The first time I had ginger ale, I was nineteen years old. While I was growing up, we were primarily a Coke and percolated coffee family. I remember watching commercials for Seagram’s Ginger Ale and thinking it must be something for rich people. Like Perrier and Pizza Hut.
So, on that sunny day in The City, I followed my brother’s roommates up a narrow flight of stairs to an Indian restaurant just outside The Village. Square tables covered in white filled the open air dining space. Large, slow moving ceiling fans circulated above us as we were led to a table somewhere in the middle of the room. It was crowded but comfortable.
Our waiter was tall, wearing an impossibly white suit and an equally impossibly white turban. He pulled out my chair and seated me despite it being a casual cafe, and I felt like a princess transplanted from the Midwest to that magical, exotic rooftop.
My escorts for the day advised me on the menu, and I chose a fruity rice with chicken and nuts. I batted between ordering water or a Coke when I saw it on the menu. Ginger ale.
I asked Tod, “Have you ever had ginger ale?”
He smiled. “Of course. Haven’t you?”
I shook my head. “No. Do you think I’d like it?”
He smiled again. “Yes. It’s divine. You HAVE to try it.”
The waiter brought our food and drinks. He set down a glass goblet, beads of condensation glistening like jewels along the sides. Ice floated in half moons as the golden nectar bubbled and churned – dancing.
I sat up a little straighter. I arranged the napkin a bit more neatly over my lap, and I took a sip.
There was a time when, if you looked up procrastination in the dictionary, you’d find my picture right next to its phonetic spelling. Even now, I succeed in accomplishing my goals in spurts, like a sprinter. But, I want to be more like a marathoner because, after all, this is a long race we’re running.
In my younger years, I would often wait until the midnight hour, literally and figuratively, to do things like laundry or that 40 page term paper on the redemption cycle as represented by earth elements in King Lear. True story.
Then, as it so often does, life caught up with me and my mercurial ways. Certain things just didn’t flex into my creative scheduling. Bills, work, grown up chores, and the eventual realization that, whatever I wanted to accomplish in life, I was responsible for putting into play. I have an expiration date, and contrary to what most of us so-called visionaries were taught to believe by other so-called visionaries, so do our dreams and aspirations.
After a few (okay, MANY) unladylike stumbles and outright epic failures, I realized that my goals were more important than my perceived freedom of spirit. I began to prioritize, whittle down, and focus. None of these actions come easily to me. I can’t even call them habits yet because, even as a 40-something, I still struggle. Daily.
I make to-do lists, lose them, and start over with a new piece of paper (sorry, trees). Between my full-time job, being a mom and (trying) to be a homemaker, sometimes it’s hard to squeeze in freelance work before 9pm. Then, there are my working manuscripts: my memoir, my novel, and my fantasy trilogy. Oh, and those short stories. . . *sigh*
It’s unrealistic to think I can do it all, and yet, I feel like a failure for not being able to bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, etc. etc. (If you’re under 40, you probably won’t get that reference. Sorry.) After beating myself up for not living up to my own expectations (or delirium, maybe?), I usually come back to reality with a clearer vision. I count my blessings and remember to be thankful. I remember that, yes, tomorrow IS another day and sometimes I remember that the rest of the day – the afternoon or even this next hour is fresh and unspoilt.
Then, instead of making the day’s to-do list on paper, I email it to myself. Instead of attempting to write 3 chapters between the hours of 9 and 11pm, I tell myself to do one page. One page is good. One page is great. One page is freaking FANTASTIC!
Can I bake 3 dozen cupcakes for the school bake sale this Thursday? No, but I can take home some reading pull out pages and collate them over the weekend. Can I clean out the car, weed the garden, and make a batch of cookies between getting off work and taking my son to his piano lesson? No, but I can grab a few things as I get out of the car, water the mums, and look through the cookbooks quickly with him to pick a recipe to bake together on Saturday afternoon.
Can I say no? Yes.
Can I compromise? Yes.
Can I be patient and forgiving, with myself? Yes.
And so can you.
There are many reasons we procrastinate. Only you can look inside yourself for your unique answer. For me, my reasons vary. I’m tired. I’m afraid it won’t turn out the way I want. I think I’ll have more time later. But, I challenge each of us to look at our lives and realize we’re on a one-way trip. What do we really want to accomplish while we’re here? What will bring us joy? What on our list is worth making a priority? What can we let go?
When you decide what’s important to you, revisit it daily. Spend time with your goals if you want to make them realities. You might stumble and fall, but keep getting back up. Move forward a little or a lot everyday, and you’ll make it.
One of the first things you learn in a writing class is the importance of identifying your audience. Who are your readers, and why will they want to read your work? What are you hoping for them to take away from your project, and how will you craft your message to meet their needs?
Some audiences are easier to identify than others. For instance, consumer ad copy will speak to a targeted audience depending on the product being advertised. YA dystopian literature will have its own audience as well. Memoir? Well, that can be a bit tricky.
I wasn’t very far into outlining my memoir when I realized identifying my audience wasn’t going to be as easy as I had first assumed. My story could appeal to a variety of people and age groups. I sought the advice of my friend, Robin Stanley, a professional coach and writer you can visit at http://www.robinstanley.org.
She gave me the most wonderful advice – to create the image of a reader in my mind, and write to them. So, that’s exactly what I did.
Of course, me being me, I couldn’t keep it simple ;p
My “reader” is Lizzie. She lives in New England, and whenever I see her in my mind’s eye, she’s settled in an over-sized chair, sipping a warm mug of cocoa while watching a gentle snow fall out the window. She’s in jeans and a Henley – purple, and she’s wearing striped socks. She’s holding my book against her propped up knee while her other leg is stretched out, foot skimming an old, dark hardwood floor.
When I write, I write to Lizzie. And, for the most part, it works 🙂
How about you? Do you write for someone in particular?
As some of you may know, I’ve been working on a memoir for the last 2 years or so. While I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was 5 or 6 years old, I never intended to write a memoir. I thought they were reserved for celebrities or renowned movers and shakers — great minds, innovators, etc. You know, people who’ve made a contribution to the arts or humanity in general.
I am not a celebrity, nor am I a “mover-and-shaker.” I’m just a woman who was a girl with a story to tell.
I’ve written most of my life, writing my first short story in maybe the first grade. I like stories of all kinds, as long as they’re good stories.
When I began writing my memoir, I was actually elbows deep in another project that had completely captured my heart – a fantasy trilogy. Then, I got the call that my mother had been diagnosed with Leukemia, and my mind drifted back in time, flitting in and out of memories that mama had always meant to write down, but didn’t. I decided I would write them down for her, and quickly realized that I wasn’t able to write her story. I had to write my story, and by telling about my life, I would be able to share her life in mine.
So, I set about writing. Joy, pain, suffering, victories, loss, and change.
It has been difficult. I relive moments of my childhood through my grown up filter, and I’m overcome with respect, compassion and understanding for my family that I couldn’t see before. I see my mother’s actions now as a mother myself, and so many things make more sense. I value the journey, and attempt to honor the past.
But, I doubt.
I doubt my talents and skill. I doubt the value of my words, the significance of my endeavor. Will it offer anything to the world, to my readers? Will I do justice to the past? Will I honor my mother?
Then, a friend asked me a simple question. Why are you writing this memoir? You’re wanting to make a contribution, right?
Yes. A contribution.
It may not be published. It may not be praised. It may not receive a Pulitzer.
But all those things are reactions to my work that are out of my control. My job is to create and give. A part of myself, my history, experience DNA – this is what my experience was, and this was my reaction. Maybe it will help you if I share it. Maybe I can contribute to your life.
An offering. A gift.
Do you have something to contribute? Have you been hesitating? Do you doubt?
Remember that there is a purity to a gift given without expectation. When we do our best and offer the world a bit of ourselves unselfishly, good things happen. How can they not?
Be encouraged. Embrace the journey and the things you learn along the way. As you give, you grow, and isn’t that part of the joy?
Have you ever gone on a trip with a beloved friend only to find yourself desperately looking for a way out halfway through the journey? Then, when it’s all over, you get home, fall back into your normal routine and after a little break you are missing your friend again? Writing can be a lot like that sometimes.
For the past year, I have been working on a memoir project that has been difficult at times. Rather than breezing through on the flight of my imagination (as I would on a fiction piece), I’ve had to sift through memories and emotions, picking and choosing what I share, but processing everything again, in my own way. Looking back at my childhood through the filter of my older and somewhat wiser eyes, has been an educating experience. Some things have been lost, and some have been gained. It has been an opportunity to glean the beauty from the chaff of the past, and for that I am thankful and even appreciative. But, even as I completed the first draft, there came a point where I had just had enough. My heart and my brain were hurting, missing the past and identifying points in time that if I could just reach back and change…well, you know how that goes. Simply put, I had grown weary of my companion, despite the worthiness of the journey. But, I am stubborn, and was determined to see my project straight through. In true fashion of my personality, I was determined to keep digging until I hit water, no matter how badly I needed a break.
Fortunately for me, two of my friends, unbeknownst to one another, challenged me with a change of scenery. A change of pace. “Why don’t you take a break from chasing a Pulitzer, and just have a bit of fun for a while,” they said. “Why don’t you work on something else? Something lighter?” they said. At first, I didn’t like the idea. I had a project to finish. I was a terrier with a bone hidden deep in the ground, and it’s hard for me to let go, even temporarily. But, the idea of a breath of fresh air, to take flight on the zephyr once again, called to me in sweet whispers of possibility.
So, a few weeks ago, I collected my memoir manuscript and tucked it away with a kiss and a promise and started working on a short story, which I hope to have done and posted on Amazon in a week or so.
And guess what? I have started to miss my memoir. I am starting to look forward to reuniting with it, revisiting those precious memories and doing my best to bring them back to life. We just needed a little time apart.
That’s the way it is with some things in life, not just manuscripts and memories. Have you hit a wall in your journey? You might consider a scenic detour. It does wonders for the heart and soul 🙂
You have a project due, but the page is blank, the pen feels awkward in your fingers, and your laptop hums mockingly in sleep mode. You’ve got nothin’, nada, zip, zilch, zero. You know the feeling. It churns in your stomach, makes your head spin, and turns your thoughts to vapor. Writer’s Block strikes again, stripping you of all sense and musing, casting you down in a spiral of deadline despair.
Don’t worry, we’ve all been there probably more times than we’d like to admit. Here are a few things that might help pull you out of the darkness and into the light.
1. Take a few minutes to read, well, anything. Give your mind a break and introduce some fresh ideas into the mix. Writing an article on the toxicity of South American plant specimens? For goodness’ sake, go read some Walt Whitman.
2. Go for a walk. The fresh air will nourish your brain, and you just might be inspired by your senses.
3. Call a friend. Seriously, have a good chat, and hopefully a few laughs. The change of pace and mental stimulation of a good conversation can work wonders!
4. Eat something. Odds are, you’ve been wrestling with words for a while. Take a break and have some light, healthy refreshment. It might just be the boost you need.
5. I’ve saved the best for last. It’s my fail-safe go to in times of trouble. Ready for it? Okay – here it is…write anyway. Yep. Take your pen, keyboard or lucky green #2 pencil in hand and write. Something. Anything. It can be your grocery list or the Preamble to the Constitution. Get your fingers moving. Get words out. It might hurt, it might not make sense, and it might make you want to scream or cry. But, do it anyways. I promise, you’ll break through.