Let's put it on the table, people. I hate exercise. Running, push ups, leg-lifts, free-weights, you name it, I avoid it. I do like some physical activity. I like yoga. Used to do it fairly regularly after the birth of my last child. I like walking so I don't mind walking to the subway or walking the dog (if the weather isn't horrible). But, overall, my slug to Tazmanian Devil ratio is about 100:1. But here's the thing: I think I'm finally starting to understand that whole philosophy about forcing yourself to exercise -consistently- even when you feel like crap, even when you abhor the idea of getting up at 6 am to do your stretches or run on the treadmill, once you start it it's not so bad.
I noticed this because I haven't been writing very much on the WIP lately. I do a lot of writing on the subway and, for various reasons, I've been driving to and from work the last couple of weeks. Well I finally got on that subway again a couple of times this week and my old habits kicked in. Instead of grabbing the newspaper or a book to read like many people, what I've usually done for the last few years is take that time to write. Well, I'd gotten out of that habit and the first day I truly didn't feel like pulling out the journal. I thought, I'll just re-read what I wrote a couple of weeks ago. Just to remind myself of where I was in the story. Soon enough that led to some ideas, a few words of correction here and there, an additional paragraph and by the time I got to work I had two new pages added to the story. It wasn't easy, the words took a while to come but, like exercise, if you force yourself to just do it, start slowly, it does get easier. Same with my attendance at The Boy's Tae Kwon Do practices. When I go I make sure I have nothing to read except my own work. As soon as I sit down I'm like Pavlov's dog and out comes the journal. Again, my mind may not want to write but I'm forcing myself to just look at the words at first, scratch a few new ones out in the hopes that more will come. Like people who say I can only do one push up and then the next day they say maybe if I got one done, I can now do two.
It's been a really long week and I'm not sure if I'll get much more writing done over the weekend. But I know that avoiding exercise leads to a flabby, unhealthy person so avoiding writing leads to a flabby, unfinished manuscript. Write one paragraph this weekend? Yeah, I can do that. And if I can do one, then maybe I can do two...
Showing posts with label perseverance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label perseverance. Show all posts
Friday, October 22, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
What Being the Daughter of Immigrants Taught Me About Writing
I spent the first half of my life basically trying to ignore the fact that my parents were immigrants. I don't think I was alone in feeling that my cultural 'differentness' was not something I waved about with the pride that maybe I should have. Different language, different food, different family - these things, while I didn't denigrate to my english speaking, Protestant faith, Capital C Canadian friends I also didn't celebrate. I tried to ignore those aspects of my life by not really talking about them. I could never really forget them entirely, mind you. After all my name was a big red flag that shouted 'different'. Every time a friend came over and met my limited english speaking parents and knew a pig had just been slaughtered in the barn shouted 'different'. Every time I had to take part in the Portuguese club dances or functions or whatever the community had going said 'different'. To me, the fact that my parents were immigrants was always more of a liability in my younger days never a plus. I never thought about what their being immigrants could actually teach me. What a gift it was to me in becoming who I am today. A writer.
Next week I'll be sitting on my very first writers panel. It's being held at York University and the symposium's title is "Narratives of the Portuguese Diaspora: Emmigration and Identity." The writers panel is supposed to discuss how emmigration has affected our writing. I can certainly talk about my novel, the plot and themes and connect it all to the issues of emmigration specific to the Portuguese experience. But what this topic has really started me thinking about is how being the child of immigrants influenced me in taking the first step toward becoming a writer. The life lessons my parents immigant experience taught me - even if I didn't realize them at the time - they were invaluable and sustained me as I struggled through the last seven years.
So, what are those life lessons? First, and most importantly, ...
Have a Dream
My father and mother were raised during the depression and WWII years in abject poverty under an oppressive dictatorship. They truly had nothing but their family and their dreams to sustain them. My father dreamed of owning his own land one day - being his own boss. That dream sustained him when he was a young married man with a child to raise and no job to be found anywhere. That dream sustained him when faced with the most adverse conditions and experiences when he emmigrated. Experiences I never expect to be faced with but it taught me the importance of holding on to your dreams. I had a dream to write one day. That dream lived inside me until I was ready to ...
Take a Risk
Dreams are a wonderful thing to have but without following through on them - without taking a risk - that's all they are and they will remain just as insubstantial. My father took the biggest risk - leaving his young family and travelling to an unknown world, with an unknown language, to an unknown and harsh geography, with no definite job and no guarantees. My mother left her family - unwillingly. She took the greatest risk of all becaue she was terrified to leave the only home and place she'd ever known.
I took a risk and decided to stop dreaming and start writing. It was exhilerating and terrifying at the same time. But I was only able to continue because my parents taught me to …
Persevere When Faced with Adversity/Rejection
When my father first came here he traveled for the first year from city to city, town to town, from south to north and east to west - literally looking everywhere for a job. He was constantly told "No. I don't need you." "Try again next month." "Can't pay you what I said. Here's half of what I owe you." "Sorry. Thought I needed you but we're cutting back."
He never gave up looking. He persevered.
Reading a letter or email that says "Sorry. Not for me" about the novel you sweated bullets over is peanuts when I remember what my father and mother went through. Which leads directly to the next life lesson my immigrant parents taught me …
Always Work Hard
My dad took any job he could get. Mostly as an itinerant farm labourer for years until he finally got a job as a lumberjack in a remote logging community in Northern Ontario. A dangerous, risky job in horrendous conditions for years (one day I'm going to write about those stories he told me about). Then, finally, after achieving his dream of owning his own farm he still had to put in hours and hours of backbreaking labour while he also worked in an auto factory assembly line and then as a janitor. Four hours of sleep a night for years. Crushing debt for years. But what got him through those years was his never-ending, never-failing work ethic.
It taught me that if you work hard, if you take pride in doing jobs you hate but need to get your dream in the end - if you keep writing and do it well - you earn the respect of others, but mostly you earn something even more important: self-respect.
But it wasn't just about perseverance and hard work. My parents couldn't have survived without a critically important factor …
Join a Community
The Portuguese, like many immigrants who have left their families behind, join with others of their culture for support, for understanding, for comfort especially when faced with so many pressures that quitting and going back home seems like the best solution sometimes. But because you have others to commiserate with, others who share your struggles, it keeps you going for another day, another week, another year.
Writers understand the importance of communities and I, for one, knew that I needed the support and understanding of fellow writers if I was going to survive this journey.
But, ultimately, what I learned the most from my parents and their immigrant experience and what I carry over to my writing and through my writing is this …
Family is the Most Important Thing
No matter what you do, never let your dreams and the work that is involved in realizing those dreams, take precedence over your family. Even though I knew my parents worked abnormally hard at what they did - even though I sometimes resented having to help with so many tasks and didn't always have a parent to take me to the park or have vacations like my friends did - I always knew and felt that my parents were working so hard for me and my brother. Yes, it was their dream but we were also their dream and everything they did was for ultimately for us.
So, like a lot of things, you come to realizations much later than you should in life. Today I know I am a writer because my immigrant parents taught me to have a dream, take a risk, peresevere, work hard, join a community and put your family first. They taught me well.
Obrigado, Mae and Pai!
Next week I'll be sitting on my very first writers panel. It's being held at York University and the symposium's title is "Narratives of the Portuguese Diaspora: Emmigration and Identity." The writers panel is supposed to discuss how emmigration has affected our writing. I can certainly talk about my novel, the plot and themes and connect it all to the issues of emmigration specific to the Portuguese experience. But what this topic has really started me thinking about is how being the child of immigrants influenced me in taking the first step toward becoming a writer. The life lessons my parents immigant experience taught me - even if I didn't realize them at the time - they were invaluable and sustained me as I struggled through the last seven years.
So, what are those life lessons? First, and most importantly, ...
Have a Dream
My father and mother were raised during the depression and WWII years in abject poverty under an oppressive dictatorship. They truly had nothing but their family and their dreams to sustain them. My father dreamed of owning his own land one day - being his own boss. That dream sustained him when he was a young married man with a child to raise and no job to be found anywhere. That dream sustained him when faced with the most adverse conditions and experiences when he emmigrated. Experiences I never expect to be faced with but it taught me the importance of holding on to your dreams. I had a dream to write one day. That dream lived inside me until I was ready to ...
Take a Risk
Dreams are a wonderful thing to have but without following through on them - without taking a risk - that's all they are and they will remain just as insubstantial. My father took the biggest risk - leaving his young family and travelling to an unknown world, with an unknown language, to an unknown and harsh geography, with no definite job and no guarantees. My mother left her family - unwillingly. She took the greatest risk of all becaue she was terrified to leave the only home and place she'd ever known.
I took a risk and decided to stop dreaming and start writing. It was exhilerating and terrifying at the same time. But I was only able to continue because my parents taught me to …
Persevere When Faced with Adversity/Rejection
When my father first came here he traveled for the first year from city to city, town to town, from south to north and east to west - literally looking everywhere for a job. He was constantly told "No. I don't need you." "Try again next month." "Can't pay you what I said. Here's half of what I owe you." "Sorry. Thought I needed you but we're cutting back."
He never gave up looking. He persevered.
Reading a letter or email that says "Sorry. Not for me" about the novel you sweated bullets over is peanuts when I remember what my father and mother went through. Which leads directly to the next life lesson my immigrant parents taught me …
Always Work Hard
My dad took any job he could get. Mostly as an itinerant farm labourer for years until he finally got a job as a lumberjack in a remote logging community in Northern Ontario. A dangerous, risky job in horrendous conditions for years (one day I'm going to write about those stories he told me about). Then, finally, after achieving his dream of owning his own farm he still had to put in hours and hours of backbreaking labour while he also worked in an auto factory assembly line and then as a janitor. Four hours of sleep a night for years. Crushing debt for years. But what got him through those years was his never-ending, never-failing work ethic.
It taught me that if you work hard, if you take pride in doing jobs you hate but need to get your dream in the end - if you keep writing and do it well - you earn the respect of others, but mostly you earn something even more important: self-respect.
But it wasn't just about perseverance and hard work. My parents couldn't have survived without a critically important factor …
Join a Community
The Portuguese, like many immigrants who have left their families behind, join with others of their culture for support, for understanding, for comfort especially when faced with so many pressures that quitting and going back home seems like the best solution sometimes. But because you have others to commiserate with, others who share your struggles, it keeps you going for another day, another week, another year.
Writers understand the importance of communities and I, for one, knew that I needed the support and understanding of fellow writers if I was going to survive this journey.
But, ultimately, what I learned the most from my parents and their immigrant experience and what I carry over to my writing and through my writing is this …
Family is the Most Important Thing
No matter what you do, never let your dreams and the work that is involved in realizing those dreams, take precedence over your family. Even though I knew my parents worked abnormally hard at what they did - even though I sometimes resented having to help with so many tasks and didn't always have a parent to take me to the park or have vacations like my friends did - I always knew and felt that my parents were working so hard for me and my brother. Yes, it was their dream but we were also their dream and everything they did was for ultimately for us.
So, like a lot of things, you come to realizations much later than you should in life. Today I know I am a writer because my immigrant parents taught me to have a dream, take a risk, peresevere, work hard, join a community and put your family first. They taught me well.
Obrigado, Mae and Pai!
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Stuck in the Middle
Well I don't know why I came here tonight,
I got the feeling that something ain't right,
I'm so scared in case I fall off my chair,
And I'm wondering how I'll get down the stairs,
Clowns to the left of me,
Jokers to the right, here I am,
Stuck in the middle with you.
Trying to make some sense of it all,
But I can see that it makes no sense at all,
Is it cool to go to sleep on the floor,
'Cause I don't think that I can take anymore
Clowns to the left of me, Jokers to the right,
Here I am, stuck in the middle with you.
Stuck in the Middle with You. Lyrics by Stealers Wheel
Why am I quoting a song that I haven't listened to in years? Because it relates exactly to what I'm going through right now with this WIP. Stuck. In. The. Middle. With IT.
Now I'm not totally despairing of the situation. Yet. I know I go through this with EVERY book I write. Every single one. In fact, right about now is usually when I put the WIP aside and take a break from it. I did it with ILLEGALLY BLONDE. Started writing it in May 2006. Stopped in July. Didn't pick it up again until October. Finished it in early December. Total writing time about 5-6 months. Total break time about 2 months. The book I just submitted to my agent was like that too. I'd written the first half then stopped and started another book. But when my agent advised me that the one I'd shoved aside was probably the right one to go with I picked it up again. After that break I finished it in about 3 months.
So the question is: why on earth do I do this?? What is it about the middle of the book that ties me up in knots, frustrates me and makes me put the book aside?
I know I'm not a huge outliner. I don't need to know every single thing that happens in a plot before I write it. But neither am I a complete pantser. I know my beginning, I know my ending, I may know a couple of things that might happen in the story to get me to that end. But is it this hybrid approach of mine that creates its own special circumstances that lead to this struggle in the middle? I still feel like I'm sort of tied to a general outline that I have in my head, yet I know I'm free to waver and move from that outline whether in changing the tone or characters as I get deeper into the book. Is it this struggle between sticking to my orginial idea and having that original idea change up on me that drives me slightly crazy?
I think that's what's happening now. I thought I had one kind of story but it's turning into another kind - much darker and more complicated (a fairy tale retelling that has a murder mystery in it? Really??) that I need to stop and regroup. Because I write the first draft in long-hand it's hard for me to go back and re-read what I've written. So sometimes it helps at this point in my process to go back and start to type the first half of it and see if it's working. I've just typed up the first chapter (I'm currently on Chapter 18) and thankfully I really liked it. I'm hoping that as I type up the next 17 I have written I will see that the story really is working and that I just have to get to that next big event which will eventually lead to the climax and denouement and it'll be gravy.
A good writer friend suggested I should just write up the ending and that would give me a concrete finish line - a goal - to motivate me to get through the murky middle. But I need to go through a story linearly. I can't write up pieces and then fit them together later. I never did like puzzles too much.
So, whether I like it or not, I need to appreciate that this is my process. I do get stuck in the middle and I'll keep singing that song until I finally see my way out - then I can start singing Miley Cyrus's The Climb instead:
Ain't about how fast I get there
Ain't about what's waiting on the other side
It's the climb
I got the feeling that something ain't right,
I'm so scared in case I fall off my chair,
And I'm wondering how I'll get down the stairs,
Clowns to the left of me,
Jokers to the right, here I am,
Stuck in the middle with you.
Trying to make some sense of it all,
But I can see that it makes no sense at all,
Is it cool to go to sleep on the floor,
'Cause I don't think that I can take anymore
Clowns to the left of me, Jokers to the right,
Here I am, stuck in the middle with you.
Stuck in the Middle with You. Lyrics by Stealers Wheel
Why am I quoting a song that I haven't listened to in years? Because it relates exactly to what I'm going through right now with this WIP. Stuck. In. The. Middle. With IT.
Now I'm not totally despairing of the situation. Yet. I know I go through this with EVERY book I write. Every single one. In fact, right about now is usually when I put the WIP aside and take a break from it. I did it with ILLEGALLY BLONDE. Started writing it in May 2006. Stopped in July. Didn't pick it up again until October. Finished it in early December. Total writing time about 5-6 months. Total break time about 2 months. The book I just submitted to my agent was like that too. I'd written the first half then stopped and started another book. But when my agent advised me that the one I'd shoved aside was probably the right one to go with I picked it up again. After that break I finished it in about 3 months.
So the question is: why on earth do I do this?? What is it about the middle of the book that ties me up in knots, frustrates me and makes me put the book aside?
I know I'm not a huge outliner. I don't need to know every single thing that happens in a plot before I write it. But neither am I a complete pantser. I know my beginning, I know my ending, I may know a couple of things that might happen in the story to get me to that end. But is it this hybrid approach of mine that creates its own special circumstances that lead to this struggle in the middle? I still feel like I'm sort of tied to a general outline that I have in my head, yet I know I'm free to waver and move from that outline whether in changing the tone or characters as I get deeper into the book. Is it this struggle between sticking to my orginial idea and having that original idea change up on me that drives me slightly crazy?
I think that's what's happening now. I thought I had one kind of story but it's turning into another kind - much darker and more complicated (a fairy tale retelling that has a murder mystery in it? Really??) that I need to stop and regroup. Because I write the first draft in long-hand it's hard for me to go back and re-read what I've written. So sometimes it helps at this point in my process to go back and start to type the first half of it and see if it's working. I've just typed up the first chapter (I'm currently on Chapter 18) and thankfully I really liked it. I'm hoping that as I type up the next 17 I have written I will see that the story really is working and that I just have to get to that next big event which will eventually lead to the climax and denouement and it'll be gravy.
A good writer friend suggested I should just write up the ending and that would give me a concrete finish line - a goal - to motivate me to get through the murky middle. But I need to go through a story linearly. I can't write up pieces and then fit them together later. I never did like puzzles too much.
So, whether I like it or not, I need to appreciate that this is my process. I do get stuck in the middle and I'll keep singing that song until I finally see my way out - then I can start singing Miley Cyrus's The Climb instead:
Ain't about how fast I get there
Ain't about what's waiting on the other side
It's the climb
Monday, November 9, 2009
Inspiration vs. Perspiration
So, the question circling my mind over the weekend after leaving a very inspiring CANSCAIP Packaging Your Imagination conference in Toronto on Saturday was: What would I rather have as a partner in writing: inspiration or perspiration?
At first blush, I thought 'Give me inspiration any day!' Those flashes of, "Oh, wow, what an awesome idea!" or "Oh, wow! Why didn't I think of that before? That's the perfect solution to my plot problem!" Yeah, those moments - those flashes - is the drug of choice for writers. We keep looking for that next flash fix. The next moment when all the hard slog will be worth it.
But what about disliked, mostly avoided and underappreciated Perspiration? After all, who likes to sweat, right? It's stinky, uncomfortable, unpleasant and feels, for the most part, unproductive. Perspiration is a long, hard slog. No flash of sparkly brightness there. No great rush of adrenaline and excitement that keeps your spirits up. Perspiration is just long, dark tunnels that have to be dug out by hand, one hard, rocky shovel-full at a time. Not very glamorous, is it?
So guess which one I'd choose?
Yup. I'm a masochist. I'd rather have Perspiration in my corner any day. Flashes of inspiration are unpredictable. Flashes leave you a little starry-eyed and breathless but when they eventually leave (and Inspiration is a real fickle beast - she leaves a lot more than she comes) you feel more lost than ever. Perspiration, on the other hand, makes you work. But you are the one in control. You are the one digging day after day, mining that story. Perspiration helps you to make that thing work. You aren't letting something else control you or the outcome of your story. You aren't constantly waiting for something to make that story happen.
So, that's me and my Capricorn work ethic and control-freakiness talking. Don't get me wrong - I don't mind the occasional visit from flashy and breath-taking Inspiration once in a while. But give me old workhorse Perspiration for the long haul. That's what gets the book written. It ain't pretty but it's faithful.
At first blush, I thought 'Give me inspiration any day!' Those flashes of, "Oh, wow, what an awesome idea!" or "Oh, wow! Why didn't I think of that before? That's the perfect solution to my plot problem!" Yeah, those moments - those flashes - is the drug of choice for writers. We keep looking for that next flash fix. The next moment when all the hard slog will be worth it.
But what about disliked, mostly avoided and underappreciated Perspiration? After all, who likes to sweat, right? It's stinky, uncomfortable, unpleasant and feels, for the most part, unproductive. Perspiration is a long, hard slog. No flash of sparkly brightness there. No great rush of adrenaline and excitement that keeps your spirits up. Perspiration is just long, dark tunnels that have to be dug out by hand, one hard, rocky shovel-full at a time. Not very glamorous, is it?
So guess which one I'd choose?
Yup. I'm a masochist. I'd rather have Perspiration in my corner any day. Flashes of inspiration are unpredictable. Flashes leave you a little starry-eyed and breathless but when they eventually leave (and Inspiration is a real fickle beast - she leaves a lot more than she comes) you feel more lost than ever. Perspiration, on the other hand, makes you work. But you are the one in control. You are the one digging day after day, mining that story. Perspiration helps you to make that thing work. You aren't letting something else control you or the outcome of your story. You aren't constantly waiting for something to make that story happen.
So, that's me and my Capricorn work ethic and control-freakiness talking. Don't get me wrong - I don't mind the occasional visit from flashy and breath-taking Inspiration once in a while. But give me old workhorse Perspiration for the long haul. That's what gets the book written. It ain't pretty but it's faithful.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
On being confident ...
http://jakonrath.blogspot.com/2009/02/confident-or-delusional.html
This blog post by J.A. Konrath on the difference between being a confident writer and a delusional one is awesome. I never thought that much about how confidence can be a quiet, not obvious quality within yourself. I have spent countless solitary hours learning and writing. I have tried to connect with with other writers (so I could learn some more) and when I see their talent and experience, my confidence level goes a little like the stock market has lately. But yet, according to Mr. Konrath, the fact that I take suggestions, go back to the writing, do it countless times again, learn from my mistakes (hopefully) and still stick with this job - probably for the rest of my life - means I'm confident that someday, someway I will get published. And that's what J.A. Konrath says is the key to becoming published. Not luck and talent alone. You need to be confident enough to persevere.
I've been writing for six years. I never thought of myself as a patient person but when it comes to my writing, I guess I am. And while I don't think of myself as a necessarily overly confident person - at least with respect to my writing (let's not get into all my writing self-doubts, people) - I guess I am - because I am willing to learn, re-think, re-do, and, most importantly, KEEP GOING. Don't get me wrong, I still need validation - what writer doesn't? I get that from my CP, from my agent and from some really lovely editor rejections. That helps. But true confidence about my writing and my stories? The fuel that keeps my writing engine running? That can only come from me. And the fact I haven't given up must mean I am confident that I have a voice, have a story to tell that will see publication. Because, honestly, if I wasn't confident why would I put up with six years of toil and tribulation and over a million words that have yet to see the light of day? All those hours in front of a computer screen, scribbling in a journal, jotting notes and ideas down in the middle of doing laundry could have been spent doing hundreds of other things. But the fact that I didn't must mean something.
Okay. So, I guess I'm confident.
Or really stupid ...
This blog post by J.A. Konrath on the difference between being a confident writer and a delusional one is awesome. I never thought that much about how confidence can be a quiet, not obvious quality within yourself. I have spent countless solitary hours learning and writing. I have tried to connect with with other writers (so I could learn some more) and when I see their talent and experience, my confidence level goes a little like the stock market has lately. But yet, according to Mr. Konrath, the fact that I take suggestions, go back to the writing, do it countless times again, learn from my mistakes (hopefully) and still stick with this job - probably for the rest of my life - means I'm confident that someday, someway I will get published. And that's what J.A. Konrath says is the key to becoming published. Not luck and talent alone. You need to be confident enough to persevere.
I've been writing for six years. I never thought of myself as a patient person but when it comes to my writing, I guess I am. And while I don't think of myself as a necessarily overly confident person - at least with respect to my writing (let's not get into all my writing self-doubts, people) - I guess I am - because I am willing to learn, re-think, re-do, and, most importantly, KEEP GOING. Don't get me wrong, I still need validation - what writer doesn't? I get that from my CP, from my agent and from some really lovely editor rejections. That helps. But true confidence about my writing and my stories? The fuel that keeps my writing engine running? That can only come from me. And the fact I haven't given up must mean I am confident that I have a voice, have a story to tell that will see publication. Because, honestly, if I wasn't confident why would I put up with six years of toil and tribulation and over a million words that have yet to see the light of day? All those hours in front of a computer screen, scribbling in a journal, jotting notes and ideas down in the middle of doing laundry could have been spent doing hundreds of other things. But the fact that I didn't must mean something.
Okay. So, I guess I'm confident.
Or really stupid ...
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