Consistency

My husband’s car has been in need of work for a few months now. And due to COVID putting a damper on finances, we thought it would be best to hold off on it, and just share the one car that I drive since it’s newer and in great shape. So some days, he will take the car to work, and the kids and I stay at home. And other days, I take him to work and pick him back up later. And this has worked pretty well over the last, maybe, 6 months or so. We don’t go out much during the winter anyway because the roads are usually shitty or it’s too damn cold to enjoy being outdoors when you’ve got a low cold tolerance like I have. So our trips out together have been fewer.

The kids and I used to listen to podcasts when we were out driving longer distances. We used to travel 40 min one way to a homeschool co-op group once a week, and we went on outdoor excursions usually at least once a week prior to COVID and everyone else in the world discovering nature is awesome. And since we were in the car for these extended times, we would have the time to listen to a few interesting, made for kids podcasts. And I really miss that now that we don’t drive as far/long anymore.

So one day when I just wasn’t in the mood to listen to music on my commute back home from transporting my husband to work, I opened CastBox, and looked for a podcast that I’d been meaning to check out. I follow Aimee McNee’s Instagram account @inspiredtowrite and I love her work. She and her husband host a podcast for creatives, and this was what I was seeking. I listened to that first episode, and I was hooked. And now, a couple months later, I’m almost out of new episodes to listen to (Thankfully they’ll be posting more starting next month).

And so it was that this morning I was listening to an episode about consistency. And how being consistent with your creating, even if it’s small promises, like writing for 10 minutes a day, will keep your progress moving forward and help you to feel more confident and trust yourself, your art, and your process more. It absolutely makes sense, especially when it comes to writing a novel, like I’m doing right now. I wrote about 800 words last week, and then took a few days off. And when I came back to it, I couldn’t remember why I’d had one of the characters being angry about something. It’s very unlike me to not leave notes for myself, but I guess I must have been interrupted and stopped. And maybe if I’d taken it back up the next day, I would have remembered why I’d created the scene. I know that I had something planned, but couldn’t, for the life of me, remember what. So now I’m stuck with either re-writing it or coming up with another reason why he’d been acting that way. What a pain either way.

And that all comes back to the need for consistency. I tell myself I’m not going to write a few days because I need a break, knowing how much hustling and being over busy has wrecked my mental and physical health. But I was thinking today how that makes it seem like writing is a chore or a drudgery job, and it really isn’t. And maybe if I was consistent with writing literally every day, even if for a few minutes, a few sentences, whatever, I would find it’s more like just part of my normal every day existence. And it’ll be less scary when I sit down again to create.

This came to me after hearing Aimee mention a habit of Seth Godin, whom she reads a lot of and respects tremendously. He writes a blog entry every day. Every. Day. Even if it’s one sentence, which he does do sometimes, apparently. And I thought to myself, “I can manage one sentence a day.” As long as I give myself permission to have days when I’m less than insightful. Days when I’m really just showing up in all my messy glory. One sentence isn’t that hard, and it isn’t that scary. And like James, Aimee’s husband, mentioned in the episode, he routinely hits higher than his word goal just because by writing each day, he’s so comfortable with the process. And I believe it. Most days I set a 500 word goal (way down from my original 2,000 word goal), and I often find myself hitting 700-1,000 words instead. And yeah, some days I only make 400 or so. And I know that’s ok. Because I’d rather have those 400 than 0.

And fuck, what a relief it is to have done my writing. For the rest of the day, I just feel good. It’s hard work for me to remember that always and to not lie to myself that it won’t matter if I skip one day, but I know it does make a difference. And I know I need to show up and come through on these promises to myself. I have a goal of having my novel out by early November 2021. But there’s no way I can do that if I only show up to write a day here or there. I know this. I’m just so used to believing my efforts won’t matter anyway. But I also know that this mindset can be re-written if I just continue to be consistent and write every day. Every day. Even on weekends. Even on days I’m super fucking tired. Even on days I’m not feeling well. One sentence at least. Just like walking somewhere happens one step at a time, a novel is written one sentence at a time. No one runs a marathon training sporadically, so how can writing be any different, right?

I just need to take it one fucking sentence at a time.

Self-Publishing vs. Traditional Publishing

I’ve wanted to be a writer pretty much all of my life. And whenever I would think of writing and publishing a book, I would assume it would be via a well-known publishing house. I assumed it was the only way. That self-publishing was for people who weren’t good enough to get published. And self-publishing would mean no one would ever see or buy my book. Or that I’d make mere pennies from them since you have to price them so low. 

What fucking lies. And they’re lies most of us believe. Because what kind of alternative information is so widely promoted? Nothing. And so anyone who has ever dreamed of being a published author has certainly assumed that to do so must be only through the gatekeeping of the publishing world. 

I’ve put off writing this blog entry because I assumed anyone reading it would think the reason I want to self-publish is because my writing is crap, and I know it, and so I must just want to sell others crap, and couldn’t do that if I had to go through a publishing house. 

And you know what, for a very long time, yes, I thought that if you were turned down by an agent or editor, you were crap. Period. I thought this for a very very long time. In fact, I’m still working on unlearning this. But I’ve come to realize that so much of how our society functions and makes money is by selling the idea to people that they’re worthless. Or at the very least, not as worthy as they’d like to be. We buy beauty products and services and weight loss products to be more attractive. Because we’ve been taught we’re not attractive enough as we are. And moreover, that our worth is dependent upon it. The same thing holds true for understanding your inherent worth and what you have to offer others. We’re taught that we can only feel worthy if someone else tells us we are.

Fuck. That. 

Who decided that? Obviously no one with someone else’s best interest in mind. Well, I should say not with the creative’s best interest in mind. Artistic value is so damn subjective. My husband loves modern art, and I think it’s rubbish. I love fiction, and I know lots of people who are bored to death by it. And that’s ok! But what’s not ok is deciding that something isn’t worth being created or shared just because you personally don’t like it. Or worse, because you assume it’s not going to make a lot of money. 

Because that’s really the crux of this. In order for a publisher to want to publish your book, they not only have to think it’s good, but more important, they need to feel they can sell it and make a good profit off of it. And if they can’t make enough money from it, even if they might think it’s a good story, they won’t publish it. But what is the writer left with? The belief that their writing isn’t good enough. That they’re not good enough. 

And equally important is the fact that by stopping something from being published, you’re stopping someone from potentially gaining something by reading it. And I honestly believe that even if a few people get something out of what I share, that’s a success. I have only just over 5,000 Instagram followers, and only a tiny fraction of that has any interaction with what I post. But I’ve gotten so many responses that what I share and say means something to someone, that I know I need to keep sharing. I know that I’m making a difference. Or at least, I’m making meaning. Someone is connecting with what I share. And that’s the greatest gift any writer can get. To know that someone connects with what they’ve put out there. 

Would it be nice to get paid for connecting my writing with others? Of course! I’m not going to lie that it would be wonderful to have even a small income from my writing But I refuse to do so by any means than what feels most authentic to me. I could easily do some free-lance article and blog writing. I’ve sold one article in the past, in fact. But I can’t be bothered to write about crap that doesn’t mean anything to me, even if that means bringing in some cash. I’ve been there and done that and I don’t want to kill the joy that writing brings to me for the sake of a few dollars. 

And this is why self-publishing feels like my best option. I hate, hate hate being told what to do. Always have. Particularly if I’m being told to change who I am or something I believe in. Just no. Won’t do it. So I can’t imagine I’d be very cooperative being told to change potentially big pieces of my writing so that it’s more marketable or whatever. Be what it may, once I’m done with my novel, it will have gone through multiple drafts and have been given to multiple sets of eyes. And if that’s not good enough, well, then I suppose that’s just how it’ll have to be. 

But I will at least know that I put my best self out there, and that I was vulnerable and genuine. And for me, that’s all I can ask myself to be. 

But if we want to get into the nitty gritty of self-publishing and financials, we can. There are a few knowns when it comes to that. The first is that it can be expensive or very cheap. It really depends on how much of the legwork the author is willing to do. Once you hire outside editors and marketers and designers, the price you pay goes up. If you purchase a number of books outright and try to sell them that way, your cost goes up. But if you do all or damn near all of the work yourself, the only cost is your time. And if you sign up for ebooks or print as ordered books, you’ll not need to plunk down any of your own money to see the book in print. Of course, you will need to share the profit percentage with the company that hosts your ebook or prints your physical book. But the truth is that your profit margin percentage is way the fuck higher than with a publishing house. I honestly had no idea how much so until I started researching traditional publish vs. self-publishing, and holy hell, is it a huge difference. Unless you’re Stephen King or J.K. Rowling or someone. Then fine, you’ll get a smashing deal. But me, I’d be happier to take my chances with Amazon and order to print, thanks. 

I could go on and on all day espousing the virtues of one way over the other, but I needn’t really when there is so much information readily available on the internet for anyone who’s interested in looking further. Ultimately, the decision I came to about publishing was not done without a lot of thought, research, and soul-searching. It’s taken me many years to believe in myself and trust myself enough to even get this far, and I know that to continue down the road to traditional publishing would absolutely negate all the work I’ve done to get myself here. I want my work out there. Period. I want others to find something of value in it. Value, whatever that means to them. And I absolutely believe self-publishing is what will get me there. 

So stay tuned because I’m planning on releasing my first novel by the end of 2021.

I Just Want to Connect

Yesterday I listened to a podcast about writing and publishing, and one of the things the host said that most struck me was that when we feel called to tell a story, we’re participating in an ancient custom that humans have engaged in for thousands of years. Yes, the novel is a relatively modern invention, but the art of telling a story, of imagining worlds and characters, is not. And so if we ignore this calling or if we tell ourselves we’re not good enough to tell it or that our story will never amount to anything, we’re denying our ancestral gift. Almost as if saying that those who created stories just for the sheer pleasure of sharing or connecting with others, whether or not there was a direct benefit outside from that, were also being silly with their time and energy. 

This struck me for a couple of reasons. Firstly, I hadn’t thought of my writing a novel as being a part of an ancient artform. This is likely because I think of novels as something to do with publishing houses, printers, making money, etc. and not so much as being a storyteller. Too many of us see writers as writers only if and when they exchange their ideas for currency. For profit. Someone who writes, however seriously they take it, must not don that title until they have a publishing contract. I have to imagine that Homer or Ovid or Aesop would not have felt small or irrelevant from creating the stories they told. Did Shakespeare stop writing when his plays weren’t bought and performed? I don’t think so. So to attach monetary value to the creation of one’s imagination is not only foolish, but also assisting the economic systems that hold someone down and make them feel smaller just because they’re not at the level of Stephen King or J.K. Rowling. Fuck that. 

Why I was also particularly moved by this thought is because the host went on to say that if we don’t share our story, it will never exist. It only exists because of us. Well shit. Yeah, she’s right. No one can ever tell the story that we have in our minds and hearts. And the world needs all of the stories. There’s room for everyone. Each writer can fit into a niche or share a branch with another. The forest of possible stories is endless, and we can all find a home within it if we believe ourselves to be worthy of it. And what makes us worthy is our inherent value as people and creative beings. Period. That’s it. Not sales. Not likes on social media. Not awards or reviews. Just the inherent value in telling a story. Of reaching someone. Of connecting. And if we don’t share our stories, we may be taking valuable connection, inspiration, and/or pleasure from someone else. Someone who can benefit from the existence of our words and thoughts. 

And this leads me into my true reason for writing this today. A coming out of sorts. Because I’ve been reluctant, scared even, to admit to what I was writing. Because I haven’t always felt my inherent value, and have placed too much importance on other people’s opinions. I worry that because of my story, because of the genre I fit into, others will view me as inconsequential. That I’m not to be taken seriously. That’s my writing is just a triviality. And it pains me to say this, but I have a hard time making peace with someone assuming I’m not intelligent or important. I’ve felt the need to prove myself over and over again for my whole life, and it’s exhausting. And I don’t want to do it anymore, but neither do I want to see someone’s opinion of me lower either. 

But at the end of the day, I need to write what comes to me. What fills my heart. What feels most natural. And I know that reading has always been the buoy to keep me afloat during any difficult time. It’s been an escape. It’s been a joy. It’s been a place to go to. A way to be someone else. A way to relax and turn off if I need to. And I want to be those things for someone else. I want someone to pick my book up and sigh with relief. To feel comforted and at ease. And I know the way to do this is through the stories I have if I keep true to them. If I don’t let expectations or perceptions degrade them. 

This may be a good time to say I’m not writing erotica, so don’t get too excited. 🙂 

But I am writing what would amount to “chick-lit” or a “rom-com” as I prefer to see it. I love love. I love flirtations and relationships and the complications that come from those. And I love people and characters that feel real to me. That are flawed but ultimately good. That can be both cheeky and endearing. And I love a little sprinkle of something thoughtful or heartbreaking too. And so I’m writing what I love, knowing that the books I claim as my favorites are also favorites of other people I know. Not just best selling lists, but actual people in my life. And if I can make something that they’ll love and be able to share it with them, there’s no greater happiness I can find. 

Because at the end of the day, writing has been the one constant in my life since childhood. It’s the one thing I’ve felt capable of doing. That I was answering the call from my deepest, truest parts of me by doing. It’s both terrifying and deeply fulfilling. I am happy when I write, even when it’s hard. And I’ve never doubted whether I wanted to pursue it. Literally never. I may have been afraid and avoided going through with it, but I’ve always known it was the thing I needed to do most of all. 

I guess I just need a gentle reminder and push forward every now and then. I need to take the leap into the great unknown, as cliché as that may be. I need to make my peace with being my authentic self, and be ok with the fact that not everyone will love what I do. And not everyone will want to read my stories. And not everyone will respect me. And that all of that ultimately has nothing to do with me.

Reinvention

I read something on Instagram this morning that struck me. A page called @eatingheryoung posted this quote (credited to the page owner): 

People are not entitled to you. 

And she’s absolutely right. Whether we’re referring to family or friends that believe they can have access to us and/or have expectations of us; or, if we’re thinking of our social media presence and what we feel we owe our following. The fact is that no one owes anyone else anything. Not your partner, not your kids, not your boss, not your anyone. Basic human decency and respect should be a given, so I’m not saying that no one owes these things. I mean that no one has the right to decide for you or to make you feel that you need to be or act a certain way. That you’re not entitled to be the you that fits your perception of how you should be.

Ultimately, there is only one person you will ever need to live with, and that’s yourself. You’re inside your thoughts all day. You’re the only one who knows what you really need or want or can decide what’s right or wrong for you. You don’t owe anyone any damn explanations or apologies when it comes to choosing the life that’s best for you. Period. 

But when we live these very public lives on social media some of us feel compelled to explain ourselves. Or we’re afraid of showing who we really are, particularly if that person we once were has changed. And especially if we’ve changed more than once. As if we’re stuck in this mold that we either chose or was created for us. As if we’re not allowed to grow or switch our story.

More realistically, I don’t think it’s that we’re switching up who we are; I think we’re just keeping pieces of us tucked away and projecting other pieces. But sometimes the pieces that we’re showing no longer look the same to us. And sometimes those pieces we’ve tucked away want to come to the forefront. And it’s when this happens that we begin to wonder if people will think we’re frauds or that we were faking who we were or who we say we are now. Which goes back to owing no one anything. So fucking what if someone wonders why I flip and flop and change what’s most important to me or my identity? Anyone who truly knows and loves me will know all these bits of me have always been there. 

Yes, yes, I had been writing in the abstract up until that last a paragraph. Clearly we all knew this was about me, though, right? 

Months ago, I found a quote that I didn’t memorize and now can’t find again, but in a nutshell, it went something like this: the thing that you used as an escape as a child is your purpose. That’s the gist of it anyway. And of course this hit me hard because what I loved more than anything as a child was books. Reading. But also writing. I became an English teacher because I loved books and wanted a job where I thought I’d be sharing that love with others. And now, I’m more dedicated than I’ve ever been to writing a book. But it’s been a somewhat muddled journey. It’s not been a linear growth, and it’s had many starts and stops and looptyw loops and shit. But I’m here now, and to me at least, that’s what’s most important. 

For most of my life I’ve felt I was trying to be someone else. This person that others would see as successful and mature and who had her shit together. I became a teacher so that I could brush off the shame I felt being poor growing up. Teachers are respected. Teachers make a decent living. Check and check. But that life didn’t fit me, and it nearly destroyed me. So what did I do then? I turned another hobby into a job. Because I figured I already knew how to teach, how to guide and inspire others. And I knew a lot about yoga, so why not mesh those two together and be a yoga teacher? It wasn’t something I was really pursuing, but something that fell into my lap, and which I was happy to run with. Again, I felt important. I felt like I had a purpose. Even if it was masking the fact that what I really wanted to do was still being pushed way down away from where I could see it. 

And now I’m here. And I’m the closest I’ve ever been to living the me that’s really inside. The me that’s been screaming to come out and being told to fucking pipe down. And while I still appreciate people enjoying my yoga classes, and while I’m not saying I’m a shit yoga teacher, I am saying that that’s not the best me. That it doesn’t fill my heart with happiness. Yes, I always feel glad I was able to guide people through their practice once the class was over, but that’s likely because I like feeling useful. I like feeling important. I like feeling like I’ve helped someone. But not because I feel that teaching yoga is my calling. Not at all. And if it’s not my calling, should I be doing it at all? I don’t honestly know the answer to that. 

I can say that my main drive right now is to create a following for my writing, not my yoga practice. It served its purpose while I needed it. But what I need right now is to put all of my energy into my writing. Into being a writer. And that will very likely push a good many people away. And while that would have upset me a year ago, I couldn’t give any fewer fucks right now if I tried. If 2020 has shown me anything it’s that there is absolutey no time to fuck around in living a life that doesn’t completely fill you up. Every choice we make is ours and it can have lasting effects. And while I know nothing is perfect and I will continue to make poor choices as any human will, I know that I need to make more choices that reflect what I want my life to look like and less what I’m afraid of it being. 

My therapist said yesterday that while I talk, she takes notes about things that are motivators for me, like goals I have or things I’ve said I’m afraid of so that she can throw them back in my face later if I try to pussy out of my healing (I fucking love her and her non-traditional ways, by the way), and I was so gad for that. I need to be put in my place sometimes. I hate it, and I will likely cry because I’m sensitive as fuck, but I need it. 

So if you don’t see me on here regularly, call my ass out. Because sometimes we all need that kick in the ass. I may tell you to fuck off and leave me alone because I don’t owe you shit, but I will likely still listen and get back to the keyboard anyway. I’m a pain in the ass like that, what can I say?