Dec. 12, 2001
My eyes won’t stay open much longer, my fingers are too tired to type and my brain pleads insanity from exhaustion. I’ve just come off a mad literally non-stop 4 day run of writing.
I was working until 4am and then would rise at 8am to start all over again. I’d forget to eat or get up and stretch my legs. Instead of paying attention to the dishes, the laundry, the phone calls, I ignored it all and did nothing more than write and create.
There were so many ideas swimming around in my brain and for the first time in awhile, I was able to make sense and record each and every one of them. Websites were redesigned, others were started. Writing projects long put off were completed and people I had to write to now had emails from me in their inbox.
Not once in all this work did I tell myself to stop, even when perhaps I should have. I kept going and working and instead of being cranky about working at 3am, I was excited at how much I was doing. At one point I noted to myself that if this were any other job I would have been bitter – very bitter. I would have demanded to know why I was working such long hours because it’s just not human. I would have wanted to know what would my compensation be for working such long, demanding hours? I would have watched the clock relentlessly for lunch breaks and coffee gatherings. I probably would have made a fuss, especially if I had to work the weekend.
But there I was, doing the exact same thing, without direct pay, without compensation, without breaks, and without complaints. In fact, I was happy about it all. I felt good about it all. I felt accomplished about it all. I hadn’t worked my arse off so much in a long time but somehow, it just didn’t feel like work.
It reminded me of when I met an old man who was a wood carver and sold all his beautiful toys, dishes, shakers, and various other wood projects. Once I exclaimed when I looked at the detail of his wooden toys and said, “Look at all that hard work.” He heard me and with a wink replied, “That’s not work, it’s play.”
I understand that now. That is why after all that hard work I still long to do more.
Dec. 06, 2001
When people ask what I do and I tell them I’m a writer, their response is to scrunch their nose and ask the same questions that everyone asks; how much does it pay, what do I write, and where did I get my degree. It always happens, without fail.
My answer is now always the same, “The pay varies, I write about every day real things in a way that you take a second look, and I have no degree as I’ve never stepped foot in a university.”
At this point, their eyes begin to squint and they look me up and down. They almost always want to challenge me because that’s not an answer they expected. They say, “You write about life? You’re what, 20?”
“No,” I’ll say with a wink, “I have far more years and experience than you think.”
Then there is always a moment of awkward silence until they ask, “Well, how do you write if you don’t have a degree?”
“Work doesn’t always require a degree,” I say. “Just effort.”
At this point the conversation usually ends. When people ask me those questions I know they’re looking for a certain response, and when they don’t get it, they become a bit defensive and try to put me on the spot but not validating what I say. It can be frustrating to say the least to not be taken seriously – either because of your profession, the way you look, or because of the life you’ve chosen.
When I encounter those sorts I just remind myself that they won’t help me anyway, so why bother explaining things or giving them the whole story.
I am by no means an accomplished and successful writer, and I still have far too much to learn than I can grasp right now, but at least I am out there doing. Perhaps not in the best way, or the easiest way, perhaps not as “professional writers with degrees and 50 years behind them” do, but I’m doing. I’m out there showing up each day trying to make a living at what I love. That, I think, is what is important – not how much I’ve taken home, how many degrees I have or a title that is cut and dry.
It’s funny, but when I was shopping today I heard a girl say, “I just graduated in May, with a degree in Creative Writing. There are no jobs out there for me at all so I have to work retail.”
When I heard that I thought to myself, “only if you want to.”
Dec. 03, 2001
I never understood people who were successfully and happily working in a field they loved. How did they know their calling? I certainly didn’t have that feeling of knowing what I wanted to be when I grew up, let alone find a job in it.
Before all of this I was frustrated beyond belief at what to do with work because over and over I had heard people say “do what you love to do, and figure out how to make money from it.” But I had no idea what it was that would make me happy – I only knew what made me unhappy, and that wasn’t much help.
I would read about writers and they always knew they’d write. I read about singers who always knew they’d sing. I read about photographers who were snapping pictures on their little Kodak cameras at age 6 and knew that’s what they wanted to do. Designers, graphic designers, parents, lawyers, doctors – they all seemed to know and I didn’t.
Very slowly, the idea of wanting to write came into my head. It wasn’t a bolt of lighting but just a little voice that came into my mind once in awhile. In April, it all came to a head when I got a push from an outside source and the rest is history.
One day a few months after I had begun to write full time, I went through my childhood boxes and discovered in them were countless things I had written until around age 15. There were short stories, journals, novels, poems, letters, and lots of random bits. I literally had boxes full of books of writing – writing that I had done all on my own, for fun, and just because. The one thing that struck me the most out of all my writing was that over and over in my journals were the words, “When I grow up, I am going to be a writer.”
I couldn’t believe that I was so passionate about writing and that I had declared so bravely and outloud that I would be a writer. How I forgot about such a passion and declaration I’m not sure. I can only assume that life and growing up responsible got in the way.
One thing is, I know I’m not the only one who had a dream as a child and forgot it along the way.
My husband works in a high-powered corporate tech position. Although he loves his job and his field, he began to feel there was something missing from his life because the only thing that his identity was based on was his job – and he was more than that. At the beginning of this year, he began to question himself and what he wanted, but he kept coming up short with answers. He tried to search for things he loved to do but had absolutely no clue at all. He also felt he had no time to find out. Then, one day about 4 months ago, he decided that he’d learn to play the guitar I had bought for him over a year ago. One day a week, for half an hour, he drives to a little nearby town and takes his lesson. He wasn’t sure if learning the guitar would be a good thing or not, because he was so afraid of failing at it or not liking it as much as he thought he would. But he went, each week, regardless of what the world was doing. And he began to enjoy himself and come out of his shell and release his creativity.
He found his passion.
Now he asks himself why he didn’t start years ago. But years ago it just never dawned on him that guitar and music was his passion, even though now, it seems so obvious.
Then, today, he sent me this email:
“I just remembered yesterday that when I was younger I was fascinated with electronic keyboards (musical). I got a small, cheap one when I was 9 or 10, and got a couple more over the next couple of years, of increasing size and complexity. I never learned to properly play them, I just loved messing with the effects. I also had a cheap toy drum machine with drumsticks, and also a pair of those drumsticks that you can play on anything. Even before that, I had played with recording music off the radio and making mixed tapes, messing with connecting tape recorders together and dubbing. I made up names for my “band” and constructed little cassette tape inserts with original artwork.
I totally forgot how into it I was. It culminated with a couple rap songs that I recorded onto a cassette when I was about 13, complete with keyboard drum beats and voice samples and effects, and I made up an insert for it too.
It’s weird because I was totally on the path to recording my own music and I’m not sure what happened, why I stopped. Puberty hit, and I got angsty and broody instead, or something. Ever since then I always fantasized about making music or being in a band but I never took it seriously until I started doing guitar this year. I’m still not sure I’m taking it seriously because it’s scary.
It’s just crazy because when you write about how you always loved writing and always knew that’s what you wanted to do, I envy that because I think that I’ve never really had anything like that. But maybe I kind of do and just didn’t realise it.”
That last paragraph I relate to so completely, and from the countless emails I’ve received saying the same thing, so do a lot of other people.
I think why it can be so hard for us to figure out what it is we really want to do is because we look outside ourselves for the answer. We try to emulate someone else who we think has it all together or whose career we think we could do. We try to figure out a “safe” passion or find something that we love and is “respectable” at the same time.
But if we could just look inwards, reminisce a little about the years when we didn’t care what others thought, then we would all find the answer of what we want to do. Because it’s always right there.
Nov. 18, 2001
Nervy Girl magazine contacted me a bit ago saying that they might want to run another article in their next magazine. I felt extremely excited over this for several reasons. One was because of the feedback I had received from their readers – it was very powerful to me. I heard numerous stories of women who were either going through what I was going through or from women who felt I was the push they needed to start their own adventure. The second reason I was excited was because it meant that my writing was doing something – it was out there having this life and affecting others. And that, in turn, meant I was doing something.
With two articles behind me, the possibility of a few more, I felt that I was finally getting somewhere after months of wandering. Even though I have a lot more road to travel, it seems exciting now rather than daunting.
I finally feel that I am now a writer instead of a wannabe.
I realise now that this is all happening because I’ve chosen for it to. I’ve made the effort, I’ve showed up, I’ve done the work, I made the calls. That has made me feel a sense of accomplishment like nothing else. I no longer sit and wait for someone to hand me everything. No emulating, no wishing, no trying to figure out the keys to others success because I’m working on my own.
Before all of this, I used to glaze over the thousands of books in a bookstore and scrunch my nose. “How did they get published?” I’d open up a magazine and think to myself, “I could have written better than that. How did they get in there?” Then there’d be the times where I’d see some writings of a writer I admired and think “How did they do that? I’ll never be able to do that.
Then one day, it dawned on me why the bad writers were published, why the authors in the bookstores had their books and how the good writers wrote brilliant articles. They simply did.
I realised the only difference between them and myself, was that I just thought about writing and they actually took charge and did something. So one day I stopped just thinking about writing and began writing and doing.
That was the magic. That was the secret each of those published people had. And now I knew it.
I always thought that published people had something I didn’t have and that they were in a separate league than I. But I have realised that people are people are people and those that have success have it not because of a special potion they rubbed on themselves but because they pursued something.
Nov. 16, 2001
Maybe it’s too early to tell. Maybe it’s another on of my ploys where I trick myself into thinking I’m doing good and then slack off later on. Maybe, though, this time is different.
I got up this morning and was tired and cranky from a bad sleep. I had a million thoughts running through my brain and none of them had to do with articles. I thought, ‘What do I do? How do I work, be creative, pack for the move, take care of the house, run the errands and fit eating all in twenty four hours?’ It was only 7am and already I felt overwhelmed.
Then I remembered I had prepared for this yesterday and went to the palm, flicked on its screen and there, in perfect order, was my list of to do’s. Not having to think about my day made getting on with it easier, and one by one I began to tackle each to do on my list.
Breakfast was cooked, yoga was done, tea was drunk, and being irritable was over with. The next task on my list was work. Work as work on my portfolio, work on articles, work on content, work on marketing – whatever. As long as it had to do with my career, now was the time to do it. At first, I actually resisted starting on the task of working. The strange thing was because I had it scheduled my mind changed it’s opinion about work. Even though I had worked countless hours without complaining before, now, seeing it as a task, as an appointment, my mind started to think it was just plain old work with no room for creativity. A part of me actually didn’t want to start. I actually didn’t want to go to work. There was only one thing to do about this and so I dragged myself over to the desk, sat myself in front of the computer and just began.
I started to do a little typing here and there. I started on some design work for the new sites. I started to make a list of books I needed to get and did some research on some new magazines. Before I knew progress was being made, stories were shaping up, and the portfolio was coming along slowly. Then I noticed that I was hungry and thought about lunch. But lunch is so far away, I thought. Then I looked at the clock and three hours had passed without me knowing it.
I was proud of myself to just do some work even if I didn’t feel creatively inspired in the beginning. Normally if I didn’t feel like working, I didn’t. I thought because I was the boss and without deadlines, it was OK to not work when the creativity wasn’t blooming or my brain just didn’t want to function. I realise now that even if I don’t feel creative or feel like I have the ability to write something just then, that sitting at the computer doing a little bit of work on this and that helps to get the juices flowing. Then in no time, my brain is working overtime with more ideas than I can count and I’m working like mad and actually enjoying it.
I’ve heard of countless writers’ say there are two very important things to do with regards to writing. One is to show up each day and the second is to just write and write no matter what. I did both today and I can safely say that it worked. I kicked my own arse into gear and it felt good.
Nov. 11, 2001
I’ve been keeping the creative side completely separate from the work side, I realise that now. But after thinking about it, I didn’t feel so bad because I realised that that’s just how I had grown up. That the two were separate.
As a child, you have playtime. That is different than regular classes and regular work. It’s a period that’s set aside for just pure imaginative play. As you age, that playtime becomes more limited and the worktime becomes more regular. Then in high school, you’re told to not waste time playing around, that you need to work more and think linear if you want to get anywhere in life. Then when you’re out of school, it seems that all you do is work and be responsible. When was the last time you saw a grownup playing pretend on their own that wasn’t in some institution?
So I realised today that they had just been separate entities, and that if I were in one mode, I’d fight off the other. But I can’t do that anymore, I have to blend them. Otherwise, nothing gets done.
One way I’ve done this is to schedule my arse off. This despite the fact that up until now I have never successful made a to do list and followed it. Regiments have always put me off. But I’m determined to try it this time or I’ll have all this stuff floating in my head that can overwhelm me, and then I tend to not do any of it.
I was lucky in that Chris’ work gave him a new Palm Pilot, and since he already had one he gave it to me. I spent a lot of yesterday scheduling appointments for myself and writing tasks to do. Sort of a routine of sorts.
In the mornings, I’ve scheduled my yoga, my breakfast, my reading and general laziness. Then, from 10am until 3pm I’ve scheduled work. This isn’t really too hard because this has been my routine thus far. But to see work scheduled from 10am to 3 is really good, because from that time, I can’t do the dishes, I can’t run errands, I can’t goof off. That is my time to work. Somehow seeing it, written down, just makes it more real, and I find that especially important since I am working at home where doing other things seems all to easy to do.
From 3 until 6 I have my goof time. This is cafe time, walk time, chat with friends, run errands, nap, read, whatever. That gives me permission each day to just be. Where the creative sparks can come without guilt whatsoever. This is also important, because sometimes if I’m just reading, I feel guilty. Like I should be working on my portfolio or sending out articles.
From 6pm onwards is whatever time – dinner, chores, sleep, walk, laundry, time with Chris, whatever.
I’m not sure how well this will work, to be honest. I’ve tried to make some kind of structure that will work with my personality and my way of doing things, and I think for the most part, this is pretty good. I had to do something because just being creative all day wasn’t selling anything, and just working all day to sell something wasn’t helping with my creativity.
At least now when people ask me to do things I have to think twice. I might just have to say, “I can’t make it this time, I’m working.” To which they might reply, “But I thought you worked from home and you can do anything, anytime?” “Not today,” I’ll say, “I have an appointment.”
Elsewhere