Are You Ready or Not? New Beginnings

By Molly Field

As a writer, nothing brings you greater satisfaction than penning that crisp sentence, flowing with the prose you not only create yourself, but with excellent writing offered by other authors.

Because we fancy ourselves a complex species, the opposite side of the same coin proposes that as a writer, nothing brings you greater senses of defeat and challenge than the words of other authors.

Spring is coming. The cherry blossoms on our neighborhood trees are pinking and peeking; the cardinals and robins are chatty, looking for wives. The sun is shining a little stronger and a little brighter every day. Spring, brings Macy's white sales and thoughts of purging, spring cleaning, new beginnings. I believe that many "New Year's Resolutions" should really be made on the first day of spring because in the winter, it's still too cold (at least where I live) to begin training for a marathon outside. (Yes, I am aware that not all NYRs focus on fitness.)

So for this month, we are encouraged to talk to you about new beginnings, fresh starts... This is a challenge for me because I am in the throes of a mental reorganization myself. But no time like the present, eh?

I didn't know what I was going to write about today. I get my prompt from our fearless leader, and sometimes I gnaw on a bone and other times I just bang one out. This time, I did a little of both. 

Without boring you to tears, I gave up Facebook for Lent. I'm not terrifically Catholic, but the opportunity was so well-timed and I wanted an out anyway, that I couldn't resist. It had all become too much for me.

My intention was to spend that time working on my book's drafts and edit it, which I have done, but not with the attention I paid to my Facebook "career." So clearly, I've got some work to do. The thing is though, that yesterday, my cousin sent me the cover art for her friend's new book, Flat Water Tuesday, a story about competitive rowing and young love. As an adult rower who hails from a renown rowing town, whose extended family rowed, whose parents met because of rowing, and whose brothers and cousins and now son row, the book has a no-brainer appeal for me.

It is not ironic (rather I consider it cosmically inspired) that when that cover art came to me, I was also on the phone being wooed by an exiting board member of my novice son's rowing club to be... yeah: president. I have attended one general membership meeting. They do have their ducks in a row over there, but my "pedigree" was undeniable and most of the board members are land lubbers. I said yes. (D'OH!) We'll see how it goes. It could be great. New beginnings, right?

The energy of these new starts, beginnings, etc., theme is intoxicating; it reminds me of when That Boy looked at me for the first time. The theme for today's post is coursing through me like whisky. I am simultaneously totally psyched and utterly petrified. 

It was one year ago this week, that I sat on my cousin's micro deck beneath the unseasonably warm sun in Buffalo where we talked about her friend's book. He'd just signed on with an agent; a publisher was totally interested. The energy was ramping up. They were talking contracts, money, real business. A part of me died inside when I heard all this. I thought, "I'll never be there... this guy's amazing..." and yet a part of me never died, because that summer I wrote my book. The one that needs the editing and the love I need to give it. I can't blame Facebook; I blame me.

I'm stuck now, just a little, but stuck enough to say this about new beginnings: I am considering writing my foreword now. However, I have this sense that I'm going to end up writing a whole new book, in fact the feeling that I will end up writing a whole new version of that book is undeniable. Is that so bad?

I am an Adult Child of Alcoholics, plural. We ACOAs don't have much luck or experience finishing things, but I know this: if I get started on something that I love, I never give it up. I push and push and push. And while I know that writing that first version of my book was cathartic and amazing, the next revised version, the one that spawns through this foreword, is going to be even better, even clearer. I just need six uninterrupted weeks. Why did I say yes to the rowing club?

But I have to be careful. As an ACOA I am constantly doubting myself, my intuition, my gut. I question the enthusiasm I have for something, I wonder if what I'm doing is enough or valuable. I get so caught up in the questioning of the act that I seldom act. It seems the only thing that fuels my fire to get up and keep going is a silent rage that is borne of the frustration that constant second guessing yields.

People who don't know the world of an ACOA look at us when we talk about it as if we have three heads. "What do you mean you hid under your bed for hours listening for your angry parent to close their door for the night?" or "What do you mean you cooked your own food when you were five? Who does that?" or the other ACOAs in your life will nod knowingly. Either way, you end up talking about that stuff for hours until you can't anymore; you're either sharing stories with people who also survived it, or your busy trying to convince people that those memories were real. It can be taxing.

I'm writing about all this here, so candidly, because I can. It's my literary place under the bed. I'm 45 years old and I'm still worried that my parents will be mad at me if I write about my life. The spiteful kid inside me, my Peter Pan, says this, "Do you think for one minute they considered your anger feelings?" and I think for a moment, sigh, look into the distance and tell Peter, "I have no clue."

Just to be clear, I didn't grow up in tatters under a shanty on a mountainside; we had no want for anything material. My parents were well-educated, connected and intelligent people. I was constantly reminded of my potential, that I could be a concert violinist if I wanted, but I didn't want that. Because they are also ACOAs, my parents knew the damage that negative talk can do. However, it can sound cliché, but it was what they didn't say that spoke louder than anything they did say.

Right now, I can feel the energy ebb a smidge, but the passion is still there; the nagging thought that this foreword can be the jack to "unstuck" me must be attended to. It must be honored.

New beginnings are here for all of us. You don't have to be an ACOA to have them. You just have to be willing to leave the past in the past and if you can summon any ounce of courage from those crushing days that kept you going to today, use it to move you to tomorrow and get that book published.

We are writers. Let's do this.

come out come out, wherever you are. photo credit: me

   

TweetTweet

Do You Fear Success or Failure?

Tweet

by Carrie Bailey

When I was younger, my mother told me that my father - though a talented artist - never finished anything he started. And if he did, he finished it too quickly. Over the years her words grew into a phobia that has clung to every creative endeavor I've started. Because she considered him a failure, I quickly developed the fear that I too would be incapable of knowing how and when to finish a project.

Cover art of Bungle of Oz
Can't believe I forgot to put
my name on it...

Flash forward twenty years, one kid, two degrees and one thousand different hair styles. This week I'm doing the final edits for a book I will release this month called Bungle of Oz. I am paralyzed by doubts. I know. It's not normal, but it happens to me sometimes and not even a half a dozen cups of coffee will fix it.

First, let me tell you everything I've done to avoid finishing the novel. After a few months without contact, I finally wrote a letter to my ex-boyfriend telling him off for putting alcohol before our basic needs last year before I left him and New Zealand...for good. I had a good cry. I ate a few donuts. I chatted with Winonah, my sister, about our deep dark old musty smelly family issues. I tweeted. I posted on Facebook how awesome my sister is. I cried again. I thought about eating more donuts, but I used my last shred of will power to avoid it. Then, I ate a pineapple. I got hugs from my son and my roommate. I put on Harry Potter and had a cry at the part where Harry accepts that he, like Jesus, must sacrifice himself for the sake of humanity.

I can't blame hormones. I'm not imbalanced. I'm not stressed. I've been eating well and exercising. My life is pretty good. So why am I having a total meltdown?

For the same reason I feel bad when I end unhealthy relationships, eat the last donut in the box or move to a new city. It's hard to let go especially if the donuts have coconut on them. I'm even sad that Voldemort died. I got used to reading how he was defeated, passing the book to my kid, and holding my breath for two or three days until I could talk to the kid about the story without spoiling it for him. That will never happen again.

The end of a project, however exciting it may be, comes with new beginning - transition from being a writer to being a bookseller. Ah, now we come closer to the real source of my fear. Things change now. Though I realistically don't expect to sell many copies of Bungle of Oz, because Oz books in general aren't in high demand, I am now free to work on writing project that have more potential.

It's okay if you quit reading now - nobody has to dive into my neuroses with me - but, be warned - that's where I'm heading.  

Nothing wrong with being a hobo and a writer.
There's a lot of perks that come with the territory.
Like riding the open rail and camping.
Also, everyone already expects
you to drink and act inappropriate in public.

FAILURE

Why is it scary? Because I'd probably be comforted by all the gleeful people who never tried anything difficult themselves. I'd have to work in a library or bookstore for all time - actually, that's not so bad. I would never get to prove wrong certain people who made my life more difficult. I might lose confidence. My writer friends might reject me. My son and sister might stop admiring me.

SUCCESS

Honestly, I don't fear success. I fear yachts.
Because, that's where successful people hang out.
The day you've arrived is when the
success committee comes to issue you a yacht.
Then, if you're me, the yacht catches fire. 

How could that possibly be something to fear? Well, I'd lose the fantasy that everything is better when you achieve your dreams, because I'd still get pimples, I'd still have to fill out forms and I'd still loose friends to disease and accidents. I'd have to manage more responsibility. Even more people would envy me and not refrain from being pricks about it.

But, here's what is great about being a writer. I can't fail. Only not writing at all is failure. And there is no true point when a writer can say they have arrived. Until I sell as many copies as the authors of the Bible - a popular anthology with a few thousand years head start on me - I can always just set the bar higher. Success is a process. So, why have I been crying when deep down I know this?

My meltdown does not have its roots in a fear of change or success or even failure. It started with a belief that I was introduced to at a young age unwittingly by my mother. I believe that finishing a project is not as easy as starting one. I believe that screwing things up at the end is how creative types operate. It's amazing how a simple idea has taken hold in my mind and caused me so much anxiety. It's preventing me from enjoying the process. It's not my mother's fault either. It's not mine. It's not an issue of who is responsible. It's just a fact that raises an important question.

Why don't I open up my book, do the final edits and enjoy it as much as I did when I first started the project?

All I have to do is take a few deep breaths, open the files for my final chapters and edit. Focus on how much fun it is to write - I can't lie to myself about editing. Remind myself that I love sharing my books and getting reviews.

My sister gave me some good advice when we talked this weekend. She told me to take a break. Seriously, it was wise like only an older sister can be. All I need to do is wrestle my neuroses into submission and then resume the writing. This is a good time to watch Dr. Who and read Alex M. Bright's book TRIsocialization. And just because I have to start a new project soon, doesn't mean I cannot relish the end of this one and give it the attention the readers deserve. I can, because I believe I can.

My mom also read me The Little Engine that Could.
I loved that book. Of course, the train didn't have an artistic temperament.
Could the little engine finish a painting or is this just a story about physical labor?

***

Why wasn't it The Little Typewriter that Could?

***

I think I can.
I think I can.
I think I can.

***

Nah, it's not working.
Maybe I'll just reward myself with donuts when I finish.
That's motivation.