DISCIPLINED? WHO ME?!

Just returned from my regular Sunday swim. As I’ve been having shoulder problems, I decided to cool down in the hot tub...if that makes any sense. During that time, I chatted with a lifeguard and another pool regular.

“How far do you swim?” the lifeguard asked.

“5K on Sundays. 3K whenever I get myself to the pool on weekdays.” Somehow the conversation shifted to me talking about my writing. Midway through an explanation, the other swimmer interrupted.

“Wow. You’re so disciplined.”

Who me?

I grew up feeling like one of the least disciplined people on the planet. I was always misplacing library books and failing to return them before the due date. My room had shelves and a cupboard, a chest of drawers and a closet, but I preferred a clutter sprawl extending across my desk, spilling onto the floor and oozing under the bed. Efforts to organize my mess were always sidetracked by a fascinating piece of paper or toy that surfaced as I sifted through the first hodgepodge pile. (And, really, any piece of paper magically became fascinating when faced with the daunting task of a major cleanup.)

In high school, I was the one stuck reading Watership Down or Jane Eyre on the final weekend despite having three or four weeks to ”enjoy” the assigned novel. Projects were completed at the last minute. I told myself that I thrived under pressure.

Same experience in university, only the cram sessions became all-nighters as the neglected readings and assignments were exponentially greater. (My pages to read before midterms always exceeded a thousand. For some reason, I wasn’t sensible enough to stop registering for history classes. All that pressure,...a good thing.)

As I started teaching, it seemed to take me twice as long to prepare lessens, five times as long to mark papers. If only I were more organized, more disciplined.

Something clicked while I was working on my master’s. Despite having lived my life as a procrastinator extraordinaire, I started signing up to be first with class presentations, frontloading the work for my courses. I did my readings so far in advance that I’d have to thoroughly review them again before class, which I realized was a great way to solidify my understanding rather than an exercise in redundancy. I performed as well, if not better, and I enjoyed my studies instead of experiencing a radical shift from lackadaisical to frantic each semester. My fingernails survived key deadlines, my facial complexion cleared up and my caffeine intake...well, some things really can’t be changed.

Apparently I’m not an “old dog” just yet. Human beings can evolve and, remarkably, I have grown into being a disciplined individual. This year of writing could have been a loosey-goosey joke. I could have developed an online addiction with Pac-Man and juggled Scrabble games via email with people around the world. I could have reconnected with Oprah and tried to figure out the reason for the existence of “The View”. And I could have made a dent in the shelves of reading material I keep meaning to get to...some day.

I’d agree with the lady at the pool. I am disciplined. Thankfully, I am as fully accountable for my time writing as for my workouts. I’ve logged my writing on a calendar and documented my time spent writing each day. If I let the dogs out or answer the phone, the clock stops. It may seem obvious that breaks are not actual writing time, but without my newfound discipline, I could have easily deceived myself. Rationalization comes easily. I set writing priorities at the beginning of each week and hold myself to six days of writing. Whenever I come up short on a particular day, I fit in more writing on other days to recover the missed writing time.

I’d always thought being disciplined led to being stuffy and rule-oriented. Artists, after all, are supposed to be free and spontaneous, exploring their craft when the mood is right. Yet I’ve become more driven as a writer as a result of my discipline. If anything, there is more flow to my creativity. Yes, being disciplined as a writer can indeed be an asset. Go figure.

A WRITER’S LIQUID DIET: LATTÉS & LEMONADE

I’m getting used to power outages. As soon as the weather forecaster mentioned wind warnings, I set my flashlight on the nightstand and visualized Plan B, C and D for a productive day of writing.

Sure enough, as I was awakened in the middle of the night to the loud snores of my schnauzer, Hoover, I checked the time on the clock radio. The clock was having a timeout. Fade to black.

Come morning, the house felt colder and the grey skies didn’t bring in enough light to make reading or writing practical. The best-lit room in the house was the bathroom with the skylight, but I couldn’t imagine producing anything clever or insightful while sitting on the toilet. Flush.

I packed up my laptop (with the battery that allows a whopping sixty seconds of writing without an electrical outlet) and the dogs and decided to use the power outage as an excuse to change my writing environment. When life gives you lemons…

It was time for a latté and I opted to drive farther than usual, venturing into the eclectic, granola community known as Roberts Creek. The Gumboot is a café that I stumbled upon during my first visit to the Sunshine Coast a decade ago. With some colorful oil paintings of arbutus trees and other West Coast flora and a steady stream of beatnik coffee drinkers creating a unique ambience, I managed to pound out a solid start to the writing day.

Being only a short walk from the beach, I changed my schedule further and took the dogs down to chase sticks and sea gulls as a cool mist picked up where the latté left off in invigorating me. So rarely do I stop and smell the salt air midmorning when I’ve got a full day slated for writing!

Far from setting me back, the seaside stroll left me feeling fresh and helped set up one of my most productive days of writing in recent memory. Of course, two more café stops didn’t hurt.

Power came on some time after 5 p.m. By then, I’d wound down from the writer’s café circuit, but I had enough caffeine in me to continue writing long into the night.

More wind expected tonight. And I’m actually looking forward to it.

DERAILED

I have prided myself in putting in solid writing days six days a week. Pot of coffee on, an early morning dog walk and then it’s time to write. Midday exercise break, an email check over lunch, more writing. The self-discipline has been surprising but I only need remind myself that this year of writing is both an opportunity and a luxury.

And now, in a moment of truth/guilt, I must ask: Where did my routine go? Three weeks ago, I fell off the writing wagon. The Olympics sucked me in. How could I not stop everything to marvel at k.d. lang’s “Hallelujah”, Alexandre Bilodeau’s gold medal run, the elegance of Virtue & Moir, the grit of Jon Montgomery on the skeleton, the speed and stamina of Charles Hamelin and Clara Hughes and the bring-it-home performances of the men and women in hockey?

As much as I enjoyed the entire two-week run, I was relieved to see it end, knowing that I could awaken Monday morning, coffee on, and pound away on the laptop. And then, half an hour into a solid beginning, the phone rang. I was summoned to the school board office for four days of marking provincial tests for students in grades four and seven, a much needed bank account booster and a wonderful experience to dive back into the minds of children, but another setback in restoring my writing gig.

Oh, I tried. I came home each day and wrote. Just not as much as I’d hoped—and I found myself doing smaller writing tasks instead of killing off a beloved character in my novel. Going back to work, albeit temporarily, reminded me how difficult it is to have the fresh energy and thinking to log in significant writing time. My writing life has been a solitary endeavor and it seems that the added social component in a more customary work environment may have been the biggest factor in my feeling drained as soon as I returned home. It wasn’t just the writing that suffered; I couldn’t drag myself to the gym either. Naps, snacking and mindless television ruled the evenings.

Yesterday’s Oscars provided another excuse to shorten my writing block. In truth, it had been a day of struggle even before the insipid red carpet interviews began. (How aggravating was it to see a host ask a starlet a question and then pull the mic away when she went beyond the two-word response limit? And why did I seem to care about Rachel McAdams’ dress?) Frankly, my 5K Sunday swim was more exhausting than usual, a final Olympic legacy as I passed on the pool last week to catch the gold medal hockey game. (Thank goodness, the end result was the right result!)

And now, it seems that all is clear. No more excuses, no more getting sidetracked. I have the first draft of a manuscript that I expect to finish this week and I’m itching to get moving on several other projects. Absence makes that heart grow fonder? Oh, let’s hope!

TORCHING THE TOWN

There are downsides in being a writer: rejection, isolation, writer’s block, self-doubt, lack of regular pay, a printer that devours ink cartridges. Still, there is so much on the upside that I dream of this becoming my year-round, full-time career. One of the many perks is having a flexible schedule, something that never existed during my years as an educator where bells and timetables ruled.

That flexibility allows me to take in special events when they arise. Today, the Olympic torch came to the Sunshine Coast. How could I not take a break to partake in the festivities?

Before the big event, I relocated my writing venue to the Gibsons Library. I plugged away on my laptop while glimpsing the increasing activity at the park and marina as people of all ages congregated in anticipation of the torch’s arrival. While this was a proudly Canadian event, it seemed to take on an “American Idol” atmosphere. A guy in a moose costume intrigued a standard poodle that kept lunging at the antlered beast. I spotted clowns, one of whom sported a gigantic Nerf camera around his neck. A woman made a dress out of Canada flags. I got to feeling like the silly one, daring to show up in jeans and a plain black jacket.

Everything came together perfectly as the torch made its way through town. It was as quaint and breathtaking a scene as one would find anywhere in Canada. The temperature hit a balmy 10˚C and the sun shone. Boats slumbered in the marina while Keats Island maintained its rustic, forested persona a short water taxi ride away. Beyond it, snow dusted the North Shore Mountains, not enough for the upcoming Olympic events at the Cypress Bowl, but a sight to stop and behold nonetheless.

Indeed, it was a day for stopping and beholding. I got so caught up in the moment that I raced toward home to catch more of the torch relay near the ferry terminal. As a result, I’ll be writing late into the evening, but I am privileged to do so.

THE CHALLENGES OF PLUGGING AWAY

The workday begins with me sitting on a bench, writing, while sipping a coffee inside a mall in town. Every seat inside the Starbucks is taken. Laptops are open in front of at least half the patrons.

This is what happens when the power goes out.

Although the town powers on, it’s dark in the outlying areas, including at my home. We the power deprived crawl out of the woodwork and head for the town lights. Who are all these people? Other writers? Entrepreneurs? Home business operators? Getting a seat inside Starbucks isn’t crucial. I can’t use my laptop because, although the place is wireless, my ancient device can’t access the service. Add laptop to the wish list should I get an advance on any writing in the near future.

I’m guessing the power died somewhere around two in the morning as rains pummeled my windows and winds huffed and puffed, thrashing the tall pines and threatening to blow the house down. Happens many times each winter. We’ve been spared some this year. Still, the inconvenience of the moment is expected to last the full day, midnight being the time the hydro company estimates for getting power restored.

I move to a small table in the mall. Right beside the Lotto Centre island. Seventies music pipes through the ceiling: “Sad Eyes”, Karen’s haunting voice singing “For All We Know”, Chaka offering a soulful “Sweet Thing”. The classics, as I know them, compete with today’s hip hop, blaring from the Athletes World across the way. (Wish they had an apostrophe in their name. Help us, Lynne Truss!) It’s catchy, but it can’t compete with Chaka.

A steady stream of hopefuls stop by the lottery base to check their tickets. The system is down, the only inconvenience perceptible to townsfolk. They don’t know how lucky they are already.

Without my laptop, it’s paper and pencil today. I used to prefer first drafts scrawled on legal pads and plain notebooks, but I realize I’ve made the full transition to thinking and writing in front of a computer. I have no choice but to fall back on my old ways. I cannot afford for today to be a write-off. I have also loaded plenty of non-electronic writing tasks in my backpack: the latest issue of The Writer—a rare chance to study articles I never seem to get around to reading—, an old screenplay I need to reread to decide if it’s worth revising, a TV script to study for formatting and pacing.

Despite the power outage, I must continue to plug away. The brain power is on its own today.

LETTING GO

I have no children of my own so I don’t have an authentic sense of what it’s like raising them and hoping that one day they will leave home with the best possible shot at living a happy, successful life. I have dogs, but they never grow up. Lincoln, in particular, doesn’t learn any of life’s lessons because, well, he doesn’t seem to learn. (He is awfully amusing, thank goodness.)

I am not the first to compare writing projects to one’s offspring. Yes, it pales to the constant care involved in parenting, but there is that element of creating something and shaping it to be the best it can be. The milestones and personality get tweaked after regular, often difficult, reflection. And then there comes a point of realization that every opportunity imaginable has been offered to this being and the best thing is to set it out in the world.

I have a habit of sitting on “completed” writing. It’s hard to let go. What if I send it out and it meets rejection? What if I can find an extra spark if I hang on just a little longer? Thankfully, despite my clinging, there comes a point when the manuscript is itching to move out. I can feel it and there is no way I can hold it back any longer.

Yes, it’s ready.

Today I shall send two picture book manuscripts out into the world, Eric’s English Lessons and Alastair on Safari. I am proud of the unique personality of each. Eric is a fearful, serious individual who takes everything literally. God help him. Hopefully, he’ll also come across as a sympathetic, even amusing character who makes us think about the way we say things. Alastair, on the other hand, always was a wild child. He’s a reckless, daring adventurer but also a keen observer. Bursting with imagination, life is his for the taking.

I cannot sit back and fret too much about the fate of these “children”. To be sure, I hope to hear good news with respect to both of them. But I have much more to focus on at home as I continue to raise Broderick, Esmeralda, Julie, Sven, Clint, Dennis and the rest of the brood. Although two are gone, it’s still a full house of rambunctious characters, each vying to have his or her story heard. Of that, I’m truly thankful.

WHAT GOES UP MUST COME DOWN (AND HOPEFULLY UP AGAIN)

I don’t think I’ve ever compared my writing to an episode of “The Bachelor” before but here goes. As I baked chocolate brownie muffins last night, the pilot bachelor took a group of women on a date to Magic Mountain. (The whole group date thing is icky, but I shall try to stick to the subject.) They had the entire theme park to themselves. I wasn’t watching the screen—one must not waste chocolate on a botched batch!—but I’ll assume they rode the roller coasters. I went to Magic Mountain once when I lived in L.A. and the place is all about the roller coasters. And that’s where I made a connection with my writing.

(Sort of) like that entourage, my writing experiences are very much like riding a roller coaster on my own. Over the last twenty-four hours, I’ve gone from a grim low to an ecstatic high.

The low arose from my searching for publishers and agents on the Internet and in The Canadian Writer’s Market. About four weeks ago, I designated January 13 as Submission Day, with the intention of revising and polishing two of my picture book manuscripts and one teleplay and getting them in the mail. The good news is that I am excited about the projects that I’m preparing to send out. The bad news is that I don’t feel like I have a great sense about where to submit them. Many publishers do not consider picture books. Others do not take unsolicited manuscripts. That requires a search for agents, most of whom are not taking new clients and others who don’t consider authors unless they have been recommended and referred. The doors to the TV script arena seem even more guarded. Hours spent searching and I still didn’t feel I had a plan.

But then things perked up. I went to the gym and returned home to do a final polish on one of the picture books. After some tweaking, I reached a point of being fully satisfied, even energized, about the project. The rise continued when I got a call from a friend who is arranging a dinner later this month with a group of friends that includes someone who co-wrote a feature film now in theaters and generating Oscar buzz. I look forward to the opportunity to chat with him about his experiences.

And this morning I drafted my query letter for my other picture book. The letter has much more zing than prior versions, giving me a better feeling that I am creating the best circumstance I can to get my work noticed. It seems that I have reached the pinnacle of the roller coaster. But then maybe not. Maybe it’s time to build a taller roller coaster.

Riding alone is exciting, but also scary. Still, it beats sitting on a bench, clutching an oversized stuffed purple alligator and a bag of cotton candy while watching others experience the thrills and, yes, the occasional nausea. (One can get nauseous even being a bench warmer. A little cotton candy goes a long way.)

By the way, the chocolate muffins turned out amazing. Perfect with whipped cream. Comfort food to deal with the angst in finding a publisher/agent and a reward for trudging onward!

I'LL TAKE ANOTHER

Sometimes everything clicks. Yesterday was one of those days. Made a stunning looking veggie lasagna AND a Baileys cheesecake (both tasted pretty good, too!), found new strength at the gym and the writing flowed. Should have bought a lottery ticket while luck was with me.

My novel that has been losing steam got a boost with a new chapter and a plot twist that felt fresh. It has been tempting to toss the work in the growing Abandoned pile, but I’ve slogged on, determined to complete the first draft before going through a slash and burn process during a painful revision stage.

My new approach may be working. I’m limiting myself to an hour or two a day on this project and then switching to another writing task. In theory, the time spent becomes more focused as I don’t let it drag on only to be filled with drivel. On only the third day of Plan B, it worked. Hopefully that creates new momentum.

My new writing project is an original television series pitch, pilot and subsequent script. As I’m polishing three spec scripts for existing TV shows, I’m trying to complete a television writing package with the new series material to show that I can create my own characters, plot points and rhythm. When I get to the point of sending queries and manuscripts out, I’ll be fully stocked with other writing samples if only a prospective producer, showrunner or agent should ask.

Yesterday’s work on some character background development and a rough outline of the pilot episode was going so well I could feel the energy behind the people I was creating. I got so excited I had a step away a couple of times to take in the moment and to retain clarity by calming down.

To end the day, I finally had a chance to skim the morning newspaper and a tiny article popped out, the genesis for a possible future writing project. I read it, clipped it and jotted down some quick notes before filing it away. It’s great to know my Ideas folder continues to gain thickness.

It was a writing heyday, nicely capped by a little R and R, watching the Vancouver Canucks impressively dominate the Nashville Predators.

What a day! Encore, please!

50K AND COUNTING

I crossed the finish line yesterday, but the journey continues.

On November 6, I signed up online to participate in National Novel Writing Month. Each participant strives to write a 50,000-word novel, starting from scratch, in November. I’m now at 53,700 words, but my novel has thousands of words to go before the first draft is complete. Still, NaNoWriMo was a good kick in the pants to stay focused on a single project. The focus was on quantity, not quality, but I did continue to revise as I went. I need to spend some time later this week taking a step back and looking at the big picture. Is this novel compelling enough? (Certainly hope the answer is “yes”.) When I’m locked in the day-to-day writing, it is hard to tell.

If nothing else, participating in NaNoWriMo firmed up my writing routine. I also realize that having short-term goals helps so I will continue to set my own. Sometimes the focus will be on word counts, but I need to set some goals about submitting my work as well. I have about ten projects on the go so now is the time to buckle down, sharpen the endings, work through the revisions and put something other than Christmas cards in the mail. (Oh, but I need to work on those, too!)

Reaching for the Bar

A writing routine is imperative, but every so often you've got to shake things up. That's why I signed up to participate in National Novel Writing Month. Somewhere in the virtual world, I'm part of a massive group of writers striving to write a 50,000-word novel in November. Nothing will happen, in and of itself, it I reach that mark and nothing will happen if I don't. It's an artificial milestone. Still, I update my word count each day and take a gander at the updated bar graph to show my progress. Part of me finds it a hokey gimmick, but the part of me that's trouncing on that half-empty inner voice feels it's a motivator that only comes along once a year. Since I started on November 6th, I was 8,300 words in the hole at the outset, based on the daily goals shown in the bar graph. I like that. It gives me an extra push. I should be finally caught up by Monday as I'm working through the weekend. And I might squeak by the finish line by the 29th.

Participating in NaNoWriMo, I get emails with pep talks and notices about sites in Vancouver where people can congregate for communal writing. (Might try that next year.) Today I came across a suggestion that intrigues me: set a 10K day. As I typically write 2,500-3,000 words on a good day, 10,000 would feel like a marathon. But the 10K running lingo is yet another novelty to add some spark to the routine.

I'll wait until I get through my one-month novel to get it a try. Like I said, those bar graphs are giving me all the kindling I need for now.

POWERING ON

There are days that challenge us. For me, this is one of them.

I’d stayed up late last night, cramming in a nighttime writing session after having to halt my productive late afternoon write to meet up with some friends I haven’t seen since I began my road trip back in August. Dinner became one of those lovely drawn out occasions, followed by another meeting fifteen minutes down the road at Starbucks. (In some respects, I was relieved to know that the franchise closes at 9 p.m. in sleepy Gibsons, giving me time to head home with enough caffeine-infused energy to finish my day’s quota of writing.) I didn’t start reading the morning paper until after midnight.

I awoke to the blare of a ferry horn, a dog barking and a blast of broad daylight. The sun, which had packed up and gone for a weeklong exclusive European tour, was back. Welcome, for sure, but not as my morning greeting. I usually get up to see the dawn and get cracking with my daily regimen. I glanced at my alarm clock. It was still sleeping, lights out.

Power outage season had arrived! (It’s called winter in the rest of Canada.) Anytime the winds pick up, there’s a risk of losing power in my rural community. The ferry’s cry told me it was already 8:30. I scrambled to get up, walk the dogs, shower and dress, ever hopeful that the power would be restored at any minute.

Nothing doing. The pot of coffee, such an integral part of my start, sat idle. I considered using a pen and my writing journal to begin my work for the day, but I realized I have now switched to using the laptop exclusively—apart from a few urgent brainstorming sessions. And, unfortunately, my laptop battery has the juice to keeps things cranked for a paltry two minutes max when not plugged in (to a working outlet).

I headed into town. The first coffee shop was packed and, worse, the outlets were already taken by other laptop dependent, power outage survivors. I headed for Lower Gibsons, the quainter, quieter part of town, and lucked upon a table with an outlet at my favorite café in that area. The cup of coffee did not fully supplant the pot of coffee (which, rest assured, is a 40/60 blend of caf/decaf), but it activated enough of my brain to begin the day’s writing.

Already off to a late start, I had to interrupt things for a vet appointment and my midday swim workout. I dashed home, relieved to find the power restored. I booted up the laptop and heated up a can of soup for a quick lunch. Just before resuming writing, I opened the refrigerator to grab a drink. The light in the fridge was out. Power outage #2. (I hadn’t noticed the faint whistling of the trees.) I reported the outage to B.C. Hydro and was given an estimated three-hour window for the power to come back on.

So here I am writing away at the library in town. I have been inconvenienced today, but I have trudged on! Sometimes all the real power you need is the power within.

DOES ANYBODY REALLY KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS?

One of my favorite musical groups is Chicago. Still. I particularly love their heavily orchestrated songs of the ’70s. (But then, my friends would point out I love everything of the ’70s which I contend is not true. Never much liked “Baretta”.)

Back to Chicago. I was listening to a greatest hits compilation the other day while taking a writing break and picking up all the things on the floor that I’d managed to ignore for a week or so. On came “Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?” and, for the first time, I wondered why a guy who professes to not care about such things happens to be wearing a watch. Just one of those Things that Make You Go Hmmmm…. (which, let me point out, just so happens to be a ’90s expression).

I wish I could be as flippant about time as the singer claims to be. Fact is, time matters. Especially when it comes to my writing. I have the savings to permit one year off my day job—and that’s a stretch. Thus, I have to make the most of it and get as much solid writing done as possible. That’s why I’m keeping to a schedule of writing six days a week. Normally I hate schedules, but I can’t afford to amble through my twelve months like a loopy flower child. (After all, that’s the ’60s, an amazing decade, but come on! One can only retreat so far in one’s imaginary time capsule.)

Six days a week. No time off for holidays. I began by “pushing myself” to aspire to three hours of actual writing time each day. That doesn’t sound like much but, in the beginning, it was hard to achieve. I’m not the kind of writer who can sit and just write for the sake of writing, content in knowing that a good chunk will end up crumpled in a virtual trash can. Sure, I go through significant revisions, but none of this starting over that I hear other writers talking about.

Three hours a day became three and a half after I read an article about Stephen King’s writing habits. If 3.5 works for King, it’ll work for me. After awhile, I came to the harsh, but obvious realization that I am no Stephen King. I upped my time to four hours daily. And it’s working!

While I have to be conscious of time, the luxury I do have is flexibility in my day. If I get distracted or delay my morning start, I don’t need to beat myself up over it. I just have to fit in the time at some point before I turn in for the night. Yes, I’ve had one session that ran past midnight which is technically into a new day, but 230 minutes is not enough.

I realize that my four-hour allotment is the kind of artificiality that Chicago sings about, but one cannot take even the greatest bands too much to heart. I hate to point it out, but this is the group that also released the dreadful “If She Would Have Been Faithful”. But, hey, that was the ’80s when dreadful was in.

ALL ABOARD!

I just signed up to participate in National Novel Writing Month. The designated month happens to be November and I'm six days behind, but that seems like a typical place to start.

Participants have the calendar month to produce a novel comprised of 50,000 words (175 pages) or more. There are no fees or prizes. The entire emphasis is on quantity, not quality. It's about getting it done, with potential motivation from being a part of an online community endeavoring to do the same thing.

I quickly wrote a 500-word foreword for my novel and my personal account at NaNoWriMo created a bar graph showing my word count and my word goals per day. I'm supposed to be at 10,000 words. At first, I couldn't detect the yellow bar representing my word status. I had to view at 150%. Again, typical.

I am undeterred.

Obviously, this project must mean more than obsessing over word counts. Signing up provides a virtual whip to ensure that I am indeed writing. While that has not been a problem for, I have been bouncing around from project to project. Today I have a new novel idea and it will be my primary focus--at least until the end of November.

Must write more!

PROBLEM, NOT AN EXCUSE

I recently wrote about my writing schedule being out of whack due to relatives sharing the cottage space with me. I could have—and five years ago, would have—used that as an excuse to set the writing aside. I am not the only aspiring writer who tends to embrace the excuse.

I would have three novels out this year, but the dogs need lots of walks.

I can never get to my screenplay because there is so much laundry to do. And dusting!

I have the greatest ideas for a series of essays—if only I had there weren’t construction going on next door.

I have eliminated my Number One Excuse, my day job. That also severely cuts the cash flow. Thus, I cannot afford to allow excuses to stifle my writing. Each excuse is a problem that must—must!—be solved. It is the starting point in what separates wishful writers from successful writers.

I am proud to note that I worked through the problem of sharing my living/working space for a few weeks. I found other places to write, going to a few local cafés more regularly, staying longer at the library and working in the cramped back bedroom with the door shut. Not every work setting has to be inspiring. Sometimes all the inspiration must come from within. (Fear of a life of poverty adds some kick as well.)

This is a turning point in my writing. I will face obstacles many times as I continue to pursue writing. I know I can—and will—overcome them.

A SNAG IN THE ROUTINE

When you’re writing full-time, people tend to think you are always available. Granted, I have more flexibility than most workers, but the work still has to get done. If I don’t write, the opportunities for payment do not come.

I have relatives staying with me for three weeks. Or maybe I’m staying with them. It’s a family cottage—no reservations, no exclusive bookings. That’s the way it should be. However, the whole writing routine is out of whack. I hadn’t realized how critical that first chunk of writing is each morning. I had gotten into a routine of starting a pot of coffee, letting it brew while I walked the dogs and then sitting down at the dining table to begin the day’s work as I periodically glanced at the peaceful river view. While it was an hour of writing at most, it set the tone for the day.

My start is delayed now as breakfast television takes over the main living quarters. I try to write in my tiny bedroom, but looking at wood paneling is not as inspiring as the river, lined with trees in the midst of a color makeover. And “Today” blares through the thin walls. (One of my relatives is hard of hearing.) I have asked myself why background noise at home is distracting while din in a café makes writing feel less solitary and I suspect it comes down to expectations. In a home environment, I expect to have some control over sources of noise; when I venture into a public venue for writing, I know I won’t be alone and the people and bits of their conversation may actually lead to a writing spark.

By the time I have my shower, leave the cottage and drive to a more focused writing site, two hours have ticked by. Often, that is when the writing for the day starts. I never seem to catch up.

One more week to go. In the meantime, I’m trying to shorten the morning delay and fitting in extra writing after 11 p.m. The office, it seems, is never closed.

DAY 1--Bring on the Rain!

July 6, 2009

It’s a cloudy morning and the showers have begun. What a perfect day to start my year of writing! (Okay, I’m not the sun worshipper of my youth, but still I have fewer possible distractions. The lawn will not be mowed. The dandelions can thrive another day. The deck shall go unswept. Why is it that these tasks only seem pressing when I’m writing?)

I’m easing into this process. Some would be inclined to dive right in, but I like to dip my toes in to send a message to the rest of the body. Cold, yes. But, ooh, you’ll get used to it! Let’s hope. Last year, my Summer of Writing was a great experiment. I blogged and logged my experiences to hold myself accountable and I managed to write for period of time each day. Thirty minutes was the minimum while three hours represented a flurry of activity.

As I am embarking on a one-year sabbatical from my day job as a school principal and bringing in no money as of the end of this month, this little hobby must transform into a serious trade. Thirty minutes of writing? Bah! That’s a day off. Three hours—gulp, here goes—must be the new minimum. I will have to build up to that in the next week. Five to eight hours will be the goal.

Whereas I’d casually begun my days last summer, I will need to maintain more of a schedule for my writing. No lingering about in the mornings, letting Mr. Sandman influence my foggy brain. I shall shower, dress and walk the dogs to begin the day, then grab a cup—er, pot—of coffee and settle down to create, tinker, edit or connect with a character. I may even outline! That’s a radical thought for someone who likes to see how things flow, but discipline and direction will strengthen my writing. I can remain flexible enough to change paths when the plot or the characters compel an adjustment in the journey, but my endings will be stronger, more fully realized if they are considered from the outset.

For now, I am already behind. I failed to clear my desk this weekend to begin with a clean working area. I could spend the next two hours pondering what to do with each slip of paper, but I am giving myself two minutes to apply that deck sweeping desire to my desk. True, I will have (yet another) pile on the floor, but I can deceive myself into thinking it is an essential piece of “furniture” as my dog Lincoln discovers it and uses it as a new pillow. He’ll be better rested and I’ll be ready to write!