Right after my last blog, I got busy planning my new endeavors as a writer. That meant organizing my studio (the garage.) The garage has wonderful shelves for all my books and manuscripts. Most importantly, I felt very smug calling it my "studio."
But alas, I was taken right back down to earth again as my studio transformed one night into Lake Garage. I was forced to relocate. I couldn't tolerate the dampness, and all my books started to curl. And I didn't like the idea of having to paddle to my desk. One Friday night, I pulled on my waders and moved all my books into the bedroom. I was surprised that the books all fit on the top shelf of our closet. They're stacked to the ceiling, but nonetheless, it works. “Snug” is the most accurate way to describe the bedroom with its new additions of the secretary desk and filing cabinets.
I felt disappointed that I wouldn't be able to deduct an office space anymore because the bedroom isn't solely used for my business of writing. And I couldn't exactly call my bedroom my studio, also. But that's okay. I'm rather cozy here, and considerably warmer and drier with a heater at my feet.
Now I have no excuse to abandon my writing. My desk is just a few paces away from my bed. Besides, my desk has lots of little things I love on it. My favorite books on writing, including Stephen King's On Writing and Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird. My Writer's Markets, a picture of Olav, a favorite lamp, rocks from Missouri, my trusty iBook G4. And of course, lots of pens and pencils.
I'm glad I moved all my things, too, because Lake Garage dried up and transformed into a rather other-worldly moldy wonderland. I suspect it's why my allergies are out of control, because I'm tramping in and out of there all the time, and so are the dogs and cats. This morning at 6 am, blowing my nose for the thirty-fourth time, I contemplated the likelihood of my having transported the mold into the bedroom. Wouldn't take long for the white fluffy stuff to take over in here, fuzzing over my manuscripts, blanketing the walls, filling my lungs. At least I'll die with a pen in hand. The cloudlike toxin is actually quite pretty.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
A "Real" Career
What? I thought I was going to be able to avoid the career path thingy. I'm a writer--I don't have time or the inclination to have a career. Sure, I can have part time jobs here and there to feed myself while I focus on being artful and superior, or something like that. I have lofty aspirations, but aspirations don't put food on the table.
I'm not quite as leery of the word “professional” as I was at seventeen contemplating a college major. Professional Writing or Journalism? I could have been a journalist, but I was too selfish, too principled, wanting to focus on my own projects.
After I graduated, I enjoyed myself and drank lots of beer instead of writing. Then I went to graduate school at SMU in Dallas. I threw myself into my manuscripts there, cranked out several short stories, but ever since, they, and my novel have been safely tucked in a drawer ever since.
Next I had a husband who was able to support me, but I couldn't live up to the hours of writing I wanted to accomplish everyday. I was a perfectionist. I beat myself up. I couldn't get anything done. Plus, my marriage was failing. Isn't misery supposed to make us better writers? I thought I'd try it and see. I led myself right down into The Funk.
Ever been there? It's a warm, sugary sweet, soothing place reserved for only the best self-pity. It's where, over and over, I found myself in the deliciously precarious position of holding my twitching finger over the mouse button to click “Yes” to “Are you sure you want to empty the trash?” which held my entire “Writing” folder.
Three years, two moves, and a divorce later, I've decided to really go for it this time. I've set out to create my own path to success.
Writing is a real job, too, I've discovered. “Real,” like, I have to get up everyday before noon and face my brain.
Success doesn't mean I need to be famous. Success means I accept life and its blows with grace, that I follow through, that I make an effort to use God's gifts. They're not gifts until I accept them and try to use them.
I'm not quite as leery of the word “professional” as I was at seventeen contemplating a college major. Professional Writing or Journalism? I could have been a journalist, but I was too selfish, too principled, wanting to focus on my own projects.
After I graduated, I enjoyed myself and drank lots of beer instead of writing. Then I went to graduate school at SMU in Dallas. I threw myself into my manuscripts there, cranked out several short stories, but ever since, they, and my novel have been safely tucked in a drawer ever since.
Next I had a husband who was able to support me, but I couldn't live up to the hours of writing I wanted to accomplish everyday. I was a perfectionist. I beat myself up. I couldn't get anything done. Plus, my marriage was failing. Isn't misery supposed to make us better writers? I thought I'd try it and see. I led myself right down into The Funk.
Ever been there? It's a warm, sugary sweet, soothing place reserved for only the best self-pity. It's where, over and over, I found myself in the deliciously precarious position of holding my twitching finger over the mouse button to click “Yes” to “Are you sure you want to empty the trash?” which held my entire “Writing” folder.
Three years, two moves, and a divorce later, I've decided to really go for it this time. I've set out to create my own path to success.
Writing is a real job, too, I've discovered. “Real,” like, I have to get up everyday before noon and face my brain.
Success doesn't mean I need to be famous. Success means I accept life and its blows with grace, that I follow through, that I make an effort to use God's gifts. They're not gifts until I accept them and try to use them.
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