Moving On

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Sometimes a girl just needs a little balance.  And I’m not talking about tree pose.

What’s most important to me?  Managing two blogs badly or sending my work out into the word with polish and panache?  I’ll take the polish and panache, thank you very much.

I kept two blogs because I wanted to keep my two lives – my writing life and my yoga life – separate.  Yeah.  How’d that work out for you, Mimm?

Not too well.  How can we keep separate the parts of ourselves that make us whole?

And so I say a fond farewell to Diving with Gems.   If you want to keep up with me (and I know you do), you can follow me on my other blog Practically Twisted.

Encouraging Words

I loved Rachel Gardner’s blog post so much that I decided to reprint it.  It first appeared here.

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 22, 2010

 

Here’s to You

(Repost) 

Hey… you.

Yeah, you, the one sitting alone in your basement hammering out a thousand words every morning before you go to work.

And you. The one filling out your registration for a writers conference and terrified to click “send.”

And you in the back, there… frantically taking notes in the writing workshop, attempting to be invisible.

And what about you, about to sit down at your first-ever meeting with an agent, trembling with nervousness.

And you, the writer who’s signed your first publishing contract and suddenly feel the pressure of deadlines and marketing and expectations.

And you, the multi-published author, thankful for your good fortune and praying everyday the words continue to flow.

I just wanted you to know that I see you. I know you’re there. I hear what you’re saying, I feel your fears, I love your passion, I understand a lot about what drives you and what terrifies you.

And I admire you. I am so incredibly awed by your bravery. I know it takes courage to do what you’re doing. I’m impressed with your persistence, your enthusiasm, your dedication.

I know it takes sacrifice. I know you give up a lot… I know it’s a significant chunk of change to go to a conference; it’s a significant commitment of time to write books and build platforms (and read blogs).

I just want to thank you for what you’re doing. I’m so glad you get up every morning and do what you do. I’m so happy you’re up for the challenge. It’s because of you that I’ve been a reader my whole life. It’s because of you that I love books. It’s because of you that I’ve had the good fortune to work for the last fourteen years in a career I absolutely love.

You are incredible. Keep up the good work. Keep writing… so I can keep reading. And thank you.

Resolutions and The Best Intentions

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December 2007:

Maybe this happens with age.  A compulsive list maker from the age of six, for the first time EVER in the entire History of the Universe I’ve not written the list of resolutions that will change the course of my life forever. While I may be exaggerating somewhat, this is still completely out of character.  I’m so baffled that I find myself attempting – even now, on January 3^rd – to plot the course of the next twelve months.  Each time I believe I’ve set aside the time to do this I find something better to do.  Like washing the dishes.  Or folding laundry.  Taking out the recycling. And I have to ask myself, “What’s up with that?”

My enthusiasm and optimism for this New Year hasn’t waned.  I’m thrilled to have left 2007 – a very challenging year for me – far, far behind.  But I simply don’t seem to be able to put in writing my hopes and dreams for the Great 2008.  Maybe they’re bigger than the written word.  I hope so.

And maybe somewhere inside me I have learned that it doesn’t matter how many times I write my list of aspirations.  If those intentions don’t live in my heart and soul, they’re paper tigers.  They’re meaningless.

December 2010:

I never did get around to writing a resolution for 2008.  Nor did I write one the following year. And by the end of December 2009 I’d convinced myself resolutions were for the weak.  No more resolutions for me.  I had a far more cunning plan for 2010.  It was failsafe. If I really wanted to keep my life moving forward, I would forget about writing a list of dreams that might never happen.  Instead, I’d write a list of victories as they occurred.  In other words, I didn’t scribble a few things down on a scrap of paper on December 31^st, 2009 and then forget about it.  Throughout 2010, as each new hurdle was surmounted, I recorded it.  And then I did a little Dance of Joy.  While my cunning plan was good for my self-esteem – my list grew steadily longer throughout the year – it failed at keeping me focused on the Big Picture.

So, after a few resolution free years, I think it’s time to go old-school again.  Yep, that’s right.  I’m setting some intentions for 2011.  And I hope I won’t be alone.  Anyone care to join me?

My immediate intention is to find a few quiet days between now and the New Year to contemplate the journey I’ve been on in the last five years since my return to California and the journey I want to go in the next five.  It will involve writing and working out a way to feel less lost in the universe, choosing to be a caring and giving human and, of course, the old stand-by intention – being the healthiest Mimm I can be.  And when I figure out the specifics the Whole Wide World (or the couple dozen folks who stumble upon this blog) will be the first to know.

 

Truth, Chutzpah and Joseph Campbell

Pastel by 81-year-old Lew Silvers.

Remember when The Power of Myth, Bill Moyers and Joseph Campbell were water cooler conversation?  It was 1988 and we all wanted to ‘follow our bliss’.  We wanted to ‘make our heart sing’.  And it sounded easy enough to do.

So…how’d that work out for you?

Trying to follow our bliss is a little bit like trying to grab smoke.  The more we struggle, the more elusive it becomes. Twenty-two years later and I’m beginning to realize that while bliss is nice, it shouldn’t be the goal.  These days, I’m inclined to believe bliss is the reward for a living my truth.  These days, it’s chutzpah that makes my heart sing.

Last night I was organizing a few computer files and I stumbled upon a blog post I wrote three years ago.  The Mimm back than has managed to encourage this Mimm.  And so I’m posting the essay again.

It Takes Chutzpah

Yes, I’m one of them.  I’m one of those people who want to write a book.  We’re a dime a dozen.  We fill cyberspace, bookstores, writing clinics, and book clubs.  And how many of us will actually make it past verbally expressing our deepest secret: “I want to write a book.”  I imagine, very few.

I’m thinking about this because I’m sitting in a public space.  I’m people watching in between paragraphs.  A few moments ago one of my yoga students happened by and asked what I was up to.   I explained the blog, and the daily entry I promised my Life Coach and myself.  I explained, too, how I hoped to move out of body therapy over the next few years to focus on writing.

She then proceeded to tell me the amazing story of her friend who decided that most children’s books were rubbish and that she would write her own.  Rather than stopping there, she actually did it.  She wrote the book, she found an illustrator and then she hooked up with an agent!  The book hasn’t been published, but I don’t doubt for a moment that it will be.

Chutzpah.  The woman has chutzpah.  And we all know a little chutzpah goes a long way to realizing a dream.

When an idea makes our heart sing, why do we try to stop the music?  If I invested as much time trying to achieve my goals as I do telling myself why they’re impossible, think of how much closer I’d be to having them become living, breathing reality.

My yoga student’s friend decided to write a book, and from the moment she made that decision, the book existed.

I can decide, right now, this moment, to have not just her chutzpah, but her conviction and clarity of vision.  So what’s stopping me?

May we all have the chutzpah to live our truth in 2011.

A Big Year

Is it possible that my writer’s block doesn’t actually exist?  After all, at this very moment am I not sitting at this desk, listening to the rain, engaged in the very task of putting words in order?  Am I not writing?  Maybe what I want to call ‘writer’s block’ is simply generic malaise.  An unease or a longing that I can’t quite define.   If that’s true, then I’m lucky, because I love December.

December, sandwiched between my birthday and the New Year, is a gift. My teaching schedule is reduced and many of my private clients take days off to travel.  In other words, I’ve got time on my hands.

For this reason, I always look forward to the month.  I know everyone else is going to be preoccupied with shopping and skiing and partying.  Everyone else will be running faster than normal.  And I, more than any other time during the year, am given days of stillness.

Yes, I love December. Unfortunately, I seem to have lost my ability to unwind.  Instead of sitting back with a good book, I’m pacing and twiddling my thumbs.  I’m racked with guilt and the tape in my head is playing “I should do this, I should do that” on a continuous loop.

A chronic optimist, December is the month when I eagerly plan for the next year. This is the month I count on to recharge my batteries.  To fill me with hope.   This year, however, I find myself incapable of thinking beyond my next meal (speaking of which, it’s almost time for lunch). I often advise my students to not become overwhelmed by thoughts about the past or the future. To remain in the present.  But I feel stuck here, in the present – in a bad way.  I’m spinning my wheels and there’s no traction.

Maybe 2010 was too big a year for me.  Maybe I’m going to need more than a reduced schedule to recover.

Here are the Top Ten Moments, listed chronologically:

1. In January I completed my first novel and prepared two non-fiction proposals for yoga books I’ve been noodling around with for a couple years. Anyone who has attempted this will understand the work involved.  I’m proud of the accomplishment.
2. In February I attended the San Francisco Writer’s Conference and pitched my novel to six agents.  I am not a natural sales person, yet the agents I met all requested that I send them pages. Speaking to those agents and being asked for more was a huge victory – even if, after sending them my work, the answer was still ‘it’s not for us’.
3. In March I flew to Washington DC and witnessed a friend receive the Congressional Gold Medal for flying military aircraft during World War II.  She was a part of the civilian Women Airforce Service Pilots.  I wish I had even half her bravery.
4. In April I polished and submitted Practically Twisted (one of the yoga book proposals) to a local publisher for review.  It was ultimately rejected, but still a worthwhile experience.
5. In May I also began working with a mentor.  Our weekly meetings, which continued for several months, lifted my writing but demonstrated how much more I needed to learn.
6. In July I had my first colonoscopy.  Stop giggling.  It counts.
7. In August I attended my two-week Yin Yoga Teacher Training. I promised myself I would continue the thirty-minute meditation practice we began each day with when I returned home.  Right.
8. In September, days after my return from Yin training, I boarded a plane bound for Pennsylvania and reunited with my mom.  We had not spoken to one another in over two decades.  I had not seen her since 1984.  I’m still processing.
9. I also reunited with my high school friends Beckie, Patty and Donna.  Everyone looked exactly as they did in 1976.  Seriously.  We did.  Especially Beckie.
10. In October I drove to Reno, Nevada.  My first solo road trip (I’m a road wimp.  This counts more than the colonoscopy). I had another reunion, this time with my friend Mike.  During college, he and I were good friends.  We lost contact, as friends do, but found one another again on – where else – Facebook.  Of all the moments this year, sitting in his music room, picking up the guitar again and singing brought me the closest to home.

Meanwhile, I continued to teach yoga classes and saw individual clients for private yoga sessions and body therapy. Of the three hundred and sixty-five days of 2010, I housesat for two hundred and thirteen.

And I continued to write.  I entered dozens of writing competitions and submitted essays and poems to several literary magazines.  Not only did I not set the literary world on fire, I don’t even think I threw a spark.

But there’s always next year.

And as this year winds down, I know that I am lucky.  Other lives had tragic losses.  I had warm reunions. Other lives had breathless gains.  I moved forward, sometimes patiently, one single step at a time. It was a good year.  A big year.

But I’m worn out.  And hungry.  It’s time for lunch followed by a nice, long nap.

It’s No Sacrifice

Most folks who talk about wanting to write never do.  They just keep talking about it.  So I would imagine there’s a ton of good writing that never gets written.

Then there are the folks who stop talking about writing.  They sit their asses down in front of their computer every day and hit the keys.  They aren’t the most imaginative storytellers or the best grammarians; their talents may lie in self-promotion and marketing – but they do it.  They pound it out and they make their daily word count. They send their work out into the world.  They smile at rejection and try again until someone says “yes”. They stick to it.  They improve.  They succeed.

Three years ago I stopped talking about it.  I showed up every morning and hit the keys.  I wrote a few essays, a couple of bad short stories (seriously bad) and several poems – one even found its way into an on-line anthology.  I attempted to maintain two blogs and wrote a guest post for Jane Friedman.  In case you missed it, it’s here.  Oh yeah – almost forgot – I also wrote my first novel.  And the moment I typed “the end” I began my second.

Meanwhile, I bought the “how to” books and subscribed to the magazines that made me feel like I was part of the club. I attended the Stanford Publishing Conference and then the San Francisco Writer’s Conference intent on learning the business of writing.  And, at the end of the day, writing is a business.  I continue to attend a critique group every week without fail and even, for a time, had a mentor.

And then, about three weeks ago, I stopped.  I hit the Mother of All Blocks, equivalent in size to the Great Wall of China with a Berlin chaser. Except for an essay I’ve been noodling around with, this confessional blog post is the only work I’ve done.

I’ve simply run out of steam.

The problem is, I believed that after thirty-six months I’d have more to show for my dedication.  Yes, I’m smiling as I type, because I know with absolute certainty that, in a writer’s life, thirty-six months is nothing.  But in these days of immediacy and constant contact we’re conditioned to believe it all happens overnight.  It doesn’t.

And so I find myself standing on the ledge asking myself this question:  what is it that I want, and how badly do I want it?  Is it more important to be a good writer or a popular one?  And is the sacrifice worth it?

A Day in the Life…

So today was sorta interesting.

This morning, in an act of desperation – apparently I am so desperate to call myself published that I will do anything – I applied for a freelance job with one of those websites that pay pennies for your paragraphs.  Seriously.  On top of that, they keep the rights and the author receives no credit for their work. Like I said – I was feeling a little desperate.  But more on that later.

I arrived at work, eager to teach.  One of my students said,

“You know, you look just like that actress…you know…that one in that Keanu movie…the one about surfing…”

“Point Break?”

“Yeah, that one.”

“Really?”  My ego massaged, I wondered what actress she meant, and couldn’t wait to Google the movie to find out.  And then she said,

“Yeah…I bet you looked just like her before you were old.”

Fine.

Taught.  Taught again.  Grabbed a salad for lunch.  Massaged.  Purchased a birthday present for a friend. Taught again.  Came home.  Checked emails.

There was an email waiting for me from the website.  Yay!  Despite their terms, and despite my better judgment, I was excited.  I opened the email, eager to begin my new writing life.  And guess what?  After sending them a writing sample, links to both blogs and a full resume.  THEY TURNED ME DOWN.

I’m rolling with it.  Life is good…and has better things in store for me.  But it was an interesting day.

Sorta.

And if anyone’s curious – I’m fifty-two next Wednesday.

ps…and I don’t look anything like Lori Petty.

 

 

 

 

Abandonment Issues

How long does a first manuscript have to  “cook” in a drawer before we admit defeat?  And, of course, by “cook” I mean, “gather dust”.  Is there a limit to how long we can wait before we rewrite the first chapter?  How do we revive personal passion for the story and the characters we’ve created – or is it better to let them quietly fade to nothing?

After all – we cut our teeth on our first novel. We learn grammar we forgot when we were twelve and we learn about hooks and plot devices and discipline and story arcs.  We fight to make our characters real and their journey believable.  Our first novel teaches us that we’ve got what it takes.  Shouldn’t the accomplishment of writing a cohesive ninety-thousand word first novel be enough?  After all, how many people, determined to dedicate themselves to that novel inside them, never get around to it?

The problem is, I sorta kinda fell in love with my protagonists and I can’t abandon them.  I lived with Maggie, Ben and their families for over a year.  I watched their story take shape.  How can I turn my back on them, even as I plunge into the second book?  Is it possible to bring Maggie’s story to a level where an agent may take an interest while working on The Growing Season?  Is it possible to date two people at the same time?  I don’t know, but I can find out.  Because here’s the thing – as much as I love hanging out with Cora and Rose (the protagonist and her sister from The Growing Season) I can’t stop thinking about Maggie and how badly she wanted to fly.  Don’t I have a responsibility to make sure she does?

When I began to write the story about Maggie and her romance with Ben Nakada at the start of World War II (she joins the Women’s Airforce Service Pilot and he is interned until they reunite in 1945) friends were eager to ask ‘how’s the book going‘.  And I usually answered ‘not bad’ or ‘plugging away‘ or sometimes – rarely – ‘I don’t want to talk about it‘.

When I declared the book ‘finished’ I headed to the San Francisco Writer’s Conference and piqued the interest of a few agents. Friends then asked,  ’When’s it comin’ out‘ or  ’Is it published‘  and the wonderful ‘Have you sold the movie rights yet‘.

But they grew tired of hearing me say ‘No, not yet…I’m revising…it’s resting for a while‘.  And they were definitely bored when I tried to explain how difficult it is to find an agent and to have a book published – that it can take years.  My very well-meaning and supportive friends (and I mean that – thank you!) began to suggest self-publishing.  But my reasons for avoiding self-publishing will wait for another blog post.

And so, here I am, almost three years from the day I walked into the writing group at Avenidas and said, “I know this woman who was a WASP…”

Fortunately, it’s that time of year when life’s pace slows.  Four of the yoga classes I teach are approaching a month-long hiatus.  I’ll have a few spare hours in the week to look over my research, read Maggie’s story for the first time in almost eight months, and decide, once and for all, what my next step should be.  My heart wants her to fly.

 

The Brilliant Philip Roth

She's hangin' on for dear life in gale force winds...sometimes that's what writing feels like.

I don’t even know if this is legal.  But here I go anyway.  I’m reading Philip Roth’s new book Nemesis (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt 2010), about a polio epidemic in Newark, New Jersey in the 1940’s.  And I’m learning to write.  Specifically, in my new work The Growing Season, I am trying to describe my characters in such a way that there is no doubt who they are, how they think, what they wear.  In Nemesis, Roth describes Bucky Cantor with perfect command of language and cadence.  By the end of the passage I feel as though I know Bucky – as though he’s the neighbor boy down the street I had a crush on in high school.  This is how I want to write.  This is how I want you to know my characters Wanda, Cora, Rose and Helen.  And this is how I want to know the characters you’re writing.

I could just say, “turn to page eleven”, but you wouldn’t.  So I’m going to stretch copyright laws a bit give you the passage right here:

…He stood slightly under five feet five inches tall, and though he was a superior athlete and strong competitor, his height, combined with his poor vision, had prevented him from playing college-level football, baseball, or basketball and restricted his intercollegiate sports activity to throwing the javelin and lifting weights.  Atop his compact body was a good-sized head formed of emphatically slanting and sloping components:  wide pronounced cheekbones, a steep forehead, an angular jaw, and a long straight nose with a prominent bridge that lent his profile the sharpness of a silhouette engraved on a coin.  His full lips were as well defined as his muscles, and his complexion was tawny year-round.  Since adolescence he had worn his hair in a military-style crewcut.  You particularly noticed his ears with that haircut, not because they were unduly large, which they were not, not necessarily because they were joined so closely to his head, but because, seen from the side, they were shaped much like the ace of spades in a pack of cards, or the wings on the winged feet of mythology…

Not ten pages later Roth describes the demise of a basement rat so completely I wanted to put the book down and wash my hands.  I’m not just reading this book – I’m drinking it, absorbing it.  If only I could write with such ease and fluidity.  Philip Roth does not waste one single word.  Sigh…must keep writing…must keep reading…must keep learning.

 

 

The Cafeteria Table

I was surfing the morning news with a bowl of steaming steel-cut oats and fresh brewed Just Java coffee (direct from Palm Desert) when I scrolled through an obituary for forty-seven-year-old filmmaker George Hickenlooper.  Four years younger than me, he died of a heart attack in his sleep. I didn’t know his name, but I knew his movies:  Heart of Darkness and Factory Girl are two.

Mid-way through the tribute the author of the obituary quoted a friend:

“We were kind of like the outcast, arty, new wave kids at the school…

we had our own cafeteria table we hung out at.”

I sat the coffee down and stopped reading.

“We had our own cafeteria table we hung out at.”

I can see their faces – my friends during my junior year in high school.  I know exactly where our table was – closest to the doors, to the left of the vending machines filled with twenty-five cent Butterscotch Tasty-kakes.  I can see my best friends and the ‘bit players’, too.  I see them all.  I hear the clatter of plastic trays, the echo of shouts and laughter.  I can even smell the overcooked gruel from the industrial kitchen.  I was one year younger than my friends, arty and lacking the familial stability of the rest of the gang but still, looking back, we were smart and pretty and only one or two tiers down from the “it” group, sandwiched somewhere between the cheerleaders and the brainiacs and miles away from the Audio Visual (AV) geeks.

The friends at my cafeteria table.

Who sat at your cafeteria table?

Maybe it’s a bit early to reminisce about the year.  After all, we still have to navigate my birthday, Thanksgiving and Christmas. Yet I can’t help but feel that 2010 – and all its fabulousness – is winding down.

This year, for me, has been about turning pages and beginning new chapters.  Reunions and reconciliations.  I’ve reconnected – face to face, not via the Internet – with all but two of the major pre-Ireland people in my life (and if anyone wants to send me a ticket to Grand Rapids before the end of December I won’t turn them down…).

This wasn’t my intention.  I mean, I didn’t wake up on January 1, 2010 and say to myself “It’s time to track down Beckie, Patty, Donna, Stacy, Mike, Dana, Anya and Mom.”  I didn’t think that at all.  It was more like the Universe took hold of my hand and whispered, “Mimm, I’ve got some people I’d like you to meet.”

Direct from the Cork & Cue Lounge in Nebraska

And each embrace was like fitting another piece of the puzzle together.

And now, nearing the end of my ‘magical year’, I feel I have a history that goes back further than 1994, the year I moved to Dublin.

Re-establishing relationships with friends and families has made me a part of something. I’m a part of someone else’s story.  I’m remembered.  And I remember, too. I remember you, and I remember parts of me I’d forgotten. It’s been nice getting to know her again.  To everyone I met again this year – thank you.

And now I’ll ask again.  Who sat at your cafeteria table?