I make sense of the world; it is one of the ways I heal. I want to help other people find that outlet.

One of the students from a previous workshop had this to say:

"Over the course of a month in 2015, I took Julie’s weekly writing workshop and was impressed with her thoughtful and organized style, which drew on multiple tools to engage our group, encourage and draw out our ideas. Julie established a nurturing atmosphere for the workshop. We learned from Julie and each other. The positive vibes and different writing styles of the group emboldened and challenged me to open up and continue trying."

Please contact me if you're interested in learning more about Girls Write Out at julie.heartswrite@gmail.com.

Fuck You, Death

No one else I love is allowed to die. I'm serious. My heart can't take another one. I woke up yesterday morning, on my 41st birthday, and logged onto Facebook to see birthday wishes. As I scrolled I came across a post from Carol, my first writer friend. It was a sweet photo of one of her nephews as a child. I "liked" it, then noticed a comment that said, "This brought a tear to my eye. She loved her nieces and nephews so much." Wait, what?

I looked at the other comments, my heart beat picking up the news before my head could. Why was that written in the past tense? Why had this been posted by her husband? What the fuck was going on? I didn't want to believe it, but I messaged a mutual friend, asking if Carol had died.

Yes.

Between my birthday and my last day of a job I really loved, I couldn't absorb that news yesterday. I wouldn't let myself even think about it. But this morning, after sleeping in, meditating, praying, talking to some friends, I looked at Carol's blog, and read this, her last blog post: Writing the Story of Your Life.

You have to be made of stone not to cry reading that. But I knew Carol, I loved her. And I didn't know her cancer had returned. We saw each other mostly during the summer, when I was closer to her home in Cape May. We hadn't talked in a few months, but I thought nothing of that. I was going to call her next week to set up a catch-up date.

I didn't get to say goodbye. I didn't get to tell her how much it meant to me that she befriended me at my first ever writer's conference; that she asked for my email information, and that we struck up an easy friendship. I didn't get to tell her how much I admired her perseverance with her writing. How she inspired me by self-publishing her two beautiful novels. How much I admired her move from Philly to the shore, and how she went after what she wanted in life with gusto.

Her last blog post talks about how she can be a friend to us from the beyond, but you know what? Fuck that. I have too many angels already. I don't want anymore. I want to have decadent pancakes with her at Clary's. I want to walk with her on the beach, or through Stone Harbor, looking at books. I want her support when my book comes out. I want my novelist friend, here, on earth, where I need her.

I will move through the sadness and anger, eventually, and the shock. I know I will. I've done it too many times before. And I will call on her help from the beyond. I do believe that my loved ones are still with me, in a different form. But I hate this.

The price for having a big, beautiful, rich life, so full of love, is having to say goodbye to people, sometimes much sooner than we are ready to do so.

Carol, thank you for your friendship. Thank you for your belief in my writing, and in me. Thank you for your work. Up until your last days, you wrote and published work that deeply moved me, and countless others. I'm angry we won't have any more writing from you, and I am so grateful, bone-deep, that you shared the work you did with us. Help me to follow your example, to have an eighth of your courage, persistence and grace. Thank you for blessing me with your love.

Back to School

Last weekend, after visiting Manhattan on Saturday, and staying with dear friends for the night in Pelham, we stopped by my alma mater, Fordham, for a brief visit. Usually when we go to the Bronx, I want to go to Mike's pizza, or Ann and Tony's for penne a la vodka, or Butchie's for their chicken sandwich. I love to walk through the Botanical Gardens, or visit the zoo, or walk up Fordham Road or Arthur Ave for a slice of local life. But this Sunday, in the dead of winter, after a very full day on Saturday, all I really wanted to do was walk through campus, and have brunch in the cafeteria, much as I would have twenty years ago.

I charmed the security guard with my true story of being an alum, wanting to visit and buy some Christmas gifts from the bookstore. He allowed us to park for free on campus. (Christmas miracle!) We walked through the biting wind, stopping for a picture in front of Keating Hall, and Daniel actually looked at the camera (miracle number two!) Walking into Keating, memories leapt out at me: the absolute confusion in Calculus, which I promptly dropped for an easier version; the glory of studying with Elizabeth Johnson, one of the premier feminist theologians of our time, as a freshwoman; her asking me to read one of my essays about gender aloud to the class; feeling sometimes slighted as a woman by the Jesuits; feeling enlivened by New York City - that anything was possible.

As we walked around campus I remembered writing for 'the paper,' the alternative campus newspaper, and that they asked me at the end of my freshman year, to be the editor-in-chief. I declined the honor, not wanting the responsibility, but I did keep writing. Looking back, it was good to remember that even then, I was a writer. That fact was obfuscated for awhile, but it has always been a part of who I am.

Brunch was pretty much the same, though they do have a gluten and nut-free station now. I told Carl how I had fought for vegetarian options in my day. Daniel had donuts, ice cream and frozen yogurt, which is probably how I ate when I lived there. "Is it possible to put on the freshman fifteen in one day?" asked Carl as he came back with his third plate of food.

The bookstore was closed, and though I didn't leave with any souvenirs, I did take home a clearer sense of myself, which is probably better than another Fordham t-shirt.

Where Have I Been?

Just pretty. No relation to text.

Seriously, it's a good question.

Well, for the past month, I've mostly been sick with headaches. You can read more about that at 4 Broads. I am thrilled to say that I have been headache free for five straight days, which I think means the cycle is broken, and I'm on the road back to health. Goddess-willing.

I've also been writing a lot about breastfeeding, and one of those articles is going to be published in Bitch magazine - yippee - as soon as I finish writing it.

I've been editing lots of work for other people. If you need help with editing, or know someone who does, please contact me. I love editing other people's writing. It gives me some kind of sick satisfaction. So much easier than creating my own work.

But yes, I'm still creating my own work. I'm finishing up my first novel. For real this time. I'm working on poems and essays, and even a 10 minute play.

I have a new website in the works too.

So that's a little about me. What are you up to this spring? I'd love to know.

My New York Times Debut

In case you missed the big news, I had my New York Times Debut on October 13 - the Sunday Times, no less.

In response to an essay called A Feminist's Daughter Finds Love in the Kitchen, I wrote a response, which they printed in the Style section. I'd love to hear your responses to the essay, a subject near to my heart - how to balance our own needs with our children's.

Thank God my mom gave me great advice, so I could submit it to The New York Times!

Give a Little Leeway

This week, when my normal impatience arose, I breathed deeply and reminded myself that most of the world is going through back to school transition, and therefore may need some extra leeway. I’m happy to report it made for a pretty peaceful week.

Change is hard for me, even good change. In June, when Carl’s school year ends, and he’s around more, I love it, but the transition is still hard. Now, after a lovely summer, Carl is back to work, Daniel is back to the babysitter, and I’m back to managing more of the household. Going into the week I worried. How would Daniel adjust, after hanging out with Daddy all summer? How would Carl adjust to work life again? What about our poor puggy, home alone so much more?

To maximize peace in our home, and within myself, I decided to try giving everyone extra leeway for the week. Rather than reprimand myself for failing to write enough, I praised myself for writing at all. Rather than battle with Daniel about his nap, I surrendered, played with him, took him to Target. Rather than chastise Carl for coming home late, I invited a friend over for a play date. In all cases, life was much more enjoyable. I even forgave the asshole who cut me off in traffic yesterday. Yes, I felt the flood of righteous anger, but I remembered leeway, and had some compassion for his hurry.

This week, with all its changes, was so peaceful that I’m wondering if leeway should be a permanent mantra. Maybe I’m always harder on people, including myself, than is necessary or helpful. Maybe I’d be happier with lower expectations and greater acceptance of shortcomings. Hm. Maybe I’ll extend it another week and see how it goes.

Where do you fall on the leeway scale? Do you give too little or too much?

Good News, Bad News

The lovely Claire, who has been an invaluable support to me, creatively and emotionally, just told me that she got her dream job—hooray! And that it’s in Baltimore. Ug.

Like Anne of Green Gables, when I find a bosom friend, I want her to stay with me forever. I hold on to many of them, and I want Claire to be in that category. Unfortunately, long distance communication is not my strong suit, and I have learned that some people, in spite of how much we love them, fall away from our lives. So yes, I am thrilled that Claire has this opportunity, and yes, I am so sad that she’s moving away.

But on another level, seeing her dream come true gives me more hope in my own. I have journeyed with Claire, watched her discern what she wanted to do for work, try things that didn’t quite fit, adjust, try something else, and persevere despite setbacks. After this long road, success!  She has found a job that will use her considerable skills, where she will be valued and important. Seeing this come together for her helps me to keep believing in my own dreams, to keep trying, to keep doing the next thing.

Yet wouldn’t a writer need to be writing for their dream to come true? That’s what the inner critic asks. I suppose he has a point. With vacation, some drama, and less naps from Daniel, I have not put fingers to keyboard too often in the past few weeks. But rather than giving in to fear or self-doubt, I’m practicing breathing. I’m reminding myself what Havi says, that we can only work on one tiny corner of the garden at a time, but any work we do helps the entire garden thrive.

So, no critic, I have not written much these past two weeks, but I have seen a lawyer to write my will, made a long-feared doctor’s appointment, supported a friend in a very difficult time, and prepared for my trip to Peru. Inner critic says, “Havi’s theory is a crock. You just say that to make yourself feel better!” Man, he can be an asshole. I’ll channel Claire instead. She would tell me that I’m right on schedule. I’m working on believing her.

Overcoming Resistance

I heard a speaker on Friday say that our internal resistance to change gets in our way more than anything else. He talked about goals and dreams and attitudes, and it was all very inspiring. But after hearing all of his great ideas about change and possibilities, I felt too overwhelmed to do anything at all. (He predicted this would happen.) 

So I drove home, ate lunch, put Daniel down for a nap and then tried to remember how I have overcome resistance in the past. My best trick is to think of the smallest possible step I can take. After a baby-induced hiatus, I wanted to get back to selling my novel. So I thought, okay, what’s the smallest possible step I can take in that direction? I decided I could just look for the list of agents I made last year. Walking up the stairs towards my office, I felt enormous resistance. Apparently, there is some biological basis for our minds wanting things to stay the same. My feet felt heavy, but I found the list. Then I looked at it, then I opened my query letter and started tinkering, and before I knew it, I had some momentum and was happily working.

The journey of a thousand miles does begin with the first step. And so often, if I can take the first step, I can take a second, third, and before I know it, I’m just walking. The speaker on Friday said you can either be in the game or at the game, and I want to be in it. As painful, scary or embarrassing as it is to try sometimes, I’d rather be wiping out in the water than sitting on the beach watching.

How do you overcome resistance?

The Bright Side

Since my pregnancy, I’ve been collecting thoughts about mothering and writing. Two ideas have stayed with me as talismans, helping me in dark moments. One is a quote from Barbara Kingsolver who when asked about writer’s block said something like, “The best cure for writer’s block is having children. Because any minute I had to actually write, I would fall upon the keys like a starved dog.”1

The other idea came from Elizabeth Alexander, the poet who read at Obama’s inauguration. She said that she did some of her best writing in the sleep-deprived early years of her children’s lives; that something about the lack of sleep made her open in a new way, less obstructive to the creative force.2

These ideas give me hope, not because they are necessarily true for me, but because they reframe the writing/motherhood dilemma. Maybe the two are not in conflict after all. In fact, maybe each feeds the other. So far, my experience of parenting has gifted me with a wealth of new material. Mothering has cracked me open in many ways, and the expansion, the new depths of feeling, the survival of heretofore undreamed of challenges, it’s all rich and dense—great compost for writing.

Do you have any unexpected bright sides about parenting or other challenges?

---

1 Kingsolver wrote one of my favorite books in recent memory, The Lacuna. Yes, that’s right. I’m footnoting a blog entry.

2 You can listen to the interview with Alexander here: http://being.publicradio.org/programs/2011/words-that-shimmer/

New Blog: 4 Broad Minds

Dear Readers, I hope you will come visit the new blog I started with some writer friends, 4 Broad Minds. I post there once a month. But don't worry, I will continue to post here on a weekly basis also.

As a thank you, a photo of my ridiculously adorable Pug (emphasis on ridiculous):

Productivity Trick

It was inevitable. I knew the honeymoon would end. Or at least pause. The initial infatuation with my new novel is gone, replaced with the knowledge of what a long cold slog it is to the finish line. Forget about finishing. Right now I'd settle for some forward momentum, some semblance of a plot.

I forgot that I once felt this way about the first novel--uncertain of where it was going, of what my protagonist's problem was, if there was even a story worth telling. Luckily I have this blog and friends with good memories to remind me it was like that for the first one too. This is part of the process--fumbling toward a plot, putting words on the page, not knowing if they will add up to anything worthwhile. Man, this part is hard.

In hope that structure and deadlines would help me--they usually do--I signed up for an online writing workshop. For the class, I can submit up to 50 pages over ten weeks, which in and of itself, has scared me into working harder.

The class has already paid for itself with this advice from my teacher: "Make a small and manageable writing goal, and meet it every day." I've heard this before, in various forms, but this time it struck me. That's exactly what I needed to do.

So last Friday I made a tiny daily goal for myself: write x number of words every day, no matter what. I made it so small that I can accomplish it in 15 minutes if pressed. And guess what? It works. The goal is so minute that even mornings when I'm rushed, or tired or resistant in any way, I know I can still meet it.

I'm happy to report I've met my goal, every day except Sunday, (which is after all, the day of rest.) The great thing is on mornings when that's all I can manage, I still get a great sense of accomplishment, from meeting a goal. Other mornings, I find myself on a roll, happily typing, well beyond my limit. I believe that's what we call a win-win.

Sure, my inner critic still shouts--More! We need to be writing MORE! But I can see that momentum is building. Forward progress is happening. Maybe best of all, because I'm thinking about the book every day, my subconscious is starting to work on it. The characters are starting to live in my head. First sentences appear seemingly from nowhere. Magic is afoot.

Set a small, manageable goal, and meet it. Genius. Who knew?

It's the Grief, Stupid.

I’ve been feeling, off. With respect to the book. It’s so close to finished, that for all intents and purposes, it’s finished. I just can’t bring myself to say goodbye. I realized, sitting in the coffee shop just now, listening to one of my Laura and Miguel playlists, that I’m grieving the loss of my novel.

I’m not actually losing the novel I know, but this phase, where it was just me and the characters, is coming to an end. At least I hope it is. The phase where I struggled with it on my own, figuring out what would come next, how it would end, how it would begin—all that is over. Which is a good thing. But as my mom says, even good changes are change.

I find myself missing the characters. Missing the good old days. Were they that good? Perhaps I should review old blog posts. Of course, there is a new novel, new characters waiting. But it’s hard to let go of Laura and Miguel. I’ve really fallen in love with them over the past three years. It seems like I’ve spent more time in their world than my own. It’s a place I like to be.

Do you ever want to just capture a moment in time? Stay in one happy place? I have to remind myself that in moving forward, I’m allowing for other good moments. For new experiences. And that although I’m moving on, Laura and Miguel’s story will stay frozen in time. At least this part of their story.

I’m thinking of creating some sort of ritual to memorialize the end of this phase. Yes, that’s the kind of person I am. I had a suit burning after I left the law firm. (It was a very old suit, and disturbingly flammable.) A book burning doesn’t seem appropriate. Any suggestions?

Infidelity

I'm cheating on my book. With a new story. If the first novel is true love forever, then the second novel is infatuation. I have all this energy for it, because of its…well, novelty. The wide open space for new characters, problems, and themes may intimidate me eventually. But right now, I still have the safety and comfort of the story that I know. That makes it easier to begin a new one. It's like finding a new lover before you break up with your boyfriend. I don't recommend that strategy for human relationships, but for writing, it seems to be working.

I used to worry that I would never finish the first book, wouldn't be able to let it go. I didn’t want to spend years rewriting the same thing, moving commas, a slave to my perfectionism. And although I did not meet my goal of finishing by my birthday, the end is in sight. I am making what I believe to be the last round of corrections before I submit it to agents. That, in and of itself, amazes me.

Equally reassuring though, is how naturally it seems to be wrapping up. Just as many people told me, “You'll know when it's done,” I do seem to actually know. Part of how I know is that I've stopped daydreaming about the characters from my first book. New characters have invaded my head. It feels like the new book is evicting the old one, saying, you had your time, it's our turn now. I like it. Daunting as a new book could seem, what I feel most right now is excitement. Que viva la infatuacion!

Writers' Conference - Friend or Foe?

My first writers’ conference caused (among other things) the sense that I had no business as a writer, that I would never finish my book, that I shouldn’t bother. So I was understandably squeamish about attending a second. But after the North Wildwood Beach Writers’ Conference this week, I’m a convert. Now I believe, even if you’ve had nightmare experiences like me, you should try again.

Why?

You meet a bunch of writers and talk about writing for a few days straight. You could meet a writer you admire, an agent or editor who can help you. You learn about the publishing business. You get inspired. If you're extraordinarily blessed, you may have a critique experience like the one I had.

For the Wildwood conference you could submit the first page of your book for a critique if you wanted. I had just recently written the first page of my book and was reluctant to submit something so fresh. But I listened to the little voice that told me to do it and tried to forget I had. I didn’t know until the critique session started that the reviewer was a contributing editor of Harper’s who has edited writers like, for example, David Foster Wallace. (If you don’t know who DFW is—find out. He’s a revelation.)

So this editor stood in front of the room and began reading people’s first pages. She said she would read six. I didn’t know if mine would be one of them. I fervently wished both that she would read mine and that she wouldn’t. I fidgeted and sweated through the first, second, third and fourth entries, which were not mine. Then she read the first sentence of my first page. I tried to not outwardly cringe or actually crawl under my chair. It was anonymous, so nobody, including her, knew it was mine and I didn’t want to give it away in case it was awful.

After reading, she said a number of things that she admired. The person who edited David Foster Wallace liked things about my first page. A lot. You better believe I wrote down every nice word she said. I may pin it to the inside of my bra and wear it around for a few months—that’s how much it meant to me.

Then came the hard part—the things that didn’t work. It’s hard to hear criticism of my writing, even if it’s constructive. Here’s a summary of what happens inside me—shame at being less than perfect, at being exposed as less than perfect, followed by defensiveness, then panic. The defensiveness I can keep in check. The perfectionism I can overcome. The panic is hardest. The smallest suggestion can make me feel like I’ll never finish the book.

Luckily by now I’ve been critiqued enough that I know what to expect. All these feelings are familiar if not welcome. So I thought, okay, yes, this happens when I get feedback. I went home, talked to Carl, watched the Phillies, reminded myself of the positive things she’d said, went to bed.

The next day at lunch I ended up at the table with the editor. I didn’t know if I should bring up the critique and wasn’t going to force it, but when another writer asked about my project, I confessed that mine was one of the pieces she had read the night before.

I told her how much her thoughts had helped me, which seemed to gratify her. Then I hesitated, seeing an opening. Somehow I managed to squeak out a question about the critique. What followed was David Foster Wallace’s editor telling me what she thought of my work, my ideas, how I could improve what I had, what was already great.

I am still stunned. Both that I had that opportunity and that I had the courage to take advantage of it. Best of all is after that conversation I felt more confident about what I’ve already written, and have a good idea of how to fix what doesn’t work.

So here’s the thing—go to writer’s conferences. Even if you get scarred and discouraged, though I hope you won’t, you learn from that. And maybe the editor of (insert literary hero’s name here) will end up giving you meaningful feedback. You never know.

How Writing Helps Me

Somebody recently asked me to describe what writing meant to me. That question feels a bit unmanageable, but I think I can describe some of the ways in which writing helps me. Here is a non-exhaustive list.

Morning Pages
Every morning for the past few years, when I wake up, before getting out of bed, I write Morning Pages, an exercise from The Artist’s Way. This means filling three pages of a notebook with stream of consciousness writing—in other words, a brain dump, writing without editing, preferably without really thinking—just letting your hand move across the page.

This practice helps me realize what’s lurking in my mind—things I don’t want to think about, things bothering me or nagging at me. It allows me to vent frustrations, give voice to negative feelings and fears, and by not repressing them, I lessen them, become aware of them and sometimes even find steps to take or solutions. Ideas for the novel sometimes surprise me in the Morning Pages, and the practice of writing without editing myself makes writing first drafts of anything much easier.

Fiction

In writing fiction, I can let my imagination roam, I can create. I love to let my fingers fly over the keys see what comes out. Through fiction I explore questions, I watch characters work through difficulties, and in the process, I gain inspiration and ideas I apply to challenges of my own. Plus, it's just great fun.

Nonfiction

Nonfiction is scarier than fiction for me because I have to hew to the facts, like it or not. And if I’m writing about myself, I have to be brave. But this also helps me. I often don’t know what I feel or think about something until I write about it. If I put words on a page, play with them, arrange and rearrange them, at the end of the process, I’ve figured something out, I’ve realized something, and I’ve created something, which is its own satisfaction.

Poems

I don’t write a lot of poems. For me, they are a last resort, when plain old prose cannot capture the moment or emotion I want to describe. Sometimes writing a poem is the only thing that makes me feel better, because even when a situation is awful, there is comfort in creating something beautiful from it.

In all its forms, writing helps me figure out what I feel and what I think. After writing something I’m a little savvier, a little more self-aware. But maybe my favorite way that writing helps me is the satisfaction I feel when someone tells me that my writing has helped them in some way.

Does writing help you?

Labyrinth, Minotaur, Crete oh my!

I wanted to go on this cruise as soon as my aunt and uncle mentioned it to me. Greece, Malta, Tunisia, Spain, Portugal, I thought "Yes, yes, yes, yes and yes." It wasn't until I got the itinerary that I learned we were going to Crete, and when I saw that we could tour King Minos' palace, I had to look twice. King Minos, as in the guy who built the labyrinth to house the Minotaur? Wasn't that just a myth?

For those of you who don't remember, King Minos was the guy who thought he could trick Poseidon, the sea god, by sacrificing not the bull Poseidon had sent him, which was exceptionally beautiful, but a substitute bull.

Apparently King Minos hadn't heard any other myths, because the gods always find out when you try to trick them, and they have very creative forms of revenge. In this case, Poseidon made Minos' wife fall in love with the bull, resulting in her bearing its child, a half-man, half-bull--the Minotaur.

Minos had his architect Daedalus construct a labyrinth to house the Minotaur. Wackiness ensued, including children regularly sacrificed to the Minotaur, until Theseus showed up from Athens to kill it. When Minos locked Daedalus and his son in the labyrinth as a punishment for helping Theseus, the clever architect designed wings from wax and feathers so they could escape. What child can forget the story of Icarus, who disobeyed his father, flew too close to the sun, which melted the wax on his wings and sent him plummeting to his death?

The stories swirled through my brain as we drove to Knossos, the archaeological site. The ruins themselves were, especially after the Parthenon, not very impressive--no labyrinth. But walking around the site of Europe's oldest civilization, with settlements dating from 7,000 B.C., I felt inspired as a storyteller, because long after the palaces came crashing down, the stories remained.




Above are recreated frescoes on the palace walls at Knossos.

Below, according to my tour guide, is the oldest road in Europe.



Sailing away from Crete. Pretty, huh?

Momentum

As I’ve observed the momentum (or lack thereof) in my life over the past few weeks, I’ve decided that lack of momentum is why Monday is so hard, and why the first few days after vacation are brutal. Because by Wednesday, or a few days after your return, you’re like, “oh yeah, this is what my week is like,” and you’re just doing it—you have momentum. Working on the book is like that too. I can take one day off a week without breaking stride, but if I take two days off, the first day back is difficult, and if I take two months off, as I just did—yikes.

I needed a break from the book. I gave the manuscript to three astute readers, and wanted to hear their comments before I made any further changes. But beyond that, my mind and spirit needed to recover from the insane push to complete the manuscript, and to rest up for what I hope is the final push to actually finish the book. So I spent a month doing other things, then two weeks traveling in the Mediterranean, then a few days recovering from my trip, then enjoying Thanksgiving. They were beautiful, glorious months. But by last Saturday, Carl wanted answers. Trapped in a car with him driving home from North Jersey, he asked the dreaded question: “Why aren’t you working on the book?”

I’d been asking myself the same thing. I knew it was time to get back to work, but I couldn’t make myself do it. Partly I felt scared—of finishing the book, of what comes next—but mostly I think it was a complete lack of momentum—having been away from it for so long, I had no idea where or how to start.

Since reading the Twilight Saga, though perhaps justifiable as research, and certainly enjoyable, wasn’t going to finish the book, I had to try something else. So the next day, I used two of my best tricks: first, I left the house, with the computer—something about being in public forces me to work in a way being at home just doesn’t; second I completed the tiniest possible step I could imagine—I made a to-do list for the book. It’s not magic, I didn’t fall right back into writing, but I had taken that crucial first step, which in my experience, is often the hardest one to take.

While I had the computer out and caffeine coursing through my veins, I wrote a little about my trip, which helped to stretch out my writing muscles, prepare them for working out again. The next morning, I went back to the Corner Bakery, determined to have a work session. I sat down, looked at my to-do list, and picked one thing—addressing one of my reader’s comments. I created a new document, a “working” manuscript, and began editing with Chapter One.

Before I knew it I had edited three chapters, and felt better than I had in weeks. The rest of the week passed in a series of happy and productive work sessions, ticking off my reader’s concerns/questions one little thing at a time. With the momentum back, the working isn’t necessarily easy, but it’s happening. Perhaps now that I’ve written one blog post, I can get together the thoughts about my trip that have been rattling around my brain.

What are your tricks for starting something daunting?

Step by Step

Four summers ago, on an afternoon when I was supposed to be studying for the bar exam, I sat down at my computer with an irresistible urge to write a story. I felt overwhelmed, because I knew that I wanted to write a novel, and it felt like an impossibly large task. But I heard the thought “The journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step,” and I took a deep breath and started writing.

Four years and a million pages later, I’m glad I didn’t know what writing the novel would require of me, because if I had known, I might not have started. This experience, and others, have taught me that taking the smallest possible step is often the best way for me to proceed, especially if I’m feeling paralyzed. It’s a trick, because often if I take even a tiny step, I build a little momentum, and can then take the next one and the next.

My most recent application of this trick is to my computer angst. The thought of anything technology-related overwhelms me, and my computer issues have recently become urgent and unmanageable. Most pressing at the moment is how unbearably slow my laptop has become, and when I tried to resolve this on my own, I made it worse, then avoided it for three weeks.

But yesterday when I inadvertently parked right by the Mac store I took it as a sign, walked in and made an appointment at the Genius Bar for today, figuring that might give me the push I needed. I hate the Mac store—all sleek, modern, and white with its tantalizing products, and its child employees who want to know things like “What kind of Mac do you have?” and “Which operating system?” I arrived late for my appointment, with a headache, and a teen with Frank Sinatra eyes and a fake Phillies tattoo on his forearm ran some tests, told me my hard drive wasn’t failing, scolded me for not having backed up sooner, and gave me a long list of things to do to resolve the problems. I left muttering to myself something about “kids today.”

After some coffee and some deep breathing, I’ve gained some perspective, and am proud of having taken the first step, which is often the hardest. In this case, I feared what might be asked of me, what it would cost, the stress and difficulty that could ensue, and also, admitting I’m not good at something (the horror!) But as with most things, the reality is better than the horrific possibilities my imagination creates. After thinking about what Old Blue Eyes said, my first step is to buy an external hard drive. That seems manageable. Then I’ll need to backup whatever I want to save from this one laptop. I can handle that. And after accomplishing those things, I’ll need to archive and reinstall the operating system, which sounds scary, but has written instructions, which I can generally follow. Three pretty small steps. I can do that. After I do, I can reevaluate what else, if anything, technological I need to do. Maybe nothing. And if I need to, I can always swallow my pride, go back to the Mac store, and try to resist my impulse to buy yet another overpriced Mac product that I won’t know how to use.

Two Julies and Julias

I saw the movie Julie and Julia last night, with my mom. It was a good movie, I enjoyed it, so why, when I got home, did I burst into tears? Well, it’s been a tough week for a few reasons, but mostly it was the green-eyed monster. Why were things so easy for that bitch Julie Powell? In the movie, which is based on a true story, she starts a blog, with an admittedly great idea—-in one year, she would make all the recipes in Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking and write about it. I haven’t read her blog, so I don’t know, but let’s say that it’s smart and funny and well-written. Fine. But then, with apparently no effort at marketing or self-promotion, within MONTHS she becomes the number three blog on salon.com? And then reporters start calling her, she gets a front page article written about her in the New York Times Food Section, and then hundreds of agents and publishers call her asking her to write a book? While her fairy tale story unfolded all I could think was “Fuck you Julie Powell.”

Interestingly, I did not resent Julia Child’s success. The movie showed her early years, when she learned how to cook French food, then stumbled into a cookbook project which consumed eight years of her life, which was then rejected by publishers before finding a home at Knopf, and going on to worldwide acclaim.

Going in, I knew that both Julie and Julia had happy endings of tremendous success, so why did I feel happy for Julia and resentful of Julie? I, like each of them, embarked on a quixotic, uncertain quest. Like Julie with her blog and Julia with her cookbook, I couldn’t say why I had to write the novel, I just knew that I did. Maybe I resented Julie because her success seemed to happen so quickly and easily, with so little effort on her part. Sure, she cooked a lot and wrote a daily blog, but I’ve been working my tail off on this novel for two and a half years and no one is banging on my door to publish it. Where is my happy ending?

As I sat in my kitchen, crying, I realized that I also have a Julia--Julia Cameron. So I took out one of her books and flipped at random. In the section about artistic integrity she writes that artists have an inner meter that tells us if our work is good or not, and that we need to listen to that voice within, and not the marketplace. This thought comforted me. What matters most is that I created something of worth, in my own estimation, and I have. Maybe that’s my happy ending. Or if not an ending, it is at least something that should make me happy.

I’m sorry, Julie Powell, I’m sure you’re a lovely person who worked very hard for your success. I will try to be happy for you, to believe that whatever is best for me and my work is what will happen, and to remember that I can choose to be happy, right here, right now, with or without a published book.

I Wrote A Book

Back in June, I set a goal for myself: by mid-September I wanted to have a complete manuscript of the book. At that point I had 300 pages of material, I had a beginning, and parts of a middle, but the work had large gaps and no ending—it was not a book. I created an ambitious work schedule for the summer and adhered pretty closely to it, and after giving myself an extension to October 1st, am amazed to say I achieved my goal—I wrote a book.

Getting there was intense. Almost every day I spent hours, barely conscious of the real world, living in the fictional one I was creating. It became easy to get into the fictional world, but harder to get out, some part of me staying there, reluctant to leave until it was finished. While writing I was hardly aware of my actual surroundings and for hours after each session I still felt only partly present in the here and now. The process felt similar to a migraine episode, just thankfully without pain.

The work reached a fever pitch in September, when I realized how much was left to do to meet my goal. I worked harder, longer, flying through the many tasks on my to-do lists for each section of the novel, slogging through chapter after chapter, version after version. On September 25 disaster struck when I spilled coffee on my laptop and the “genius” at the Apple Store told me it was almost certainly dead. Per his instructions I waited 72 hours, and prayed a lot before trying to turn it back on, very grateful that I had backed up all my important work on the book. And when it miraculously turned back on, undamaged, after many prayers of thanks, I got right back to writing and editing.

By September 30 I was not satisfied with everything in the book—I don’t know that I ever will be—but I had a beginning, middle, and end, without major gaps. I had a piece of work, a book, of which I feel very proud.

I. Wrote. A. Book.

Yes, there is still editing to do. But for the first time, I feel like if I were to die today, someone else could finish the book and it would remain mine. It has an essence of its own, is no longer just living within me. I have given birth to it.

Which leaves me…tired, depleted, proud, empty. Not empty in a bad way, but as if this thing that has occupied most of my mental and psychic energy has let go of me, moved on, leaving room for something else. And now that it’s let go of me, I have a sense that I will be able to let go of it. This journey has been incredible, but it’s nearing the end, and though I don’t know what comes next, I’m almost ready to find out.