Some time ago, in a galaxy we still live in, This Girl was fighting a war. A war of discouragement and unconscious undermining from those around her.
“Oh, you want to be a writer? Yeah, like that’s going to happen.” “What’s that, you say? You’ve sold a cookbook? Aw, bless your heart.” “Gee, that’s a tough gig. What are you going to do for a living?”
This Girl had to make a decision. Either go along with the facade of presenting herself as society says she should ~ quiet, structured, always responsible, living day to day routinely and repetitively ~ or rise against those who fought to stifle the Muse, the ones who called her “crazy.”
She was afraid of her inner self. The self that didn’t fit it, and didn’t want to conform. The self that has known she was born to be *gasp* a Creative. Her Creative Self fought to emerge, but her Responsible Self wouldn’t let it. She was afraid The Others would be proven right. She equated creative with crazy. Oh sure, she’s let the Creative Self see daylight once in a while. Maybe feed it bread crumbs or cupcakes with sprinkles. But once the thing named “Normal” called, she had to lock up the Creative Self. She’s hear it singing through the closed door. Sometimes it would whisper through the keyhole. Sometimes it was silent. But no matter how quiet it was, she still knew it was there.
One day, she gave herself permission to open the door. Just a little. Just a crack. She wanted to give her Creative Self a breath of air. But what happened was the reverse. She found her Creative Self breathing air into her stale, dank soul. Inhaling deeper and deeper, she let it refresh her in a way she’d not known before. What she had thought was the sun was just fluorescent lighting. It was her Creative Self that led her to the real light ~ the deep, penetrating, shield-your-eyes-so-can-see-everything light.
Frankly, My Dear . . .: Let your Creative Self shine.
Her Creative Self would tell her things others didn’t know. It influenced her style of dress, manner of speaking, behaviors, and, yes, her thoughts. It structured her schedule and gave her permission to let loose.
But others didn’t see it. Others saw the square peg sticking out of the triangle hole. Sure a corner would fit now and then. But never the whole part. Never the part that was bigger than the hole.
She tried following those who followed the followers who followed the followers who followed the leaders. And when she would break into occasional song and dance, sometimes they hushed her. So she kept most of it inside.
The struggle is real, folks. The struggle is so real. Imagine knowing something about yourself ~ and I mean, knowing, okay? Not the “Gee, I would like to . . .” or the “Hey, I could . . .” but the “This is what I was made for. This is what I am!” knowing ~ and very few others see it or encourage it.
How does This Girl keep going when the rut of daily life gets bigger and longer? Simple. Find a way out by latching on to those already doing what she wants to do, and let them help her climb.
Frankly, My Dear . . .: Latch and Climb.
Now, I’m not a mountain climber. But I know if I ever wanted to go there, I should bring certain gear, supplies . . . and a guide. I definitely am not going up a mountain alone.
I also know you (well, I) need to be willing to let go of some things. What This Girl thinks is stability, is just something under her feet. Being tethered to someone higher up on the mountain has its perks. And responsibilities.
This Girl needs to make sure she follows her guides. They’ve been there before. They know the best path. Or not. Maybe it’s a new adventure for all of us. But the point is, we’re in it together. If This Girl slips, another can keep her tethered. Sure, she can lose a little footing, but she won’t lose everything. And what about the others? Yes, now and then they’ll need to slow down, repeat instructions, stop moving ahead.
The goal is for everyone to excel, yes? Y’all don’t need someone resisting your assistance. So it’s also This Girl’s goal to make sure she doesn’t bring the guides down. In fact, it’s This Girl’s goal to someday know enough to toss a tether down to someone else, and help them climb. Even if that tether is designed with Tiffany blue Zebra stripes.
Because it’s worth it.
Because when we are all on the summit together, glorious things await.
Let your Muse out of the closet. Give your Creative Self permission to dance and sing. Sooner or later, someone will want you to help them climb.
Welcome to Life with Lizzie: a new weekly feature here at Frankly, My Dear . . .
You know me. I’m Lizzie Cat. I’m the oldest of five at Catford Manor. Now that the Human Sister has grown up and moved out, Mom is left alone with us. She calls us her FurFamily and I guess that’s right. I mean, we are family. And we are furry.
Does that make her a Crazy Cat Woman?
I’m her favorite. I know this because she tells me. Oh, she loves Berry Sunshine, Little, Sparkles and Iris just as much. But different. Mom and I? We have a bond. I’m her favorite, and she’s mine.
I steal her stuffed animals when she’s not looking. I don’t hide them or anything. I just claim them for my own. C’mon. . . she leaves all day and they’re just sitting there. Out in the open. Someone has to snuggle with them. Am I right?
She calls me her writing partner. I like that. I like when she’s got a great idea, how excited and animated she gets. I like that she leans over and kisses me (but don’t tell her that). Mostly I love sleeping next to her. She complains that she can’t get any work done that way, but I think that’s a lie. She always manages to do just fine.
Writing Partners
Mom’s different since the Human Sister left. Sometimes she’s sad, so my sisters and I sit closer to her. She doesn’t cry much but I think she wants to.
Sometimes she’s happy. She dances more. Not in any particular pretty rhythm. But she does okay when she thinks no one is watching. She turns on the big black screen and it thumps. Loud. I don’t like that, and try to tell her so but she doesn’t listen so I just go to the other room until it’s over. She sings, too. Loud. I do like that, for the most part. We used to sing together but that was years ago.
She doesn’t eat at home as often. I guess I don’t mind because I don’t eat her food anyway, but Berry Sunshine is a little sad because she likes licking the plates. Mom’s friend Tania brought pepperoni pizza the other night, and we all took turns eating the crumbs. It was pretty good. I think Mom should have people like Tania over more often.
On the weekends, sometimes, she lets me go play in the yard. I like to roll around in the sand because it’s nice and cool, but when I come in she yells at me for getting the coffee table dirty. But she was the one who opened the door! See? A bit crazy there, I think.
She talks to herself once in a while. Or to people who aren’t there. When she’s writing, she yells at her computer. She calls it Babycakes which is strange because it’s not a baby and none of us can eat it. She pets it, too, which I can’t imagine being comfortable. It has no fur.
My favorite part of the day is bedtime. I can always when it’s time because she folds up her silver Babycakes, grabs her bottle of water and slips her flip-flops on before walking back to the bedroom. As soon as she sits up straighter from the recliner, I know all those other things are about to happen so I always try to race her to the bed. If I get to the pillow before she does, I make her scrunch her neck and shoulders around me. Once I’m settled, I’m settled. It’s her fault for staying up later than me, right?
Uh-oh. Looks like Mom’s getting ready to go in now. I better get there before she does, or else I’ll have to find a spot at the foot of the bed.
I’ll be back next week with more stories about Mom and my sisters.
I have a two-inch peacock and he’s only visible through my story window. I’m not crazy. I’m a writer.
This month, I’m reading Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. If you’re serious about being a writer, or just like a well-told narrative, this is that book. I’m nearly a quarter through, and loving every page, every paragraph, every sentence.
Now here’s something you may not know about me: I’m a perfectionist when it comes to my writing and media. I want it to always be right. I don’t want just the end result to be perfect, I want it all to be right. And that often gets in my way because I find myself editing as I go. Which sometimes makes for longer sit-downs at the computer than necessary.
I’ve been coached, often, on just moving forward. It’s not in my nature to run rampant over the keyboard and let typos, incomplete thoughts, and mismatched storylines flow like too much wine. Because then it reads as though I’ve had too much wine.
Writing with Wine
But the truth is, I’m starting to see the beauty in the #CrappyFirstDraft. There’s something freeing in just letting my fingers go at it without worrying about is this spelled right or did I get the vernacular correct?
Josie discovers New Orleans
So to my critique groups, my writing mentor, and Anne Lamott, I say
I hear you.
I’m moving forward. This week, I’m starting with Chapter Fifteen of NOLA as though all the changes in my head are already on paper. No more revisiting Chapter One. Just. Move. Forward.
It does help to have a plan. At last week’s Orange County Christian Writers Conference, my first session was with Sharon Elliott. It was a hands-on workshop titled ‘Breaking Your Book Into Manageable Bites’. And it was amazing. The very first step in creating a storyboard/outline is to know your topic.
The topic isn’t the same as the title or the outline. It’s strictly the topic. Until that moment, I’d not had a concise logline or description of my book. Sure, I know what it’s about. And if you give me half an hour I can tell you start to finish. But Sharon was asking us to write our topic on a three-by-three post-it note and I didn’t even have it in my head yet.
I grabbed my stickie stack and my pen and applied pressure. I prayed more quickly than I’ve prayed in quite a while. I didn’t want to be the only person in the room with a blank note. So I wrote the first descriptive word that came to my mind, and the rest followed.
NOLA topic
Boom. There is was. And there I was, standing next to Beckie, beginning to cry. Five minutes into my first conference, and I’m in tears because my writing life has forever changed.
I’m a writer. And I have a topic.
Two more take-aways from Bird by Bird is how the book got its name, and how to not be overwhelmed. Write just this piece. Write just this much. She illustrates this concept as a one-inch photo frame on her desk. Her task, when she sits to write, is to write only what is visible through that one-inch frame. No more. No less.
Who cares about the world at large? Write about that one corner your character is in. Who cares about the voices calling the shots from outside the border? Write only what your character hears.
I love this. I love this like the day is long and sugar is sweet. It gives me freedom to fail. And that’s what we really all need, don’t we? The freedom to find out what doesn’t work, the freedom to change this when they need to be changed. The freedom to discover what we don’t like, and then the freedom to expand it.
Start small. Focus. Then shift. Then embellish. But start.
To remind myself of this, I created my own one-inch frame. Okay, it’s more like a two-by-three because the craft store didn’t have anything smaller. And it’s not empty, because I want to be reminded that right now, my focus is on finishing NOLA. So it’s not perfect. But isn’t that the point?
Supplies for the Two Inch Story
After picking out my supplies, I came home and assembled my own story window.
Two Inch Peacock
There were too many stickers and embellishments to choose from, even in the stock I bought. With the limited room allowed, I chose the peacock and fleur-de-lis. And there’s that lesson, again: you can’t do everything at once, and sometimes you can’t do everything at all. Just piece by piece. Bite by manageable bite. Bird by bird.
My reminder now sits on my side table. It’s a symbol of everything I need to be reminded of. And the best part? It’s small enough to fit in my suitcase so I can take it with me to Blue Ridge next week.
My goal is to have my own Crappy First Draft finished by the end of June and then start the editing because, as they say, that’s when the real writing happens.
