There's no such thing

There's no such thing as an overnight success in the writing world. If you even knew dear reader, the hours and days, months and years that writers put in. Reading, writing, workshopping, editing, and taking craft classes. It's such a labor of love, without much reward for years and years, that you can only do it if you must. If you must. 

I write because it's the only way I can breathe deeply. Otherwise, I'm breathing shallow, always.

When I write, I lose myself in the process. I've had one magic instance where I wrote a story in two hours that came out as a final draft. It was accepted by a well known journal that same weekend. But that's only happened once, and I've written so many stories. That story was about my grandpa and he just must have been whispering it in my ear. Looking down at me. 

But usually, it's not that easy. Usually, it's a series of frustrating fits and starts, with sometimes only a couple of paragraphs or pages after a few hours early morning for days... weeks.

Essays are easier for me. They're structured; researched, and the voice is different. It's more authoritative. For me, the stories in child and YA voice are the hardest because I must find that piece of my young self that still exists. It's part channeling, part craft but so much fun at times. 

The hardest part for me has been the rejection. Looking for an agent for years and giving up. Thinking I would never publish my book. Then it came together, finally, after so many years of hard work. I found not one, but two dream publishers who totally got me. Now I have two books. And I plan on more. 

So friends, remember that writers write. My advice is to write your stories for you. Then submit them to journals to see if they work. You'd be surprised at beginner's luck, you might publish something right away. And then, nothing for years. Don't give up. It's gonna be okay. 

If you can visualize it, it will happen. Maybe when you're fifty like me and you finally will it into being. You wished so hard for it that it came true. Dammit. It can come true for you too. I promise you. 

So write till your fingers hurt and your eyes blur. Write. Put blood on the page. Be true to your art. No matter what. 

Write. Then write some more. 

Musings

I'm laying in bed with my shih tzu Frodo by my side. He's getting old. His back bothers him. His knee gives out. But he still loves his walk and uses both legs to trot and hop like a rabbit to accommodate for his crooked gait. He's such a grumpy old dog, but I love him so.

Like Frodo, I'm getting older. I'm not as spry as I used to be. I can't work crazy hours at work. I get grumpy. 

Instead, what makes me happy are the simple things. Laying in the sun. Floating on my unicorn blow up in the pool. Writing in bed. Making crepes for dessert for my husband. 

I don't need a lot. That's what I'm starting to realize. Not a fancy car. Not even nice shoes or clothes. I just need my health, my eyesight and a computer to write. 

The pandemic taught me to love being home. It made me realize I have a strong work ethic and that I can easily work from home. I'm disciplined. I finished two books dammit. With my force of will, I can move mountains. I can be anything I want.

Don't ever forget it. I tell myself, I am powerful beyond measure. I say it over and over to myself. Again and again. 

I'll remember these lessons forever. These lessons will help me make my way in a world that I see clearly now and do work that matters, but in a way that puts my own purpose first. 

That is true freedom you see. Being beholden to no one but yourself for your self worth, productivity and happiness.

(Inspired by the poem-Our Deepest Fear By Marianne Williamson which states in part, "Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us...")

Questions

Having your eyes open is frustrating. You see stuff that can't be unseen. Before Covid, I was somewhat content with being a deputy public defender. I liked my assignment. And I felt that I helped my clients and that I was doing good work representing my voiceless and vulnerable clientele.

Then, the world changed and so did my viewpoint. Suddenly, I was seeing how very little the system cared for my clients. 

The courts took away trial deadlines and kept most of my mentally ill clientele incarcerated during the pandemic despite the risk. What I realized, and what struck me at my core, was how very little power I had to change anything. Sure, I could get a few people released with bail motions, but nothing would really change.

This was not only eye opening, but it was disheartening and disturbing. I had realized that I was a cog in a very fucked up wheel of injustice. 

Now, I know I could say this nice, dress it up in flowery prose, but why? I need to just say it.

These are real people, and their families, who are suffering. I wrote a book about it, which helped me verbalize my rage, but still I agonize. It's hard. 

Question: Is it better to stay and work for change from the inside? Or is it better to do something at the macro level? Or perhaps, I could just throw up my hands and walk away altogether. 

Writing is my first love. I know this now. It's what comes to me naturally and makes me happy. I'm my true best self as a writer. As a lawyer, especially a criminal defense one, I'm often angry, frustrated and miserable. 

I guess what I'm saying is that life is short. I lost a good friend recently, she was too too young, and I can't stop weeping. It made me see, we only have this life.

And I wanna be happy. I wanna love what I do and not feel so conflicted and pissed off all the time. I want to live a life where I know that I'm where I'm meant to be. So you see, I'm just asking: Where do I go now?

Create!

Sunday. My head is splitting. A migraine is coming on. My neck hurts. My back aches. I've been working on my play adaptation and I get a little manic then crash.

Hours later, after an advil and a bath tub meditation, I feel better. Lately, work's been hard, and on the weekends I'm booked with writing events and my homework for my MFA class. I never stop. The other day, with work all day and a writing meeting in the evening, I worked for 14 hours straight with no lunch break. 

Boundaries need to resurface. Down time. Breathe. Breathe. 

Yet, it's also an exciting time. My play adaptation is coming along. I cross my fingers that it sings. I think it does but because I've never done this, I'm a bit insecure. 

Adaptation is something I've always wanted to do but never realized it's difficulty. I have a whole new admiration for playwrights. It's about envisioning the stage. The movements and setting. The characters. To bring my dad to life would be a dream come true. First, I've done it on the page and now, on the stage. You all know by now, I miss him so.

So let's end on this friends. Try to find your joy in life and practice empathy and kindness. 

But most of all, create! Write, write, and write some more. 

Free Life

What is life? Much of my blog is devoted to that issue. What is the point of it all? 

How do we, as creatives, as humans, find our bliss, and our purpose? 

For much of my life, I spent it searching, working and trying to reach certain goals. My early to mid twenties was spent surviving. My late twenties to my mid thirties was spent striving. 

I got a Bachelor's degree, then a law degree, and then a corporate law firm job. I had "made it" by many's standards. 

Not really because as a man once wrote and sang and I'm paraphrasing here, I was looking for a job, and I found a job, and the result was misery. 

When I became a deputy public defender, it also sustained me for a bit. It was creative but not enough. When I searched my soul, I knew something was still lacking. 

It wasn't until I started writing again, that a fire lit in my brain and soul. Something sparked. Writing lit a blaze that couldn't be put out. To this day, it rages. The writing bug is in me for good.

What was missing you see, was art and I knew, for at least the last decade or more, that I was meant to be a writer. My memoir writing was my bliss and I was meant to finish my book. 

Like most writers, I doubted for a bit that it would come to fruition, but then the universe conspired to help, along with virtualization and my hard work  And so I finished not only one book, but two. It was magic in a way, that's a good way to describe it. Or here's another way, it was a journey that took years and years. 

So maybe it wasn't magic, or maybe it was my own conjuring. Who really knows?

Now the question is, where do I go from here? Don't get me wrong, it's a relief to have two books in the world, my chapbook about public defense and my memoir/YA novel. Such a damn relief. 

Yet I know I'm not done. I don't know many things, but I know that. 

I'm not done.

Poem at 3:17 am

Life is snuffed out short 

sometimes

Or snuffed out long

sometimes

Me-well my life 

is longer than I thought

Years ago 

I came home

Dad was sick

then dead

I came back

simple as that

Here I lay

thinking of him

staring at the ceiling

at three am

Not much has changed

or maybe everything

You see-I stopped running 

back then, stayed put

To this day, I stayed

Now I just sit, write 

and write again

about the same old things

over and over till I'm spent

I listen to all my favorite albums

play Ziggy Stardust on repeat 

Until life spins me

to tell my tales

To weak to resist 

the pull of diving 

into memories

Like into a deep pool 

of blue shimmering water

Hoping always

or at least most always

not to drown

in the reflection