Becca Rowan is a writer and the author of Life in General, a collection of essays about mid-life as experienced by an American woman in the 21st century. Becca loves creating connections by sharing stories on her popular blog.
Along with several of my fellow blogging buddies, I've embarked upon the NaNoWriMo project. We're all attempting to complete a 50,000 word novel between November 1 and November 30. If you're a regular reader here, you'll know that I often post about my lack of time. It's a subject that's usually very near (if not dear!) to my heart. So I'm sure you're thinking I've completely lost every ounce of common sense I ever had. Why would someone who already feels time deprived, add one more activity, and a huge one at that, to her list of projects and responsibilities?
I guess I'm just a masochist.
Actually, it's because I really like doing stuff. I love trying things, even if I'm sometimes disappointed in the experience. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, is one of my mottoes.
Although I must say, at first the whole NaNoWriMo concept seemed like a complete joke. The main objective seems to be getting the words on paper. They don't have to be pretty - as a matter of fact, they'll probably be pretty ugly. It's like a marathon - just get to the end, even if you're limping and dragging your pathetic tail behind you.
Three days into the project, I've discovered what a powerful concept that is. After all, my name is Becca and I'm a perfectionist! But right now, in this particular instance, being perfect doesn't count - it doesn't even matter. So, when I'm typing away lickety split and a little nagging voice in my mind says, wait a minute, there's a better word for that, or oops, I think that's the wrong syntax, or yech! that's a really stupid thing for that character to say - well, I just shrug it off and keep on typing. I can fix it later, I tell the little voice, that's now sputtering uselessly where I've slammed it into the farthest corner of my mind.
Several months ago I read Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott's fabulous and fun book about writing. Very early in the book, she discusses the absolute necessity for "shitty first drafts. " "Almost all good writing begins with terrible first efforts," she states. "You need to start somewhere. Start by getting something - anything - down on paper." She goes on to describe this first draft as "the child's draft," where you "let it all pour out and then let it romp all over the place, knowing that no one is ever going to see it."
Julia Cameron, author of The Artist's Way, is in total agreement with this concept. "In order to do something well we must first be willing to do it badly," she writes.
And where do all these words (shitty and otherwise) come from? It's amazing, really. Cameron says that our creative spirit is a natural instinct, and will "flow through us like an underground river, a stream of ideas we can tap into." Lamott counsels letting the "childlike part of you channel whatever voices and visions come through and onto the page." Natalie Goldberg, in Writing Down the Bones, warns, "don't think too much. Just enter the heat of word and sounds and colored sensations, and keep your pen moving across the page."
So far, it's been a rather fascinating experience. The first two days, words came pouring onto the page, so fast my fingers could barely keep up. Well, this will be a cinch, I thought, cockily noting a word count of over 4500 words in two days. Day three has not been such a walk in the park. My mind was a little slower cranking it out today, reminding me of a car engine on a cold winter morning.
I have no idea where I'll end up, or whether I'll "win" the NaNoWriMo challenge (winning simply means completing the 50,000 word requirement by November 30.) But I'm enjoying this process of letting my imagination have free rein on the page, without worrying overmuch about getting everything exactly right. So, I'll close with another quote, one I'm sure most of you have heard before, but it seems quite appropriate to this situation ~ "Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss it, you will land among the stars."
Happy writing!
In my dreams, I live in a house by the sea, high atop a grassy hill with the water spread below me like an endless blanket of blue. I awake to the sun sparkles of a million diamonds, dancing across the waves, and settle into my favorite chair at the end of the day just as the brilliant orange orb sinks into a rosy glow over the horizon. As you can tell, it isn't so much about the house for me, as the place where the house is. Of course, I'd like to have a nice home, but it doesn't need to be a huge mansion. A house with lots of windows so the water is beside me at every turn. A room big enough to hold my baby grand piano, with built in book shelves from floor to ceiling all round, and a couple of big overstuffed chairs. A bedroom with doors that open wide, so the rhythmic lapping of waves becomes both lullaby and wake up call. A wraparound deck, with panoramic views of the water at every turn, and lots of big wicker chairs to plop into. It would be a shiny new place, with slick hardwood floors and bright white cabinetry and woodwork. I'd decorate in all shades of blues, from the darkest navy to the palest periwinkle, and accent with red, dark greens, and yellows. A home full of light, with crisp brightness, yet warm and inviting as well.
Ah, yes, a home by the sea. In my dreams....
Today's post is inspired by my inner brat. It seems that in spite of my advanced age, there is still a 15 year old girl dwelling in my psyche, capable of righteous indignation and insane jealousy. I just have to talk about this to someone, and - guess what? - you're it. Here's the backstory, as briefly as I can tell it. I was once a member of a local musical group. There were 13 of us (we were a handbell group, which isn't really important, but partly explains why we were 13), and we traveled and made CD's and did concerts, after which there was much wine drinking and general carousing. It was a huge amount of fun, but also a huge time committment. So, two years ago, I (regretfully) resigned, with many promises to return to and subsitute, fill in, etc., which I have dutifully done on several occasions.
It's impossible not to miss being in a group like that. Oh, I don't miss the endless rehearsals, with 13 women trying to get a word in edgewise about how things should be done, nor the hours of home practice, trying to emulate the action of handbells by using every last one of my kitchen spoons (don't even ask!). What I miss the most is - #1, the interaction between talented women, working together to accomplish a common goal; #2, stretching my musical capabilities; and #3, performing for live audiences and being adored and admired!
Now, also a part of this group was someone whom I would consider my best friend, and my musical mentor. She was in the group far longer than I and she decided to "retire" the same time I did. Over the summer, there was a "temporary" vacancy in the group, created by a member who wanted to take a year off for personal reasons. Well, it seems my friend was asked if she would step in and fill this one year vacancy, and she agreed.
Here's where the inner brat comes in. WHY DIDN'T THEY ASK ME??? They didn't even ask me. And, without ringing my own bell too loudly, so to speak, I know I am a really good handbell player. So now my friend is telling me about all the things she's doing with the group, and how they're preparing for this, that, and the other concert. On the outside, I'm smiling and nodding, and on the inside, I am just fuming.
I don't consider myself to be an overly sensitive or insecure person. Way back when I really was 15, I wasn't type to get in a snit because my friend didn't call me back when she said she would, or invite me to her party. So the jealousy and hurt I'm feeling right now are (thankfully!) quite unfamiliar. At issue is, how do I handle my feelings? The 15 year old says, "fine, if they want to be that way, they can forget about asking me to substitute anymore, and forget about me coming to their dumb old concerts." Of course, the adult part says, "either suck it up and forget about it, or talk to the group director in a mature adult fashion and let her know you're interested in returning if another opportunity arises."
Naturally, I know the right answer. But it's amazing how easily immaturity rears it's ugly head from time to time, even when you're a supposedly "mature adult." In some ways, it's kind of nice to know there's still a little bit of a teenager in there somewhere. I just wish it was the part that weighed 95 pounds and wore a size three!
Thanks for listening...
I'm deviating from Deirdre's suggestion just a little bit and borrowing an idea from one of the magazine's I read. Every month they feature a celebrity column titled "My Life in_________", for instance, "My Life in Hairstyles," or My Life in Jewelry," and once it was "My Life in Lipstick" for pete's sake! So, here's a little history of "My Life in Magazines".
Back in the days when I was reading lots of magazines, I often did as Deidre suggested - I passed them along to my mom, who in turn, passed them along to her neighbors. In the years my grandmother spent in a nursing home, I took great piles of them there, for visitors and staff to enjoy.
