A Revelation and Why the Hell Have I Not Read Bird by Bird Until Now?
Hello friends!
I've been thinking about how to approach this post. It mainly started out as a revelation I wrote in an email to a friend of mine who used to be a writer and quit and has felt such great liberation over that decision.
Don't worry, I'm not quitting. I shall only quit when Death takes me! Or my hands get so crinkled with arthritis I can't type, and my voice dries up and I cannot speak.
This is more like, I'm afraid of what my writing friends will think of the words I'm about to write.
I had some sort of strange feeling yesterday. I thought I didn't have enough time left to do all the things. This is because my weekend is ridiculously packed. I feel like I don't have enough time to spend with my mom and dad, or Fishubby, or to do things with Fishubby that might take all day (like making Tonkatsu Ramen with Chashu Pork from scratch). I had so much planned for this weekend, and I was going to cancel on my parents, but then I thought, you know what? I shouldn't put getting my hair done before the people I love. So I cancelled my hair color appointment (which usually takes about 2.5-3 hours). I feel better today. Not so existential crisissy.
I've been reading the book BIRD BY BIRD by Anne Lamott. It's a book I've been wanting to read for ages, probably since my early twenties. I've had it on my to read pile for a million and one years, and it always shows up on the lists of books every writer must read.
This book is life changing. It is helping me look at writing differently. At my own writing differently, and at the way I write differently. The part I read last night talked about how the subconscious fuels our writing, and that if we pressure it, we'll seize up. It's true. It happens ever time. Lamott described it as a little kid or a strange Dr. Seuss like character sitting in the basement of our mind stitching ideas together like a giant quilt. I love that image. I can see my subconscious now. I can respect it.
My book, which I had a grand plan to finish on November 30th, is off track. It was going so well in October (I wrote a shit ton of words), but then I had a conference for work which I blame on derailing the whole thing. I got back to it little by little, but I will not be finished with it in two days. Far from that, actually. I'm only about half way.
But reading BIRD BY BIRD has changed my ideas about churning this book out. Yes, I know there is an agent waiting for it (but really, does she even remember she requested it? Probably not. She'll remember about it when I send her my submission... maybe. Maybe not. All she'll know is that she did request it. I was stupid and didn't build rapport with her or talk to her about anything weird that would spark her mind when I said, "I was the girl who talked to you about wearing shoes to bed in case of a fire, or at least wearing clothing." For the record - I don't wear shoes to bed. But I always begin the night with socks - this is because of a life long belief that socks will protect me from the monsters under the bed).
I want to take time with this book. I want it to be THE ONE that gets me into the publishing world.
And there's another point I want to make. So what if I don't make it into the publishing world?
I think I just heard a collective gasp from everyone I've ever told my dream is to be published.
It is my dream. I'm not saying I'm not going to quit trying to get published. What I'm saying is, I write because I love to write. Plain and simple. I write for me. Sometimes I write for other people, like "Remembra" was for my mom and my grandma (rest her soul).
I was thinking that my next book ought to be about something I really care about. Something that scares me or moves me or gives me reason to live. Something a little more on the literary side, maybe. MAYBE. Shut up.
I'm not stupid enough to think I'll get published and quit my day job. I know it doesn't work that way. I know it takes hard work and public presence and events and things that scare the shit out of me. It doesn't mean I won't do those things when the time comes, of course.
If I've learned anything in my 36 years on this world, if I rush I'll fuck it up. I don't want to fuck this one up. I'm going to keep writing every day for 1 hour (over my lunch break, which I did not do today). I'm going to take my time editing, so I don't end up OVER editing or rewriting the entire thing from scratch eight times over the course of eight years. I'm going to take my time to write the best query letter and synopsis this agent has EVER read, so she knows she would be an idiot to say no.
Don't worry, I'm not quitting. I shall only quit when Death takes me! Or my hands get so crinkled with arthritis I can't type, and my voice dries up and I cannot speak.
This is more like, I'm afraid of what my writing friends will think of the words I'm about to write.
I had some sort of strange feeling yesterday. I thought I didn't have enough time left to do all the things. This is because my weekend is ridiculously packed. I feel like I don't have enough time to spend with my mom and dad, or Fishubby, or to do things with Fishubby that might take all day (like making Tonkatsu Ramen with Chashu Pork from scratch). I had so much planned for this weekend, and I was going to cancel on my parents, but then I thought, you know what? I shouldn't put getting my hair done before the people I love. So I cancelled my hair color appointment (which usually takes about 2.5-3 hours). I feel better today. Not so existential crisissy.
I've been reading the book BIRD BY BIRD by Anne Lamott. It's a book I've been wanting to read for ages, probably since my early twenties. I've had it on my to read pile for a million and one years, and it always shows up on the lists of books every writer must read.
This book is life changing. It is helping me look at writing differently. At my own writing differently, and at the way I write differently. The part I read last night talked about how the subconscious fuels our writing, and that if we pressure it, we'll seize up. It's true. It happens ever time. Lamott described it as a little kid or a strange Dr. Seuss like character sitting in the basement of our mind stitching ideas together like a giant quilt. I love that image. I can see my subconscious now. I can respect it.
My book, which I had a grand plan to finish on November 30th, is off track. It was going so well in October (I wrote a shit ton of words), but then I had a conference for work which I blame on derailing the whole thing. I got back to it little by little, but I will not be finished with it in two days. Far from that, actually. I'm only about half way.
But reading BIRD BY BIRD has changed my ideas about churning this book out. Yes, I know there is an agent waiting for it (but really, does she even remember she requested it? Probably not. She'll remember about it when I send her my submission... maybe. Maybe not. All she'll know is that she did request it. I was stupid and didn't build rapport with her or talk to her about anything weird that would spark her mind when I said, "I was the girl who talked to you about wearing shoes to bed in case of a fire, or at least wearing clothing." For the record - I don't wear shoes to bed. But I always begin the night with socks - this is because of a life long belief that socks will protect me from the monsters under the bed).
I want to take time with this book. I want it to be THE ONE that gets me into the publishing world.
And there's another point I want to make. So what if I don't make it into the publishing world?
I think I just heard a collective gasp from everyone I've ever told my dream is to be published.
It is my dream. I'm not saying I'm not going to quit trying to get published. What I'm saying is, I write because I love to write. Plain and simple. I write for me. Sometimes I write for other people, like "Remembra" was for my mom and my grandma (rest her soul).
I was thinking that my next book ought to be about something I really care about. Something that scares me or moves me or gives me reason to live. Something a little more on the literary side, maybe. MAYBE. Shut up.
I'm not stupid enough to think I'll get published and quit my day job. I know it doesn't work that way. I know it takes hard work and public presence and events and things that scare the shit out of me. It doesn't mean I won't do those things when the time comes, of course.
If I've learned anything in my 36 years on this world, if I rush I'll fuck it up. I don't want to fuck this one up. I'm going to keep writing every day for 1 hour (over my lunch break, which I did not do today). I'm going to take my time editing, so I don't end up OVER editing or rewriting the entire thing from scratch eight times over the course of eight years. I'm going to take my time to write the best query letter and synopsis this agent has EVER read, so she knows she would be an idiot to say no.
I have these visions sometimes where I'm SOMEWHERE with an agent (literary or movie doesn't matter) and I'm telling them about this crazy story I wrote. Like that Simpson's episode where Homer and, I think it was, Mel Gibson get together and write a screenplay. And in the end, you know it's the dog, because of his shifty eyes. I have this vision where I'm telling this important person who can make things happen for me about my crazy convoluted story, because none of my stories are straightforward, and that makes them incredibly hard to query, pitch, and summarize. But, that's how I write. And at the end of me talking about it, they want it. They want this one and all the other crazy shit that comes out of my brain and onto the page.
Let's face it, people. Writing is fucking fun. I do it because I love it. And that's what Anne Lamott says to do. Don't do it to get published. Do it because you love it.
I fucking love it.
Peace and Keep Writing,
Claire L. Fishback
Let's face it, people. Writing is fucking fun. I do it because I love it. And that's what Anne Lamott says to do. Don't do it to get published. Do it because you love it.
I fucking love it.
Peace and Keep Writing,
Claire L. Fishback
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