Strangled Melody is out in the world and I’m here working on other things. I thought it worthwhile to take a moment to comment on the key things I learned from the project. First the obvious: writing is a discipline that must be practiced daily and that there are no excuses for failure to do the work. Do it or don’t. Either way, it’s on your head.
There are several things that came together for me in this project in ways that I don’t think would have occurred without the hellish deadline. There’s something about landing in the deep end of the pond that lends crystalline clarity to your motivation to learn to tread water.
Organization. I’m not talking about your desk or your pencil holder. A story is like a basket of snakes, a writhing, amorphous mass that only makes sense when you tease it apart. Consider your characters, plots (main and subplots), setting (place or world), and the overall picture. Each of them must stand independently, or they will never hang together. Then consider the timeline – the beast that flogs us all and the glue that holds the entire story together. The clock is ticking all the time, don’t lose track of it.
Fortunately, there are tools that make this easier to visualize. Outlook has a feature called My Calendars that allows you to create discrete calendars, separate from your personal/professional calendar. Fictional timelines play out nicely when scheduled day by day in Outlook and they are accessible at the click of a check box.
People often make lists or outlines, but I find these can be quite limiting when dealing with complex subjects like world-building or juggling multiple suspects and pieces of evidence in a crime. Mindmaps are a great tool for capturing and envisioning such multi-dimensional ruminations.
There are lots of tools out there that are used in business or academia that will work just as well for writers building fictional worlds or journalists collecting and developing stories for any media. Screenwriters seem to have figured this out and they make use of many different tools that speed them toward “The End.” The rest of us could take a lesson from them.
Finally, I internalized the fact that writing is both an art and a business. I’ve known that intellectually for years. After all, I’m a businesswoman. But learning that down to the bones has been a struggle until I slapped postage on that box and sent it off. Just in case I don’t get a positive nod from the judges, I’m working on a promotion and marketing plan for the book. And I’ve got a partner who’s just and committed as I am. One way or another, Strangled Melody is going to be published in 2010.
Just Think Differently.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Never Give Up
In mystery novels, as in life, it’s all a matter of perspective. Depending on their positions in the room, characters will see different things. A witness’ memory is a frail thing at best, failing the truth despite best intentions. Misinterpretation and preconceived notions are the enemies of accurate reporting, adding to the confusion. Evidence is a somewhat better source, but only if investigators successfully sift through the mountain of irrelevant material to find the meaningful pieces of evidence hiding in plain sight.
Sifting and sorting through the details of the novel, scene by scene, chapter by chapter, I soon felt like I was drowning. Not only was I trying to deconstruct the original story, but I was creating a new book out of the ashes of the old. The characters were a decade older, so I had to figure out how their relationships with the people in the story had changed. What motivated the murderer? For that matter, who was the murderer? And why did my amateur detective get involved in the case in the first place?
Answering those questions gave me a fresh perspective on the story and the characters soon began to take their places on stage, waiting to deliver their lines. I still had to write them, creating the scenes that would bring the drama and tragedy of their actions to life, but by the end of the first week, it was starting to take shape. And I hadn’t written much of anything yet.
The other challenge I faced was shifting the main character from third person to first person perspective, a change I felt was warranted to bring the reader closer to the lead character and her world. That alone would take some very picky editorial work, ferreting out every third person reference (I can’t tell you how many hundreds of references to “her” and “she” I changed).
I took a cue from the creators of Dramatica Pro, Melanie Anne Phillips and Chris Huntley, and started to deconstruct the manuscript into its component story throughlines. Five character throughlines provided the perspectives of the murderer, several suspects and the amateur sleuth, while a six throughline covered the events leading up to a pivotal event in the story. Throughlines are a powerful method for tracking a character or subplot from beginning to end. I found it exposed missing elements and structural weaknesses, enabling me to quickly address problem areas that I likely would not have seen in the context of the entire book.
As I came down to the wire the weekend of October 10th, I needed to integrate all the pieces of the book into a cohesive whole and run a final edit on the entire manuscript in time to put it in the mail on October 14th (my goal was to have it in New York on October 15th). Needless to say, I didn’t sleep much that weekend. Despite my efforts, I was not going to make the deadline unless I could free up one more full day to focus on the book. I took my last remaining vacation day and worked until midnight, finishing the manuscript. I wrapped up the final editorial on Tuesday night and prepared the manuscript for mailing on Wednesday.
That was when the train went off the tracks. The competition information on the website was written in a singularly confusing manner, and I must admit that I misread the requirements. Although the manuscript was due October 15th, applicants were advised to submit the entry form, which was only available by mail. And the package was supposed to be sent to a judge, whose address would be sent along with the entry form.
So, I’m standing in my office, staring at this convoluted language while I realize that I’ve spent the better part of a month preparing for a competition I will be unable to enter and I’m surprised by my reaction. I didn’t care because I hadn’t written the book for them. I realize that I’ve done all this work for me and nothing, least of all an incompetent copy-writer of competition rules, is going to stop me from taking this book to market. I scroll through the webpage and discover that the Edgar First Crime Novel competition has a deadline in November. So, I draft a letter and send it off, requesting the entry form and judge’s name and address. Life is so good. I’m entering the Edgar competition.
When the letter arrived in November with the entry form and my judge’s mailing information, I had that little rush of happiness that comes over you when you realize there’s no place to go but up. I put that package together (carefully checking everything so I missed no detail) and sent it off.
Then I jumped right off the cliff, posting an announcement on Facebook that I had entered the competition. That was harder than sending the manuscript, but I felt like I owed it to myself to own my success or failure in front of family and friends. Lots of wonderful comments and support. I dropped a line to Karen Gilb, thanking her again.
Kicking back with a virtual glass of sherry by the fire. A good month’s work and more to come. I am galvanized and working anew on my other project.
Just Think Differently.
Sifting and sorting through the details of the novel, scene by scene, chapter by chapter, I soon felt like I was drowning. Not only was I trying to deconstruct the original story, but I was creating a new book out of the ashes of the old. The characters were a decade older, so I had to figure out how their relationships with the people in the story had changed. What motivated the murderer? For that matter, who was the murderer? And why did my amateur detective get involved in the case in the first place?
Answering those questions gave me a fresh perspective on the story and the characters soon began to take their places on stage, waiting to deliver their lines. I still had to write them, creating the scenes that would bring the drama and tragedy of their actions to life, but by the end of the first week, it was starting to take shape. And I hadn’t written much of anything yet.
The other challenge I faced was shifting the main character from third person to first person perspective, a change I felt was warranted to bring the reader closer to the lead character and her world. That alone would take some very picky editorial work, ferreting out every third person reference (I can’t tell you how many hundreds of references to “her” and “she” I changed).
I took a cue from the creators of Dramatica Pro, Melanie Anne Phillips and Chris Huntley, and started to deconstruct the manuscript into its component story throughlines. Five character throughlines provided the perspectives of the murderer, several suspects and the amateur sleuth, while a six throughline covered the events leading up to a pivotal event in the story. Throughlines are a powerful method for tracking a character or subplot from beginning to end. I found it exposed missing elements and structural weaknesses, enabling me to quickly address problem areas that I likely would not have seen in the context of the entire book.
As I came down to the wire the weekend of October 10th, I needed to integrate all the pieces of the book into a cohesive whole and run a final edit on the entire manuscript in time to put it in the mail on October 14th (my goal was to have it in New York on October 15th). Needless to say, I didn’t sleep much that weekend. Despite my efforts, I was not going to make the deadline unless I could free up one more full day to focus on the book. I took my last remaining vacation day and worked until midnight, finishing the manuscript. I wrapped up the final editorial on Tuesday night and prepared the manuscript for mailing on Wednesday.
That was when the train went off the tracks. The competition information on the website was written in a singularly confusing manner, and I must admit that I misread the requirements. Although the manuscript was due October 15th, applicants were advised to submit the entry form, which was only available by mail. And the package was supposed to be sent to a judge, whose address would be sent along with the entry form.
So, I’m standing in my office, staring at this convoluted language while I realize that I’ve spent the better part of a month preparing for a competition I will be unable to enter and I’m surprised by my reaction. I didn’t care because I hadn’t written the book for them. I realize that I’ve done all this work for me and nothing, least of all an incompetent copy-writer of competition rules, is going to stop me from taking this book to market. I scroll through the webpage and discover that the Edgar First Crime Novel competition has a deadline in November. So, I draft a letter and send it off, requesting the entry form and judge’s name and address. Life is so good. I’m entering the Edgar competition.
When the letter arrived in November with the entry form and my judge’s mailing information, I had that little rush of happiness that comes over you when you realize there’s no place to go but up. I put that package together (carefully checking everything so I missed no detail) and sent it off.
Then I jumped right off the cliff, posting an announcement on Facebook that I had entered the competition. That was harder than sending the manuscript, but I felt like I owed it to myself to own my success or failure in front of family and friends. Lots of wonderful comments and support. I dropped a line to Karen Gilb, thanking her again.
Kicking back with a virtual glass of sherry by the fire. A good month’s work and more to come. I am galvanized and working anew on my other project.
Just Think Differently.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Deadlines Trump Resistance
Alanis Morissette recommends, “…biting off more than you can chew to anyone.” Apparently, I subscribe to that notion as well and I soon discovered that I have more capacity than I could conceive when driven to deliver by a looming deadline.
Here are the stats on Strangled Melody as I reviewed the folder:
Original novel 84,000 words, 455 pp
Rewrite-in-progress: 8,000 words, 44 pp
I knew the original was too long, with some extraneous characters and subplots that would hit the cutting room floor. But I still needed 60,000 words to meet the competition requirements – a target that felt like just the right ballpark after my planned clean-up and rewrite. Knowing where I stood and where I intended to end up, I realized that the only way I could complete the work was by restructuring my life to make it happen.
My game plan: no social or other distractions, all time outside my job would be spent writing or researching, and I had zero room for excuses to goof off. Fortunately, I have a very supportive spouse, who made it possible for me to do all this. I re-designed my schedule so I could write every morning from 5:30-7:00 and all evening until 10:00 or 11:00. The weekends would allow me to dive deep, digging into the characters and subplots so the finished novel would fit together in a tight package.
As I reviewed the manuscript, it became readily apparent that I could not afford to waste time. Every aspect of the editorial and writing process had to be efficient, and I needed to execute flawlessly. Much as I needed a rigorous schedule, I had to establish a set of ground rules that would prevent me from second-guessing myself and losing momentum. After a bit of intellectual gyration, I arrived at a simple principle: lay it out, clean it up or cut it and go.
I needed to establish a clear picture of the timeline of events and actions for each character, identify plot points, clues (hints dropped in along the way to help the fictional detective and readers figure out whodunit), and timing down to the last detail. Anything that didn’t drive the story had to go, holes needed to be identified and filled, and then it all had to be patched together into a cohesive whole that flowed for readers who would never know that the picture had started as a big jigsaw puzzle.
Since I tend to write in an organic way, this would be great discipline for me. I was not giving myself permission to wander off on tangents and paddle around in backwaters of color and marginal relevance, no matter how interesting or fun the writing might be. My old habits had to go; I had to take a different tack to meet the deadline.
Just Think Differently.
Here are the stats on Strangled Melody as I reviewed the folder:
Original novel 84,000 words, 455 pp
Rewrite-in-progress: 8,000 words, 44 pp
I knew the original was too long, with some extraneous characters and subplots that would hit the cutting room floor. But I still needed 60,000 words to meet the competition requirements – a target that felt like just the right ballpark after my planned clean-up and rewrite. Knowing where I stood and where I intended to end up, I realized that the only way I could complete the work was by restructuring my life to make it happen.
My game plan: no social or other distractions, all time outside my job would be spent writing or researching, and I had zero room for excuses to goof off. Fortunately, I have a very supportive spouse, who made it possible for me to do all this. I re-designed my schedule so I could write every morning from 5:30-7:00 and all evening until 10:00 or 11:00. The weekends would allow me to dive deep, digging into the characters and subplots so the finished novel would fit together in a tight package.
As I reviewed the manuscript, it became readily apparent that I could not afford to waste time. Every aspect of the editorial and writing process had to be efficient, and I needed to execute flawlessly. Much as I needed a rigorous schedule, I had to establish a set of ground rules that would prevent me from second-guessing myself and losing momentum. After a bit of intellectual gyration, I arrived at a simple principle: lay it out, clean it up or cut it and go.
I needed to establish a clear picture of the timeline of events and actions for each character, identify plot points, clues (hints dropped in along the way to help the fictional detective and readers figure out whodunit), and timing down to the last detail. Anything that didn’t drive the story had to go, holes needed to be identified and filled, and then it all had to be patched together into a cohesive whole that flowed for readers who would never know that the picture had started as a big jigsaw puzzle.
Since I tend to write in an organic way, this would be great discipline for me. I was not giving myself permission to wander off on tangents and paddle around in backwaters of color and marginal relevance, no matter how interesting or fun the writing might be. My old habits had to go; I had to take a different tack to meet the deadline.
Just Think Differently.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
An Electronic Kick in the Pants
Things have been notably still on this blog for awhile and that’s totally my bad (I am the sole author, so it would be ludicrous to blame anyone else). However, I’ve given myself permission to slide as I’ve been working on a couple of other hot projects that have distracted me in a most sincerely good way.
September 20th was a fateful day. One of my long-time writer friends dropped me a quick note regarding a mystery writer’s competition. Karen Gilb reports on the Portland writing scene for the online publication Examiner.com and she came across the competition while researching an article.
I followed the link to the St. Martin’s Minotaur competition page, where the Malice Domestic First Novel competition was listed (among others). Perusing the requirements, I had to agree, it fit my mothballed mystery novel quite well and the deadline for submission was October 15th.
Then the speed bumps started popping up in the roadway.
First, I hadn’t touched the book in years since I’d wandered off in the weeds after it was read by a couple agents who recommended substantial rewrites. I had agreed with their feedback, relating mainly to the fact that the characters were too young (college students) for the reader demographic (middle-aged women). Although I’d started a rewrite that I liked much better than my original manuscript, I lost steam and never finished it.
Second, the submission deadline was October 15th, less than four weeks away. Could I possibly rewrite a full length manuscript, edit it and prepare it for submission on such a tight schedule?
Most people would consider this to be an impossible task. Maybe it was. But in the spirit of thinking differently, how could I say no? So I decided to enter the competition.
Just Think Differently.
September 20th was a fateful day. One of my long-time writer friends dropped me a quick note regarding a mystery writer’s competition. Karen Gilb reports on the Portland writing scene for the online publication Examiner.com and she came across the competition while researching an article.
I followed the link to the St. Martin’s Minotaur competition page, where the Malice Domestic First Novel competition was listed (among others). Perusing the requirements, I had to agree, it fit my mothballed mystery novel quite well and the deadline for submission was October 15th.
Then the speed bumps started popping up in the roadway.
First, I hadn’t touched the book in years since I’d wandered off in the weeds after it was read by a couple agents who recommended substantial rewrites. I had agreed with their feedback, relating mainly to the fact that the characters were too young (college students) for the reader demographic (middle-aged women). Although I’d started a rewrite that I liked much better than my original manuscript, I lost steam and never finished it.
Second, the submission deadline was October 15th, less than four weeks away. Could I possibly rewrite a full length manuscript, edit it and prepare it for submission on such a tight schedule?
Most people would consider this to be an impossible task. Maybe it was. But in the spirit of thinking differently, how could I say no? So I decided to enter the competition.
Just Think Differently.
Friday, August 14, 2009
A Touch of Kindness
In a world filled with harsh realities and cynical perspectives, it’s easy to discount or overlook the value of kindness. I’ve been reminded in the last couple of days of its potential impact and power when applied in daily life. My teachers have four legs, fur, and sloppy tongues.
We acquired a new Cardigan Welsh Corgi puppy on Wednesday evening; a ten-pound ball of energy and enthusiasm whose fresh perspective on the world is infused with a sense of wonder and joy at each moment’s new discovery. He reacts to everything that he confronts with all his senses and his heart wide open. It is a joy to tag along as his world unfolds before him.
I credit his wonderful breeder for my very confident fellow’s life view. I saw the entire litter of seven puppies a few weeks ago, and I was astonished by their uniformly outgoing natures. There wasn’t a single “underdog” or bully in the bunch. I can only ascribe this remarkable outcome to Léo’s passion (Toreth), attentiveness and patience. But underlying all that, she treats all her animals with a touch of kindness that’s reflected in their bright eyes and cheerful, curious dispositions.
The marvelous thing about this underrated and often overlooked quality is its utter infectiousness. Every day I spend with little Clank (named for the mechanical sidekick in Ratchet and Clank), I feel grateful for the kind inspiration he offers to me and my family. He puts up with his cranky older brother with good grace, optimistically approaching him as a mentor and playmate. I can already see Ratchet softening his attitude, though a Corgi is a stubborn creature, so it may take awhile.
We have laughed more, walked and played more in the past few days with lighter hearts because of him. I guess that’s the thought I want to share. In taking time to be attentive to our new pup, we have slowed down and taken that deep breath that allows one to find the peaceful place inside. Moving from that place with the intention of practicing “random acts of kindness” lends such grace and beauty to life.
"The flower of kindness will grow. Maybe not now, but it will some day. And in kind that kindness will flow, for kindness grows in this way." -- Robert Alan
Just Think Differently.
We acquired a new Cardigan Welsh Corgi puppy on Wednesday evening; a ten-pound ball of energy and enthusiasm whose fresh perspective on the world is infused with a sense of wonder and joy at each moment’s new discovery. He reacts to everything that he confronts with all his senses and his heart wide open. It is a joy to tag along as his world unfolds before him.
I credit his wonderful breeder for my very confident fellow’s life view. I saw the entire litter of seven puppies a few weeks ago, and I was astonished by their uniformly outgoing natures. There wasn’t a single “underdog” or bully in the bunch. I can only ascribe this remarkable outcome to Léo’s passion (Toreth), attentiveness and patience. But underlying all that, she treats all her animals with a touch of kindness that’s reflected in their bright eyes and cheerful, curious dispositions.
The marvelous thing about this underrated and often overlooked quality is its utter infectiousness. Every day I spend with little Clank (named for the mechanical sidekick in Ratchet and Clank), I feel grateful for the kind inspiration he offers to me and my family. He puts up with his cranky older brother with good grace, optimistically approaching him as a mentor and playmate. I can already see Ratchet softening his attitude, though a Corgi is a stubborn creature, so it may take awhile.
We have laughed more, walked and played more in the past few days with lighter hearts because of him. I guess that’s the thought I want to share. In taking time to be attentive to our new pup, we have slowed down and taken that deep breath that allows one to find the peaceful place inside. Moving from that place with the intention of practicing “random acts of kindness” lends such grace and beauty to life.
"The flower of kindness will grow. Maybe not now, but it will some day. And in kind that kindness will flow, for kindness grows in this way." -- Robert Alan
Just Think Differently.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Making Magic
“There’s a myth among amateurs, optimists and fools that beyond a certain level of achievement, famous artists retire to some kind of Elysium where criticism no longer wounds and work materializes without their effort.” -- Mark Matousek
Among the multitude of excuses and explanations put forth in service of the force of Resistance, the claim that great stuff is produced through some magical process is the most tragic. This is a disservice to the creator and to magic as well. Do I believe in magic? Oh yeah, I do.
The difference is that my Magic wears jeans and work boots. She doesn’t sit on some flower brushing her hair and fanning her gossamer wings until just the right moment to appear and shower fairy dust on my creative output. Magic is a blue collar gal, who gets up in the morning and goes to work with me. She inspires me mainly by prodding me in the buttocks when I start kidding myself about the reality of creative productivity. And I am here to tell you, those boots of hers really hurt!
She’s not just a taskmaster, though. She’s right there by my side when I’m working, encouraging me to put in my time and rewarding me with shimmering insights when I finally get it right. And nothing truly fresh and original springs forth fully realized. If you think it does, you aren’t there yet. In the land of creative endeavor, things that look to good to be true are just that.
Ideas are the first step in a long and torturous journey to powerful creative output. They must be turned, polished, revised, deleted, and pursued down tangential pathways to places no one would ever think of going. The best friends a writer has are the six questions: what, when, where, why, how, and who? Journalists use them to mine and define their material; novelists use them to ferret out the implausibilities, omissions, and follies in their imagined worlds.
I’m currently investing significant energy in world-building for an alternate-reality project I’m developing. I started out with a pretty mundane (dare I say hackneyed?) idea about a girl, a sword, and an elf. Then I started twisting it and at this point, I’ve got humans, self-exiled magical species, demons, and the delicious possibilities that arise when you thrust these disparate creatures together after a millennium of separation. Underpinning it all is the simple question that led me there: What would happen if all the magic left the world, and then suddenly came back?
The answer: All kinds of Hell would break loose. I am so looking forward to it. What’s turning your world on its ear? Just Think Differently.
Among the multitude of excuses and explanations put forth in service of the force of Resistance, the claim that great stuff is produced through some magical process is the most tragic. This is a disservice to the creator and to magic as well. Do I believe in magic? Oh yeah, I do.
The difference is that my Magic wears jeans and work boots. She doesn’t sit on some flower brushing her hair and fanning her gossamer wings until just the right moment to appear and shower fairy dust on my creative output. Magic is a blue collar gal, who gets up in the morning and goes to work with me. She inspires me mainly by prodding me in the buttocks when I start kidding myself about the reality of creative productivity. And I am here to tell you, those boots of hers really hurt!
She’s not just a taskmaster, though. She’s right there by my side when I’m working, encouraging me to put in my time and rewarding me with shimmering insights when I finally get it right. And nothing truly fresh and original springs forth fully realized. If you think it does, you aren’t there yet. In the land of creative endeavor, things that look to good to be true are just that.
Ideas are the first step in a long and torturous journey to powerful creative output. They must be turned, polished, revised, deleted, and pursued down tangential pathways to places no one would ever think of going. The best friends a writer has are the six questions: what, when, where, why, how, and who? Journalists use them to mine and define their material; novelists use them to ferret out the implausibilities, omissions, and follies in their imagined worlds.
I’m currently investing significant energy in world-building for an alternate-reality project I’m developing. I started out with a pretty mundane (dare I say hackneyed?) idea about a girl, a sword, and an elf. Then I started twisting it and at this point, I’ve got humans, self-exiled magical species, demons, and the delicious possibilities that arise when you thrust these disparate creatures together after a millennium of separation. Underpinning it all is the simple question that led me there: What would happen if all the magic left the world, and then suddenly came back?
The answer: All kinds of Hell would break loose. I am so looking forward to it. What’s turning your world on its ear? Just Think Differently.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Resistance is Fertile...
Last week I raised the subject of dreams – daydreams vs. dreams born of passion. The realization of a dream is the hardest thing in the world, and the easiest. Put one foot in front of the other. That’s it. Achievement comes down to one thing, action.
I used to think that there was something mysterious or dramatic about making my “Big Dreams” into reality. So, I kept busy using all the marvelous tools of procrastination to keep myself from ever taking the necessary and fundamentally mundane steps that lead to success. I did laundry, ran errands, worked hard at everything that didn’t support my dream, and I was remarkably good at it all. I would carve out slivers of time to devote to my dream, looking around expectantly for the lightning bolt to strike and inspire me to greatness. Strangely, that miraculous sign never appeared in the sky (with accompanying orchestral score by John Williams), nobody parted any seas (Red or any other hue), and not a damn thing happened.
Along the way, I excelled at various jobs, built a happy personal life, enjoyed some hobbies, traveled and had some good times. But I couldn’t seem to get things rolling with my dream projects, except in fits and starts that fizzled as life got in the way. I wondered why others could do what I seemed unable to achieve. What was wrong with me? Was it fear? Lack of talent? Laziness?
Then I ran across a book that was written just for me. It changed my life because it shattered my illusions about making dreams come true.
“Most of us have two lives. The life we live, and the unlived life within us. Between the two stands Resistance.”
Steven Pressfield wrote this in “The War of Art,” along with many other utterly brilliant, insightful things about the single greatest threat to creative endeavor, Resistance. You may also recognize it in its sister form, Inertia who keeps your ass cradled in your miserably familiar pond. And there’s their little brother, Self-Doubt, who chips away at your confidence, while cousin Fear paints terrifying visions to keep you from taking the risk to try at all. Great family, and they all live right there, between the ears of every person with a dream, idea, inspiration, or hope.
Pressfield posits that Art is war, an apt metaphor because war is ugly, difficult, and will only be won through perseverance against a plan created and directed by a purposeful leader. There will most certainly be setbacks, losses, and excruciating pain. Some days, just moving forward one step at a time will feel like the hardest thing you’ve ever done. Other days, you will triumph and take territory you never thought to win. Ultimately, the agony of the struggle will lead to victory.
And the next day, you get up and start the next campaign, with a new goal, a new vision, and no end in sight. The difference between a life of frustration and stress and a life filled with wonder is the willingness to embrace the challenge posed by your own dreams and do something about them. That’s right, put in the time day in and day out and you win. You may never be rich or famous, but you will live with more passion, joy and lust for the life you have.
You don’t have to quit your day job to fulfill your dreams, just kick Resistance and her dysfunctional family out of your head and take action. Build your campaign, line up the troops (you on the front line), and start marching toward your goal. Carve out time every day to work on it.
No excuses. No fear. Forward march! Just Think Differently.
I used to think that there was something mysterious or dramatic about making my “Big Dreams” into reality. So, I kept busy using all the marvelous tools of procrastination to keep myself from ever taking the necessary and fundamentally mundane steps that lead to success. I did laundry, ran errands, worked hard at everything that didn’t support my dream, and I was remarkably good at it all. I would carve out slivers of time to devote to my dream, looking around expectantly for the lightning bolt to strike and inspire me to greatness. Strangely, that miraculous sign never appeared in the sky (with accompanying orchestral score by John Williams), nobody parted any seas (Red or any other hue), and not a damn thing happened.
Along the way, I excelled at various jobs, built a happy personal life, enjoyed some hobbies, traveled and had some good times. But I couldn’t seem to get things rolling with my dream projects, except in fits and starts that fizzled as life got in the way. I wondered why others could do what I seemed unable to achieve. What was wrong with me? Was it fear? Lack of talent? Laziness?
Then I ran across a book that was written just for me. It changed my life because it shattered my illusions about making dreams come true.
“Most of us have two lives. The life we live, and the unlived life within us. Between the two stands Resistance.”
Steven Pressfield wrote this in “The War of Art,” along with many other utterly brilliant, insightful things about the single greatest threat to creative endeavor, Resistance. You may also recognize it in its sister form, Inertia who keeps your ass cradled in your miserably familiar pond. And there’s their little brother, Self-Doubt, who chips away at your confidence, while cousin Fear paints terrifying visions to keep you from taking the risk to try at all. Great family, and they all live right there, between the ears of every person with a dream, idea, inspiration, or hope.
Pressfield posits that Art is war, an apt metaphor because war is ugly, difficult, and will only be won through perseverance against a plan created and directed by a purposeful leader. There will most certainly be setbacks, losses, and excruciating pain. Some days, just moving forward one step at a time will feel like the hardest thing you’ve ever done. Other days, you will triumph and take territory you never thought to win. Ultimately, the agony of the struggle will lead to victory.
And the next day, you get up and start the next campaign, with a new goal, a new vision, and no end in sight. The difference between a life of frustration and stress and a life filled with wonder is the willingness to embrace the challenge posed by your own dreams and do something about them. That’s right, put in the time day in and day out and you win. You may never be rich or famous, but you will live with more passion, joy and lust for the life you have.
You don’t have to quit your day job to fulfill your dreams, just kick Resistance and her dysfunctional family out of your head and take action. Build your campaign, line up the troops (you on the front line), and start marching toward your goal. Carve out time every day to work on it.
No excuses. No fear. Forward march! Just Think Differently.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
When Has Fear Served You?
People daydream about doing great things, but very few of them pursue those Walter Mitty moments toward any meaningful conclusion. Some castigate themselves about indulging in such fantasies, others consider them harmless amusement, a mental vacation from the tedium that infuses so much of our daily routine. I tend to side with the vacation contingent, considering that a good deal of what passes for work is mind-numbingly dull, and a brief foray into the realm of fantasy may be the only way to avoid bolting for the door while screaming.
The trouble arises when people confuse dreams born of soul-deep passion with idle entertainment clothed in an afternoon fantasy, dismissing the former as if they carried no more weight than the latter. Perhaps it’s a failing of vocabulary, or the mistaken belief that the insubstantial is somehow less real than the tangible world. Or it may never have occurred to them that there’s a difference.
I don’t really believe that any of that. Speaking from my personal experience, it all comes down to fear. Fear of failure. Fear of other people’s opinions. Fear of death. Pick your poison. It’s all fear, dressed up a hundred different ways to keep you from recognizing and pursuing the one thing that really cranks your spiritual engine.
That’s not to suggest that one should tear out the door in pursuit of every dream that passes the threshold of consciousness. One needs to spend some time sorting through that dream material to find the real juice. It is true that there are many ideas, but only a few good ones. So it is with dreams.
The subconscious will serve up all manner of options on its grand menu for your consideration. It’s up to us to review them thoughtfully and compile a rich, tantalizing and life-enriching banquet of choices to pursue. Out of that marvelous meal will arise insight, inspiration, and the synthesis of ideas that leads to a further refined understanding of the unique purpose of life for each of us.
The Dream Diner has a wide and varied menu. One word of warning: that sour-faced waiter glaring at you with pen poised over his order pad is just Fear. Blow him off, order the triple-decker chocolate dessert with a rich slice of life. There are no calories here, only opportunities awaiting a dreamer with the courage to seize them.
Dig in and have a second helping. Just Think Differently.
The trouble arises when people confuse dreams born of soul-deep passion with idle entertainment clothed in an afternoon fantasy, dismissing the former as if they carried no more weight than the latter. Perhaps it’s a failing of vocabulary, or the mistaken belief that the insubstantial is somehow less real than the tangible world. Or it may never have occurred to them that there’s a difference.
I don’t really believe that any of that. Speaking from my personal experience, it all comes down to fear. Fear of failure. Fear of other people’s opinions. Fear of death. Pick your poison. It’s all fear, dressed up a hundred different ways to keep you from recognizing and pursuing the one thing that really cranks your spiritual engine.
That’s not to suggest that one should tear out the door in pursuit of every dream that passes the threshold of consciousness. One needs to spend some time sorting through that dream material to find the real juice. It is true that there are many ideas, but only a few good ones. So it is with dreams.
The subconscious will serve up all manner of options on its grand menu for your consideration. It’s up to us to review them thoughtfully and compile a rich, tantalizing and life-enriching banquet of choices to pursue. Out of that marvelous meal will arise insight, inspiration, and the synthesis of ideas that leads to a further refined understanding of the unique purpose of life for each of us.
The Dream Diner has a wide and varied menu. One word of warning: that sour-faced waiter glaring at you with pen poised over his order pad is just Fear. Blow him off, order the triple-decker chocolate dessert with a rich slice of life. There are no calories here, only opportunities awaiting a dreamer with the courage to seize them.
Dig in and have a second helping. Just Think Differently.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Talking Head: Don’t Believe Everything You Think
I used to live in a densely populated neighborhood in one of the biggest cities in the country. I had the front half of a duplex, so my nearest neighbor lived just the other side of a couple of slabs of wallboard in my bedroom. I heard everything he did and said in that room, even though I didn’t really have any personal interest in experiencing his love life second hand. I didn’t really mind, though. I had grown used to the constant, low-level white noise that comes with all the cool stuff urban life brings, like Thai takeout at midnight.
Then one day I took up meditation and I discovered that the noise outside paled to insignificance in the face of the avalanche of sound inside my own head. Sitting in a meditative pose was hard enough (I hate when my legs go to sleep), but waiting for my brain to stop babbling at me was exquisite torture. If my legs hadn’t been asleep, I probably would have run screaming from the non-stop scripts running over and over. I tried guided imagery (somebody else’s script), chanting (nonsense syllables since I had no idea what they meant), and toughing it out. Nothing worked.
Then one day, it occurred to me that maybe that was the point. Meditation isn’t necessarily about stilling the stream of mental babble, though I suppose the masters of Zen may succeed in doing so. The point for we ordinary mortals is that it allows us to become aware of our scripts and just how banal, annoying and downright idiotic they are.
My meditative sessions became far more satisfying after I had that particular revelation. Instead of fighting to ignore my scripts, I started paying particular attention to them, and it was a very enlightening experience (no pun intended). I discovered that some of my personal problems (okay, most of them) could be traced back to the nifty little wordplays racing around my noggin. People complain about the constant bombardment of advertising and disinformation by the Media. Bah, they are amateurs. My brain will take them two falls out of three any day.
I found this insight both surprising and disturbing. I’m skeptical by nature, so I rarely take anything at face value. But I had been steeping in a mélange of self-defeating, disempowering goo on endless replay most of my life. I’d been suckering myself without even realizing it. But how do you change those scripts?
Not easily, I discovered. It’s been a constant struggle, and an evolving adventure that is far from over. Most days, I have a pretty positive perspective on my life. Some days, not so much. The best part is that the journey is turning out to be the point of it all as I explore my inner landscape and renovate my interior monologue using the tools I’ve picked up along the way.
My biggest revelation: nobody can do it for you. Redecorating your mental house is definitely a do-it-yourself project. There are mentors and experts to consult along the way, but I’ve discovered it’s all about you.
Grab that measuring tape and dream something good. Just Think Differently.
Then one day I took up meditation and I discovered that the noise outside paled to insignificance in the face of the avalanche of sound inside my own head. Sitting in a meditative pose was hard enough (I hate when my legs go to sleep), but waiting for my brain to stop babbling at me was exquisite torture. If my legs hadn’t been asleep, I probably would have run screaming from the non-stop scripts running over and over. I tried guided imagery (somebody else’s script), chanting (nonsense syllables since I had no idea what they meant), and toughing it out. Nothing worked.
Then one day, it occurred to me that maybe that was the point. Meditation isn’t necessarily about stilling the stream of mental babble, though I suppose the masters of Zen may succeed in doing so. The point for we ordinary mortals is that it allows us to become aware of our scripts and just how banal, annoying and downright idiotic they are.
My meditative sessions became far more satisfying after I had that particular revelation. Instead of fighting to ignore my scripts, I started paying particular attention to them, and it was a very enlightening experience (no pun intended). I discovered that some of my personal problems (okay, most of them) could be traced back to the nifty little wordplays racing around my noggin. People complain about the constant bombardment of advertising and disinformation by the Media. Bah, they are amateurs. My brain will take them two falls out of three any day.
I found this insight both surprising and disturbing. I’m skeptical by nature, so I rarely take anything at face value. But I had been steeping in a mélange of self-defeating, disempowering goo on endless replay most of my life. I’d been suckering myself without even realizing it. But how do you change those scripts?
Not easily, I discovered. It’s been a constant struggle, and an evolving adventure that is far from over. Most days, I have a pretty positive perspective on my life. Some days, not so much. The best part is that the journey is turning out to be the point of it all as I explore my inner landscape and renovate my interior monologue using the tools I’ve picked up along the way.
My biggest revelation: nobody can do it for you. Redecorating your mental house is definitely a do-it-yourself project. There are mentors and experts to consult along the way, but I’ve discovered it’s all about you.
Grab that measuring tape and dream something good. Just Think Differently.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Free Your Mind and Free the World
I am a slave. I bind myself with the chains of my own limited perspective.
I am not alone, accompanied by millions of other souls who live without questioning the validity of living in a box. This is not to suggest that I’m happy here. I wail and bitch and moan about it, commiserate with other sufferers as we nod our heads sagely about the unfairness of it all. We argue for our right to freedom, holding it up as a sparkling treasure just beyond our reach. Exclaiming that we would do such wonderful things were we able to break our chains, we indulge in fantasies of fame, wealth, health, and success. We fail to achieve these things because our merciless captors hold us back. It is no fault of our own. No, of course not. Pity.
Trouble is, I’ve turned and looked for that jailer only to find that she bears a remarkable resemblance to me. And is that a key I see on the table in front of me? All I must do is pick it up, turn it in the lock and the door will swing open. Stretching before me is the marvelous vista of all the possibilities I could pursue. It’s not that I’m not willing to go for it. In fact, it’s a tremendous surprise that I missed seeing it in the first place.
What is this key, anyway? How did I miss it?
I could give a hundred reasons and they would sound like a mix of blame and denial. There are plenty of pop-psychologists with unflattering opinions and religious zealots out there ready to beat us for our “sins.” I prefer to take a kinder, gentler road. That was then, this is now. Then I didn’t see it, now I do. My door is open and I’m moving on. Let go of the past, baby. The only thing you have to work with is today. Yesterday is out of reach and fading fast.
When things are looking grim, open your eyes and your mind. Take notice of that shiny thing sitting in front of you. Pick it up and look it over. Then ask yourself the kindest thing you can about the corner you’ve painted for yourself: is it real? Is there another way to look at this thing? How bad could it be to get a little paint on your shoe on the way to your goal?
Take some steps. Just Think Differently.
I am not alone, accompanied by millions of other souls who live without questioning the validity of living in a box. This is not to suggest that I’m happy here. I wail and bitch and moan about it, commiserate with other sufferers as we nod our heads sagely about the unfairness of it all. We argue for our right to freedom, holding it up as a sparkling treasure just beyond our reach. Exclaiming that we would do such wonderful things were we able to break our chains, we indulge in fantasies of fame, wealth, health, and success. We fail to achieve these things because our merciless captors hold us back. It is no fault of our own. No, of course not. Pity.
Trouble is, I’ve turned and looked for that jailer only to find that she bears a remarkable resemblance to me. And is that a key I see on the table in front of me? All I must do is pick it up, turn it in the lock and the door will swing open. Stretching before me is the marvelous vista of all the possibilities I could pursue. It’s not that I’m not willing to go for it. In fact, it’s a tremendous surprise that I missed seeing it in the first place.
What is this key, anyway? How did I miss it?
I could give a hundred reasons and they would sound like a mix of blame and denial. There are plenty of pop-psychologists with unflattering opinions and religious zealots out there ready to beat us for our “sins.” I prefer to take a kinder, gentler road. That was then, this is now. Then I didn’t see it, now I do. My door is open and I’m moving on. Let go of the past, baby. The only thing you have to work with is today. Yesterday is out of reach and fading fast.
When things are looking grim, open your eyes and your mind. Take notice of that shiny thing sitting in front of you. Pick it up and look it over. Then ask yourself the kindest thing you can about the corner you’ve painted for yourself: is it real? Is there another way to look at this thing? How bad could it be to get a little paint on your shoe on the way to your goal?
Take some steps. Just Think Differently.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Just Think Differently
Just Think Differently. A simple statement, but not so simple to achieve. It’s not so much a mindset as a daily practice to keep the mind flexible and open while swimming in the warm, entropic waters of daily life.
What am I talking about? It’s an idea that’s been kicking around my head for some time. It reflects my own efforts to counteract my knee-jerk responses to life’s ephemeral demons (most of my own making). It’s the warning sign that reminds me to stop and reconsider my first reactions to those three-in-the-morning noises that go bump in the night, when everyone is most vulnerable. Oh yeah, you know what I’m talking about. Everything is SO much worse at 3:00 a.m.
Come 7:00 a.m. and the light of a new morning, and you find yourself wondering, “WTF?” The bogeys dissolve in sunlight and insoluble problems become minor action items on a day’s agenda. Or maybe not, and the little devils follow you through the day, skirting around the periphery and sucking the joy and color out of your life.
I’m going to explore the ways in which I’ve turned the high beams on those life-leeching, negative, self-nullifying ideas and thoughts. It’s such fun to feel like absolute, low-down, hopeless dog-stuff on my shoe and suddenly discover my inner joy and power again as I dance round the bonfire I’ve made of my personal demons.
The source of ignition? It should be obvious since it’s well within reach all the time. Perhaps it’s hard to see because we stand too close to the bark to see the inspirational acorn hanging overhead, ready to fall. More likely, it’s a case of inertia crushing the motive force that could set us free. It seems to take a massive force of will to get going, but when we do, we can’t imagine standing still. The force? Oh yeah. It’s simple, really. Just Think Differently.
What am I talking about? It’s an idea that’s been kicking around my head for some time. It reflects my own efforts to counteract my knee-jerk responses to life’s ephemeral demons (most of my own making). It’s the warning sign that reminds me to stop and reconsider my first reactions to those three-in-the-morning noises that go bump in the night, when everyone is most vulnerable. Oh yeah, you know what I’m talking about. Everything is SO much worse at 3:00 a.m.
Come 7:00 a.m. and the light of a new morning, and you find yourself wondering, “WTF?” The bogeys dissolve in sunlight and insoluble problems become minor action items on a day’s agenda. Or maybe not, and the little devils follow you through the day, skirting around the periphery and sucking the joy and color out of your life.
I’m going to explore the ways in which I’ve turned the high beams on those life-leeching, negative, self-nullifying ideas and thoughts. It’s such fun to feel like absolute, low-down, hopeless dog-stuff on my shoe and suddenly discover my inner joy and power again as I dance round the bonfire I’ve made of my personal demons.
The source of ignition? It should be obvious since it’s well within reach all the time. Perhaps it’s hard to see because we stand too close to the bark to see the inspirational acorn hanging overhead, ready to fall. More likely, it’s a case of inertia crushing the motive force that could set us free. It seems to take a massive force of will to get going, but when we do, we can’t imagine standing still. The force? Oh yeah. It’s simple, really. Just Think Differently.
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