Tug-of-War

Sometimes I would really love for my life to be like a movie. I would love to have some heart-wrenching scene with soft piano music (preferably composed by Philip Glass) punctuated by whispered promises and a few tears followed by one of those awesome kick-ass scenes with the motivational songs where you watch all the trials and tribulations of the main character as she struggles towards her goal (always maintaining her gorgeous hairstyle) and finally accomplishes the impossible. I want all the months of worry, stress, and mild psychosis when it comes to my writing to be all wrapped up nicely in a two minute song with a great drum beat. I see no reason why it shouldn't work that way.

Real life is so much harder than that though. Those kind of inspirational moments only last a few minutes and then whats left is the actual grunge work that you have to do. There's no fast-forwarding to the end - where the sunsets and the smiles are waiting. You have to wade through all the mud and the muck to get there and when you do there is absolutely no chance that your hair will be clean and shiny. And that's where I am with my book.

There's the excited stage where I have my nifty little idea and I lavish for a few days in the sheer brilliance that exists in ME form (not). Then there's a workaholic phase where all I do is write for several weeks and typically stop changing out of my pajama's (and when I do change, god forbid, its just back into another pair of pajama's). But when that's all said and done I end up here. Trying not to look at my storyboard because I swear its making all sorts of condescending faces at me and avoiding my computers' desktop with the folder that reads "The Book You Have Not, And May Never, Finish If You Don't Get Off Your Couch And Write Faster, Better, And More Than You Currently Are, You Lazy Procrastinating Girl."

It's not that I don't want to write. I do, truly I do. I love telling stories, I love making people laugh, and I LOVE looking at a finished piece and getting that feeling that lets me know that whatever I put down actually does make sense and might also sound nice too. It's just the in between part. The part that rests its furry little butt down just after I open my word document and before I close said document in a mad rush to find out who in my house is making popcorn and if they'll share. It's that part that scratches just below my ankle, nips at the tips of my fingers, mews incessantly and then bats its little eyelashes when I threaten to make a small sacrifice out of it in the fire pit, as if it did nothing wrong. It comes in the guise of parents and teachers, family and friends, and essentially anyone who has ever told me that money cannot be made from writing, that what I'm doing isn't work, and that I'm condemning my future husband (sorry Crayon) to a lifetime of poverty if I continue on as I am. It also rears its head under the day to day pretense of school classes, part-time jobs, scholarships, dentist bills, 401k plans, car payments, gas prices, rent, and - god help me - Etsy. I swear Etsy will be my undoing. But when I'm gone all my friends will have an ENORMOUS amount of cute (albeit somewhat unnecessary) paraphernalia to inherit.

I suppose what I'm really trying to say here is that lately my life has become this awful tug-of-war between the things that I Adore doing (my writing, blogging, taking pictures, reading) and the things that I feel like I Must do (school, work, life planning, career building, happiness ignoring). I'm trying to strike some sort of balance but unfortunately it doesn't seem like the world runs on the idea that we should make time for the things we love now instead of later.

I have a feeling this is going to be a stressful week.

Writers & Readers

Someone once told me that writing is about becoming conscious. It's about returning to that place in yourself where you're open to everything the world has to offer, good or bad, and happy to learn your lessons from it all. Writing is about letting people look at the world from behind your eyes. And that's what makes creative writing so personal. It's not a neutral textbook description, a glossed over magazine article, or a monotone news report. It's everything and everyone you know all rolled up into one little marble and flung out on the hardwood floor for whoever wants to pick it up and inspect it. It's every emotion and trial, victory or defeat, that you've ever had - laid out on the table with just a little bit of trimming for everyone else to pass judgement on.

And in many ways, that's what makes it wonderful. Because if you're lucky (and I try so very hard to be lucky) you will get to have those incredible moments when someone reads your writing and smiles, laughs, or tells you that - yes, they know what you mean, they understand how you feel. And that is all the validation that a writer can ever need. To know that maybe some little part of what you've written made someone pause for a second and think about things a little differently. Or that maybe, after a long day, someone will read something of yours that reminds them to be strong, to always pursue what's most important to them, and to never ever give up no matter how hard things might seem. I think that that is what we all look for in good writing - something to connect with, and to take us out of our own perspectives for just a little bit.

Because the best and truest writing is the kind that allows us to see ourselves more clearly through its pages. It's the kind that forces us to look at the issues that we ignore and encourages us to act upon the things we find unacceptable. It a renewer of hope and a light for those that have lost their way. The kindest and most generous of writing is that which doesn't appease us with fairytale endings but instead encourages us be brave even when we feel unsure. It's the writing that entertains while it educates, and teaches while it transports us away from the daily grind. This is the kind of writing I want to do. This is the kind of writer I want to be.

So in light of all of this let me give a little shout-out to all the awesome-ly awesome people that have not only subscribed to my feed and followed the blog, but also endured all the techie work (which never seems to end) and left me some amazingly kind comments. You guys and all your comments are what keep me writing (and this blog going). So thanks a ton everyone - you guys are the best readers a girl could ask for.


Elizabeth Marie

P.S. Since we're talking about the blog I'd love if you guys could show it off to your friends? Hmm? Wink-wink!

The Crazy Ones

Parents are such interesting creatures. I'm not really sure when parenting became a hobby/pastime in our society, but I'm going to assume it was around the same time that the breed of psychotically obsessed, my-child-will-win-the-beauty-pageant-damn-it, crazymommybloggers developed. Now I have nothing against the mommy-blogging culture. In fact I think its great that there are families out there that get along well enough that they can stand still for pictures and find time to post said pictures on sunflower decorated blogs without taking any form of cheeriness-inducing medication. I'm also jealous of the constant stream of writing material that a hyper four year old must provide. However, that being said, its the crazy mommy bloggers that scare me. The ones that update every fifteen minutes, and write eerie posts about how much they loooooooooove their kids. First of all taking pictures of every-single-thing your child does all day long is such a ridiculous waste of camera space that it should be banned completely. No one (not even the fake-ly adoring, well-manicured, botoxed mother in law) cares quite that much, that we need a constant stream of information regarding Jane's new habit of eating the fridge magnets, or Robbie's recent taking to gift-wrapping the cat. Secondly, if you really do love your children to that extent shouldn't you be spending time with them instead of typing obnoxiously long paragraphs, filled with aggressive run-on sentences, explaining that yes you do love your children, as evidenced by all the photographs, new presents, and lengthy posts, - regardless of what child services has to say. It's the creepy stage mothers like this that give all the well meaning, family oriented blogs a bad name.

Lizzy

P.S. I'm doing some techie work on the blog so if anything looks weird or doesn't work right please let me know! Thanks much.

Backup Plans

Sometimes its so damn frustrating to know what you want. There are days when I envy my friends for just being able to do the "college thing". It all seems so ridiculously easy. They all get to go to school for four years, pick a major, and follow their yellow-brick-road of a career path to wherever they want to go. They get to go to med school. They get to apply for the law program. It seems unfair for the rest of us that have "unconventional" career choices. What guidebook is there for us to follow?

There aren't pretty office complexes for writers. We don't get to sign up with big brand names and impersonal corporations. We don't have the job security, the HMO's, the pensions, or the 401k's. There's no set formula to do well in our industry. No guarantee that with good grades and extracurricular activities, we'll graduate with job offers and proud parents, with a sense of where we're headed, or even the promise that we'll like it when we get there. There are no try-outs, no hopeful gateways, and the entry-level jobs that one might work up from are few and far between. There aren't any support groups either - and writing is a lonely affair. Working on a book is nothing like blogging. The blog community has the benefits of instant validation on any and all content. For the lucky few of us that have a small number of dedicated readers we are able to receive immediate feedback, (and most of us survive off of this drip-line of positive reinforcement). Unfortunately with a book you're up against 65,000 words without any kind of a support system. And that can be pretty daunting. It can also make you reconsider what the hell it is you're trying to do exactly.

My mother wanted to be a writer too. She fell in love with words the same way I did, through literature and music, and like me, she never really let go of the idea. She worked hard at it, as she does with everything in her life, and sold a few short stories here and there but nothing further came of it. She's a testament to the reality that the creative industries have more than enough fresh blood each year, to glide over all the Mid-Lister's that didn't make it as big as they had planned. Now, at 44 years old, she's going into a nursing program, finally pursuing her only other passion. She's my reminder of how cruel life can be to those that fall between the cracks and it makes me wonder if I'm not setting myself up to fail.

Now that I'm here I can't imagine really doing anything else - the standard fall-backs of journalism and teaching don't appeal to me very much - but I can't help worrying about what happens if I'm not part of that lucky (but minuscule) percentage that actually manages to get published, let alone figure out a way to make a living off of this writing business. I know that all I can do is try my hardest and hope for the best outcome but it seems like I have so much riding on all this now, I can't help but let my rational side suggest that I might be making a mistake. I have a fiance with whom I hope to build a comfortable (read: not lacking) sort of lifestyle and I wonder if I ought to pursue a more established type of career. I know that he wants me to do what makes me happy but I refuse to be one of those women that stays home and lives off their husbands income. I wasn't raised that way - and frankly I'd probably go crazy. So what it really all comes down to is - if not this, then what?

"Writers Block"

I took a little time away from my writing this week. An author I admire, with a writing style similar to mine (lots of sarcasm and plant metaphors), commented on the fact "writers block" is not appropriately named. The term block, she notes, implies the idea that you are stuck or that something is in the way of that naturally perfect writing we all hope to put down, when in reality its more that you are simply empty. So what this means, for me that is, is that one more little piece to the grand puzzle that is writing has been found and rescued from underneath the couch - where it hung out, collecting dust, while I continued to search the box.

Sometimes you just have to get out of the way. I tend to over-analyze things. Especially while I drive. I can literally spend a good forty-five minutes deciding whether or not I'm going to get pulled over and given a ticket by going 15 over the limit in comparison to the six other cars that just passed me doing 35 over, all the while factoring in the day of the week, the remoteness of the area I'm driving through, the time of day, and the location of the nearest Dunkin' Doughnuts.

Just recently I started doing this with my writing. I was actually spending more time wondering if I was any good, what my odds were of actually being successful - let alone making a career out of it, and trying to figure out what to write about, than I was actually writing. As it turns out I was just having an "empty" week and my constant worry-some nature took over.

So thanks for the supportive comments - it really means a lot!

Lizzy

Writing II

Why is it that in that one true moment of epiphany there are also ten thousand moments of insecurity, self-doubt, calamity, and general fear? It's like sure the sign says to go ahead and feed the swan but you can't because all the bloody ducks keep eating your bread. All you really wanted was for the picture perfect snow-white swan to lengthen out her neck and pluck that tiny bit of bread out of the water, and maybe for her to spread out her wings in an appreciative sort of way but instead what happens is all of the noisy, scrambling, greedy ducks race after the bread, while laughing at you with their sharp little quacks, while the lovely swan turns away from you - miffed that you didn't get the bread to her, and then you realize that not only did you not throw the bread far enough but its now, quite obviously, not the right type of bread, so of course only the ducks will love it, and they clammer for more, swimming alongside your little boardwalk as you try and escape them, hurling bread over your shoulder in an attempt to distract them, which of course they see right through, while the other pedestrians laugh at you for your sheer idiocy when it comes to the bread throwing antics.

I'm having some trouble with my writing, as it were. And even now I find myself more infuriated that I can spend a mere five minutes on paragraph about ducks that will hopefully have a few of my readers smiling to themselves but for some reason or another I cant seem to turn out a decent chapter for my novel. The story is there, the characters are there. But for some reason my pages seem flimsy and see-through. Part of me says that its simply because I'm starting out. That maybe I haven't gotten the flow, the heartbeat, of it all down just yet. That small part is quickly silenced by the rest of me which thinks I'm a hopeless failure and am using up my laptop memory with writing akin to the paper they line fish with at the markets.

There was a time in my life where, should this have occurred, I might have lightly shrugged my shoulders, said "Well, that's that," and gone on my merry way - probably off to buy a pygmy goat or to steal one of those lovely bright traffic cones (which, by the way, for those of you concerned with my crime habits, I haven't done - I did receive two however via a present from my boyfriend J - thank you again!). But now I'm more deeply involved. It's like when someone buys a pet fish for you - a fish that you didn't really want and certainly don't need. For the first few days you're impassive towards this fish. You think of naming it but you also think of frying it up and feeding it to the kitty. You feed it - out of boredom if nothing else, but it doesn't really belong to you yet. Those are the days where you can give the whole thing up, tell the fish you're flushing it and then proceed to do just that. If you wait though you'll find yourself growing attached to the fish. You'll realize that it sort of seems to bob its head approvingly when you talk out loud to it, and that maybe it flicks some water out with its tail when the plants are getting a bit dry. Soon you'll find yourself admiring shiny marbles and little green castles wondering if "Fredrick" would like them and eagerly awaiting your next paycheck at which point you will buy that nice big twenty gallon tank all for your fish that you didn't really want in the first place.

Sadly enough for me, I'm there. Not with the fish -obviously, however if that happens I'll be sure to take pictures as it all goes down, but with my writing. There was a point were it didn't matter to me one way or the other - I could write or not write, whichever way the wind blew, and either way I was happy. I suppose some childish part of me though that it was only my motivation that was the problem - that surely if I just sat down to write consistently the writing itself would come naturally. However now that I've actually done just that I've realized that not only may I be just completely terrible at this whole "Fiction" business but that I also cant live any other way. Where I didn't give even the slightest of a damn before I now have fallen in love and certainly will not resurface. My on and off affair with writing has ended entirely and I am now married to the idea - never to be parted.

Its inevitably cruel that right when I've committed myself to the idea of pursuing a career as a writer I also realize that I'm absolutely awful at it.

Needless to say - this has been a very long afternoon.

Lizzy

To Do or Not To Do?

Here is what I should be doing:

• Writing.

(That's all)

What I am doing (but should not be) is the following:

• Ebaying.
• Combing through my newly found (and very addictive) site Etsy.
• Contemplating a trip to the store for ice cream (Half Baked!).
• Pondering my favorite color of skittle.
• Napping.
• Watching reruns of The Office (could September be any farther away?).
• Reading things that do not fall under the category of "Research for The Book" (i.e. yoga magazines).
• Discussing Halloween costumes with my mom with regards to my puppy (apparently he's going to be a bat).

I think I need some sort of time management course or something. However that would also take time away from writing. Damn it.

Lizzy

A New Face!

Just a quick note here - the blog is undergoing some designing changes so if things get a little crazy for a bit rest assured that the posting will continue, however the previously bad color schemes will not!

Thanks for everyones patience here.

Lizzy

Writing

The odds of the average person becoming even remotely successful at what they consider to be a worthwhile pursuit are slim, if even that. We all have a cynical, frustrated, alter ego that frequently reminds us that there are already plenty of brilliant pianists, dancers, painters, and writers, "and why should anyone give a damn if you can do it too?", it likes to say. Why - when so many other decent people have tried and failed - should the red carpet be rolled out for you? What makes you so worthy of the end results we all desperately wish for? I imagine its a combination of things. It probably consists of a mixture of dedication, relentlessness, severe self criticisms and ultimately some prescription drug abuse. It starts with dysfunctional families, grade school disturbances, and an overeager ability to withstand pain. We all have that deep, underground, barbiturate -like desire that gives us something to think about on cold bus rides homes and an excuse to stare off into space at family dinners while making everyone else remarkably uncomfortable.

Mine is writing. For me it's always been one of those things that I'm not really excited about until I'm actually in the process. I'm like that with movies. I'll stand and sway back and forth in front of a ridiculous amount of DVDs claiming all the while that I have nothing to watch until I finally just pick one - whining that I don't really even want to watch this particular one - and twenty minutes later you'll find me immensely enjoying the film that I, of course, didn't want to watch in the first place. Yet, despite my anxiety over the matter, I always come back to writing. Even when I assure myself that I'll be far better off going into medicine or education I cant ever completely shake the idea of writing. I wish I could say I was one of those children that came up with fantastic stories to share at reunions and holidays, impressing family and friends with my brilliant creativity, with everyone nodding their heads in assurance that I would certainly be the writer amongst them all. I wish I could say I was the acclaimed second grader who won the school contests and received gold stars for every little poem she put out. However I really wasn't - I mostly just read and made efforts to be the top of the class when it came to swinging on the monkey bars.

But still, even without these tidbits to reassure me when I'm certain that I'm an absolute failure at it all and should immediately give it up, I find myself thinking that while many writers are destined to do terribly we cant all be - otherwise nothing would ever be written. I still find myself referring back to the legends of how King, Grisham, and Clark got their start. I remember that they didn't go to college to write, that their books aren't the most profound and all encompassing of literature, and that many of them didn't do well the first time around. And I remember the multi-million advances some of them got. Yes, I'm aware of the arrogance of it all, but for some reason or another the starving artist lifestyle has no appeal to me.

I'm quite thrilled that after all the negativity and cynicism that prefaces the decision to become a professional writer there are those of us who are still able to tell everyone else to go to hell - that we will do whatever we damn well please - and then we'll write it all down. When it really comes down to it, even though I know what the odds are of being a successful writer and I'm fully aware of the serious lack of health insurance that is traded in for the obscure (if not dubious) title of writer, I also know that if I don't try I'd never forgive myself. I'd rather write six books - fail miserably at all of them, gain thirty pounds off of cinnamon sugar toast and strawberry cream cheese while seriously contemplating a move to Jamaica than never try to write professionally.

So all in all, frustrating as it may be, and difficult as it remains, writing is really the only thing I want to do.

Decisions Decisions...

How many chances do we get in life? How many real, true opportunities do we get to have the things we want - to be the person we want? How many of us spend 40+ hours a week at a job we aren't in love with? We give the best 50 years of our life to a bunch of companies with CEO's that spend their time vacationing in the Hamptons - while we try and rid ourselves of cubicle fever with potted plants and magazine clippings of better places. I'm young enough that maybe I cant testify to the true pain of watching years of my life go by while I wonder why I haven't gotten around to doing things I want to do. I haven't had to stop and ask why I haven't spent time traveling yet, or why I haven't bought my dream home, or why I haven't pursued that lifelong passion of mine. Isn't that the reason we start working - to be able to afford that happy lifestyle? Yet when that lifestyle finally becomes a reality (for a lucky, hardworking, financially scrupulous few) its too late to really enjoy it.

How many people spend their lives in a profession they don't have a real interest in because they aren't really interested in anything? The childhood fantasy of what you want to be when you "grow up" becomes a dreaded nightmare for the college student. At a time in our lives when we are still overwhelmed with the thought of cable bills, student loans, and that dwindling box of Top Ramen, we are expected to magically be able to predict our values and interests for, at least, the next 30 years. Choose your occupation - for the rest of your life? How many of us would be happy with the option of one meal or one outfit for the rest of our lives? Maybe that's a bit dramatic, after all doesn't the average person change their career twice now? That might have worked fifty years ago - but it doesn't work now. I at least want more.

To clarify a little here my motivation for writing about this comes from several sources. First of all I'm graduating in a few months - and that's pretty fucking scary. People say it gets easier but I think that if everyone was honest with themselves they'd realize that's not really the case. It never gets easier to stick with something day after day if you don't love it. And as a senior that's the big topic of conversation:

"So what are you going to do after you graduate?"
"What kind of degree are you going to get?"
"Are you looking at jobs?"
"Do you know what you want to do with your life?"

I don't know. I don't know enough about myself, about money, about love, about life, and about the world to have any idea of what I want to do until I'm too old and decrepit to keep playing the game.

Secondly a lot of my worry comes from watching my mother. My mother is such a strong, beautiful, smart woman - but I don't think she's ever been really happy with her career. I've watched her hold all sorts of jobs (often more than one at a time) - but that's all they ever really were. Just jobs. Not careers. Not goals. Not passion's. Just jobs. She worked so hard for my brother, sister, and I and while I respect that and couldn't be any more grateful to her I don't want to follow the same path. I want to wake up every morning excited to do work I love. I want to buy a home with money I've earned doing something that excites and ignites me. Buyers remorse comes from a fear of wasting money - and a fear of wasted money stems from the thought that you have to endure even more to make that money back.

So here's the bottom line. I refuse to be one of those people. I wont spend my lifetime making someone else rich off my time, energy, and creativity. I wont worry about money. I wont dread Mondays and live for the weekends. I will make myself wealthy. I will spend each day doing work I believe in. I will support myself doing only things I love and enjoy. I will travel and have a high quality of life now - not later. I'm going to live my life as I please - and I'll be damned if I don't enjoy every minute of it.

If anyone, and I mean anyone who feels the same is reading I'd like to hear your thoughts.

More soon.

Lizzy