Category: writing

The End, a beginning…

Posted on by dlmarriott

Last week I took a vacation from my day job, and locked myself in a room in an effort to finish my first full-length novel “Souljourner”. On the afternoon of July 31st it happened; I finally got to the end.  By the way, despite my husband’s protests, I did not write “The End” at the end.
I am, what other writers call a “pantser”, in other words, I fly by the seat of my pants. Instead of starting with a detailed outline, I just write. When I start writing the story, I might have a general idea of the general premise, but for the most part I let the story tell itself. That can be frightening, especially to those who are “planners”, but it’s the way that works best for me.
In the beginning, even I don’t know the end, so it’s extremely exciting when I get there, because I’m getting the same thrill of discovering what happens as, hopefully, my readers will.
But this ending is also, what I hope will be, a beginning. I can’t convey how much pleasure writing is for me. How miraculous it is to have all the pieces fall into place, in almost a magical way, to make a complete story. I will be blissfully happy if I get to do this for the rest of my days.
So here’s to reaching the end of one story, and hopefully the beginning of my new life.

Where art thou…art

Posted on by dlmarriott

Last night at the Chapter One writers group, I read an essay I wrote a couple of years ago about my search for a creative outlet. It chronicled my failed attempts at dance, music, and art. I found myself to be hopelessly clumsy, possibly tone deaf, an only mediocre at drawing. I’ve had an ad for ballroom dance lessons on my dream board forever.  It was a dream I considered unobtainable. I’d thought I was doomed to be left-brained; one whose analytic skills outweigh their artistic/creative skills.

That was until I discovered writing.  It turns out to be the one artistic venture that I seem to have some natural ability at. Up until now, I saw that as a victory.  Not just the victory of writing a story people might actually like to read.  But a victory over the left side of my brain in a “move over left brain, the right brain is taking over” kind of way.  That somehow, I had conquered my predetermined biological make-up.

Ha!  I was wrong. I did some more research. It turns out right-brained people are better at art because they think visually, and left-brained people think verbally.  Which means, left-brained people are better at putting thoughts into words instead of pictures, and therefore make better writers.

I found this to be frustrating. I’m not sure why it bothers me. Obviously it seems to be working to my benefit. But for some reason, I feel like I’m less in control.  That any talent I  have boils down to the way my cells divided when I was nothing more than a tadpole, rather than my determination, my heart and soul.

So I started taking every right-brain vs. left brain test I could find, hoping to find some evidence that my mind was more than a collection of gray matter that I had no control over.  I was intrigued by the fact that I seemed to have attributes of each side. Then I read that some people can actually consciously switch sides.

So I tried an experiment.  I stared at one of those tests that show a dancer turning in circles.  If you see her as turning clock-wise, you are using your right brain, if you see her turning counter clock-wise, you are using your left brain.  I stared, and I stared.  I concentrated hard.  Imagine my surprise when right before my eyes, she switched directions!  I did it.  I conquered my own brain!  Although she seems to switch back to counter-clockwise easier and quicker than clock-wise, I can now control which side of my brain I’m using.

I plan to keep working on switching her direction until it becomes easier.  Think of it as gray matter calisthenics.  Maybe someday my mental work-out will pay off. And maybe I just might take those ballroom dance lessons after all.

Life imitates art, art imitates life, life after death…

Posted on by dlmarriott
Life imitates art, art imitates life, life after death...

I have to start this out with the statement that, although I write a lot of fiction, this story is completely, absolutely, without embellishment, pure non-fiction. This is exactly how it happened, or should I say is currently happening to me as I sit and type this. Cross my heart and hope to die.
Given what I’m about to tell you, maybe I shouldn’t say that.
This week started out with my attempt to write something for this blog. My head was not in the best of places, feeling frustrated with my lack of time to do any quality writing. What I wrote, I decided, was poor at best so I didn’t post it. That made me feel even more frustrated as I am feeling pressure to blog more often. Today, Wednesday, is my one day off of work, devoted to writing. I spent all day at my favorite coffee shop. Although I did some great re-working and editing on my novel, I wasn’t feeling very inspired.
As some of you may know, the novel I’m currently working on is about a young woman, Katherine.  While walking through an old cemetery, contemplating the lives of the people buried there, she inadvertently ends up traveling back in time directly into the life of the person’s headstone that she touches, just before their time of their death. This idea was born as my husband and I drove past a small local cemetery (pictured above). Although we’d driven by it many times, on this particular occasion I tried to read as many headstones as I could. I, like my main character, started to wonder about those names. Who were those people? What were their lives like? Did they still have family members that remember them… visit their graves? Or were they lost in time, just names and dates etched in stone? I went back to take some pictures of the cemetery. It seemed small, quaint, with a chapel at the back. There were a mix of newer stones right alongside very old, almost, illegible ones. Perfect for my novel.
In my story, which is a fair way toward finished, I needed the cemetery to be bigger, yet I didn’t want to lose that small old cemetery feel. So I had my character discover a path behind the chapel that leads to a hidden section she’d never known was there. This was already down on paper, or virtual paper I should say, as everything is written on my laptop.
In fact it had been a part of the story for at least nine months when a good friend, Sue, asked me if I’d ever really walked around that cemetery. I said I’d been there once, but didn’t go too far. She said she’d just recently gone on a geocache (a treasure hunt led by hand-held GPS). My first thought was, really? In a cemetery? But that thought was quickly halted when she said “Did you realize there are two more cemeteries hidden in the woods behind the church?” Well, as you can imagine, I was shocked. So today, after my less than inspired day of working on my book, I stopped there.
DSC04522a
By my friends recommendation, I parked on the street and walked, rather than drove into the cemetery. I walked up the hill towards the church and around the back. There, winding through the woods, up a steep hill, was a paved road. At this point I heard a loud caw and look up to see a solitary crow in a dead tree, juxtaposed against the scene of the butterfly fluttering around the flowers at the base of the trunk. I made a mental note to make sure to add that to my story.
I followed the road around and up and sure enough, it opened up onto another cemetery. This graveyard also had a mix of older and newer stones and was even smaller than the main one that I had just come from. By this time my heart was beating a bit faster. I’m not sure if it was finding the hidden cemetery of my imagination, or the hike up the hill in the heat and humidity. I didn’t walk around this middle cemetery, instead I searched for the way up to the third cemetery my friend had mentioned.
There in the corner, barely visible, was a narrow path in the woods. This one was not paved, it was merely mowed through the woods. The path wound around a bit, the overgrown trees and shrubs brushing against my shoulders. I made another mental note to include this imagery into my story as it was doing a good job of creeping me out in real life. My only thought was that it was too sunny, the beams of light dancing through the leaves too pretty. In my story I needed to make it cloudy, maybe even an approaching storm. Again I must emphasize, this is REALLY true. Only moments after this random thought, a rumble of thunder echoed in the distance. REALLY!
So, this path did indeed open up into a third cemetery. This one much larger than even the first and looked to be more modern. I wandered a bit but decided I would wait and come back another day, since that rumble of thunder had been the precursor to some approaching clouds that were definitely calling for rain. As I walked back toward the path, I thought to myself that it was that middle cemetery, carved into the woods, that had the ambiance I’d imagined. I started to mentally go through the gravestones and lives my character visits to figure out exactly which one(s) she would find in this back cemetery. Although I already had a description of the cemetery written along with it’s hidden back cemetery, I still hadn’t decided which grave she’d find there. There were certain ones that needed to be clumped together, and in the more visible portion of the cemetery, for reasons I can’t tell you here (sorry, you’ll just have to buy the book when it’s finished). It came to me that the best one for her to find in this hidden cemetery would be the one of an eight year old boy. I would make that hidden cemetery a children’s cemetery. As soon as that idea occurred to me, I knew it was the perfect choice. Just the idea gave me goosebumps.
As I came out of the wooded path back to the middle graveyard, I decided to take the time to look around a bit. I walked up to the first headstone and was shocked by the dates. It was a child. I walked to the next one. No dates, just the word infant under the name. The third stone, another child. I swear to you this is just how it happened. I thought “it should be a children’s cemetery” and it was, or at least the section I was standing in was.
I started to walk briskly back to my car. I had to write this all down. As I passed a bush on the way out, a bird suddenly flew out of it. I think I jumped a foot! I’m pretty sure that will make it into the book as well.
So I sit in my car, laptop balanced against the steering wheel, still parked by the cemetery. Despite the sweltering 90 degree weather and the barely cracked windows because that rain finally came, I’m trembling and have goosebumps. I couldn’t wait, I needed to write this all down as soon as I could. I’ve gotten inspiration, not only for this blog, but also for my novel.
And it seems to have come from the grave.

Early Morning Revelations

Posted on by dlmarriott

I present to you, the third place winning essay of the 2011 Bo Carter Memorial Writing Contest.

Early Morning Revelations
by D.L. Marriott

p { margin-bottom: 0.08in; }

I dip my foot into the water. I expect it to be chilly this early in the morning. I’m surprised by its warmth. I turn the canoe over, put a book encased in a plastic zip-top bag, a travel mug full of coffee, and a life-preserver in the bottom. I paddle my way through the channel and onto the lake. The sun has just begun its rise over the horizon. The sky is painted with hues of pink and orange. There is no one else out here. I expected to run into a fisherman or two, it seems impossible that this morning they are absent.
Once I’m in a place where I have the most room to drift, I slide down into the bottom of the canoe, and take out my book. There is nothing to interrupt me from my story. There is a highway not too far away, but at five A.M. on a Sunday morning there is little traffic. The muffled sound of the occasional car only barely gets my notice.
But then I hear a rumble that gets louder and louder, disturbing my peace. It’s a train on a not too distant set of tracks. On such a quiet morning, its clattering is intrusive, disturbing. I stop reading and cringe at how it dispels my ideal of relaxing, drifting aimlessly on the water. Before long the rumbling fades away; my solitude returns.
Now that my attention has been torn away from the book in my hand, I take notice of what’s around me. The lake is still, not a ripple on it other than those created by a family of ducks swimming by. My ears pick up the serenade of frogs, early morning birds, and the occasional splash of a jumping fish. There is a heron standing on the shore. His profile is majestic. At first he is so still that I’m not sure if he is real or a garden ornament. Just when I have convinced myself he cannot be real, he moves his head, turning it towards me.
I start thinking about how I would have missed him had the train not caused me to look up from my book. How sometimes we don’t realize what’s around us because we’re too busy doing something else. How much sitting in this boat, floating along, is so much like life.
It starts out with the trip up the channel. Paddling is work. It’s not horrible work. In a way, I enjoyed the challenge of working to get where I wanted to go. It’s very much like when we were young, working hard to raise a family. It was work, sometimes hard work. But we were heading in the direction we wanted to go. It didn’t all go smoothly. We occasionally had to shake the weeds from our paddles.
But then as our children grew up, we got to a place where we thought we could relax and enjoy life. Drift along, instead of working so hard. We thought we were coming to our perfect destination. We knew and accepted the mild disturbance of the car whizzing by, but it was so fleeting it barely registered. It isn’t until something really shatters our silence that we take notice. Something big and intrusive like a freight train comes barreling into our world. Momentarily we wonder why. Why, when we finally have what we were dreaming of, does something big and ugly have to ruin it?
Like the train that disrupts my peaceful morning in my canoe, the things that disrupt our lives eventually pass. They rumble off into the distance. In their wake, we realize that there was beauty and peace all around us. It had been there all along, but we had been too preoccupied to appreciate it. Now in the deafening silence of the train’s absence, it is wondrous. It’s a lesson in appreciating all we have and realizing that bad things will come along, but they will pass, and we will still be here drifting on an unseen current. If by chance we are not happy with where the current is taking us, all we have to do is work up some muscle and paddle in another direction, and remember to take stock in the beauty around us.
We can’t banish the weeds, the cars and the freight trains of life. We can just close our eyes and wait for them to pass, then keep on paddling to our destination, never forgetting that there are always ducks and frogs, sunrises and herons, if we just take the time to recognize them.

 

The End

Posted on by dlmarriott

p { margin-bottom: 0.08in; }

No, I haven’t finished the novel yet, although I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, and it’s getting bigger and brighter by the day. But today, I woke up with words flowing through my head. That happens to me a lot, I wake up with a story running along all by itself. It makes me wonder if I’m actually the writer, or if there’s some other entity doing all the work who, once in a while, interrupts my sleep and forces me to put it to paper.
For some, starting a story is the difficult part. Putting those first words down on the page. For some, it’s all the middle stuff. Making sure point A connects to point B. For me, the hardest part is always the end. Generally when I start a story, I have no clue what the ending will be. It’s somewhat unnerving to start writing not knowing where it’s going when the story starts telling itself. I’ve made the joke several times that I just take transcription for the voices in my head, but often that’s exactly what it feels like.
Even when I finally get an idea of what the ending should be, writing it is the most difficult part of the process for me. Once I’ve built up all the drama, bringing it to a conclusion that brings the reader back down without leaving them feel disappointed is an incredibly difficult thing. I’ve known the ending of my novel for a while now, but had no idea how to tell it with just the right amount of tension, emotion, and completion to leave the reader feeling satisfied.
As a reader, the ending can make or break a story for me. I can be totally entranced by a book, but if the ending doesn’t deliver, it frustrates me. The ending is the last thing the reader is left with. To me, it’s critical to make it memorable. Unfortunately, the ending is also generally the most controversial. Some love “happily ever after” endings, some hate them, some like the story to hang, without a clear ending, others not. No matter what ending you come up with, there will be people who will sing its praises and some who will criticize every word.
I’ve talked about J.K. Rowling and Harry Potter before. The epilogue is probably the most controversial part of the seven books. Harry Potter fans are divided, some loved it, some hated it. I myself liked it. I didn’t love it. Not because I didn’t like the way the story ended, just the way it was written. I like it enough, and it’s grown on me some since I first read it, but I felt it could have been stronger. I give Jo kudos though. I can’t imagine how difficult it was to wrap up seven books of storyline.
One of my other favorite children’s/young adult authors, D.J. MacHale, had to wrap up ten books and years of the main character’s life in his Pendragon series. I actually sent him a message to tell him I thought it was the best ending I’ve ever read. I have read other reviews from readers who hated it. To me it was perfect.
So I guess in the end, the end has to be what the writer feels is necessary. We just have to hope that not too many people are disappointed. I’m hoping there’s some fate that’s telling me that the ending I wrote is the right one. An hour after I woke up with my ending in my head, my husband awoke to tell me he’d just had the weirdest dream. He dreamed that I finally came to the end of my book. If that’s not a sign, I don’t know what is.
The End.

To tell the truth, the whole truth…or not

Posted on by dlmarriott

p { margin-bottom: 0.08in; }

I recently spoke to a group of seventh graders and their families at St. Raphael’s Catholic School in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. They’re working together on a Build-a-Book project and I was asked to talk to them about writing and being a writer. One of the things I told them, and one of the things I’ve always firmly believed, is that no matter how fictionalized your story is, it has to be realistic. It needs to have truth. Even in fantasy, things need to ring true to the reader or they won’t feel a connection, and subsequently will have a hard time following your story.
There are examples of this out there now. Take the Star Trek series. There’s a reason we now have real life items that look and perform similar to the futuristic counterparts from the stories. They were based on real science.
When Harry Potter waves his magic wand, the spells are based on mostly Latin terminology. Since many of our words today come from Latin, the spells have a familiarity to them. We can pretty much figure out that “Wingardium Leviosa” will make something float. Many of the creatures are based on mythology that we’re already familiar with. The setting is an accurate portrayal of life growing up in a boarding school albeit with some magic thrown in. These pieces of truth ground the reader in that fantasy world.
More so, if your space alien lands on the streets of New York, you need to have the details of the city accurate. If your ghost haunts a location people might be familiar with, you will lose them if describe that location incorrectly.
This has been a constant for me as I work on my upcoming novel. My main character does some time traveling. Not only does she go to many different eras, but she ends up involved with several historic events. This meant a lot of research on my part. For those of you who might not realize it, research is a big part of writing, no matter how long or short your piece is. Take for instance one of the chapters I did in “Where Do I Begin – One Woman’s Story.”
My outline was simply to describe how the two main characters spent time together on a cruise ship. First I had to take her date of birth and the age she was supposed to be and figure out what year it was when she was on this cruise. Turned out to be in the 1970’s. Then I needed to find out what activities were available on cruise ships during that time. If I had ignored that step and had them climbing a rock wall, or surfing the wave pool, it would have been inaccurate. Although cruise ships of today have those things, cruise ships back then didn’t. I have no doubt that some of my readers have been on those cruise ships and would have been frustrated with my inaccuracy.
So as you can imagine, when writing a historic fiction/time travel novel, the accuracy is imperative. It’s been a daunting task to get the myriad of details correct. Unfortunately it turns out the truth sometimes really is stranger than fiction. In one scene I have one character who’s deathly ill. I actually had to make sure that during that time in history the process to lower a fever was to cool the person down. You might laugh, but you can’t assume anything. While doing my research I found out that the common treatment for a burn was to hold the burned area over a flame! They believed it was better to get the burn to blister and for the blister to burst. Ouch! So I learned not to assume anything.
I recently read a part of my novel to my classmates in my writing class. Two questions came up after I read the dialog between two women in 1903, in which one of them, at age 35 is considering trying to conceive another child after losing her two daughters. The first question raised was her age, wasn’t she a bit too old to be having babies, weren’t women back then getting married young and having families young? My answer was no. My research showed that because of poor nutrition at that time, women didn’t even start their menstrual cycles until they were in their twenties. They may have married younger, but children came much later. The second question raised was whether or not birth control, or the idea of “trying” for a child was even a concept back then. Imagine my surprise when I researched the history of birth control. Not only was it a concept, it was widely accepted and used. The condom had been around since the 1600’s, the contraceptive sponge since the 1840’s, not to mention lectures and pamphlets circulated about the rhythm method as well as other methods to avoid pregnancy. It turns out that the idea of birth control and family planning was so prevalent that the Comstock Act of 1873 made any kind of family planning illegal. The law was quite routinely ignored. Believe it or not you could buy contraceptive devices from the Sears Roebuck Catalog in 1930!
So now I find myself faced with a conundrum, do I tell the truth and keep the facts accurate? Or do I lean toward the commonly held misconceptions? Will I do what I was trying to avoid in the first place and possibly have readers doubt the realism I’m trying to instill in my story by telling it accurately?
It was something to think about. In the end I’ve decided I have to tell the truth. It feels wrong not to. Not only do I feel strongly about being accurate in my details, but I also feel strongly in never underestimating the intelligence of my readers. I have to trust that if my readers get stuck on some detail, they will take the time to look it up.
So I have to stand with what I told those seventh grade students. Keep it real. Tell the truth. As a reader I’d rather learn something new, even if it means doing some research myself, than to know that facts the author presented are incorrect. Even in fiction, I want non-fiction.
The reader needs the truth, the whole truth, no matter how unbelievable.

Marking Time

Posted on by dlmarriott

This month marks one year since a story I wrote was published, a first for me as an author. It’s a true story about friendship that appeared in the Reader’s Write section of the February 2010 edition of the Sun Magazine.

How long have I been a writer? I get asked this question from time to time. The answer isn’t a simple one. First of all I believe a writer, is a writer their entire lives. Even if they never put together a story book when they were young, or kept a journal as a teen. One who becomes a writer as an adult, has always been a writer on the inside.

I’ve read interviews with several well known authors who talk about how they wrote stories from the time they could hold a pencil. At first this gave me pause. I didn’t write stories when I was that young, maybe I won’t measure up to these people who knew they wanted to be writers since infancy. I didn’t know I wanted to be a writer until much later, and in fact scoffed when others told me I could be. Now I know that was just my introverted personality talking.

Anyone who knows me now is no doubt laughing at the thought of me being shy, but it’s true. I was an extremely nervous child, to the point of making myself ill at times. Even as an adult, I was terrified of new people, and new situations. I didn’t go anywhere by myself, I always convinced my husband, or friends, to go along. I was afraid of getting lost, or looking stupid, or saying the wrong thing.

Several things changed that. First and foremost was the birth, life and passing of my son. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, that can give you better perspective on what’s truly important in life than losing a child. And there is no example greater of bravery than the daily struggle my son went through for 16 years. As the mother of a child who couldn’t speak, I had to step up and be his voice. I often had to fight to get him what he needed. I couldn’t afford to be shy anymore.

Still, that was different. I’d developed a fierce attitude when it came to my children, but still deferred to others when it came to myself. I was a born follower which meant even if I felt strongly about something, if the rest of the group felt differently I would go along with it, doubting myself along the way. Knowing just how much my actions were influenced by my desire to be accepted, I am incredibly lucky and amazed that I came out of my teen years in one piece.

Once my job as parent became less of a focus, I found myself adrift. I’d developed the ability to assert myself even if it was only in my children’s interest. I couldn’t just shut that off and be the meek person I’d been before. I needed to find something I could be passionate about. I’d always loved planning theme parties, and looked into becoming an event planner. I had experience as a secretary and looked for jobs that might be related. I loved to cook and considered catering. I’d always loved reading, and dabbled a bit in writing for my own personal enjoyment and it had been suggested more than once that I try writing. I started a bit of research.

I found a class titled “Writing for Publication” at our local technical college. I remember the sense of excitement at the thought of taking the class. I also remember the fear when I actually did sign up. Seems silly that anyone should be fearful about taking a non-credit class, but that’s how I’m wired. The difference is now I understand my fear and fight to not let it take over. I couldn’t be happier that I didn’t give in to my nagging self-doubt. I set goals for myself. I would go to class, and I would always bring some writing to share despite the fact that it wasn’t required. It’s very similar to setting a goal to exercise and lose weight and to stick with it despite feeling tired or sore or hungry. I have to push myself to do things I’d normally avoid regardless of how much they set my stomach in knots. I set the goal that I’d actually send my writing out and try to get published. After six months I got that first acceptance letter, and after only one year as an aspiring author, I became a published one.

In hindsight, I’ve enjoyed the written word since very young. I was a voracious reader. I didn’t write stories, but I certainly made them up in my head. I was always thinking and as that shy child was often alone, with only my imagination to entertain me. I’d always had pen pals and enjoyed writing long letters. It was required that I join clubs in school –  and the clubs I chose? The school newspaper and the yearbook committee. As an adult, I wrote Christmas letters every year,  and I wrote letters to out of state family and friends. I was always more comfortable writing than speaking. I’m still terrible at keeping a journal but I still have my wild imagination, and now I have determination. Determination to be myself, and to overcome my fears. Fears that I understand will never truly go away, but can certainly be managed.

So how long have I been a writer?  I’m in my seventh semester of writing classes. I’ve been actively pursuing a writing career for two years. I’ve been a published author for one year (not counting the articles I wrote for the school newspaper).  But I have undoubtedly been a writer my whole life, I just didn’t know it. Now I can’t imagine doing anything else. Just like exercise, once I pushed past the pain, I got a rush like no other. I have never been happier in my own skin as I am now.

Later this week I will post the story that was accepted and published by the Sun Magazine. I will post the full version for you; their editors were ruthless. Despite the pain of the amputation of a good portion of my story, I was and still am incredibly proud of making this milestone. And despite any fears (and yes they’re still there), I am determined to make many more.

I’ve been a writer forever and intend to be a writer until my time is done.

Baby Steps And Light Bulbs

Posted on by dlmarriott

I have to admit, since the holidays it’s seemed like everything was conspiring against me when it came to writing. There were those left over January Christmas parties, birthdays, beginning of the year chores such as organizing paperwork and bills, projects at work that left me tired at the end of the day, and the Packers. I live in Wisconsin, need I say more? As thrilled as I am with our Super Bowl champs, it meant every weekend for the past several weeks were occupied with football parties. I’d used up all my vacation days at work, so my available writing time was greatly reduced.

I was feeling stressed by the lack of any down time and wasn’t sleeping well. It wasn’t unusual for me to be unable to get more than four hours of sleep. The result, I started catching every bug out there, more stress. Snow storms that prevented travel to writing group meetings, even more stress.

I was increasingly frustrated, guilty, sad, angry, and disappointed that I wasn’t doing ANY writing. That New Year’s goal was haunting my nightmares. I have to say, I’m glad I’ve made my goals public. It makes it hard, if not impossible, to give up on them knowing everyone you know is waiting and watching to see if you can do it. Not that I could EVER give up on writing. For me it’s a necessity of life, analogous to breathing, but it might have been easy to put the novel on the back burner for a while. When I’d finally have an hour to spare, I’d sit in front of my blank computer screen and doze off. The longer this went on, the harder it was to get back into gear. I was losing site of my characters and storyline. It was disheartening to say the least. I missed them terribly.

I couldn’t be happier to tell you I’m finally back, really back. It started with a short story. It’s totally unrelated to the novel, but sometimes you need to just shift gears for a bit. It was one of those light bulb stories. I was sitting in the break room at work eating my lunch when a co-worker’s cell phone rang. (I do owe her one!) The music it played reminded me of a carousel, a light bulb went off, and bang in 24 hours I had a completed short story. A horror story no less!

Then, because I actually had something to share, I went to meet with a group of fellow writers and friends. It felt good to be back in the circle. The next thing that happened was amazing. I was at work when a client came in holding a copy of “Where Do I Begin – One Woman’s Story” with the request that I sign it for her. A little ego boost does wonders when one is doubting their abilities.

Then I started with little things; making a Twitter post, e-mailing an agent, looking up information on building a website, going back to my writer’s groups, starting my writing class again, even writing an update for this blog. Things that I count as working towards my goal of having a career as an author. Finally I had a whole weekend to myself and before I knew it, I had two chapters written and the ideas are flowing again. The night I wrote, I actually slept eight full hours. Now that I’ve started, I’m back to jotting notes all over the place, and I wake up in the morning thinking about where I’m taking my story, or what I want one of my characters to accomplish. It’s good to have my old friends back.

I’m not foolish enough to think this won’t happen again. That I might not get stuck, or that life won’t interrupt me before this is done. But now I know all it will take is some baby steps and maybe a light bulb or two to get back to the place I’m happiest to be.

New Year's Resolutions

Posted on by dlmarriott

p { margin-bottom: 0.08in; }

        Why do we make New Year’s resolutions? Is there any chance that we’ll stick to whatever promises we make for the whole rest of the year? Aren’t we just setting ourselves up for failure? I mean really, if we were strong enough to keep the promises we make in January, would we need to make them at all? Don’t we make those resolutions because we weren’t able to do them up until now? Most of them aren’t sudden inspirations, they are things we know we should be doing but haven’t. Will a simple flip of the calendar make it all different, make us more able to do or be the things we haven’t done or been before? And yet, year after year we do it. Even if we don’t announce them out loud, somewhere in the deep recesses of our soul, we try to start the year out with a clean slate and make silent promises to do something better.
        I’m no different. I work better with goals. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s to make the goals small and achievable. It will never work if my goal is to be a better person. It’s not like I strive to be a bad person, or a lazy person. In general I think everyone tries to be a good person, even if their idea of good doesn’t match with those around them. So I will try to pick something more real, more attainable. I will try my best to do something kind for a stranger. Something beyond what I already do. I already hold open the door for strangers, I smile at strangers, I offer to carry items for people who look like they are struggling with their arms full. So what is it that I can do that is above and beyond my usual? I’ll try my best to be kind to someone who is not being kind to me. I’m faced with this scenario often, unfortunately. My day job is in customer service. Need I say more? I’m the person who receives the brunt of every customer’s lousy day, frustration, anger, financial difficulty, or traffic ticket. It doesn’t matter that I have nothing to do with any of those things. If they are in front of me, when one of those things are in the forefront of their mind, I’ll pay regardless. Even if I’ve done my job well. I already do my best to handle those situations with as much grace as I can, but still, I’ll try to do more. I’ll try to understand that they’re not really mad at me, that they have possibly had a horrible day, and could use a little good cheer. I will smile and wish them a good day and try to mean it.
        How many people vow to be healthier, lose weight, or join a gym? I have done this one myself. It always starts out good. In the beginning it feels good to put on some sweats and go to the gym and … sweat. But before you know it, I start missing workouts. The weather is bad, I didn’t sleep well, I have things to do. It always happens the same way. Once I was successful and dropped 55 lbs. I have kept most of that off, but now find myself backsliding a bit. So I won’t try and join a gym, I won’t eat carrot sticks and celery. I know those won’t stick. Instead I’ll try to walk the dog more. It’s better for me and better for the dog. I won’t beat myself up if I don’t go because it’s ten below zero. I think the risk of frostbite negates any health benefits, and if I make it completely unpleasant, I will soon hate doing it, again setting myself up to fail. Although if left to my own devices I might slack off from time to time, I have picked a partner who will not let me. There is nothing she loves more than a walk and she will bug me endlessly until I put on my shoes and grab her leash. I’ll also strive to not take seconds. It’s really not that hard to do. Trying to diet will never work, but portion control makes a huge difference.
        I will try my best to read more. Not just more, but a larger variety. You might laugh and think as a writer, I must be a voracious reader, and I am, or at least have been. I have stacks and stacks of books that I have picked up from used book stores, library sales, yard sales, and flea markets. I love to read but now with work, school, writing, and life in general, I find it hard to find the time. And when I finally do, it tends to be a genre I am very familiar with, an easy read. I need to branch out more. Try genre’s I hadn’t before. It will only serve to make me a better writer. So, it’s something I enjoy that will also improve me. Seems like a win-win.
        I could resolve to be more organized, but I know this one is beyond me. I will however, finish what I started. I had set a goal (an unlikely if not impossible one) to finish a novel by Christmas. I set this goal at the end of October. I did not give up on this goal until the week before Christmas. I don’t feel too bad though, because I really did give it my all. I was forced to put it to rest to get ready for the holiday, and I am giving myself this week until New Year’s to recover. Next week I will be back to work. I have set a new goal date, but for now will keep it to myself. There is a little part of me that is afraid if I say it, I will jinx it. This is the one that takes precedence above all the rest. This is really my one true resolution. I can think of about a dozen other things I would like to add to my list, but again, I must keep this something I really can achieve, and if the list is too long, it will begin to overwhelm me. And if I become overwhelmed, I will give up on all of it.
        I will add one more thing though. I will make more resolutions next year, but not before revisiting this year’s. I will pat myself on the back for the ones I was able to stick to and reevaluate the ones I didn’t. I will work to figure out why I didn’t and try them again, with maybe some changes to make them more achievable. So as you start thinking about your own New Year’s resolutions, try to remember to make them not just possible, but probable. I don’t see this as a cheat, I see it as a way to make your life better. If you set goals that are improbable, you will likely fail and then feel bad, which will just set you up to fail at other things. It becomes an ugly circle. If you set goals you have a good chance of being successful at, you will feel good about yourself, and in turn do more good things to better yourself. Give yourself permission (but not an excuse) to fall short sometimes. We are after all, only human. And keep a record. I have two bulletin boards in my office. One is a dream board, one is a memory board. Once I have achieved something from my dream board, I move it to my memory board. It reminds me that even though I haven’t succeeded at everything, I’m making progress, which is all we can ever ask of ourselves.
        So in the end I hope you had a wonderful holiday season and that 2011 brings you health and happiness. I wish you the best with whatever New Year’s resolutions you make. Even if you are the cranky person on the other side of the desk at work.
       See, that wasn’t so hard! And it’s not even January 1st yet!