Write for Yourself

I hear a lot of chatter about Writing for Yourself as opposed to Writing for The Market, or Writing for Publication. And when I hear that, I think, "Well, that's just silly."

Because who doesn't want to be published?

Isn't that why we're doing this? Sitting at our computer desks (or lying on the floor, or flopped in recliners, or taking notebooks into the bathtub) scratching out words so SOMEONE WILL READ THEM. And laugh / cry / gasp in wonder. And then tell us we're brilliant. And ask for more.

But. Maybe not. At least not always. Here's what I'm thinking today.

Once upon a more innocent time (1991-1993) I wrote nearly constantly. I was in college, scribbling out papers and assignments and tests, keeping lengthy journals, writing many letters (remember letters? Stamps? Envelopes?) and never having a thought of being published*. I wasn't taking writing classes (because I'd rather be reading books, thank you very much) and nobody was telling me how much work my writing needed. It was just coming out of me, like Soul Vomit. And I loved it.

Fast forward many years to the point where I had a finished manuscript sitting on a publisher's desk for months. And months. Agony. Misery. Woe.** I wanted that book published. I knew it was brilliant. I was certain it could change the world, or at least the course of teenage reading. I needed that book to be published.

And then it was. Like magic, except it took longer. And then I read it again, and felt the weight of its flaws, and questioned the sanity of the publication team. And then I revised again, and again, and once again, until we all agreed it was good enough (but nobody was saying brilliant anymore, which is as it should be).

So I wrote another one. One that made me laugh, sometimes in a rather unladylike manner. I wrote and shared and changed and rewrote and received critiques and rewrote and polished and rewrote some more. And as that manuscript sat for months on the publisher's desk, I wrote another one.

I worked daily on a story that a friend asked me to write***. And as much as I loved the idea, and pecked out a few hundred words a day, I didn't feel it. I wasn't in love with the writing. I wasn't even really in love with the characters that were coming onto the screen. In my head, yes. On screen, not so much.

So I put it aside. Saved in its own little folder, Ruby's Great Escape waits for me to want it.

I started something else. Something different, and a little silly, and maybe currently overdone in the market (no, not vampire romance - boarding High School, if you must know) but fun for me. And do you now what happened? At some point in the last couple of months, I have learned to love the writing for the sake of the writing. And as of today**** I don't care if anyone ever reads it. Or claps for it, or buys it, or makes it a LifeTime miniseries.

I have found the joy in the journey. I have captured the happiness of writing for myself. I feel the juice flowing early in the morning hours and I sit down at the computer not because I feel an overwhelming sense of duty, ***** but because writing is fun.

Writing is fun.

This may not be news to you, but I'm feeling it as a sort of breakthrough. I write not to earn money (*snort*), but because in my soul, I'm a writer. I write because I like to write. I write because I like to read. I write because God gave me a little talent, which seems to grow as I water it (and shrivel as I ignore it, much like the Wandering Jew in my family room). I write because I love words, and nobody really wants to hear me talk this much. I write because I'm a writer.

I am a writer.

*I may be lying, here - I distinctly remember printing an extra copy of a few particularly well-written letters and clipping them in my journal. Maybe I thought they were readable by someone other than the addressee.

**Thank you, Mister Sondheim.

***In fact, she gave me permission to turn an experience of hers into a story of my own.

**** Check back tomorrow for complete Position Flip (because a woman who doesn't change her mind doesn't have one).

*****Okay, often because of that, too.

Happy Sounds

Here are some of the things I love to hear today:

Singing birdies

Rain

Kids laughing together

"Feed the Birds" (from Mary Poppins) on the violin

The email-arrival "bing"

Kids singing together

Consistent keyboard tap (1300 words)

Katie Melua on the iPod

Kids working together

Husband, working across the entry hall, is hearing what I'm hearing. He just raised his eyebrows in parental amazement. I think God just heard a "thank you" from both of us.

Ode to the Offended Muse

Some of you already know that if I don't write first thing in the morning (well, maybe third thing, after a few pressing hygiene* matters) that my muse walks off in a huff, refusing to sing in my ear all day. She's such a prima donna.

Some of you also know that now that school's out around here, I'm taking "make a hot breakfast for the family" off my list of things to do every day, allowing me to both sleep till six if I so choose AND write first thing.

But today is my anniversary (not just mine, Husband's, too, natch) and so I got up and made him some banana pancakes - with (*gasp*) white flour. He has since reaffirmed his pledge of eternal devotion. He's so easy. And I gave him golf clubs. This is a big deal, since we're pretty ferocious budgeters around here, and gifts are usually for the kids.

The point of all this is that I now have one very happy husband an one ridiculously offended muse.

It is time for me to pet her, to stroke her head, to tell her how much I love her and that almost nothing in the world could make me neglect putting her first in my day. Except that little marriage thing.

Oh, little Muse? Come out, come out here, sweetie.

You are the greatest Muse any writergirl ever had.

You are lovely and charming and witty and you have great hair.

I love your style.

I love your flowy, Greek-theatre style gowns (always the purest white).

I love your persistence.

Thank you, dearest Muse, for sticking with me,

for waking early

for working quickly

for speaking gently

for spreading adverbs like pollen on the wind

for comedy

for sensitivity

for availability

for consistency (we'll never speak of YOU KNOW WHAT again...)

Won't you please come out and play?

Won't you please come sing in my ear?

Won't you please forgive me for, just this once, putting husband before you on the schedule?

Come on, little one. Come sing with me.

I brought cinnamon bears.

*Hygiene is a word I can never, never spell correctly. It took me seven (SEVEN!) tries to get that one right. Weird is another that gives me trouble (duh). And vacuum. I think it wants 2 cs instead of 2 us.

Happy anniversary

Fifteen years ago this morning I woke up really early. Really-really early. And I put on a white dress, and I rode in my parents car for the last time as Primarily Their Kid. When I got back into a car, it was a different car. Much smaller. Much more recently washed and vacuumed. With a brand new husband, and then all of a sudden I was Primarily His Wife.

The world changed that day.

Once someone heard me say that I would have changed everything about my wedding (dramatic, much?) reception. That someone may or may not have been my husband. So I was an idiot then, I'm an idiot now. It helps to recognize me. And in my defense, I meant that I'd change the flowers that were wrong, and the cake that was hideous, and the photographer that was related, and the food that was mostly free.

But I didn't mean I'd change anything about my marriage. Because I married up. I married someone who is kinder than I, who is sweeter than I, who is more sensitive than I. I married a guy who ponders and studies things of eternal significance. I married a guy who thinks family is the most important thing in the world. I got really, really lucky, and I've stayed lucky for fifteen years.

Yeah for marriage.

Tee-hee

So I had a pretty successful writerly morning, getting almost 1000 words before 6.30. When Husband got home from basketball, he asked to hear some. And HE LAUGHED! OUT LOUD! TWICE!! THAT IS A LOT OF CAPITALS! NOT TO MENTION EXCLAMATION POINTS!

So hooray for a success. In writing.

On the parenting front, however, I have 2 disappointed little people. Kids 3 and 4 were expecting to join Kids 1 and 2 on a pre-camp hiking trip. But the hike that was (3-miler) turned into the hike that should have been (fairly grueling 6-miler) and the planners realized that they didn't need my car or my little people along.

So we're nursing our sadness in a game of Wii Indiana Jones.

I think it's working.

What makes a successful day?

I'm turning into a very accomplishment-oriented kind of girl. This is new for me in the past few years. I may have mentioned in some past post my tendency to make lists to cross things off. And my tendency to put already-finished things on that list so I can cross something off before I start.

So what makes a day successful? Crossing off everything. And then adding other things I've done, just to feel the joy of crossing some more.

Write: check. Met the goal and landed on a happy number. Just for fun.

Walk: check. Plus, half of it was a jog. Not a beautiful thing to watch, but a good burner of calories and adipose tissue.

Shower: check. (See? I knew I had to do it anyway, so on the list it goes.)

Shop: check. Not for much things fun, but plenty of produce and one box of happiness for Husband's anniversary present.

Clean Kitchen: check.

Clean bathrooms: check (done by kids, hooray.)

Nap: check. Only 20 minutes, though. Do you find yourself disgusted by me? Sorry.

Return phone calls: nope. Put it on today's list.

Return emails: check.

Return library books: check. (Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks and Nobody's Princess - both 4 stars.)

Study: check.

Family Night: check, by passing most of it off to Kid 1.

Play with Kids: check. A rousing game of Imaginiff... (with very few huffy breaths and only two incidents of violence.)

Movie Date with Husband: check. Joined by Kids 1 and 2 because, why not?

So yesterday was a success, and we'll see how things go today. I need to make a list now...

It's June!

Word Count Update: 32,000 exactly. I stopped mid-sentence. Not really. I just happened to look at that point, and I'd made my goal for the day. Yeah! The first real day of summer vacation, and I've done one of the things I've set out to do. (That being 1500 words a day.)

Our first Stay-cation was a success. Everyone loved the hike, nobody got too hurt (even with three of us - not me - finding the stinging nettle plants) and there was perfect, gorgeous thundery cloud cover. And husband and I still managed to get out after dinner to a free concert (Peter Breinholt - he's got a fun style, even if all his songs sound exactly the same) and home in time to see Pushing Daisies.

Have I mentioned lately that I never watch TV? I was obviously lying. But I only watch Pushing Daisies and the occasional PBS documentary (like the Jimmy Stewart one they ran last night). And on that third-to-last episode of Pushing Daisies, we heard Emerson say the word "Craptastic" - a family favorite.

Husband informed me that he's been researching what's the proper 15-year anniversary gift theme. He assured me 'tis titanium. As in golf clubs. (He's lying - it's really crystal, as in goblets and candlesticks.) Not a bad idea, though.