Writers, hear me. Your words matter.

Some of you may remember that back in OCT I took a break from blogging to focus on my re-writes. Well, they are very nearly complete. But that is not the reason I am back from my blogging hiatus early. While I was gone people visited my blog and I thank you, all of you. One person in particular though gifted me the following words and I want to share them with you. Especially if you are a writer. 


Writing is often a lonely pursuit. (No, sorry , being friends with your characters doesn't count.) And every now and then I stop and wonder about the purposefulness of it all. If giving of myself, my raw, honest hidden self, to my words is going to matter to anyone but me. 
And writers, hear this. 
Please. 
Stop and hear me on this. 
What you write DOES matter. It already matters and it will matter in the future. For there are as many different writers as there are readers who need to hold your words. 


A wise person recently said to me, "If you have a story inside you, write that story. You were given those words because someone out there needs to read them." 


This is the comment a fellow reader left on my post titled "Do I matter?" 


"I ask this question too, all the time. I found this beautiful post by googling.. "Do I matter?". I wanted to hear what others came to, deep down in the heart of hearts.

For me, I care about the world and all its people so, so much. I have always felt that they mattered, without a doubt, just because. I always felt that by treating each other better, helping to bring joy and love and growth and opportunity that we could bring that much more meaning to all of our lives.

But without realizing it.. I had always considered myself the exception to that rule. That everyone mattered, was unique, was lovable, was talented, was deserving, was memorable.. but me.

Here I am in in my first year of university, wondering if I matter. If what I will do one day matters. I also grew up hearing about how flawed, disappointing, angering and hopeless I was. I spent my younger years trying to be invisible, the least of a burden that I could be. I am trying to change those beliefs, and the fear they bring with them, at the very core.. and it is the hardest thing I've had to do yet. I can't thank you enough for these posts, and these comments.. because I know now that in the hearts of perfect strangers, I mean something important, and in mine.. they do too.

I am crying tears of joy. Thank you so much."
~ from Anonymous


So, write on my fellow writers. They are the words someone needs to hear. Never mind how imperfect you feel your words are.
Funny, isn't it, that when you extend your raw and honest hand through your words, someone takes it, pulls you close, and hugs you right back.

Do I matter?

This morning I woke with billions of others and breathed in the air they breathed out. My eyes opened at the same time yours did. I stood. You stood. They stood with the masses. Alone in my room, I hung my head.
Do I matter? I wondered out loud to the walls and millions echoed my question.

As I dressed and ate and went through my morning trillions of people passed by my window. They trawled through their day just as I trawled through mine.  We ate. We slept. We loved and lost and cried out. We died and we were born. Another soul. An endless sky of humanity. And all of us, every single one, were thinking the same thoughts that ticker-taped through mind.
Do I matter? I wondered out loud to the walls, and millions echoed my question.

The trouble is not that I only see me in the mirror. The trouble is that I see you, and you and you and you and... Where do I end? Where do you begin?  And as I stared into that mirror I further blurred that line of distinction.
Do I matter? I wondered and millions echoed my question.

I am afraid. As you are afraid. As they are. As we are. That I am not here for anything more than the space I occupy. That when the numbers are counted I won't have added to the sum. That nothing within me matters so much that I am the only one who could share it. Mothers wonder if their mothering matters. Career people if the jobs make a difference. Leaders wonder about there leadership. Followers about their following. Artists wonder about their creations, singers about their songs. And as a writer my question scared me senseless. Do my words matter? Will it ever matter?

Do. I. Matter? I wondered and millions echoes my question.

Today in my guttered silence I asked again,  and though it was only a lowly whisper, He heard.
This I know for sure. He is the One who has numbered the hairs on my head. We number many things. Who numbers hairs? He is the One who watched over my unformed being as I was knitted together in my mother's womb. Who has such vision?
And this is what my heart heard. "I think of you constantly. Though I hung the stars and turn the planets, I think of you. Though I set the foundations of the outer rings of this universe in place. I think of you.  You are mine. You matter. Do you hear me, child? You matter.  My thoughts towards you are greater than the sands on every beach. You are created for a purpose and day. An appointed hour and a time. A life and a living. Before all time, I thought of you. And my plans for you are perfect."
And I knew. Deep in that Little Girl place that cried out. I knew.

"Do you matter?" you asked. And millions echoed your question.

What about you? How do you answer that question? Do you matter? How do you know?

It's okay to laugh at the dog.

Write. 500. 1000. Word count. Clock on. Clock off.
Next day.
Same again.
Write. 500. 1000. Clock on. Clock off.

First month of new book. Excitement. Clap hands. Type madly.
Think about beginning. Hook? Do you have one? Is your opening to die for? Should anyone be dying? Why is someone dying in the first sentence then?
What about the 'it' factor? Is there enough magic there to grab readers, agents and book contracts alike?
Delete first sentence.
Re-write first sentence.
Re-read first sentence.
Decide you will come back to the first sentence when you have finished the book.
You'll be a better writer then.

Second month of not so new book. Still smiling. Still typing. Not so madly.
Think about characters.
Do you love them? Should you love them? Will the reader love them?
Decide they suck.
Rewrite pragmatist.
Sprinkle spice and happiness through opening scenes. Re-write dialogue. Show, don't tell.
Re-read opening scenes.
Delete dialogue. Delete attempts at show, don't tell.
Lastly, delete spice and happiness.
Decide you have written a horror.
You were aiming for YA paranormal romance.
Delete opening scenes.
Decide to come back to opening scenes after you have written the middle. At least you know where that is going.

Fifth month of writing book. Smiling. Just. Typing. Just.
Write middle. Read middle.
Middle sags. Big. Time.
Nothing is happening. You were so sure something would happen. But your characters are out of control running amok and completely spoiling the pacing and tone of your book.
Or is that you? Damn! You suspect it is you.
Delete middle.
Rewrite without any adjectives and adverbs. Okay, who are you kidding. Re-write with less adjectives and adverbs. Up the drama. Up the tension. Think of scenes in terms of a play. Everything should be building. Give the main character more to fight for. Or should that be less to fight against? Who is fighting again? What is the focus of this book? What is at steak here?
Steak? When did you last eat? It is 2 am in the morning. Did you have dinner? You don't remember.
Decide to write the ending. Endings have always been your strong point.

Sixth month of writing dog tired book. Why do you want to write anyway? 
Write ending. Read ending. Cry. Bang head against desk, and cry. Plot elements required to arrive at this ending are impossible, implausible and improper. Implode. More tears. Ending is not subtle. Not refreshing. Not satisfying. Not original. Not you.
Finger hoovers over delete key.
Decide entire writing thing sucks. Decide you suck. Decide...
Incoming email.

Check email.
Friend sent you picture of ridiculous dog.
Look at dog.
Laugh.
Feel.. better? Maybe.
Laugh some more.
Dog really is stupid. Not particularly funny. Maybe you are tired?
Laugh until your sides hurt and you threaten to wake sleeping household.
Decide to go to bed.
Decide to re-read book next week.
Decide Rome wasn't built in a day.
Decide it is okay to laugh at silly dog.

Thank god for silly dogs.


What about you? Laughed at any dogs lately?

Stages of Waiting

Day 1: This is so fantastic! Man, I am on my way now. Literary agent/editor/publishing house will be tripping over themselves to offer representation/publication/words of praise and hero worship.

Day 2-5 I must have missed their email. I'll just go check my in box again...and again and again and

Day 6. Okay, my computer is obviously broken because I am sure they have emailed me...

Day 6. My computer is not broken...

Day 6. Perhaps their computer is broken? I'll go cyber stalk them on twitter/facebook/blogger and if they haven't posted I'll know they are just experiencing technical difficulties and will be back to me shortly.

Day 7. Their computer is fine... maybe it was my query letter...

Day 7. Maybe it was my synopsis...

Day 7. Maybe it was the writing...

Day 7. I suck! I cannot write to save my life! What was I even thinking querying the gods of the literary world? They must be laughing their heads off. I'm going to bedroom and I am never coming out. Hear that world? I.AM.NEVER.COMING.OUT!

Day 8-9. (Still in bed)

Day 10. Well, maybe I'll come out for breakfast, or chocolate... Where is the chocolate in this house?

Day 10- 110 (after millions of emails/phone calls/visits between best writing buddy, husband, BF and copious amounts of chocolate, unidentifiable fried food, the odd glass of wine and and entire tub of ice cream...) well, maybe I am not such a crappy writer. If this agent/publisher/editor/general god of literacy rejects me, I will live... possibly.

Hang on... was that a new email in my in box?

What about you? How do you deal with waiting?

Fight a Good Fight

Those who have been reading me for a while know that I box. Yeah, in a real boxing gym. 


It started out as an obsession to smack things VERY HARD. Lets just say I had some emotions that begged to be released through my fists, and that punching bags and willing sparring partners have all been my heroes over the last year.


This May marks one year since I started boxing. And I have learnt a few things. Not in the least of which is, if your head isn't there the punch doesn't hurt. Yeah, I have been hit. :)
But here's the thing, this 'blood sport' is far more of a thinking game then I ever imagined. You can have all the strength in the world, all the talent and all the punch combinations down so fast and automatic you could hit in your sleep, but it won't count for anything if you don't believe you can. A boxer that steps into the ring wondering if he can win, has already lost. You have to go in there believing you can, and then put the challenge out to your opponent to prove you wrong. 


Self belief isn't built into a boxer on fight night. It happens behind the scene. It happens when you run past the point of tired and then all the way back. It happens when your arms scream that they can't complete another push up and you tell then they will. It happens every time you reach your limit and then ask more of yourself. 
And every time I accept my own challenge I believe in me a little more. 


So where am I going with this, since I know most of you write or read and leave boxing to the, well, boxers? 


Okay. Consider this. What if writing is one tenth ability and nine tenths belief in yourself? What if you keep on keeping on because that is what writers do. What if you tell yourself you can, you will, you already are? 


Here's what the boxing god Ali said.
"The fight is won or lost far away from witnesses - behind the lines, in the gym, and out there on the road, long before I dance under those lights."

I get that Ali was talking about preparation. But apply it to self belief and you get this:

"The book is breathed into life before it reaches the printed page, far away from witnesses, away from agents, away from editors and long before any fans will ever read you- behind the lines, in your hopes and dreams, in midnight hours at your computer, and in beating back all the jackals in your mind, long before you will dance ever under those lights."

So fight a good fight people. Tell yourself you can. Then put your challenge out there to the world. The worst that happens, as far as I can see, is that you get a re-match. Right? :)


What about you? Fought any good fights lately?

If The Moon Called Your Name

If the moon called you name, would you hear him?

Would you step into the waves, sandals of prudence left on the shore behind, and follow his silver path? Will you look into his face and say, "Here I am. Take me where you will. How I have waited for you to call."?

I wondered once if I would be enough. I guess there are times when I still wonder...

On the day the moon calls will I find my feet beneath me or will I wallow in the shallows.

On the day he calls, the name of my dreams will be me and everything I ever worked for and planned will then be riding on his ocean.

I want to own the moon and all his words.

Don't you?

I want to look up into the night sky and say, "Oh, that's mine and he shines for me."

Would you?

What shines is not the luminous glow in some foreign sky, but the whispers of what yearn to hold in my hands and who I want to become.

Dreams.

Longings.

They are my moon.

Love.

Hope.

Peace.

Patience

They are his silver path.

I wait for the night to shine...

What about you? Has the moon called your name this year? And when faced with everything you wanted did you go after it or shrink back in the waters afraid you didn't have what it took? Have you thought about where you'd like to head next year and if you have the confidence to follow those longings?

Sometimes I think it is success that we fear more than failure... just a thought.

Join me on Friday for a shout out to those fellow bloggers who I know have heard the moon call there name this year. I can't wait to share their success :)

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Per Second

Is It My Time?

Sold, produced or cut down every second some where in the world...

150 trees cut down

9 computers sold

168 tones of food produced

27 mobiles sold

1.6 cars produced

3.5 bikes produced

Written, created or printed every second...

19 blogs created

17 books published every hour in the US alone

1 new book published somewhere in the world every 30 seconds

And somewhere out there in the cosmos...

200 stars are born somewhere out there beyond the moon

4.2 babies are born

1.7 deaths

Just Statistics. Meaningless... unless it was your blog, your book, your baby or your life.

It helps me to put things in perspective. Somewhere around this world there is husband who lost his wife. Somewhere there is unbelievable suffering. And somewhere joy just bloomed. A new mother holds her infant, a scientist discovered a new star, a writer just became an author...

Time and seasons ebb and flow, even sadness and joy. Some day maybe I will understand the meaning behind it all. But right now I am content to know that I am where I should be, doing what I should be doing... simply because this is where I am and this is who I am.

Perhaps I believe my time will come?

What about you? A book every thirty seconds... that's a lot of smiling writers!

(stats taken from http://smas.studiludens.com/ http://www.theherald.co.uk/features/2557-print.shtml http://www.BIGS.org )

Where the Wild Things Are.

Have YOU battled your Wild Things?
The night Tab was pounding her fist on the desk, becalmed in the Sea of No Short Stories, she put on her writing suit and made waves of one kind or another. Several cups of tea later not a single story was churning. No ideas. Nothing. Zip. Nadda. The Sea was flat and glassy and refused to bubble with any thing, wild or otherwise. Her husband bravely poked his head into the office.
"Do you want to stop for dinner?"
But Tab looked at him and said, "I can't write this stupid *#&%(@#$ short story!" Her husband said she was being a tad over dramatic, a bit of a Wild Thing herself. So she stomped off to bed without eating anything.

That very night, as Tab calmed down and ceased stomping about the room and decided to give up and just let her ideas flow when they were ready, a forest of words grew and grew and grew until her ceiling hung with the vines of thoughts and the walls became the world around with all its possibilities. And ocean tumbled by, with a private boat for Tab. She returned to her computer and sailed off through the night, eager to discover where the Sea was leading. She sailed in and out of weak ideas and almost over a year to a place where the Wild Things were.

Despite her lack of control over the creative process and the fact that she really had to just go with the Sea, she faced those Wild Things even as they roared their terrible roars of self doubt and gnashed there terrible teeth of frustration and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws.

And Tab said, "Be still."
And she tamed the wild thoughts running through her head with a magic trick of starring her doubts in the face until they were frightened and called her the most Wild Thing of all. And made her Queen of all the Wild Things.

"Now," said Tab, "Let my own wild rumpus start!"
And suddenly those previously antagonistic Wild Things began to howl with her at the moon and swing freely though the trees and vines of thoughts and create a wonderful dance with words on the page.
"Now stop!" said Tab when she reached her word limit set by the non-wild college and she sent the rest of those wild ideas to bed with out any more food for thought.

But then Tab, Queen of The Wild Things, was lonely and wanted to share her writing with someone who loved her best of all.

Then from all around, from far away across the world, Tab smelled something good to eat. So she gave up being Queen of the Wild Things, having achieved all she set out to achieve, at least for that evening.

And the Wild Things cried, "Oh please don't go, we'll never show up again, how we love you so!"
Again the Wild things roared their terrible roars of self doubt and gnashed their terrible teeth of frustration and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws.

And Tab stepped out onto her private boat and said, "Don't be stupid, I'll be back next time I want to write a short story!" And sailed back over a year and in and out of days, into the night of her very own office. Where her wonderful husband had dinner waiting. And it was still hot.
The end.
(And my apologies. I needed the download!)

To check out what true literary brilliance looks like from the real Queen... um.. King of the Wild Things, Maurice Sendak, click on over to amazon.com and order a copy of this rambunctious tale,
Where The Wild Things Are.
Do it for your..self..um..kids!
And read often with a lots of vine swinging and laughter.

Oh, and if like me, you find pounding your fists does not produce any kind of writing at all, much less a string of phenomenal literary wonder, then give it up for a bit. Then grab the first words that come and be content to ride that boat where ever it may lead. Get it, type something, type anything and remind the Wild Doubts inside that you are a writer, you are a writer, you are a writer...

Moral of tale( though I hate tales with morals): The short story for my college assignment is complete... and thanks for letting me write off some steam :)