So, this thing happened. Actually, a lot of things happened. And I quit writing. #truestory.
Now, as Al Gansky often says, “You can quit anytime you want. You just can’t stay quit.” Easy for you to say, Pops.
But I wasn’t ready to unquit. I wasn’t ready to put on my Big Girl pants and move forward. I was ready to drown my sorrows in a nice vat of sweet tea.
I was pretty much embroiled in a two-week, flu-and-medication induced, nobody-really-cares-about-NOLA pity party. Uhm, yeah. I’d collected about four rejection letters from agents and publishers, the alpha readers weren’t responding, my editor had some priority commitments, and I hadn’t written in quite some time.
I was pretty much desolate and devoid of life.
Frankly, My Dear . . . : That One Time I Forgot I Was a Writer
Of course, I figured once I worked my way out (if that was indeed what I wanted to do), I’d have a blog post to share with y’all. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to share this. I wasn’t really sure I wanted to work my way out of it. I wasn’t sure I really wanted to write any more.
There I was, a week ago, all dressed up in my Mardi Gras-inspired LuLaRoe outfit, and nobody cared. It was Fat Tuesday, but out here in California, it was just another day. Another cold, wintry, Molly-don’t-feel-good day. And then [like it could get any worse? Oh, but just wait for it. It does.] the very next day was Valentine’s Day. Now, I’m not a poor-me-I’m-single kind of thinker. Except when I’m going on week two of a severe flu-and-cold attack wrapped neatly in a writer’s block sandwich with a nice dollop of would-you-like-some-cheese-with-your-WHINE kind of attitude.
And I was struggling – I mean really struggling – about my writing. I want so desperately to make NOLA the best it can be, but I wasn’t getting much feedback from anyone. And, something has been gnawing at me lately. Well, not just lately. But it started small enough I could ignore it. Until recently. Until the flu meds helped my brain become a little less filtered. So as I’m sittingrestingnear comatose in a meditativemedicated state in my recliner, these words come back to me from someone who I think meant well, but doesn’t grasp the essence of me or my story. This person, last year, inferred I didn’t belong in the writing community I was in because of the suggestive content in NOLA.
And last week I started to believe that statement. I thought, “How can I be a Christian and write grit?” I was compromising my story to make it fit Someone Else’s idea of what it should be. I knew, even though the rough draft is exactly what I wanted it to be, that it’s not the finished product.
And to get to a marketable finished product, I need to change NOLA. But how? There’s no cussing. No sex. There’s some booze and Hoodoo. [Oh, c’mon. It’s New Orleans, not the Sistine Chapel.] And, yeah. Some physical attractions. So why doesn’t it work? Because when I was writing it for Someone Else, it wasn’t the story that needs to be told.
So I set everything I was told aside. I read Steven James’s The Pawn. Now, here’s a great Christian, award-winning author who writes psychological thrillers. NOLA isn’t a psychological thriller, but I can certainly draw parallels between writing grit while being a Christian. NOLA was never intended for the Christian market.
But there’s still the thing about rules. You know, market formula. Sigh. Heavy sigh. Because it’s CREATIVE writing, am I right? How can we be creative geniuses and embrace our craziness if we’re regulated to formulaic prose?
Huzzah. I picked up another Steven James book last week: Story Trumps Structure. Four pages in and I already realize, this is what’s been missing. Steven knows how to create a story worth telling on its merit. Forget Act I, II, III. Forget peaks and valleys of plot. Just write the story. And he gives me [okay, everyone, but for this conversation, we’re gonna say he wrote the book for me, okay?] permission to be *gasp* *wait for it*
CREATIVE.
Okay. Raise your hands if you did not see that one coming.
But wait. There’s more: Aaron Gansky [son of the aforementioned Pops, and my good friend and writing mentor] has always encouraged writers to read Flannery O’Connor’s Mystery and Manners. Now, I studied Flannery in college. So the same night I picked up Steven James’s books, I also grabbed The Complete Stories of Flannery O’Connor. She wrote grit. She was almost excommunicated from the Catholic Church for writing Southern-grotesque stories. You know what her response was? How can you show how wonderful God is unless you show all He helps us overcome? How can we show the depravity of man if we keep our eyes closed to it? Her writings weren’t meant to be sermons, but rather studies on human nature. She had a beautiful grasp on the “unexpected but inevitable” endings. Her stories could never end any way other than how she wrote them, and yet they still surprise us. She was a master at her craft.
So here I am, putting these puzzle pieces back together. Crying my guts out to my three closest Besties (and my mom), and agonizing over what to do because I want to be creative and not follow a formula and I’m tired of waiting on agents and publishers and editors and I just need to move forward. And every single one of my people told me (a) “I love you. You’ll get through this.” and (b) “Knock it off and get a grip.” It was their loving version of a Gibbs-slap.
And it worked.
Two days ago I started rewriting NOLA to be the piece I know it can be. I’m pulling out old notes, reinserting deleted scenes, cleaning up grammar and dirtying up the plot. I’m making it the book I need it be. For me. Not for a community. Not for instructors. Not for rules of the industry. And in doing so, I’m making it the best book for you.
Gibbs always tells his NCIS team, “Trust your gut.” And that’s what I’ve decided to do. Because nobody knows how to tell NOLA better than me. I just forgot that part for a minute.
Frankly, My Dear . . . Trust Your Gut.
As a prologue to this wonderful journey, first I’m over the flu thankyouverymuchforasking. Second, tonight’s Firsts in Fiction Podcast is “Encouragement from Discouragement.” How apropos is that? Hey, I don’t make this stuff up! I hope you’ll join the chat room live at 5:30 pm PST. Just click on the link and join the fun.
Now I want to hear from you: Have you compromised your work to fit someone else’s idea of what it should be? How do you get over writer’s block? What encouragements do you have for other writers?
With a clear path and a happy gut,
Happy Writing.
~Molly Jo
And Frankly, My Dear . . . : That’s all she wrote!
Next week our topic is The Care and Feeding of Your Idea.
What questions do you have about maintaining a healthy work in progress? Leave a comment and we’ll do our best to answer. You can also leave non-topic Ask The Author questions, too.
Firsts in Fiction co-hosts Aaron and Al Gansky, and their photobombing producer (that would be me.)
So this was us a year and a half ago [has it really been that long?!] at Blue Ridge. They’re celebrating awards and I’m celebrating the fact I could jump in high heels.
Ahh, good times.
So, next week we’re doing a slightly different podcast, which y’all may have surmised from the title of this post.
Everything you wanted to know about writing but were afraid to ask.
This is where you come in. As with any creative endeavor, we want to do it right. And while the hosts and moi have our ideas and questions to ask each other, we know it’s you, the audience, whom we do this for. So leave your questions in the comments, and we’ll see if we can add them to the mix.
Confession time: I haven’t known how to say everything I need to say. Pretty soon I’ll be rebranding the blog with a stronger focus on social media, writing, and editing. But now and then, I’ll still have some emo to share.
And starting two weeks ago it kept me company at the Blue Ridge Mountains Christian Writers Conference.
Blue Ridge Ready
Since returning, my peeps have been asking me to share stories with them. What was it like? Who did I meet with? Did I pick up new clients? What are my favorite memories? How hard was it to come home this year?
First, let me say this, as I’m sure most, if not all, at Blue Ridge would agree:
It was life changing.
As for the rest of it . . . It’s taken me a week to remember. To be able to talk about it. To share it authentically, and even then I’ve yet to do a complete job.
Because this year at Blue Ridge was a hard one for me. This year, God grabbed me at the beginning and said, “This is where the healing starts.”
When Healing Hurts
Last year, Blue Ridge was new and inviting and full of connections and adventure. This year, some of my peeps couldn’t make it. This year I had the room to myself, and at the end of the busy days, I went into solitude.
From the first night away, I had bouts of anxiety. And I missed the FurFamily. Every few hours I was certain I just needed to pack it up and head home early. But who wants to admit that, at what amounts to a family reunion? These things are supposed to be fun, carefree. Not, “I need a hand to hold just so I know I have someone holding my hand” kind of moments. Right?
And the conference, well, it’s for writers, not whiners. So I sucked it up. Or so I thought. The thing is with me, and if you’ve hung around my blog for any length of time, you already know this: I’m a bit of a crier.
So there I am. At Blue Ridge and I’m overwhelmed with the responsibility to prove that I’m worth the collective efforts it took to get me there. And I want to make the most of it. And I’m afraid of letting people down. And I’m afraid of not gleaning every ounce I’m supposed to. And I’m missing my best friend who I met there last year.
And the hurts and struggles and trials of the last few years that have nothing to do with Blue Ridge or writing, they rise like cackles on the back of my neck. They surface, they grab for my attentions. They fight their way into every waking thought. They don’t even belong at Blue Ridge! But they don’t care. Stupid emotions!
And I feel misunderstood. Forgotten. Put down. Cast aside.
Worthless.
I. Am. A. Fraud.
Cloud of Negativity
Which is exactly what the enemy wants us to think, especially at a place like Blue Ridge, right? We’re not supposed to learn how to write for God, how to bring His message into the world, or think we’re worth the effort.
Right?
Wrong.
As difficult as it is, I celebrate the hard emotions. Sure, they were a distraction. A huge distraction. And when I say huge, well . . . Let me take you to Wednesday morning Group Meeting. Filled with people I know and love, but very few I felt connected to. So in a room of over 400 people, as I sat in the very back row between two of the ones I trust the most, the music starts. The worship music. The open-your-heart-to-God-and-let-it-go music. The it’s-too-painful-to-listen-to music. And for an hour, I cried. I just cried. Through the music, the announcements, the keynote speaker. I couldn’t stop biting my lip as the tears raced. I’m not exaggerating.
It was excruciating. And yet, now . . . I can see beauty coming from it.
I began to glimpse the bigger picture.
Blue Ridge isn’t just about learning to be a better writer. Of course it is that, but not just that. It’s also connections. Not just professional, either.
Me with the Ketchup Man – James L. Rubart
I was lucky enough to meet this guy, James L. Rubart. We’re going to be great friends, and he’s even forgiven me for saying he uses too much ketchup.
Aaron, Alycia and I are now known as “The Sibs”. We’re the siblings who weren’t born to the same family, but Blue Ridge brings us together every year.
The Sibs at Blue Ridge: Molly Jo Realy, Aaron Gansky, Alycia Morales
Blue Ridge is where I was able to meet face to face with some of our loyal Firsts in Fiction podcast viewers. Like Bruce, who took it upon himself to Big Brother me and grab me for prayer whenever we passed in the halls. And get this – one of the last minute conferees came all the way from Australia because he heard about it on the podcast. How’s that for connections?
When I realized I wasn’t going to be able to be all things to all people all the time (I know. You’d think I’d learned that one by now. But hey. Work in progress, here, okay?), when I gave myself permission to fail, it was like giving myself permission to grow. I opted instead to do what I could for myself, not the world at large. Because being better to and for myself is better for the world at large. Yes?
Removing the parameters of perfection opened me. It was okay to tell others “I’m not okay right now.” It was okay to miss a few minutes of class and grab coffee with the Seesta. It was okay to sit in a corner, or in the front row. It was okay to say, “No,” or “Not now,” or just “Catch me later.”
And being not okay made the other things okay. I’d been fighting myself all week, and not paying attention to what was happening. And what was happening was confirmation.
Confirmation that I’m supposed to be there. That what I’m doing for my writing, editing, social media and marketing are spot on. That I’m getting better at what I do. That people believe in me and want to help me on this path. That I have friends-turned-family looking out for me. That I have something to offer.
I took new classes with favorite faculty, made the one-on-one appointments, prayed, connected, ate, hugged, laughed, shared . . . Everything I thought was missing, was actually happening.
The lie was that it was a lie.
Are you tracking with me here? Everything I thought I wanted to happen but felt wasn’t happening, because I was wrapped up in my tears and loneliness and anxiety . . . It was still happening. I just wasn’t experiencing it.
Until Wednesday morning. Naw, I’m not saying it all worked out that quickly. But I am saying on Wednesday morning I found myself surrounded by my peeps. Who kept surrounding me. And in retrospect, they had from the beginning. I just hadn’t noticed.
So here it is, a week later and I’m home. And it’s taken me this week of remembering and processing to realize, I still have so much to unpack.
Was it overwhelming? Yes. Would I do it again? As soon as yesterday. I know I’m not the only one who left the mountaintop and fell into the valley. We’re all gonna help each other back up.
“Next year, at Blue Ridge . . .” (Thank you, Lori.)
This is the song that did me in, Wednesday morning. God uses everything for His good.
“Blessings” by Laura Story. [How cool is her last name?!]
Yes, because there was much to learn, more to affirm, and an abundance of camaraderie.
No, because in this midst of all that, there were some treasured folk that were deeply missed.
I’ll tell y’all about it later (I said “y’all” again!), but this post is about what I learned about social media. In particular, it’s about one post that taught me about social media.
You see, there’s this thing we call Lobby Time. In the early mornings (not really), between classes (sometimes) and after the evening group session (always), most of us gather in the lobby. It’s where we connect, hang out, let our hair down, play Magic or other games . . . You get the picture.
And speaking of picture (see what I did there?), I took one. There I am chatting it up with some friends-turned-family and I think, This would make a great photo. So in the midst of their discussion, I lifted my cell phone and click. I took a photo.
This photo.
Lobby Time at BRMCWC with Alton Gansky and Lori Roeleveld.
The woman on the right of the photograph is Lori Roeleveld, a disturber of hobbits. She’s an excellent blogger, and a true friend. She calls me sister.
So why wouldn’t I want a photo of some of my favorite peeps?
And why wouldn’t I post it on Twitter and tag them in it?
And why wouldn’t they respond?
So apparently, it’s become a thing. Like, a thing-thing. Like, an internal, #BRMCWC, photo-gone-viral thing. This was taken Monday night. The conference went until Thursday afternoon.
Do you know how many people were talking about this photo by Thursday afternoon? Well, what’s This Girl to do when the conference director says, “Send that to me ASAP so I can share it.”
Of course I sent it to her.
Here’s the thing. It’s not the photo. It’s the reactions.
So many people love so much about this photo, but it all started with Lori’s Tweet-back:
“When did I start to resemble Al?”
And since she has her own Twitter followers, they saw her reply to the photo. And each time, we tagged Al in the retweets. So others saw it.
And kept the conversation going.
And directed others to it.
Two days later, I passed Lori in the hall. As she had broken her foot last week, I paused to ask how she was doing. She gave me a tired smile and said, “I’m alright except for starting to look like Al.”
It’s a good thing my peeps have a sense of humor.
I can honestly tell you upon pain of death that this is one of my most popular tweets ever. It’s certainly one of my favorites.
Sure it’s not a Kardashian. Or Justin Bieber with his pet monkey. Or a Kardashian with Bieber’s pet monkey.
But it is a pretty fantastic photo of some pretty fantastic people that received some pretty fantastic attention.
