 A good writer friend of mine is going to kick my butt for writing this, but here goes anyway...I'm a daredevil like that. I shall take the butt kicking if only to make my point.
"I want to be a mega published author some day--it's my dream--but I can't write. I'm just TOO busy to find the time I need to write ANYTHING." Really? Is that so? *shakes a finger at you* Then you obviously don't want it as much as I thought you did, do ya? Do ya? DO YA? Frank. To the point. Yep. I am. I will make you see the wrong of your ways. Hee...hee...hee...I'm fun like that. In my humble opinion, if you want something bad enough, you'll find a way to make it happen. That's the only way ANYTHING ever happens. Life IS busy. Unless you're a hermit with a kazillion bucks in the bank, have no spouse, no job, no kids, no pets, NO LIFE, then you will ultimately find yourself having to fit writing around your busy life. Life happens. You've got to live it--laundry has to be done; bills have to be paid; lawns need to be mowed; groceries need to be bought; dinner needs to be made--'tis life. But let's take a look at that busy life of yours, shall we? How much TV do you watch a day? What if you skipped one episode or missed one TV program, let's say, once a day for a week. That would be (doing some quick math here--it's not my strong suit so I may just have to do some estimating) 30 minutes X 7 days a week = 210 minutes (am I right? I'm an English Major not a mathematician). Right or wrong, that's a lot of minutes that could be put to writing. Now, let's say you get an hour lunch break at work. Does it REALLY take you an hour to eat? I don't think so. Scarf your food in 30 minutes and look...the other 30 minutes is yours. It's a gift. So, 30 minutes X 5 days a week = 150 minutes you could use for writing. This is adding up quick! Aren't you getting excited? What about sleep? What if you got up just a half hour before work and set that aside for writing a paragraph or two? Not a morning person? Then stay up later than normal and write when the kiddos are in bed. There's another 30 minutes a day to put toward writing. Do both and you've given yourself a whole hour! Already we've gained an hour and a half a day for writing (five days a week, anyway) if you take in account the half hour in the morning, the 30 minutes at lunch, and the 30 minutes of skipped TV watching. So it can be done, my friend, it CAN be done (I love you, so therefore I push and irritate you like I do. That's what BFF writing buddies are for). And think about all that weekend time...there's SO much of it, if you plan it right. Make play dates for your kids. Send them on an outing with dad (dad's love that) and use that time to write. Housework will always be there. Laundry will always need to be done, but the longer you put off writing, doing what you love, the harder it will be do pick up and do it again (believe me, I know). It's better to make a habit out of it now than to wait until it's darn near impossible. I guess my question is, do you want this or not? I think you do. Then all there is left for you to do... is do it. No excuses. There's time to be had--you just need to find it. Time is there, and we can always find other ways to fill it, for sure, but if we can't touch the stars if we don't start building the stairs (okay, that was corny, but you get the point). Make time and just write. Do it. Or I'll write another annoying post about you :)
3 Comments
It's insecurity that is always chasing you and standing in the way of your dreams. Oh, to be a secure and self-confident writer! Even after publishing four books, and with the fifth releasing this Fall, I still have no idea how NOT to be insecure. For a while, I worried that there was something wrong with me. Shouldn't I feel better about my writing, about my stories, about everything now that I'm established as an author and I have a wonderful fan base? When will I stop worrying? I think, for me, the answer will be never. I will always worry. I will always wonder if I took my novels in the right direction and if my fans will be pleased. That's all that I want--to please my readers. I want them to have a great time and walk away after reading one of my stories feeling glad they took the time to read my book over the millions of other works out there. DEAD PLAINS, Book 3, The Zombie West Series will be coming out this Fall, and boy did I worry about this book. It's the end of the trilogy and I want it to be what my readers are hoping for. I've fretted and worried for months. I've ran the book through several beta readers to get their feedback, but it wasn't until I received my content edits from my amazing editor, Melissa Sawatsky, that I finally released the breath I'd been holding all this time. She liked it. She thought it worked. She even praised me a little. I squeed like a little girl given a pink pony tied up in a bow. But here's the thing I've realized: I will ALWAYS feel insecure in my writing...and it's okay. Once I start to feel completely confident, then I should start to worry. That's when the world can come crashing down. Over-confidence can be a great thing, but most of the time it's not. So as long as I always wonder, and need feedback from my trusted beta readers and from my editors, I will be okay. I'm okay! And that's okay. I know I will push through my insecurities and write again and again...that's what counts most: not to let our insecurities stop us from doing what we love <3 The task we must set for ourselves is not to feel secure, but to be able to tolerate insecurity. So you want to be a writer, huh? Well, kudos to you. No, seriously. Good for you. But I want to be frank and lay it all out on the table so you know exactly what you're getting yourself into, because this lofty goal of yours is going to be HARD. It is.
First and foremost, everyone and their dog wants to be writers too. Don't believe me, just pop on to twitter and search author or writer and KAPOW...you'll be given a good dose of reality. So, you'll be surrounded by literally KABILLIONS (okay, not literally, but you get the drift) of other people like you wanting the same thing as you do. Some of those people will will go on to publish great books, make trillions of dollars, and become famous--a very small number to be certain. And then there will be a WHOLE bunch of others that will write and hope someone, anyone, will read their work. They struggle to be noticed among the literally KABILLIONS of books being published every year (okay, not literally, but you get the drift). There's a wide division between these two groups of writers and most likely you'll fall among the last group mentioned. Right dab in the middle of it, probably. "Why Angela, Thank you for crushing my dreams, you jerk!" Believe me, I understand your anger directed in my direction. I get it. But it doesn't change the truth of the matter. WRITING IS HARD AND YOU WILL STRUGGLE. That is a given. If you don't prepare yourself for that possibility, then GET OUT NOW while you can. Just give up. Walk away and save yourself the trouble of writing a manuscript for years, going through the pains of editing and critiques, all the rejections that will come your way (oh, they will come), negative reviews of your published work, and in the end...scrambling to be noticed among all the new books hitting the virtual shelves every day. Go on, just walk away...no one will judge you for quitting...bye, bye. Wait...you're still here? Good for you, you little masochist. Hanging in there despite everything I tossed at you. With all of the above to look forward to, why is it that writers/authors keep plugging along, writing story after story? Because most dedicated writers don't know HOW to quit. It's not even a possibility. They don't write for fame or for fortune (if that's why you're doing it, then here's your second chance to get out now), they write because they HAVE to. The little voices force them to write the stories floating around in their heads. They couldn't imagine doing anything else. Oh, of course finding readers to read and enjoy our work is wonderful, getting rave reviews to validate our writing is awesome, and perhaps earning a bit of $$$ would be nice (most likely, the money aspect will look more like this ¢ and NOT like this $), but none of that should matter anyway. If you can't live without those things, if you need validation, praise and a boat load of cash, then once more, I implore you to quit. You're asking for a lot of trouble, still reading on like you're doing. The reason I'm even writing this blog is that I can't tell you HOW many times I've heard from newly published authors who are upset because they receive negative feedback (Oh, authors can get CRA-ZY) or how angry they are that various marketing plans don't work to get them noticed overnight (HELLO...welcome to the real world). They're upset for putting in HOURS and HOURS (not to mention money out of their own pockets) to publish their manuscript only to have it appear as a failure. Just so you know, NO ONE who writes and finishes a novel is a failure. No one. Many people quit before they finish, so to get even that far is awesome. If you feel as though you can't live without putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard...If you're willing to let everything else fall where it may and allow the readers, the praise, and the money to trickle in on its own time and in its own way...if you're willing to stick it out for the years it may take...Then you just might be ready for this after all :) Hang in there and write. Write because you not only want to, but because like air, you can't live without it. If that's why you write, then everything else is simply the frosting on a delicious piece of cake. Why do you write? What keeps you typing along? Why do you want to be a writer? When did you know? I'd love to hear from you. This is rough. It hasn't been edited, so forgive mistakes. I'd love some feedback, so feel free to leave a comment and let me know you read it and what you thought. Thanks :) ROUND AND ROUND WE GO by Angela Scott Chapter One “You see up there?” I pointed through the curved rear window of the Chevy hatchback. “God made those nightlights just for you.” Her lips turned downward, a scowl of unbelieving. “No, Momma." She twisted her head to better look at me. “Stars!” “Stars, huh?” I laid my head next to hers. Her dark curls tickled my face. “You sure about that?” She nodded. So smart. So certain of herself. “Hmmm… maybe you’re right, but let’s pretend, okay?” I took her hand in mine; the baby softness still permeated her tiny features. Never had I felt anything so soft. “Those are God’s lights looking over you, watching you from above and keeping you safe while you sleep.” Her fingers tightened their hold. “Momma, don’t go.” My heart constricted—physical pain caused by mental anguish. “I know, baby, but I have to go inside. I have to work now.” Her hand squeezed mine tighter. She’d never understand and I never expected her to, but I understood clearly enough for the both of us. The reality was that if I didn’t leave her and go inside to ring up beer and cigarettes for ungrateful customers, we’d be worse off than we already were. No money. No hope. No chance for a new life. She may have thought I had a choice, but I didn't have a choice at all. Our situation needed to change and soon. I couldn’t imagine going on much longer this way living out of the car. This wasn't the plan, it had never been the plan for my life, but it was the reality. "A continual mess-up," so my mother dubbed me, and as much as I hated admitting it, it turned out she was right. I was a mess-up, a real flop of a human being, but this mess of a human was the only mother Sophie had. Maybe nothing worked out the way I'd intended it to, but as my daughter's bright blue eyes stared up at me and her warm little fingers wrapped around my own, I could never wish her existence away. I'd screwed up everything—everything but her. She was perfect, so I couldn't be all that terrible, could I? “I’ll be right inside.” I kissed her forehead and smiled to reassure her. Maybe if she saw me smile, then maybe she wouldn’t worry. Little girls shouldn’t have to worry—that’s their momma’s job. “I can see you from the window. And look”—I sat up and helped her to do the same—“you can see me too. I’ll be right there.” I couldn’t park the car too close to the front of the building. Those spaces were reserved for customers, not employees. It didn’t matter that the night shift had very few customers, if any. At least I didn't have to park the car in back where I wouldn't be able to see her at all. I tucked the blankets in around her, making sure she was warm and as comfortable as the folded down seats of a hatchback could be. “I’ll lock all the doors, and I’ll check on you every hour to see if you need anything, okay?” She stared at me, blinking. Her thumb quickly slipped inside her mouth. She was much too old for thumb sucking, but I didn't say anything and brushed the hair away from her eyes, and bent and kissed her once more. My eyes closed for a moment, and I breathed her in. Pink bubblegum. “I want you to go to sleep now. Dream big dreams.” I ran my fingertips over and over her butterfly lids until her delicate lashes no longer opened but rested quietly on her cheeks. Her stuffed bunny was tucked into the crook of her arm. She couldn't sleep without him, and since I couldn’t stay with her, he could watch over her and keep her company. I locked each door, checked them twice, and went inside. *** I flipped through the People magazine, not really reading the articles but simply trying to pass the time. Madonna wanted to be the mother to her daughter that she never had. The topic hits close to home, familiar and painful, and I skimmed the rest. It's the only article I attempted to read. The parking lot is empty. The neon signs—Dairy, Busch Classic, ATM, Open—hummed with electricity. The slushie machines stirred the sticky sugary drink mix, and Britney Spears song, "Opps, I did it again" played over the crackling speakers, filling the otherwise silence. I hadn't served a customer in nearly an hour, so I folded the magazine and placed it back in the sales rack and looked out the large glass windows. My car sat at the far end of the parking lot, partially hidden in deep shadows and partially lit up by the glow from the large Circle K sign. I locked the register and slipped outside to check on her again. The bells on the door chimed as I passed through them and my feet padded out the familiar path to my car—a dull silver 1986 Honda Accord that took most of my savings to buy and then depleted the rest of my savings to repair. I glanced back at the store, no cars, no chiming bells, and turned my attention to Sophie. She was asleep, just as she'd been the times before. Only now, she'd slipped completely out of the blankets and turned herself sideways. She'd always been a wild sleeper, pressing herself against me to make sure I was there. Even as a baby, she refused to sleep in her bassinet and preferred sleeping my arms or on my chest. So sleeping on her own was new, for both her and for me, but the last couple of nights had proved she was capable of doing it. She was growing up quicker than I'd liked. She had her thumb in her mouth, a bad habit that needed breaking before it ruined her baby teeth, and her bunny hugged in her toddler grasp. As much as I had wanted to tuck the loose blankets around her, I didn't. Opening the door might wake her and I couldn't afford for that to happen. I wasted no more time and headed back to my position behind the counter. Britney Spears was replaced by Madonna's, "Beautiful Stranger." Weird. I'd just been reading about her. *** "Will that be all for you today?” I carefully placed each item in a paper bag—the nearly expired cans of soup on the bottom, the loaf of white bread perched on top. The man pointed behind me. Figuring he wanted cigarettes, our primary sale, I asked him his preference. He shook his head, and I followed the direction of his finger. A shelf lined with little blown-glass figurines. Beautiful oddities dusted weekly but never sold. “Okay, which one would you like to look at?” Still, he said nothing, just pointed to a crystal-clear dangling heart. A sun catcher. Gently, I removed it from its suctioned hook and placed it in his open palm for inspection. “That one’s ten dollars.” He turned it over, fingering its delicate surface. Then he held it up and tiny twinkling lights splashed over the counter. I'd never realized how pretty it was before. Hanging in front of a window, it would be incredible. A personal rainbow when the light caught it just right. He nodded, and I wrapped it carefully in a plastic bag of its own. “That’ll be thirty-one fifty." He handed me the money, exact change, and I wished him a good day. As he left, the bells on the door clanged together. *** “Good morning, Ivy.” Janice tucked her purse under the counter and adjusted her red smock. “Busy night?” “The usual, I guess.” I ran my punch card through the machine and sighed. “How was your night?” She shrugged. “Uneventful. Hank snored loud enough to wake the neighbors. That’s about it. You get to be my age and snoring becomes the highlight of every evening.” I smiled and unsnapped my smock, ready to call it quits. “Well, I’ll see ya tonight, I guess. Oh, there’s a fresh pot of coffee brewing, and I just added the frozen mix to the slushie machine. The hot dogs need dumped. They’ve been in there all night. Sorry about that.” “No problem.” She clocked in, taking over. “Go get some sleep. You look awful.” This time I forced my smile. Sleep. I don’t even know what that means anymore. “I’ll try.” With my purse slung over my shoulder and my soiled smock draped over one arm, I passed through the front door, ringing the bells, and walked across the parking lot toward my car. The sun rose slowly, and if I was lucky, I could slip inside the driver’s seat and catch an hour’s worth of sleep before Sophie woke up. That’s what I did: caught snippets of sleep here and there and for the most part ran on fumes. Someday it would all be different, so I held on to that hope. I rummaged around inside my purse for the keys, but my fingers stilled and my feet stopped moving. The silver push-down lock stood high and erect. The passenger's side was the same. I hesitated only briefly before throwing the door open and leaning over the front seat. "Sophie?" Rumpled blankets, an indented pillow, the rabbit—no little girl. “Sophie?” I shook the empty blankets as if by doing so, she would magically appear. Where is she? Where is she? No, no, no! I stumbled from the car and scanned the parking lot, turning in a tight circle, looking in every direction. “Sophie!” My hands began to shake as fear crept up my throat and my chest tightened. The world spun in a blurred circle around me. “Sophie!” A pendulum of movement hanging from my rearview mirror silenced my calls and held me captive. I couldn't move. My heart contracted but didn't release, my breath tangled in my throat and threatened to suffocate me. The crystal heart I'd sold earlier swung ever so slightly, reflecting the light of the morning sun. A personal rainbow just for me. Remember to leave a comment and let me know you stopped by :) |
My Face...Enjoy!
Ahh, the fruits of my labors...
Blogs & Websites You Should Visit
Click for more info about Mallory Rock, Cover Designer
Click for more info about Megan Harris, Editor
Blog AwardsCategories
All
FUN STUFF  
 
 |
