Alternatives to Griping
Most things worth doing have their moments of frustration—it’s as if a whole world of negativity opens up, abounding with endless possibility, and all of it unpleasant. Maybe I should just give up. I knew I sucked at this. I’ll never get out from under the thumb of so-and-so. This was a stupid project to take on in the first place. Failures too, come in a variety of shapes and sizes: our own motivation may seize up, we run into grown-up versions of bullies, markets shift, opportunities close. Whatever the situation that led to this moment, we’re growling.
In this context, let’s consider the rejection letter. Read More…
Folks who know me will recall that I wrote a memoir a couple of years ago and have been shopping it around, to occasional interest from agents and publishing professionals. It’s a process that gets frustrating, but I tell myself that the whole thing is worth it. I’ve learned a lot, and I’ve met loads of great people who care deeply about writers, the craft of good writing, and the need to build strong networks. That Snooki got published isn’t anything I care to rant over; who will have any clue about her book in ten years? I want publishers to put books out there that will make them enough money to find interest in mine, even as I think my memoir is a sure-fire best seller. 
It’s been a good year, even if I did have a lot of hopes for 2010. If 2008 was chock full of life events—getting married, moving to the other side of a large continent—and 2009 was about adjustment to those new environments, I figured the next year, this year, would show up with big rewards for my good behavior. And it did, kind of. It’s been hard work on top of more hard work, and a lot of it has been frustrating (I’m looking at you, rejection letter). All told though, I can look back and see several important lessons. Which leads me to: 
It never did, really, except that NaNoWriMo is a great front for a writing program for young people, so I enjoy making a donation to them, and no, I’m not their pitch boy. But as far as writing goes, it’s a lot of fun to struggle through a first draft when hundreds of thousands of people are doing the same and talking about it online and in meet ups across the country. That’s wonderful. And it’s a fallacy, because in any given month, hundreds of thousands of people are slogging through a first draft. And most of them don’t finish. And most of the ones who do wrote something awful, or close to awful. And the vast majority of finished projects won’t see the light of anyone’s ebook reading device. 
So much about writing is having confidence without losing a cap on one’s ego. If I can’t even call myself a “writer,” then spending time at the keys is even more ludicrous, because it’s too easy to believe these hours are all a waste. At least, that’s how the equation works in my head. Somehow, I’ve muddled through since I moved out West, and all of my education that looked wonky or out of place in the government contract/technology world now fits snugly against these latest endeavors. English literature, critical theory, and psychology are the ham to these eggs, or the Not Dogs, for those who are vegan inclined, to this tofu scramble. 
Nearly there, with a scant 48 hours left until the end of the NaNoWriMo. If you’re lagging behind or thinking that there is no way on this good green earth that you can finish and make the 50,000 word count, don’t despair. I’ve said all along that this exercise isn’t about a number, it’s about a practice. Writers write. Dolphins dolphin or erm, swim. Forward, or even lateral progress, is what November has been about, so if we’ve stuck to our keyboards, pens, indelible markers, or chisels, then more power to us. Let’s look at some other benefits of continuing to plug away at our intrepid novels:
Yes, I’m still here. Tapping at my keyboard, in between basting a 12.5 turkey. I made my mother’s recipe for stuffing, produced sweet potato biscuits last night, and by this evening will be digesting vast quantities of tryptophan with the best of them in the United States. And I am thankful for all that I have, truly. So among the items on my be-grateful-for list is having the time to write, which although appearing in scant amounts this last week, is generally available to me whenever I need it. I’ve made a habit of writing every single day, and it needs to be said that some days, this is easier than others. November 25, 2010, is not one of those easier spots on the calendar. I may only get through a few hundred or even a thousand words, but I’m only 3,000 away from 50,000. The careful readers out there will remark that I set a personal goal of 60,000 for this NaNoWriMo project this year, so yes, tomorrow afternoon, after the apartment is cleaned up and the guests departed, I need to make some serious headway. 
So many voices on the Interwebs say that writers write, that writers must scratch out a stream of words every day, that not doing so on one day sounds terrifying to us. It turns us back into velveteen rabbits; it takes away our sense of authenticity as writers, and for some of us, that felt like shaky ground to begin with. But I suppose there’s a reason the NaNoWriMo gods (read: Chris Baty) decided to set the project in November, which not only has a scant 30 days instead of January or March’s 31, but which is also stricken with the biggest American holiday of them all: Thanksgiving. 
I am a couple of chapters beyond the excerpt that I posted yesterday, trucking along, as it were. I also have a small glass of port next to me, and I typically don’t drink anything alcoholic while I’m writing—not that I have anything against it per se. My relaxed attitude comes to me courtesy of my story’s momentum.
Trans/plant/portation 