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Only
You Know What You Set Out to Achieve
The one thing
I've learned during my brief stint as a writer is to try not to
overreact to any review or criticism. It's difficult, but not
impossible. It boils down to having confidence, in not only what
you do, but also who you are. If what you do is write, someone
is not going to like it. You can count on that.
I have worked
as a graphic artist for many years, and grown to accept
criticism. I doubt if I'll ever enjoy it. I've had clients look
at a design and call it garbage. In my thirties, those comments
were painful, no make that devastating, but I've come to learn
they were not criticizing me, even if that's what it felt like.
Over time, I put those comments in a mental file cabinet, in a
file marked 'Growing Pains'. That became one fat little folder
over the years.
I don't mean
you shouldn't celebrate good reviews and be unhappy with less
than stellar comments—you should, but they shouldn't influence
your writing, or your core being. Those things belong to you no
matter how many cheer or criticize. The following is an excerpt
from my forthcoming books: 'When it Stopped Raining'.
'Danny burrowed
her fingers in the cool, wet sand and thought about a story her
mother told her as a child.
A little girl dug
a hole in the sand and began carrying buckets of water from the
lake and pouring them in the hole. Every time she went back to
the hole, the water disappeared, but she returned to the lake
and brought more. Finally, someone sitting on the beach
watching, looked at her and said, 'little girl, what is it
you're trying to do?"
"I'm putting the
lake in this hole." She politely told him.
The stranger knelt
next to her. "You won't be able to put the lake in there,
honey."
The little girl
shrugged and brought more buckets of water. The stranger told
her again, "Little girl, you won't be able to put the lake in
that hole." She looked at him, a little puzzled, "I already have
put the lake in there," she said. "You didn't think I meant the
whole thing?"
When her mother
told that story the first time, it made no sense. Then she
explained that people would judge her and measure her life by
their expectations, but only she could decide whether she failed
or succeeded. Only she knew what she had set out to achieve, and
whether or not she achieved it.'
I think Danny's
mother was right.
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Women Pilots and Factory
Workers
in World War II
The Women Airforce Service Pilots
(WASP), was a non-military organization in WWII, which
throughout its existence, Congress maintained was an experiment.
Politics ended the experiment suddenly and with little notice,
but that did not detract from their work or their remarkable
determination to fly. Twenty-five thousand women applied to the
program. Almost two thousand qualified and entered training.
Successful graduates tested and ferried military aircraft and
completed other piloting jobs to free up men for active service.
They transported every make of
airplane in the American armament, which included training,
pursuit, and transport planes, along with fighters, and bombers.
Some WASP received orders to fly planes that males had refused
to fly, such as the B-26 Martin Marauder, also known as the
'Widow Maker'. The hope was to shame the men into flying them.
Although the ploy successfully made men feel 'if a woman can do
it, anyone can', eventually even the Army recognized how
degrading that attitude was to the women pilots.
After the complete their
training, the WASP lived and worked at one hundred and twenty
bases around the country. They wore uniforms that followed
strict military code and took orders as if they served in the
armed forces. They didn't. They had no life or accident
insurance, no death benefits and could not be buried in a
military cemetery or receive a burial with flags and honors.
WASP could achieve no rank of significance outside their
organization, nor could they give orders to men. Federal law
prohibited women from flying military planes into combat or
outside the boundaries of the United States, still, thirty-eight
WASP died serving their country.
World War II was an
interesting time for women. While a woman wearing trousers in
public still faced possible arrest by a crabby police officer,
(in some places pants were illegal on women) two hundred
thousand enlisted in the military and twelve million, many who
had never worked outside their homes, took jobs in factories,
shipyards, offices, and as civilian workers on military bases.
These women preformed jobs
that no one, often even the women themselves, expected they
could do. Many worked in familiar roles such as sewing flags,
uniforms, and parachutes, but others were mechanics,
cryptographers and of course, the most famous, the thousands of
Rosie the Riveters. They became a symbol for all the women
workers.
When the war ended, most women
returned to their lives at home, though some continued to work.
The unspoken rule in Washington, D.C. was that the role of women
in the war receive little attention. The military feared that
women might believe they could continue to do the jobs. After
the WASP 'experiment' ended, the Pentagon ordered their files
sealed. For over thirty years, no one talked, wrote, or learned
about the pilots, and few were interested in the women who
literally kept 'the home fires burning' while they worked in
defense plants and shipyards.
That's changed. A great
deal of information is available. To see if Congress ever
recognized these fearless women or if you're interested in
learning about any of the heroines of WWII, go to
http://www.wingsacrossamerica.us/wasp
and
rosietheriveter.org. I found
learning about these women uplifting, particularly in our
present state. It's helpful to see examples that take me beyond
my perceived limitations. Reading about the courage of these
women did that and more.
Where Do You Go When You
Create?
Most schools teach that there
are five senses: sight, hearing, smell, taste, and touch.
I'm not a scientist, so I'll offer the existence of another
sense as a hunch-the creative sense, and the processor
responsible for deciphering the sensory input-the soul. All
people have the sense, but just as with the other five, some
of us are creatively impaired.
People fully aware of their
creative sense tend to feel awkward in the world. They may
work in it, or spend a large amount of time with
non-creative people, but it isn't comfortable and it
certainly isn't fulfilling. Often, it's simply necessary for
survival of the creative body.
What about survival of the
creative soul? What experiences lighten the load or
replenish the energy? I have found over the years a short
list of things that work for me: walking, sketching,
writing, and playing my guitar. Writing is on the top of the
list.
"I started writing a
little later in life just as you did. When I made the
decision to try, it wasn't because I suddenly wanted to
become a writer, but because I couldn't deal with my
life any longer. I was always sensitive to noise and
things that went on around me, but suddenly everything
seemed grimmer and people unhappier. What I really
wanted was to run away, but I knew how unrealistic that
was.
"I tried to escape
into television but it too had become extraordinarily
violent. Every time I changed a channel, I saw a dead
body. Outside of a few funerals that I'd attended in my
life, that wasn't an everyday experience for me. I
started to write stories almost in defense, stories that
were about living instead of dying, of loving instead of
hating. It helped me feel a little more in control of
things."
"I know exactly what you mean, but wouldn't you like
other people to read them?"
Donna's ambivalent
shrug mirrored her words. "I'm not sure. Liz, where do
you go when you write?"
"You mean do I have
an office or a favorite coffee house?"
"No. I mean, what happens in your head when you start
to write."
"Oh." Liz leaned
back on her hands as she gave the question some thought.
"Sometimes I think I leave the earth, other times, I'm
convinced I leave my body. Is that what you mean?"
"Yes. No matter how
overwhelmed I am by life, the moment I begin to write,
I'm happy, sometimes joyous. Even if the story I'm
writing is in an unhappy place, I'm so elated it's as if
someone gave me an injection of a drug. At first, I
thought it was a fluke, but no matter what is happening
in my life, or how confused I feel, when I write, I'm
alive. Not just alive, but wonderfully alive."
The above is from 'Murder
at the Littlecrow Lodge', which will be published in 2009. I
ask you, how could Donna not write? How, in a world as
complex as ours, could she not want to feel alive,
'wonderfully alive'.
I share her feelings about
my own writing. It isn't a matter of wanting to do it
anymore. I have no choice because the survival of my soul
depends on it. I recently read a book called 'The Highly
Sensitive Person', written by Dr. Elaine Aron. I recommend
it and her web site
www.hsperson.com
to anyone who struggles with fitting into the aggressive
societies we call home. I found immediate comfort in the
number of people who felt the things I've felt my entire
life and thought were failings. How nice to know that
they're not.
I no longer doubt that I'm
a creative individual. As long as I can remember, I've
picked up pen or pencil to write or draw and listened to the
flow of thoughts and ideas that seemed constantly to fill my
mind. It took me a long time to understand what all that
information meant, and what to do with it. A creative person
must create. It's as simple as that.
What Does 'Tsk' Mean
Anyway?
People are angry. I don't
think anyone is surprised to read those words. I wanted
to write an article about healthy ways of dealing with
other people's anger, but before I could start, I had a
few chores to do. I decided to use the time to plan the
story.
My first
chore meant a stop at a large discount store to pick up
a few office supplies. I try to park far away from
stores and walk, for a couple of reasons. Both because I
need the exercise and I have no desire to fight with
aggressive drivers, determined to park near the door.
I gathered my products
and went to a self-checkout counter. As I scanned the
last item, I realized the total was at least $50 more
than it should have been. I didn't have many items and
could quickly see, there was a $50 charge that wasn't
for anything in my bag. I began my search for someone to
help and heard the people in line behind me begin to
grumble. Finally finding an expert customer service
representative, I showed her the problem.
"What did you do?" She
asked.
The grumbles got
louder and my face flushed. "I scanned my items, but
this one's not mine. Take a look."
She tsked and looked
at the growing line of customers apologetically, if
rolling her eyes and cocking her hip was an apology.
Then, slowly, she removed the products from my bag one
at a time and dramatically waved them over the scanner
as she punched in her secret manager's code. I thought
she was finally convinced that the error wasn't mine,
but noticed her eyeing my purse. I hate shopping and the
thought of starting again kept me from walking away,
also, at that point, I expected an escort to a dark room
for a full body search. Everyone attending this drama
apparently thought I should have paid the extra money
and walked away. Everyone except me.
On the way to my next
chore at a grocery store, a man pulled a shiny new
Lincoln in front of me. I had to hit the brakes and my
office supplies once again left the bag. He proceeded to
slow to answer and talk on his cell phone, even though
talking on a cell phone and driving is illegal in our
city. "Little care I for the law," says he. I don't
think he was even aware that there was another car on
the road.
Knowing I neared the
end of my chores cheered me and I brought my basket to a
checkout counter and waited in line. I wasn't going to
fall for that self-checkout scam again. Let the error be
the clerks fault. As I neared the register, I noticed
the milk carton leaked. I showed the clerk and, guess
what; she tsked. "I'll run over and get another one," I
told her and looked at the disgruntled faces in line
behind me. They may have been the same people I saw
earlier. Of course, by the time I ran for the
replacement and returned to the line, everyone had 'that
look'. I almost apologized for complaining about a
leaking milk carton.
The drive home was to
be a chance for me to organize my thoughts about the
article 'how to deal with angry people'. Instead I
thought about a $4,000 dentist bill that I had to put on
a credit card only to end up with a toothache and advice
to have a specialist do surgery on the tooth. I thought
about the $500 I spent for a pair of glasses designed to
self-destruct two days after the warranty ended. Another
credit card purchase. I thought about the fact that no
matter what something cost, and no matter who wants to
take my money, I'm not supposed to be upset. I'm not
supposed to complain.
When I put away my
purchases, I sat down at the computer, ready to start
the article. The phone rang. A woman from a firm that
does television ratings wanted to take ten or fifteen
minutes of my time to do a survey. No, she didn't offer
to pay me for my time, buy I was quite sure that the
survey would somehow make them money. I said no, and
before I could explain that I didn't watch television,
she asked, "Do you know who we are?"
Asking her if she knew
who I was would have been childish and petty. I almost
did, but instead looked at the phone and set it down
gently. My remarkable self-control kept me from slamming
it on the desk, that, and full credit cards that
couldn't buy a new phone. I mentally cracked my knuckles
and started to type. 'How to deal with angry people…'
The next part of the sentence made me smile…'when one of
them, is you.'
It wasn't an earth
shattering revelation, but it brought a sense of relief.
I don't have control over anyone but myself. Except for
staying out of the way of someone angry enough to hurt
me, my anger is the only one I can or need acknowledge.
Deep breaths, focusing on things that matter and doing
what makes me happy, help diffuse any anger that creeps
in. My ultimate goal is to not have anger. I
mean, what does 'tsk' mean anyway?
Beyond White
Bread in the World of Publishing
Recently, my brother,
RH Sheldon, posted an article called 'Writers—Cheap,
Easy, Expendable'. In it, he discussed where writers
landed in the publishing heap. Yep, on the bottom.
The statement that struck me as the saddest and most
telling was, 'without writers, many in the industry
would end up baristas at Starbucks'.
I have long been a
proponent of print on demand, and it truly allows us
all a shot at finding readers. Remember, the primary
relationship is between readers and writers, not
publishers, agents, or distributors. If writing is
the goal and selling what you've written the bonus,
than self-publishing is the solution. If you haven't
been able to get beyond a query letter, maybe you
should look into it. You won't need a large
financial investment, but you will need to spend a
great deal of time trying to reach your readers.
This, of course, is separate from the time you spend
writing. If what you have to offer is readable, you
have a shot.
Most people,
across the board, are willing to admit that the
industry is in bad shape. I am not saying that the
people published by the large publishers don't
deserve it. They are just not the only ones worth
reading. Do the big guys really believe that people
only want to read the books that they select? More
importantly, do you believe that? Is it possible
that people simply don't know what wonderful authors
are out there waiting for readers?
I went to the
library the other day and saw four shelves of books
by the same author. A friend of mine who has spent a
great deal of time in libraries over the years, both
working and hanging out, said it is what readers
want that fill the shelves. They are removing many
classics to make room for 'popular' books. Now that
is scary.
It's not unlike
any other product marketing. You go to the grocery
store and on the bread shelf, you see one companies'
products. They sell white and wheat bread. You
choose what you want from the choices available and
go home. You chose wheat bread, and after a while
you and your family are not only used to it, but
like it. The next time you go to the store, you go
right to the wheat bread and fill your cart. You
don't even notice the little upstart company that
has a tiny part of one shelf selling sour dough and
rye bread. Soon, the store sees the little upstart
company isn't selling anything. Rather than give
them more space, they discontinue their products.
They never had a chance, but the little upstart
company regrouped. They began to sell only online.
Slowly they developed their line of breads and
became popular. Guess who tells them they'll give
them a whole shelf to themselves, only if they
receive seventy-five percent of the profit.
Okay, back to the
library. What if it is what readers want. Is it
what they really want, or is it because they
don't know there's sour dough and rye bread
available? You can't blame the librarians. Every
book publisher in existence pitches them, and it
would be physically impossible to read the
number of catalogs, brochures, and books that
pile up on their desks. They have to trust
someone, and go by what their readers want.
Not many
self-published authors have the money to run
full color ads in papers and magazines, and
often times it is even too expensive to find a
cooperative catalog they can afford. Let's
assume that the self-published author is in the
same league as the author who has four shelves,
or maybe even better. What do they do?
Today, I can
see only one level playing field—the Internet.
Though it is often like shouting in the wind, at
least there's a chance someone will hear you.
You certainly have nothing to lose by trying. I
don't see publishing as a whole improving
anytime soon. There's far too much money
involved, but people who have a passion for
something don't give up. It isn't a question of
'will I', for most of us the question is 'when'.
As long as there have been powerful people
running things, there have been groups of people
considered less powerful, battering down the
gates. I say we grab a couple of poles and
start.
Read RH
Sheldon's article,
'Writers—Cheap,
Easy, Expendable'
The Next
Voice You Hear
For some time
I've shared my brain with a loud,
intolerable voice that I've wanted to quiet.
It inhabited a place that I couldn't access,
and said things like 'who are you trying to
kid, you can't do that'. 'What's the matter
with you? You're way out of your league'.
The sad thing is that I often believed it.
The voice sounded so confident, so
self-assured, and it was persistent. When I
first open my eyes in the morning, or when I
tried to fall asleep at night, it reminded
me of failures and defeats. I figured it had
some inside information.
Three years
ago, I started writing. The voice was just
as loud and just as confident when it
snickered at my newest endeavor. It directed
me to sites on the Internet that pointed out
the number of people who wrote books, and
the number of people who published. It asked
if I seriously believed I could write
anything that another living being would
want to read.
This
chattering pessimist reminded me that the
average writer trying for their first
publication was about thirty years younger
than my fifty-six years. Of course, it
couldn't let me forget that I'd barely made
it through English classes in high school
and college. I know it kept track of these
things because this voice never
forgot—anything.
Finally, I
screamed, 'SHUT UP', surprising the voice as
much as I did myself. It started again
immediately, but I noticed it didn't have
quite as much steam. I screamed again and
saw it weaken. I continued to yell to take
away its power.
I'm sure
many of you who are old hands at writing,
still remember when your love affair began,
and how powerful a relationship it was and
still is. I've done many things in my life,
but nothing has so quickly become a part of
my being as creating people, places, and
stories to share.
The voice
remains packed in a box, wrapped in layers
of duct tape to mute the discouraging words.
It's still ranting and might even be telling
me I'll never make it as a writer. I won't
listen. I can't. I am a writer and the next
voice you hear, could be mine.
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