“Oh God, You are my God, earnestly I seek You; my soul thirsts for You, my body longs for You, in a dry and weary land where there is no water.” -Psalm 63:1
“Indeed, you are our glory and joy.” 1 Thessalonians 2:20
Alright, believe it or not, this is going to be my blog-post-attempt number three. For some reason (I’m still trying to figure this out as I go along), this post has been the sort of Wednesday-day, “Hump Day,” sort of post. I tried to ignore that for blog-post-attempt-No. one and two. Obviously, neither of those worked, because here we are.
This probably has something to do with the fact that (news hawk alert), I completed the latest draft of my book, and I’m not sure how to break this exciting news to my blog readers.
That’s a strangely sparse amount of exclamation points there, darling, and by sparse, I mean zip.
Yes, because the completion of my manuscript wasn’t exactly an exclamation point moment for me. I had been sitting in the dining room, watching my younger sister adding a glitter glue of sorts to our 4-H club flag (these Summery activities, such as the 4-H fair, are rolling along), drinking an Experimental Tea (I had never tried this particular kind before-)
(How did it go?)
(What? The tea?)
(No, your latest verboten espionage. Yes, the tea!)
(Pretty good. I had it with a bit of honey, and it only got a tiny bit bitter right at the end. Anyway.)
And then, all of the sudden, I realized that I had typed out (on this exact laptop), the last words that needed to be in my story.
There was nothing more to be added. There were over 170,000 words already, after all. Not only that, but I had planned on being finished by last Christmas. Talk about deadlines whooshing by.
In celebration, I had a piece of some homemade bread from this excellent farmer’s market we had gone to earlier that day, planted two dahlia’s (from the same farmer’s market), and ceremoniously mowed the lawn as the sun went down. I am in love with those dahlia’s by the way. Stunning blossoms.
So, after finishing my book (my purpose for the future, in a nutshell), how did I react? Screaming and crying? Jumping on furniture? Go completely ballistic and start throwing all of my tchotchkes around? (May I just say here, is there a more dee-vine feeling than when you get to use the word, “tchotchke,” in a conversation? The opinion seems split as to whether or not a writer should use unconventional words in his or her work, but I absolutely love these neglected gems. J. K. Rowling
does it all the time. She once used the word, “perfunctory,” to describe Bill Weasley hugging Mrs. Weasely. There are some sentences that are just crying for the perfect word; Mr. Twain and this whole lightning verses a lightning bug and all that. You certainly can’t just find the adjective, “perfunctorily,” in your cybernetic synonym chart. You just have to be brilliant and have a brain that’s cleverer than the internet. I’ve been caught reading dictionaries for fun; recommended.)
Great balls of flaming fire. I can’t even remember what we were just talking about.
Me either. The point is, I surprised myself with my lack of emotions upon finishing my book. I tried being more excited in drafts one and two of this post (using all caps, exclamation points, all that jazz), but it always fizzed out really fast.
Because, here’s what I know about writing: you can’t lie. Not to yourself. Not to your readers.
So here I am, being honest. The truth is, I’m glad to have finished (Christmas has come and gone, after all), but there’s also this stale taste of dread in my mouth. It might have something to do with the fact that my EWIP didn’t even realize that my book was finished after she read it. It didn’t feel complete to her, even if it does to me. What does that mean? Not only that, but, if I’m going to be honest here-
And we just established that you are.
Anyone can write a book. Short story, mini series, novel, or even poetry collection of fiction or nonfiction in whatever language or point of view or genre that they please. Truly. It may be garbage, but that’s not really the point-not yes, anyway. When a writer is writing, and really understands her writing, that is when the writer is in her absolute zenith. That is when I feel like a true writer, with a real purpose, talent, wit, brains, and something to believe in. In short, Worth.
Then comes the task of trying to convince the world of that worth. And when it comes down to it,
most adults don’t see much worth in writers. In books and reading, yes. But much less so in the people actually behind the creation of said books. There’s a special expression people get on their faces when you answer that DREADED question that everybody seems to be asking these days, “whatareyougoingtocollegefor?” I’ve started lying. It’s that terrible. I’m usually pretty good at flipping the question around somehow, or turning it to Older Sister, who is actually brilliant-
Ruddy brilliant, if I recall.
-and extremely easy to discuss, future-wise. She has infinite worth in life. I’m supremely proud of her contribution to our family name. She also happens to hate writing.
Funny little world, isn’t it?
But anyway. I’ve spent more than my allotted amount of self-pity time, and now, we are ready to face a new curtain in this journey, the velvety material of which I’ve been dying to part ever since I started this project, years ago, in that little, pink, spiral-bound notebook. Thank goodness it hasn’t happened until now.
When you remember to get out into the world, wake up, be worthwhile (this is most effective for me when I force myself to do things I typically don’t “feel,” like doing, such as practicing the guitar, or finishing that one abandoned project), that is when something happens, which will change the course of your writing abilities for the better. For instance, another thing that I hadn’t been planning on mentioning in draft one and two of this post was the fact that three of my rabbit loves died this Summer. Can you even fathom?
That in itself was an experience that even the most avid dictionary comber would not be able to describe without living it. But I did…and in a writer’s own, mysterious way, it was exactly what I needed in order to meritoriously write some of the last pages of my book.
So, it’s not always excellent. Sometimes it’s just easier to do what people expect you to do, and be what society wants you to be. It’s easier to not work hard, it’s easier to succumb to a self-pitying feelings of uselessness, stupidity, and resignation. It’s so much easier to lock away emotions and words, rather than facing the pain of having to experience or deliver them.
It’s easier to dream, but never do. It’s easier, yes, but writing is not about doing what’s easy. Nothing worthwhile is. It’s hard, and sometimes, it hurts. That’s one of the reasons that I do write, you see. Because it proves that I am alive.
Well, I don’t know about you, but I feel much better. This whole being honest thing is very nice. I recommend it. I know that Madeline L’engle was rejected time and time and time again before, A
Wrinkle in Time, was published- I’m prepared for rejection after rejection. But I’m not giving up. Want to know why?
Because my writing is worthwhile. Yours is, too. Just mean what you say, and offer it to the world. Brazenly. Impudently. Boldly. Shamelessly. Fearlessly. AUDACIOUSLY!
See? Reading the dictionary has its perks!
So, ready or not, world, here I audaciously come. With confidence (save a bit shaky confidence, but still), and optimism. The latter might be due to the fact that I’ve been reading L. M. Montgomery’s, Anne of Green Gables, for the first time-
The FIRST TIME?!
Inexcusably shocking, I know. I’ve had books waiting to be read for aaaaagessss. It’s still Summertime, you know. A season that calls for snuggling with a rabbit under the shade of two enormous hickory trees and L. M. Montgomery, and watching the water rippling, and the fireflies blinking softly on and off, and the dahlia’s bobbing, and the clouds rolling, and feeling, more than anything else, completely and overwhelmingly thankful. For this life that I’ve been given, and the people I share it with, and every single stinking bad and sad and terrible and terrifying day. For my love of words, and for the dream that a younger girl had, armed with a pink, spiral-bound notebook and a powerful pen. Thankful, indeed.
Thankful enough to burst.
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