What if?

Several weeks ago, I read Stephen King’s book “On Writing.”

To summarize his recommendations for would-be writers:
Read and write a lot. The reading being as important as the writing.
Know your grammar.
Don’t be afraid to edit. Heavily.
Don’t use many adverbs.
Avoid the passive voice.
When you’re writing a first draft, just write. Think later.

One of the highlights for me was learning that he hates outlining a plot. He starts with an idea, a “what if,” and then lets the characters take the story over. Yes, even when he wrote “The Stand.” Of course, then he got stuck with a zillion loose threads when he was several hundred pages into the book and had no idea how to resolve them. This is not an issue I am ever likely to have on that scale, although sometimes I get lost in the middle of a 300 word blog post.

In his mind, he is just unearthing a story that already exists. He just tries to pull it out of the ground without ruining it, like an archaeologist with an ancient artifact. When he starts writing, he has no idea how the characters will resolve the “what if” he starts the story with. Love the idea, not sure how it works in practice. I’ll have to give it a shot with Samael and Mara.

The reading and writing hours I don’t have too far to go on. Except that I’m not writing anything…purposeful. For people who want to get serious about their writing he recommends reading and writing for about 4-6 hours a day, aiming for writing 1000 words a day. I don’t know if that’s me (the serious part) but I’m pretty close both on word count and time spent. Spot on, if you average in weekends. I’m writing about 450 words a day that get put online, and probably another couple of hundred words a day of ideas/blog starts. My word count is much higher on weekends. I have a day job and social life. I’m not sure you can have a day job, social life, be serious about writing AND sleep.

During the work week, I write in the evening, mostly. I get home around 4:30, go for a quick walk if it’s nice, otherwise start writing. I write until Mark gets home, come up with some excuse for not having made dinner. Ahem. Crank out something to eat, and then write some more from about 6:30-8:30. I read in bed for about a half hour, sometimes if I get something written that I’m happy with I might read for an hour in a night. I also write in my car before work, at my desk while I eat lunch, in my car on the way home if I get an idea (at stop lights) and any time I’m in a waiting room. I also write when I’m hanging out with my parents or out with friends. Yes, it is rude. I probably write about 3 hours a night, and read for about 1.

On weekends I write about 4 hours, and read about 2 if I don’t have social stuff going on. In football season, I don’t really have time to read on weekends. See above for “not being sure if I want to/am ready to be serious about writing.”

The really surprising thing, aside from realizing all of a sudden how much time I actually spend writing is that this has really got me reconsidering at least one longstanding opinion I have of myself. One of my most deeply held convictions about myself is that I’m lazy. It is true that I do a lot of sitting down. I like being still. Most of my hobbies involve sitting. Reading, weaving, knitting, writing. Does it follow that I’m lazy?

When I look at it in terms of being a creative person, instead of thinking about it in terms of being someone who moves around a lot physically, what I am doing is a lot of work. Granted, I like doing it. Still. What I have taken for years as sitting around doing nothing maybe isn’t. I’m writing about 3 hours a day. Maybe more. Not watching TV. Not staring out the window. Not playing solitaire. Not surfing porn on the Internet. Much. I’m writing. Reading. Making things.

Does it count if it’s not for pay? Is it less “work” if it’s for fun? I’m producing words, or hats and scarves, but is that a “productive”use of time? Do I even care? Does a hobby have to involve physical activity for it to not be a waste of time? No one would think I was lazy if I was spending 3 hours a day in the gym, or out running. If I’m spending it on creative pursuits of various types? What is it that determines if time is wasted?

Most importantly to me personally: what if I’m not lazy at all? Certainly I’ve been called lazy often enough. Intellectually, physically. I’ve never questioned it. I’ve just accepted that since I’m not out training for a half marathon, or gardening, or scrubbing the floor it must follow that I’m lazy.

It would be quite a surprise to me if it turned out that I am not lazy after all. That would mean I have to change my mind about something that I thought I knew about myself.

What else am I completely wrong about?

What if there are a lot of things?

Positive affirmations–hey, this will be easy!

They gave us some super easy homework in fat camp last week. The assignment? Come up with a personal mantra. A positive affirmation. Something you can live with even if most positive affirmations make you want to puke. (Yes, that particular clarification was mine. One of my hobbies is arguing with inspirational quotes. I have issues with the genre.)

It sounds easy, right?
Just make up something nice you can say to yourself when you are going through a mental rough spot. Ideally, a phrase that doesn’t make you want to puke.

Well.

It wasn’t easy for me at all. I mean, I know I am cynical beyond reason. I know I am not a fan of the positive affirmations. I know I prize doubt more than is entirely rational. I am not Stuart Smalley. Surely, though, I can write something kind to say to myself when I’m having a hard time. A mantra that I can relate to on my own cynical level. Surely it can’t be that difficult to find something nice to myself. Right?

Wrong.

Apparently “stop being such a fucking baby” and “get over yourself, you self-centered dumbass” do not count as positive affirmations. Neither does “I’m positive I’m being a fucking dumbass” or “I am sure that I am an idiot.”

It turns out that in my mind, there is nothing I need as much as a verbal ass-kicking.

Do I really believe that? Yeah. On some level, I think I do.

Would I ever talk to anyone else the way I talk to myself?

Oh, I hope not. There are one or two people who I am too blunt with. Or is that sharp? Those people, the ones who have the privilege of knowing my relatively unfiltered opinions of them, would possibly disagree that I am any kinder to others than I am to myself.

Which I don’t really know how to deal with.

Yes. I just said that I don’t know how to deal with imaginary criticism of personality traits that a few people may or may not think I even have.

Sobbing internally.

It really isn’t a question of thinking that I lack positive traits. There are many good things about me. I could make a list. It would be impressive. What I don’t really quite believe is that I am good enough. Now, what the fuck does that mean exactly? I have no idea. Good enough for what? I thought I’d gotten past that kind of inner dialogue.

I was incorrect. Inner kindness is apparently a work in progress.
At least my hair looks good.

So at this point, it looks like my mantra is going to have to be:

Come on–just give yourself a fucking break. You aren’t as bad as you think you are!

It needs work.
Just like I do.

Maybe I will just go with this instead:

20140311-105827.jpg

Standing up and standing out

This little light of mine
I’m going to let it shine
Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine
–This Little Light Of Mine/Harry Dixon Loes

As a kid, I was very introverted, but for as long as I can remember, I looked forward to finally being able to go to school even though it meant being around a bunch of strangers. I learned to read practically before I could talk. I just knew that school was where I belonged. The idea of school wasn’t a complete mystery to me–I’d been in day care, pre-school and kindergarden my whole life. They weren’t teaching us enough though. I wanted to read big books. I wanted to learn to add. I thought all the other kids would be as excited to be there as I was. I already knew how to read, so I thought the teachers would also be as happy to have me in school as I was to be going there.

I was so wrong about both.

Most of the teachers didn’t know what to do with a kid who always knew the answers before anyone else and asked questions about stuff they weren’t ready to teach yet. Most of the other kids didn’t like the kiss ass know-it-all.

The eager hand in the air started to get ignored. Then it stopped being so eager. Then it stopped completely. The teachers wanted less enthusiasm and more conforming. I figured out that what everyone wanted was for me to sit down, work independently if they couldn’t give me enough to do and to shut the fuck up.

So eventually that’s what I did.

It didn’t happen overnight. It took several years for the love of learning that I was born with to be beaten down. I had some excellent teachers in elementary school who kept me going after a very rocky first grade. By the time I got to Junior High, I’d figured out that all most of the teachers really wanted was for me to tell them the answers they were expecting, get good grades and blend in.

What they never managed to do, though (and my 8th grade English teacher certainly gave it a good try) was to kill my love of reading. Reading kept me from going completely crazy. Reading kept me from getting bored in class as long as I was discrete about it. Reading was my one constant. Has been my one constant for my whole life.

Reading, among other things, gradually got me to stop hiding so much. Got me to start talking again. Reading, and some really wonderful people. I’m still not exactly an extrovert, but I do make an effort to talk to people. I try not to be so terrified in groups that aren’t made up entirely of the 5 people in the world who I’m comfortable being with.

I don’t succeed a lot of the time, but I keep trying.

I’ve also given up conforming. Conforming and I didn’t get along at all. Maybe I’m just a born weirdo. Maybe I’ve just figured out that trying to be someone else made people dislike me more than they ever did when I was being my (weirdo) self.

Maybe I just grew up enough to realize that I can’t be anyone else. No one else can be me. Only I can. If I try not to be, I’m not doing justice to myself or to anyone.

Or maybe I was just tired. It’s tiring to be someone else all the time. It’s tiring to beat down who you are. It is much easier to stand up. To stretch.

Whatever it was, I’m mostly OK with standing out at this point.

In the (hopefully immortal) words of Storm Large:

Big girls were not built to walk the straight and narrow.

So I’m just not going to walk anyone else’s idea of the right path. I’m going to walk my own. Even if people notice me. Even if people don’t like me.

If anyone doesn’t like it, well…
I’ll be over there on my path, minding my own fucking business. They won’t bother me much.