MELISS O'DELL

I was backing up my hard-drive yesterday to my new external drive, and was surprised by how many stories I’ve started and never finished. Many of them were 15,000+ words and in their second or third drafts. Recalling their story lines was bitter-sweet, as if each were a childhood best friend I’d lost touch with over the years.

The hundreds of hours, and the emotions, I invested in the stories’ characters felt so important while I was drafting them, but for some reason, I gave up on them. Did I spend too much time editing when I should’ve been creating? Did I become overwhelmed with plotting, or did I just grow bored?

I have a YA psycho-fantasy story in the works right now that’s over 18,000 words, and will likely end up to be about 25,000. I’ve already contracted to have the cover art done, and have an editor lined up to go over the manuscript, but I’ve hit a wall. I love my protagonist and antagonist, and have a pretty good grasp of the different characters’ roles. The story is always stewing in the back of my mind as I go about making money, taking care of my family, and writing an occasional blog post. But my story sits untouched, like an old man in a retirement home, longing for his son to visit.

When I was writing my novella, Close to the Bone, I got up at 4 or 5 a.m. every morning, made myself some tea, and got right to work on it, knowing my schedule only allotted an hour-and-a-half max for my hobby. Now with the economy, I have more time to write, but I do less of it. It took me eleven months from start to finish to write, edit and publish Close to the Bone. It was a triumphal experience to finally get my novella on Amazon, Smashwords and Barnes & Noble, and motivated me to get started right away on another eBook. That was July of 2011. Here it is, six months later, and I’m still in the first-draft stage of my new story.

I’ve started new morning habits that don’t mesh with writing. I still have my tea, but instead of writing, I sit with my dogs on the couch and comb their fur, do my neck stretches, and enjoy the quiet. It’s wonderful. But I can’t write when I’m doing those things.

Many writers talk about a kind of malaise that hits them now and then. They take sabbaticals, practice other forms of art, or travel, waiting for the motivation to spark them again. It’s always seemed to me like a cop-out. If you’re a writer, then write! You can’t wait for motivation. As an attorney, I can’t show up for a hearing only when I’m feeling motivated. My clients depend on me. My reputation hinges on my professionalism. But, to be fair, I take vacations from my law practice two or three times a year.

This is different than needing a vacation, though. This is about starting projects and not finishing them, because I don’t have to. It makes me feel a bit like a fair-weather friend. “I’m sorry friend. I’ve lost interest in you for the time being. Be a good chap, and put your life on hold until my interest blooms anew.”

We’re all born with a sh*t detector, and the minute we’re exposed to air, people start burying it with kaka. For writers, this is really bad.

According to Hemingway, a well-functioning sh*t detector is imperative. “The most essential gift for a good writer is a built-in, shock-proof, shit detector. This is the writer’s radar and all great writers have had it.” I think a sh*t detector is a gut thing, intuition, whatever one calls the mechanism that helps us sniff out the sh*t hiding under the rules, protocols, expectations, and criticisms that come with living.

Well-intentioned parents, English teachers, colleagues and friends, all shovel it on. And we let them because we need them. We want to be liked and loved and respected by them, and to fit in. Well-intentioned or not, much of the dogma turns out to be dog-poop. We plug our noses and put up with it, daring not to veer from the status quo, lest we be declared dim, flighty, or “on the fringe.” Our detectors eventually lose the ability to detect sh*t, or, equally sad, detect everything as sh*t.

Tolstoy said, “I know that most men, including those at ease with problems of the greatest complexity, can seldom accept even the simplest and most obvious truth if it be such as would oblige them to admit the falsity of conclusions which they have delighted in explaining to colleagues, which they have proudly taught to others, and which they have woven, thread by thread, into the fabric of their lives.” It’s a mouthful, but means, poop is deemed fertilizer by those with the biggest dogs in the fight.

For example, agents and editors tell us that publishable fiction writers don’t use semi-colons. My sh*t detector says it’s silly to avoid using semi-colons; there are times when no other punctuation will do. I can think of a hundred more examples, related to all aspects of life.

In writing, as in life, fertilizer begets more poop. We write and write and write, toying with the rules in our first and second drafts. Then, on the third go-round, we begin to question even our own motivations. “Did I write this sentence here to honor the story, or exalt myself? Is my character’s act in this scene something my character would do, or something I want her to do? Why can’t I get my point across here? Am I ashamed of it?” Stephen King tells us we’re less likely to write sh*t if we tell the truth. Wait. What? I thought I was writing fiction.

But really, it’s a beautiful thing when reading a great story about a crappy situation, and out pops an accidental, simple truth. To Kill a Mockingbird, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, and A Thousand Splendid Suns, come to mind. Maybe sh*t is as important as the sh*t detector, and the real trick is to – as Harper Lee, Kesey and Hosseini did – recognize the sh*t, by keeping our detectors well-maintained and polished to a high sheen, so it can reflect unexpected, simple truth into the stories we write.

For more of Hemingway’s writerly advice, read The Curse of Perfectionism and the Value of Crap, by Chris Hamilton, Jan. 10, 2012.

And for help getting in touch with your feelings, read my Dec. 19, 2011 post, The Value of Therapeutic Dumping, on the Florida Writers’ Association blog.

Her: “Hey, are we coming over floppy flop on Sunday to watch the game?”
Me: “Did you just say ‘floppy flop’?”
Her: “Yeah. Sometimes I say things like that to get my mind back on track.”
Me: “I see.”
Her: “I found a great recipe for bar-b-que ribs made in the crock pot.”
Me: “Sounds yummy.”
Her: “I’ll bring the crock pot. You pick up the ribs.”
Me: “Your generosity is astounding.”
Her: “I know.”

“He who joyfully marches to music rank and file, has already earned my contempt. He has been given a large brain by mistake, since for him the spinal cord would surely suffice. This disgrace to civilization should be done away with at once. Heroism at command, how violently I hate all this, how despicable and ignoble war is; I would rather be torn to shreds than be a part of so base an action. It is my conviction that killing under the cloak of war is nothing but an act of murder.” – Albert Einstein

There are only two true languages: Math and love. – A.M.T.

Me: “I have a question burning in my mind.”

Her: “Oh god, what is it?”

Me: “Why isn’t the past tense of sneeze ‘snoze’ rather than ‘sneezed’?”

Her: “For the same reason that the plural of moose isn’t meese.”

Me: “And what reason is that?”

Her: “Because it doesn’t sound right.”

More than anyone, victims of abuse must practice self-affirmation and self-empowerment. I came up with this declaration years ago. See if it works for you.

1. I am the sole creator of my thoughts.

2. I am the sole owner of my thoughts.

3. When I create and practice good thoughts about myself, I am stronger.

4. My good thoughts about myself are for my benefit.

5. I choose when and if to reveal my good thoughts about myself to someone else.

6. Only people who respect my right to have good thoughts about myself deserve to hear them.

For best results, repeat often…

Harbor House, Florida

1. No one but you has a right to your thoughts and feelings.

2. Your dreams are your own.

3. “Acceptance” is not the same as “giving in.”

4. Other people may care about you, but not as much as you do.

5. There’s ALWAYS an alternative.

6. No one is born with more, or less, internal strength than you were. Exercise it and it grows.

7. Physical strength, intelligence, courage, humor, imagination, persistence, focus, shrewdness: these are all tools. You have an abundance of some, and short supply of others, just like everyone else. Use your best tools for your benefit.

8. Face it. Reaching your goal will be difficult. Now that you know that, get going.

9. You are responsible for your own life.

10. You have an intuition. Listen to it.

I’ll be expounding upon each of these points over the next few weeks. Stay tuned.

I admire extreme rebels, people who kick against the goads, and change the world. They don’t trod the well-worn path, they forge new ones, and often use unorthodox methods to chop away barriers. Many, such as Patrick Henry and Peter Jennings, were high school dropouts. Others, Gandhi, Jesus Christ, Nelson Mandela and Martin Luther King, willingly endured poverty, prison, and threats against their lives. These people saw something that needed to be changed — ignorance, widespread injustice, whatever — foresook social mores and acted upon the call to be instruments of change.

When a person challenges socially-accepted views, whether it’s education, religion, science, politics, or anything else, he faces self-doubt and outside opposition. But how does an extreme rebel, like Jesus or MLK, drum up the confidence to come away from the ropes swinging, no matter how big the foe? Is it an automatic response or something she must develop within her? What kind of courage does this rebel possess that elevates her purpose above affection, acceptance, even survival?

I see a lot of social injustice in the world, but mostly I keep my opinions to myself, so that friends and family won’t say, “Do we have to go over there? If she starts complaining about western medicine or the food industry again, I’ll just die.” I’ve asked myself if I could withstand the same hardships others have to bring about positive change. Could I devote the same energy, at the expense of familial affection and physical safety? I don’t know. We can’t all be Gandhi or Nelson Mandela, neither of whom had Twitter, Facebook, or expensive marketing agencies.

And who cares what I say? I’m one in six-billion people, spending most of my time in my office, unsure of the importance of my opinions or what I can do about them. Even those closest to me just smile and nod when I get on my soap box, then they turn around and do what feels right, or what feels safe.

I don’t want to do or say what’s safe, but how tenaciously will I kick against the goads?

“Holy monkey shards!” - L.P.L.