Play Deprivation During The Pandemic

 

TADA...The winner of our giveaway of What the Cluck?  is Dorothy W.

14 years ago, I wrote this statement as part of my education philosophy.

“I believe in the power of play (think of anyone you know who has lost their passion for life and they’ve probably forgotten how to play.)

I believe in learning through wonder, exploration, and discovery (think of anyone you know who is a lifelong learner, and they’re probably driven by wonder, exploration, and discovery rather than thinking of learning as a task that must be completed.)” 

Indeed, play has always been a driving force in my life as a teacher and a writer.  As I reflect on my journey through education, I realize that I am not the stereotype.  I did not come to teaching because I thought I could change the world. I was not particularly fond of children.  I did not feel like I had ideas to impart on young minds. I realize that I am drawn to teaching 5-year-olds because I love to play.  I am Peter Pan and the students that frolic and romp  along with me are the “lost boys (and girls)”  

I have spent the past 30+ years avoiding growing up.  Instead, I arrive each day to the spontaneous joy, enchantment, and wonder of those who are experts at playing.  Don’t get me wrong, it is hard work to preserve this quality and protect it against those who might squelch it. 

This year I have watched as my students have struggled to find their footing.  I’ve noticed that it is taking longer.  They are less mature than years past and I wonder how the pandemic has affected their opportunities to play. 

 I imagine that the impact has been great.  

They came into the shutdowns when they were 3 ½.  Just when play with their peers was becoming prominent.  

I have noticed a lag.  

Much of our day is spent playing together. There is much healing to be done and I believe in the power of play.  

Recently, I find that I too have been deprived of opportunities to play for the past 19 months. There are few, if any gatherings.  Many of my friends are not venturing out spontaneously. I have attended countless meetings, conferences, and workshops on Zoom.  I spend many more hours than I ever have, in my apartment with the television keeping me company.   I have forgotten how it feels to wander aimlessly in lands unknown.   

With this loss of adventure, my creativity has waned noticeably.   Days go by and I am resisting sitting down to write.  Ideas are blocked,  a big, giant void. The joy is just not there. As I write this, it is taking me great effort to hear the words to put on the page.  It’s painful.

I wonder, why am I struggling to write? Where has my creativity gone, and will it return? Why does the sun shine a little less brightly? Why are my senses dulled?  

And then it dawns on me.  I have ceased to play as an artist.  I have stopped answering the call of spontaneity, wonder, and curiosity. I have ceased to explore and discover. 

Where is my passion? Is this my new normal? Is this what the pandemic has left in its wake? Can I pull this back from the brink and restore my imagination?  Is it me?  Are there others around me? Are there others out in the world? Are we experiencing a collective lull? Will we recover and heal? 

Yes, I believe we will. I’m hopeful that the opportunities of joy and delight will return and bring creativity back with them. For those of us whose inspiration has been affected by play deprivation, I believe that eventually we will find the power of play…again.

Posted by Zeena M. Pliska

Author of :

Hello, Little One: A Monarch Butterfly Story Illustrated by Fiona Halliday  Page Street Kids

Egyptian Lullaby Illustrated by Hatem Aly Roaring Brook Press (coming Winter 2023)

For more info about me click here

                 

Best Writing Tip Ever--or What I Learned from Wile. E. Coyote

     I don't know where I picked up this "best writing tip." It could've been in the Vermont College MFA Writing for Children program.  Or at one of the many, many writer's conferences I've attended over the years. Maybe it was in one of the dozens of "craft" books I've consumed. I'm sorry I can't credit this writing tip to anyone specific.  All I know is that isn't mine originally.

So here it is.

Stop writing.

I'm one of those people that can't get started when I sit down to write. I fiddle around. I read my mail. I play an online word game. Maybe two.  OK, maybe more than two. Then I go back to my document screen. Words have not magically appeared while I was trying to get started.

This blank screen (or if you're Old School, blank sheet of paper) stares at me. No, glares at me, in all it's blinding white glory. I can look at the previous paragraph or chapter and tell myself, "Look. You wrote this yesterday. See? This sounds pretty good. You can do it, Mary Ann."

The screen doesn't blink. Still blank.

I get a second (or third) cup of coffee.

Sometimes, with that next cup and a hour or so of spinning my wheels, I might squeeze out a couple of terrible sentences. I keep writing sentences, boards thrown randomly over a muddy patch of plot. The sentences, fuzzy and badly placed, will get me to dry ground. But after I regain solid footing...I have to go back and clean up that rickety word bridge. By that time, I can rearrange those boards into a recognizable narrative. If I don't clean up the mess it right then, I'll have the same problem months later when I revise. So it's writing, re-writing...then three hours are gone, and I have a paragraph.

Maybe.

Who has hours to waste with unproductive writing?

So here's what I do now.

I stop writing.

I don't write to the end of a scene or a chapter. I just stop. Stop in mid-chapter, paragraph or even sentence.

Why?

If I write until I run out of ideas, guess what? 99% of the time, when I next turn on the computer, I will still be out of ideas! It's like Wile E. Coyote running to the edge of a cliff, and realizing there is no bridge. Dead end.

But...

...if I stop while I still have the end of the scene, or chapter firm in my head, I can begin the next time, knowing that the next words are already there .  No stalling, no hem-hawing around. The act of continuing what was already in my head, creates momentum.  The physics of writing--A writer in the act of writing will continue to write. Or--A writer at rest will continue to be at rest.  Or something like that. (Physics is not my strong suit.)

When I'm engaged in writing what I already know, most often, my subconscious is "building the bridge" ahead. So, unlike poor Coyote, when I get to the end of what I "know," I will discover that the road ahead has cleared...or a bridge has been built...or fill-in your own simile. And as you merrily make your way down to the road of your story, remember to stop. Stop before you get to the next dead end.

Don't fall off the cliff, like Wile E. Coyote.

It works for me. I hope it works for you, too.

MESSY,PERPLEXING POETRY--ONE GAL'S JOURNEY

.
Howdy, Campers ~ and Happy Poetry Friday! (PF link at the end)

The topic of this round is MESSY MIDDLES,  talking about what happens if the middle of a novel is sagging or the middle of another project just isn't working, etc. 

I can't offer much advice or examples of this except to say that I'm always in the middle of quiet terror. Can anyone relate?

So...let's talk about the messiness of writing a poem.

Here's how this poem evolved...in four steps (I've left out many of the middle attempts):

1. Looking for an idea. 

I started with a first line: I am musing about music.

(UNTITLED)

by April Halprin Wayland

I am musing about music.

I am lost.

I cannot find my feet.

They are sinking in sand.

There is no topic.

There is not bottompic.

There is just sinking

no thinking

no help

no hope

no nothing

until a little bird.

Just a word.

Just a chirpy word.

One chirpy word.

I look up

from this hole

from sand in my hair

sand on my cheeks

sand on my hands

sand from the beach

sand into next week

at a sandpiper

at her slender needle beak

I wait for her to speak.

another chirpy word

which I find thrilling

I'm twirling in this hole

a sort of reverse drilling

I'm spinning out this hole

scattering the sand

spraying it

playing it

abyss

this poem sucks

================

2. Research. 

I looked up the word music:

From Greek mousikē, any art presided over by the Muses

Read more: http://wiki.answers.com/Q/What_is_the_origin_of_the_word_'music'#ixzz1G3YuxcOS

The word music comes from the Greek mousikê (tekhnê) by way of the Latin musica. It is ultimately derived from mousa, the Greek word for muse. In ancient Greece, the word mousike was used to mean any of the arts or sciences governed by the Muses. Later, in Rome, ars musica embraced poetry as well as instrument-oriented music. Read more:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Definition_of_music

...and wrote this:

This is a mushroom

This is my brain.

This fat white bumpershoot

Amusing

music.

I am the piano

I am the violin

I am a stupid poem

==============

3. What's at the heart of this idea? 

drawing by April Halprin Wayland

I broke away from everything above and thought about what I was feeling inside:

(UNTITLED)
by April Halprin Wayland 

Today I know

how that boy at the back desk feels

when his teacher tells him to write a poem.

He blinks blankly.

He isn't writing while all around him pencils fly.

He scratches his left eye

A storm cloud brews about his head.

His brows grow knotty.

When all around him ideas sprout

this boy at the back

is locked out.

==============

I rewrote it and sent it off to my friend Bruce, who has been sailing around the world with his wife for over 13 years. Regular readers know that he and I send each other a poem a day. We've been doing it since April 2010.

=================

4. Let let it cook. 

That was in March 2011. Today I searched my poems tagged WRITERS' BLOCK, found this poem (which has been cooking for quite awhile), and took another stab at it:

THE BOY IN THE BACK
by April Halprin Wayland

While all around him ideas begin,

he picks the scab on his freckled chin.

While all around him pencils fly,

his brows grow knotty, mystified.

While all around him windows open,

He closes his eyes hoping, hoping.

Ideas take root and poems sprout,

but the boy in the back?

That boy's locked out.

===============

Rewrites count as a day's poem in our rule book, so I'm sending this one off.

..............................................................................

Thanks to Tabatha for hosting this week's Poetry Friday at The Opposite of Indifference!

posted by April Halprin Wayland with lots of love and the help of (in order of appearance) Gin, Eli, and Penny...who are sacked out after helping to edit this:

3 Things I Am Doing Today...What's YOUR Fingerprint?

.
Howdy, Campers, and Happy Poetry Friday! (The link to PF and my poem are below.)

Today's TeachingAuthor topic is "What are you working on now?" An alternate topic I could have chosen was: "Since the ALA awards were announced this week, what is your reaction as a writer to the success/acclaim for other writers. Does it inspire you, or make you envious?

All last year I was thinking about the fact that we are each a fingerprint. We can only help another so much. Ultimately, each person must discover what works in her life; what her fingerprint is.

So...what am I working on now? You mean, what am I doing today?

Well. 

That's a tough one.

To be honest...

I'm not sure.

I'm so tired of the dead bodies of stories that stretch back for decades. It's not that they are unfinished. Most of them are finished. The problem is that they're not quite right. I listen to my critique group or a workshop teacher or a mentor or my best friend but mostly myself...and know that I haven't quite touched the heart of the story; it doesn't yet move the reader. I haven't gone deep enough.

I hear their comments, each given kindly in the belief that I can fix the story and then--TA-DAH! I'll send it off with a note in its lunchbox to an editor and it will roll back to me on a rose covered float with a publishing contract in hand.

I hear them. I understand that I need to jump from this lily pad to that one, by the far edge of the pond... But I can't seem to make the changes. I don't know how.

photo by me

This is hard to admit!

In my over-thirty year career as a children's book author and poet, I've seriously considered leaving the profession once before.

I remember that I was driving two hours home from ALA in San Diego on a rainy night. I had just come from a private party, celebrating an award for the book of a dear friend. And I was sobbing.

I passed a billboard featuring a beautiful baby. Maybe I should quit writing and adopt a baby, I thought.

I didn't know if I could go to one more conference where there seemed to be so much success. It was if I had stepped into Facebook where only fabulous things happen to people. I couldn't stand it anymore.

That's not exactly how I feel now. I can celebrate other people's success today. I wish I were feeling anger or rage or defiance. I'm not. What I'm feeling is heart-sickness.

So, what am I working on now? Figuring it all out: who I want to be. What I want to do. Whether I ever want to write again. (That last sentence is not exactly true. Keep reading.)

Some of this upheaval is due to the current political landscape. Part of me feels I have to stop my life and help save the world. But maybe part of me wants to do this precisely because that would be easier than wading through my confusion and sadness. Hard to know.

So here's what I'm doing:

1) For today, I am writing one poem and also writing beside my sister TeachingAuthors. I love writing a poem a day, which I've done since April 1, 2010. I send them to my friend and he sends me his. I won't stop writing a poem a day, nor will I stop blogging, which has opened a door for me I didn't even know was down the hallway.

2) For today, I have not quit my verse novel...the one I wrote and which was accepted for publication by Dial Books for Young Readers over a decade ago and then cancelled, and which I've been writing and finishing and rewriting and rewriting and not writing and nearly setting fire to since 2002. It's bubbling just under my skin. For today I am letting it bubble.

3) For today, I am listening to my own fingerprint. Just for today I am not listening to mentors or workshop leaders or best-selling writing books or even my beloved fellow writers. Just for today, I am listening to what feels right for me, teaching what feels right for this class, for this poem, for this picture book, for this novel. Maybe what I write doesn't fit into today's publishing world. And I have zero desire to self-publish. But still I think about my verse novel almost every day. Mostly with sadness, but with a touch of desire. And some small hope that maybe I haven't yet lived the part of my life that needs to be added to it to complete this book. And others, too.

"I haven't yet lived the part of my life..." Yet is a powerful word.

A month after the election, I was reading about the eyes of flies, for reasons which escape me now:

"House fly eyes are compound organs that are comprised of thousands of individual lenses. Compound eyes are capable of detecting both the polarization of light and color spectrums unseen by humans.” http://www.orkin.com/flies/house-fly/house-fly-eyes/

Reading that triggered the poem I wrote that day, which even I don't understand:

WHAT KEEPS ME GOING
by April Halprin Wayland

"Why," asked Sir Spider, "are you an optimist, friend Fly?"

"I've iridescent eyes," said the ever watchful fly...

and then she said, "Good-bye!"

poem (c) 2017 by April Halprin Wayland. All rights reserved.

For today, those are three things I am doing and an odd poem. That's my fingerprint. What's yours?

Thank you, Beyond LiteracyLink for hosting today ~

Posted by April Halprin Wayland with the help of Eli, who slept quietly on his doggy couch while I wrote.

2 Causes of Writers' Block & Poetry Friday

..Howdy, Campers ~ and happy Poetry Friday! (original poem and PF link below)

We TeachingAuthors are in the middle of a round about Writers' Block.

Mary Ann writes about The Scariest Thing on Earth--Your W.I.P; Bobbi helped me understand the facts about writers' block in her post with the great title, Once Upon a Block-ness Monster; JoAnn feels better able to handle writers' block in her new writing chair; Carla says for her, writers' block comes in the form of too many ideas.

In this 2:45 minute video interview, author Neil Gaiman makes a distinction between writers' block and simply being stuck. And my fav children's literature ezine, Quercus, alerted me to Marion Dane Bauer's views on this topic.

For me, the two causes of writers' block are fear and perfectionism (who are most certainly twin brothers).

Fear and Perfection--twin brothers ~ from Morguefile.com by Maria Bavuso

So what do I DO when I'm blocked? Well...I could read the 22 rules of storytelling from Pixar. Chances are, one of those might unclog my blocked pipes.

Note that I said that these might help. I haven't actually tried of them yet. But you should. You definitely should.

During one of those fear-filled times in my life, I told a friend I'd stopped writing completely. How, I asked her, do you begin again? She looked around. Then she shared her journal writing secret: write for just one minute each night. So I tried it. I mean, who couldn't write for one minute, for heaven's sake?  It sounds so simple, but her secret did the trick. (I wrote about it here.)

Thank you, long-ago friend!  This is the assignment in my UCLA Extension's Writers' Program courses:

Write a one-minute journal each day. Take just one (timed) minute to record the thing you most want to remember about today. It can be weighty—that your friend passed the bar exam, for example. But it could be that one moment—seeing the long slant of the sun on a skateboarder as she skated past.

from morguefile.com by Domas

As an example, here's something I wrote in a rush:

I'm always frantic in the evening; I like to write my daily poem before Gary comes home. But tonight he came home and I had nothing.

I asked him if he had any ideas for a poem, for something that sticks...and as I said it, I saw an image of the things that stick to my clothes on a hike.

Sometimes the Universe is good to me. Well, most times, actually.

A POEM STICKS TO YOUR CLOTHES
by April Halprin Wayland

It's like something that clings to your shirt—
one of those blue sticky flowers,
or a foxtail.

At the end of the day,
you take off your jacket
and there it is,

soft like a real fox's tail,
tenacious,
pointed,

and sometimes
painful.

It must be dealt with.
poem © 2016 April Halprin Wayland. All rights reserved

sticky blue plumbago flower
photo by April Halprin Wayland

Okay, Campers--now it's your turn. Attack a fresh page--with words and/or doodles--for one minute. You’ll be glad you did.

And thanks, Violet, for hosting PF today!

fettered by perfectionism and posted with fear by April Halprin Wayland, with considerable help from a decaf latte with extra soy

The Scariest Thing on Earth--Your WIP (Work in Progress)

     I have been writing the same book for over 10 years.

     No, I haven't been staring at a blank screen for 10 years. In fact, I've written and published another middle grade novel, five picture books and had two short stories in YA anthologies. However, with all that activity going on, My Big Novel bubbled away on the back burner. While I was writing and revising the other works, I was writing and researching MBN. This is a story based on my father's family and their survival of a major natural disaster. (I'm not going to describe it any further, because the more you write or talk about your WIP, the less you actually work on the story itself.)

Some of the characters of MBN--the Rodman family, from left,  Great Aunt Beulah, my grandparents Mabel and George Rodman (the dude with the titled hat) and great-grandfather, Sam.

    Life hummed along until one day, I realized there was nothing on the front burner of my writing stove. Time to move MBN to the big front burner.

    I panicked. When I was worked on MBN along with something else, I wasn't aware of what a huge story I was trying to tell. It's written in free verse (something I'd never attempted before), from multiple points of view (ditto.)  While my usual first readers had been enthusiastic about what they shad read, I made the mistake of showing it to an agent at a conference. He was less than enthused about it's "marketability" ("historical fiction doesn't sell.") That was enough to stop me dead in my writing tracks. Suddenly, I saw a million flaws in the story I'd been so passionate about for years. Worse, I realized the enormity of what I was trying to do.  I scared myself into a big fat writer's block.

    I've been blocked before. I would work on something else for awhile, and when I came back to the original book, I could blast that block to kingdom come.

    Not this time. Soon after my disastrous conversation with the agent, my mother died. This was the beginning of a years long string of family tragedies, emergencies and dramas that fell to me to handle.  This pretty well zapped my creative energy.  Add to that, the economy was circling the drain just as five of my books were published. Library budgets were circling the drain as well. Three of the five went out of print within 18 months. In addition to blocked, frazzled and depressed, I was now demoralized. No way I could write MBN. Besides, as the agent had said "Who would want to read this?"

    My lovely editors were all leaving the business for one reason or another. Any submissions I made now would be like starting all over again. So I taught my Young Author's Camps, thinking that my publishing days were over.

    That's where I made my mistake. All I thought about was publishing MBN.  I had forgotten about writing a story I thought was compelling (despite what that agent said). I was losing family members who had been looking forward to their story being told. They didn't care if it was published...they would've been happy with a printed copy in a three-ring binder. Worst of all, I was now teaching the siblings of my first Young Authors.  Siblings who had been told the story of MBN (back when I still talked about it) and were disappointed that it wasn't published yet. I couldn't tell them it wasn't even sort of finished. Not when I spend a week (six times a summer) telling these kids they can do anything, to not listen to their inner negative critic, etc. Oh yeah, Ms Rodman, I can imagine them saying, well then how come you didn't finish your story?

At right, Sharon Rodman Blazek, one of my most important literary cheerleaders. The other person is me. We are celebrating out 18th birthdays (10 days apart.)

     So with two of my most favorite people in the world (who also happen to be Rodman cousins) cheering me on, I am back at it. MBN lives. Two adult non-fiction accounts of this event haven been published in the past couple of years so I have new material to be excited about. (And I have to admit, I am now afraid someone else may beat me to the punch with this same story.) I am no longer obsessed with whether it is published traditionally or not. So many of my friends are self-publishing, that for the first time, I am allowing myself to think of that as an option.

   As for the enormity of the story itself...I remind myself of Anne Lamott's book, Bird by Bird.  The title comes from one of her family's stories.  Anne's little brother found himself trying to write a huge report on bird life, due the next day. A  report he had had three months to write. As he moaned aloud how could he possibly write this enormous assignment in one night, his father (a writer himself) answered "Bird by bird, buddy.  Just take it bird by bird."

    And so I am.  And so I will. Event by event, character by character.

   Don't forget to enter our Blogiversary Giveaway for the new-and-improved edition of Carmela's MG historical fiction, Rosa, Sola.  For details, see last Friday's post.

Posted by Mary Ann Rodman

Wednesday Writing Workout

Meet my pal, Linda Skeers:

Linda's picture books are filled with humor and heart.

She's one of those naturally funny people, a popular speaker who even leads workshops to teach others how to write funny. For today's writing workout, Linda has agreed to share an exercise she's used with both children and adults. Enjoy!

---------------------------

Kids love to laugh. Editors love to laugh. Heck, everyone loves to laugh! But what do you do when you sit down to write something that will have everyone giggling and you just stare at the blank page, feeling anything but funny? Here's an exercise that will help you create some silly situations, crazy characters, and get you laughing out loud in no time.

First, get three paper bags. Label one CHARACTERS, another PROBLEMS, and the third SETTING. Next, cut paper into strips.

Now, let the fun begin! Quickly write down possible characters on slips of paper. For example:  pirate, walrus, alien, dentist, zookeeper, and cowboy. Drop them in the appropriate bag.

Move on to problems or situations:  lost, new school, hungry, broken leg, digging for buried treasure... don't censor yourself, just jot down whatever pops into your head. Put them in the PROBLEMS bag.

Now for settings:  deserted island, Mars, playground, bathtub, snow fort, jungle. Add them to the SETTINGS bag.

You don't have to come up with ideas on your own. Ask family, friends, other writers, kids, your mailman... for things to add to the bags.

Now, draw a slip out of each bag and tell a story with those three elements. Mix and match until you get the giggles, and then that blank page won't look so scary!

--------------------------

Thanks, Linda! Merry Christmas and happy holidays to all!

Jill Esbaum

Can routine save the day?

Today I'm supposed to write about how sticking to a writing routine can save the day. Or not. That ties in perfectly to my January 4th post, in which I vowed to set a writing schedule for myself in an effort to find my way back into a middle grade novel project. I'd like to shout, "Yes! A schedule was exactly what I needed! I'm well into Chapter 5! Hallelujah!" That would be inspirational, wouldn't it? It would also be untrue.

For the first time in my writing life (16 years), I entered a new year feeling overwhelmed by the number of projects awaiting my attention. Hmm. Could I work on the novel for two hours per day, fitting other writing in around it? No. Turns out that, like Mary Ann, scheduled writing time makes me itchy. Plus, I'm much happier and more productive when focusing on one project at a time.

For a few weeks there, I just avoided my office. That led to many late-night struggles with monkey mind - our pastor's apt description for when you can't sleep because your thoughts keep jumping from one problem to another. Especially worrisome were three picture book projects editors were waiting for (no rush, but still). Throw in the same real life chores/business/family stuff we all deal with and you have enough stress to set anybody's teeth to grinding.

What finally worked to get me back on track was my old friend, list making. Prioritizing. And, hold the phone...what was that hovering down there at #6? Yep, the novel. So I've put it aside and begun chipping away at those projects higher on the list. And I've seen actual results.
                    1) A nonfiction picture book proposal is almost ready to go out the door.
                    2) A fiction pb has been tweaked per an editor's suggestions.
                    3) My messy pile of writing-related receipts stuffed into a drawer and ignored through most of 2012, otherwise known as "important stuff my husband's  going to ask for any minute while he gets tax info together," is now collated and  duly recorded and in perfect order. (He may faint.)

And I'm feeling much, much better about the situation. As are my jaws.

Routine has saved the day, at least in part. I spend most mornings in my office, chipping away at that list. For me, though, balance is imperative. So I opened another creative outlet. Months ago, I picked out fabric* for a quilt I wanted to make. I finally sketched a design, calculated the pieces I'd need, and got to work. Piecing a quilt, unlike writing, lets me see results quickly. I think - no, I know - that those afternoons in my basement sewing studio have been therapeutic.

                                                       *the centers of the squares look black in this pic, but they are 
                                                         actually a dark coffee brown.

And, #6? Don't worry, I see you down there. Hang tight. I'm on my way.

Jill Esbaum

Brain Draino or You Can't Fail

     Hey gang, it's Friday and I'm not April. If you've tuned in for April's wonderful poetry, you can stop reading now. It's summertime and the schedules are crazy (as in I forgot to write my Monday blog...and didn't even know until Tuesday because I hadn't opened my computer in two days.) Hence, here I am to continue the current thread of "Unblocking Creativity."

   I live in an older house with iffy plumbing. Something is always backing up, leaking, or just plain not working. Kind of like my brain a lot of days.  While I have published ten books in eight years, I have been working on another book for the same eight years.  It's a YA historical fiction verse novel in three voices.  Think that's enough of a challenge for someone who has never written YA, poetry or anything multi-voiced?  I believe this is known as "leaving your comfort zone."

    I don't like leaving my comfort zone. It took me so many years to find my comfort zone, I am in no rush to leave it.  I could happily write middle grade fiction and picture books forever. Unfortunately, this story that will not leave me alone.  While I was writing Jimmy's Stars and First Grade Stinks and A Tree for Emmy, this other story was also living in my head. And it wasn't living there quietly. At least once a week, one of the characters whacks me on the head and says, "Hey, you!  You thought us up, now do something with us."
 
     I don't usually have this problem.  Sure, it always takes me a long time to write any book, but I am usually confident that I will finish, eventually. On the other hand, I've never taken eight years to write something, with no end in sight (even though I have the entire book outlined, and written three drafts).

     Let's face it. I am intimidated by my own creation.  Sometimes I see my three main characters as those giant heads on Easter Island...big and scary and something I don't want to get very close to. This leads to all kinds of brain clogging thinking ("Who do I think I am trying to write this particular book?"  "Nobody will ever want it." "Why am I even trying to write poetry?")  The next thing I know, I have closed my laptop and am playing endless games of Words With Friends on my Kindle (I keep hoping to be matched up with Alec Baldwin some day.)

      I am afraid that I am not good enough to write this story that is so very important to me. If I could only write one more book in my life, it would have to be this one.

    So here is my brilliant quote (a little Draino for the brain, if you will).

   What would you do if you knew you couldn't fail?


   I have no idea who said this originally, but it is something my husband says at least once a week. Unlike me, he is all about pushing the envelope, waving bye-bye to comfort zones, a shark in constant motion. (OK, he's not sharklike at all, except that he never stops moving and thinking.)  I doubt his brain plumbing has ever clogged with self doubt.

    What would I do if I knew I couldn't fail? Well, duh. I'd sit down every morning for however long my crazily unscheduled life allows, and sneak back into my characters heads. I know them so well...but apparently, they also know me, and my weaknesses.  "Go ahead," they taunt me. "Just try to get me right on the page. I dare you."

     I am not a person who takes dares. And here we are, back in my comfort zone, my Kindle ready to take me away from dares and defeat.

     My favorite writing guru, Anne Lamott has the same problem, which is reassuring. She devoted an entire chapter in Bird by Bird to those nagging, whiney, inner critics. When her channels get clogged she appears to have panic attacks. I just turn into a non-writing slug. She suggests lots of deep breathing
to get herself "back in the creative stream."

    Deep breathing doesn't work for me.  Making myself aware of my breathing makes me hyperventilate. A hyperventilating, non-writing slug.  Not good.

    What brings me back is a leisurely lap around my jungle-like backyard, reminding myself I can't fail. I know these characters. I know this story. I cannot fail. The Easter Island heads turn back into normal-sized humans. They stop scowling, and invite me back to their world.

    Alec Baldwin will have to wait.

Writer's Workout---All good physical workouts should start with a warm-up and end with a cool down.   I find that brain clog most often happens when I try to just jump into my story, because I am trying to get as far and as fast as I can before my brain poops out.  I make the same mistake in exercising. Both writing and exercise go much better if you make yourself spend ten minutes or so warming up.  Here are some warmups that work for me.

1. Music--a few minutes listening to whatever kind of music puts you in a creative mood. Since I am usually writing something historical, I listen to music of that era. This is not permission to listen to
the entire CD of Abbey Road or Dark Side of the Moon. Ten minutes, tops.

2. Pictures--I have a small collection of old postcards and photos (not family pictures, pictures of strangers I've picked up at flea markets). Meditating on one of those for a few minutes will send me back to my story.

3.  Having a conversation (on paper) with one of my characters. I will ask the character a question that has been bothering me, and then listen for the response. Often, I find my character answering a completely different question...which tells me that I didn't ask the right question!  They aren't mean about it....they are just reminding me where their story is going...and that I can't force them to go where they don't want to go.

4. Reminding myself of my successes--This sounds kind of egotistical, but a therapist suggested it to me  when I first began writing, and it works when nothing else will. I have framed copies of every writing award I won as a kid (thanks to my mom who actually hung them in our den...much to my embarrassment as a teenager). I have a shelf of the books I've already published. I have a couple of plexiglass doodads that seem to be the form that awards take these days. (I have three identical awards for three completely different honors....I have to look closely at the etching to see which is which!)  In the days before I had awards, I had "nice rejection" letters to remind that yes, I can write and I cannot fail.  

Well, that's not entirely true.  You can fail...but only if you quit.

Posted by Mary Ann Rodman