Balance

Last week we had a warm day, didn't quite feel like February in our wintery locale, and I took my girls to the park. While I read, they pumped on the swings, and tried to butt-bump each other down the slide. Too, they spent time on the teeter totter, and I'm thinking back to their balance. Or lack of.

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There's a 2.5-year age difference, height and weight variances. My older daughter can easily sink low and hold herself, while her little sister happily flies high. That is, until they both tire and wish things were a bit more balanced. Something must change, they realize. Do they try harder, use more (or less) force? Hop down and walk away? And are they just taking a break, or moving on entirely?

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I often wish my own personal, existensial seesaw--life as a wife and mom at home on one side, work as a determined writer on the other--were more balanced. Typically one seems so much heavier, pressing its need at me, while the other lifts away, suspended, just out of reach.

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Pick a day and I'm perched on one side. Mom and wife. Errands, housework (laundry, dishes, vacuuming, cleaning my bedroom--which I thought wasn't an issue once you turned adult), phone calls, school functions, meals. Ack! And the next day I've climbed to the opposite end, writer. Blogging and networking and reading and studying and writing (and doubting and pep-talking).

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There are days I can't juggle all the tasks being a writer demands. Visiting friends' blogs (I'm sorry, friends) and finding new, relevant, relatable ones, or updating my own, or editing that last chapter, or squeaking out an assignment that isn't due quite yet.

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And then there are the days writing takes all my attention. It's the bill-paying I delay, calling on that volunteer project, loading the dishwasher, putting away the mounds of clean clothes (really, I'd rather just walk away entirely).

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What gets me is that I'm leaving something undone. Always, there is something undone.

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This balance thing is so tough. But I think about the example of my kids on the teeter totter, and how if they altered their positions, or pushed with a deeper effort, it may level-out better. Is that a lesson for me? For us?

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There are days I understand it's okay to leave the laundry. I understand that my family will not cease to function because there are no clean forks. Likewise, there are days I can rationalize to myself that it's not too likely I'll lose a blog reader because I haven't posted in five days, or that somewhere a red mark will appear next to my name because I procrastinated with an assignment.

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Maybe the balance is in my head. In what I tell myself, in the concessions I make, in weighing the heaviest side and choosing what holds the most at any given moment. Then again, maybe I have too much weight. Maybe I've pulled too much to one side.

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How does one know? How do you know? How do you balance?

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I think I'm going to closely study that teeter totter next time we're at the park. There has to be some way to figure it out.

We Create

Creativity is key for a writer. For anyone, really, artist or not, who has vision, long-term goals, who desires purpose and beauty.

But what begets creativity? It's different for everyone.

I've been thinking about what makes me feel creative. Here's what I've come up with:

(1) Being understood. It's a powerful thing when someone listens and identifies with and validates. It makes me feel justified, and capable.

(2) Quiet. When there is time and space to be still and alone with my thoughts, I reap creative benefits. I am able to explore those parts of me that thrive through words and expression, and, what's more, I'm able to act on them.

(3) New ideas. No matter their extent or durability, new ideas spark excitement and good intention, with some sort of direction. That's key, I think.

What makes you feel creative?

I Could Be Your Writer

I'm not sure what the etiquette is for this thing I'm going to do, or even if there is one. But I'm going to do it anyway, because, you know, I've got this blog here at my fingertips, it's sort of decently established, and so why not tell you what I'm thinking?

I'm thinking you know me. You know people. People know people. We have all these great connections, and supportive friends, and folks who just happen to stop by our internet places.

What's to say my blog won't be visited by the person(s) who holds the key to my literary future?

Elizabeth Berg was a freelance writer when someone contacted her, an agent, I think it was, or maybe an editor, and said, "I've this proposal for a book, and I want you to be its writer." Someone contacted her, just sort of slid the folder of opportunity across her desk. She took the job, wrote the non-fiction book, which springboarded her into the fiction career she wanted. Now, two-dozen highly-successful novels later...

So I'm thinking maybe there's someone out there looking for a writer. Maybe they're looking for me, because I could be the one plucked from obscurity. Why not?

I'm a good fiction writer. I can do narrative non-fiction, too. Short stuff, long stuff, articles, books. I do have experience. I relate well to people, understand a variety of topics. And I'm confident in my skills. I'm also fortunate to have people in my life who would vouch for me on this stuff. I consider you all, my readers, among them.

You know what? Some might think this is me begging a lucky break, but it's not. It's me acknowledging my place, my potential, and admitting that I've worked hard for close to ten years. It's me agreeing to work harder yet, because I'm here, and I'm ready.

I could be your writer. Are you looking for me? Do you know someone who could be?

Meet Stan Crader, Author and Family Friend

The place where my parents were raised, and where much of my extended family still lives, is smalltown America. Family-owned businesses, close-knit community, everybody's involved and it-takes-a-whole-village mentality. Sort of a throwback to wholesome, simpler times.

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Stan Crader loves to write about those times, of his boyhood in the country reaches of Missouri. Stan creates characters and pens stories based on a generation gone by, using his own rural experiences as backdrop. His novels, THE BRIDGE and PAPERBOY, were inspired by his growing up years.

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I recently connected with Stan, who grew up with two of my uncles (and considers them friends yet today). He works in management for a large company by day, and reminisces through the power of fiction by night.

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Stan, who is both funny and real as it gets, joins me here today for some Q&A, about working, writing, life, and the balance of it all. You can learn more about Stan and his books by visiting his website.

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Welcome, Stan!

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Tell me how many years you've spent working for a large company. And how do you reconcile or balance that career with your writing?

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SC: I grew up (or at least old) in this business. I first swept floors, then cleaned toilets, delivered farm equipment, worked on equipment, then worked in the shipping department, and eventually moved into management. The change was gradual but once I graduated from Mizzou, my responsibilities ramped up more rapidly. Let’s say I’ve been in management for 35 years. Ouch! As a manager I’ve experienced the introduction of computers into the business and then the internet. I really need a break. I’m not doing the next deal. That’s for the next generation – whatever the next deal is.

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I frequently tell others to strike a balance but I find my own advice difficult to take. I tend to be a workaholic and depend upon friends like your uncle Jack to call and convince me to do something fun. Don’t get me wrong, I have plenty of fun, it’s just that I can get too intense. I try to discipline and compartmentalize. That is, I try to keep work at work and writing elsewhere. However, that doesn’t mean I won’t autograph books and address envelopes while on a conference call. While at home I try to be mentally there but my wife will tell you that she frequently has to snap me out of it, so to speak. I don’t do balance very well. Sorry. I’m attention deficit and the best way to handle it is to stay busy. I sit down and watch TV but usually read a book and miss the program. We DVR everything so my wife can skip the commercials and playback things I missed but should have seen.

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Tell us how your "mature" age has affected your writing journey. And comment, if you would, on this quote by George Eliot: "It is never too late to be what you might have been."

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SC: Eliot was a goof. You are what you are regardless of how it’s manifested. Some are blessed with fine qualities and just go with it. Others must overcome shortfalls and work hard to overcome them. I’m a lousy speller, so I use a dictionary. Because I use a dictionary doesn’t mean I’m a good speller but that I spell correctly (when I actually use the dictionary). Alcoholics are alcoholics regardless of the consumption. You see what I mean? So, you’re never too old to do what it is God intended you to do, I like that better. I don’t know who said it first, maybe the Apostle Paul.
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My age has caused me to appreciate more. And not just the small things but everything. I appreciate an autumn mist more (small thing) and I certainly appreciate our armed forces more (big thing). I treasure more than ever those who helped this country become the greatest nation on earth. The older one gets the more of their friends they’ve lost. And with each loss grows the intensity with which one appreciates those who remain. (wow, that was deep – maybe pathetic) But years equal experience and seasoning. Think of age as an elevator: With each year you get a little higher and gain a broader perspective. Okay, enough babble.
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Janna: No, not babble. I like that very much.

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How long have you been writing knowing it was more than hobby, but particularly with interest in publication?

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SC: I’ve been doing business writing for a long, long time. And I actually won a couple awards for business writing. Another person here in the office made the application and forced me to go to St. Louis to receive the award. Hooboy. So, I’ve been at it a while. Business writing is easy, it’s simply getting facts down in as few words as possible. Novels are more difficult. It’s somewhat like lying, one must pay attention or the story gets all messed up. Writing is still a hobby, but one day it will define me. I began to take my writing a bit more seriously when people started telling how it touched them. The power of words is incredible. Very little of what I do can I say is work. Productive, yes? But I try to have fun in all that I do. I don’t like washing windows, that is work. And my wife tells me I must do it before our Thanksgiving company arrives. Crap!

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Tell us a little about why you chose self-publication. How might someone determine if it's the best method for their works? And, what are your long-term goals?

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SC: Unless you’re famous or infamous, plan to self-publish. I’ve worked very hard at getting published and it’s so time consuming. I like to write, I don’t like to try and convince others to publish my material. And few things raise my ire like an agent telling me my proposal isn’t in the right format or the pages in the right order. I’m a content person. I’m not so impressed with what someone wears as I am with what they have to say. I’d love to connect with a good agent and I think my work would make a good agent and publishing house some serious money, but I don’t have the tenacity to work the system. So, I’ll self-publish until my break comes. That break will be after one of my books gets seen by the right person. I’ll let God set that course in action.

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PAPERBOY, just out, is your second novel. What was your inspiration for this story? `

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SC: I was a Paperboy and learned so much about my customers. I didn’t realize until later how much I knew about people that few others knew. As a kid you think everyone else knows what you know. That’s not the case. And with PAPERBOY my goal is to make everyone realize that everyone has a redeeming quality and an untold story.

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Janna: Well done! I think that's so important in fiction.

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Do you have any other projects planned, or in the process of creation?

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SC: Yes! Fifteen: The Longest Year. I’ve started an outline for the next installment [in this series]. The boys are fifteen and one by one they’re turning sixteen. Fifteen is the longest year in a boy’s life. The boys are up to their antics but are also taking a high school class on George Washington with an emphasis on decorum.

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What advice might you have for any who've made their life in one career but dream of writing or another creative outlet?

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SC: Read some books and attend a conference on their desired second career. If you want to be an artist, join an artist’s club, go to art shows, read books on art, how to do art, and so on. Learn the fundamentals and then have fun. For example if you want to learn to play the piano, take a few lessons before jumping into Gershwin. The same goes for writing … read some books on how to write…

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Janna: Makes sense. Thanks! And now for a few fun ones...

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What's your favorite down-home meal, and who makes it?

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SC: Favorite meal…roast beef, potatoes, applesauce, asparagus, cherry pie – my wife is the best cook in the world…she really is, others say it too, my sister is a close 2nd.

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Janna: Sound delicious, every bit of it.
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If you could have chosen to live as Opie or the Beave, which would you have been and why?

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SC: Beave – but that’s a tough one. For one thing Beave still has hair. Beave’s house was air conditioned and Opie’s was not. Opie didn’t have a mother. Beave had a dream mom – she died a couple weeks ago... Beave had a neighbor and lots of friends. Opie hung out at the jail too much. But then it would be cool to have a Sheriff or policeman as a father. Actually, I’d rather be Wally.

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Janna: Oh, now there's an aspiration. He was definitely the cutest. ;) And last but, you know, not least...

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Care to share a memory of your childhood friends and my uncles, Bill and Jack?

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SC: I’m short, Bill and Jack are both tall. And for that I don’t like either one of ‘em (joking). It’s not fair that they should get so tall and I’m so short. Your uncle Jack and I both had old cars while in HS. The cool thing to do at the time was to race your car against others in the quarter-mile. Neither of our cars would break the speed limit in the quarter-mile so there was no sport. Interesting, Jack’s car would peel out and get 2nd gear scratch, while my car barely made a peep, we’d cross the marker together. So, to make it a sport we’d race going backwards. Sometimes we’d race until our engines overheated. To this day I can back a car at high speeds around curves and about anywhere thanks to the prowess developed on the Woodland High School flats in a 1962 Chevy Nova with a 190 cubic inch motor.

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Janna: My husband did the quarter-mile races, too! I think it's crucial to a teenage boy's existence.

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SC: That wasn’t the dumbest thing we ever did… don’t ask.

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Okay, promise. At least until the next time I'm with Uncle Jack...

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Stan, thank you so much for the time and answers you've given here. I enjoy your insight (and sense of humor), and I wish you much success with writing and all your endeavors.

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Something else worth mentioning is that Stan and his wife, Debbie, have chosen a charity to receive the net proceeds from sales of PAPERBOY: Melaina's Magical Playland. Very cool.

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You can learn more at Stan's beautiful site, StanCrader.com.

Life

I've figured it out, why I write.

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I haven't been writing in the days since my dad died. Or in the days, weeks, before that even, because he was sick and I couldn't pull myself from knowing it would be quick. I had emotion weighing down each moment, and had those things, life-or-death kinds of things, to tend to. You know?

I spent a lot of time with my parents and sister; time helping, time loving. And I was okay putting my writing aside for a while. This blog took on a sort of lesser quality. From what I thought was my standard, anyway. And my fiction was tucked away, saved, ready for later. Whenever.

But then my everyday real-and-in-person life flagged, too.

I started suspecting the cause was more than losing my father. Because hard as that has been, and continues to be, would it overlap into everything else, the minutiae of daily life as a wife, mother, homemaker? Force my patience and determination to wear, not just thin but through? I've been apathetic. I've been moody. Horrible.

I told my husband something is wrong. That everything--people, my responsibilities, all of it--overwhelms me.

Then last night I had one of those half-lucid brainstorms. The first scene of A Gradual Goodbye, the novel I'm rewriting, floated around in my dreams, delivering me back to the story. The creative coals kindled.

When I woke this morning I headed straight for the computer. Pulled the book up. Worked for a couple hours, felt it for the first time in a long while. Inner peace. And it clicked. The piece I hadn't been able to fit, let alone identify, slid right in its place. I don't know why I didn't realize it before.

It's the writing. Such a defining outlet for me. That creativity, huge. It balances my world, and my mental health.

It makes me happy. That's why I write.

Missing Person, A Writer

I already posted today, I know that. Right now I don't even care if you don't read my Christmas story. Read this. Read it first. I've just learned something that devastates me, and I have to share with anyone willing to read about it.

Kathleen McBroom, Kathleen McBroom, Kathleen McBroom. I will continue saying, thinking her name.

She is a mother, an Air Force veteran and a writer. She disappeared in October 2008, just vanished. While her husband and children wait, hope, question, pray, imagine, her case - while still considered "open" - has gotten little follow-up. There's been minimal public/media attention, even at the beginning, and none of the national missing persons websites list her case.

For more informational/background detail, visit Slam Dunk (thank you, new friend). He's a former policeman with special interest in such cases, and he's put a lot of time and effort into Kathleen's story.

Friends, any one of us from the writing community could have crossed paths with Kathleen. She had a blog, dabbled in fiction, wrote poetry. She NaNo'd. Just like you, just like me. I am mourning a friend I never had, but easily could have.

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Her posts can been seen here. I ask you to visit the site, to pull the warmth and love from her words. Honor her. And spread the word. What good are we for, dear writers, if we can't spread this word and continue the search for Kathleen and pray for her family?

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The last post (first visible when you go to her site) was published by her daughter, just days after she went missing. In the months past, 288 comments have been left, with well wishes and prayer.

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This, all of this, I had to share. I will be thinking of Kathleen. I will be praying for her and her family. Won't you join me?

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Photo one of her own, from her blog.

My First Time

I went to Borders this week.

I perused. I walked the aisles. And because the section I wanted was all but elusive, I asked in my most authorly tone, "Where are the writing books?"

"Right over here," the associate gushed. "We've got books that tell you how to write, and even how to get published!"

Apparently I didn't look the part.

I smiled, even though inside I frowned, followed her quietly, so as not to ruin her fun in introducing me to the world of writing.

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As I considered the titles, my daughter plucked a floor-level book from the shelves at my back.

"This is a little book, Mommy!" she called, throwing herself across the carpeted aisle.

Too caught in the dilemma of which Grammar Girl book to choose, I murmured an unintelligible response.

Oh, and here's Strunk and White's book. I've been needing that one.

"Mommy, it's a doctor book!"

I wonder if they have The Fire in Fiction?

But then awareness set it. The trance broke, my gaze falling to my four-year-old. Who was flipping through the penciled drawings of an adult-content book of, erm, positions.

"Sweetie! You know, since you're not a doctor, let's put that book back. Hey look! I have candy!"

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I placed my treasures -- The Elements of Style, The Grammar Devotional, Noah Lukeman's The Plot Thickens, a cat book for my daughter and a bucket of pink Legos -- on the counter.

"Looks like someone's writing a novel," the cashier surmised.

I flinched. No one's ever been so bold. Such things have always gone unnoticed for me before. "Er, yeah. I'm writing my second." But it felt kinda good to admit it somewhere in public. Not online, here in my world of writing, or among those family and friends who already know. Just, you know, to a person.

"What happened with your first?"

Another flinch. "It had a publisher's interest last year, but they turned it down." Dangitall. I was losing confidence, associate by associate.

"Oh, I'm sorry!"

"It's okay. Really. I've learned a lot since then. I'm moving on, trying to write better."

We had a pleasant, two-sided exhange. Turns out she's a writer herself, published in magazines. She gave up on her dream of writing children's books years back, though. I found that so sad.

I said to her, "From what I've learned, perseverance is key." To myself I said, "Don't you ever give up."

By then my transaction was complete. We wished each other luck, and my daughter and I left, happy with our purchases.

It was the first time I'd gone into a store and openly sought writing books, the experience wasn't lost on me. It was my first effort at small talk about being a writer. With another writer. In a book store, a shrine to writers everywhere.

Kinda neat.

Except for the sex book thing.

Can't Explain

I went to the library, all by myself. My intention to look for a particular title was waylaid. There were no instigations, no distractions from other people, no. What kept me from my plan, for only moments, was something not just anyone noticed. Not the way I noticed.

I stood, still and in awe, eyes and heart engaged.

New releases. They were lined just so, how do you call it? Staggered. So you could peep a view of each cover, get that first impression. Each stood, bold and proud. They announced arrival, but moreso attainment of a writer's destination.

I wanted to turn to other patrons and shout, "Do you see these? Do you understand how beautiful, how important they are? Do you know what these represent?"

And when the head librarian passed by, asking if she could help with anything, I wanted to cry, "This is my goal, do you know? Do you feel it! One day you and I will stand here together, and my book will occupy this spot we see."

I felt it. It was powerful, for only moments.

I just can't explain.

A Letter: So Much More Than Words

When something has affected me, and the life around me, I stew. I analyze. I judge myself and my thinking. And then I want to write a letter.

But to a family member? A friend, to explain my feelings and make sure unspoken thoughts are clear? I hold back. Because aren't we generally expected to talk it out? Isn't it considered a lame attempt, a way of backing down, if we succumb to the written word, which, without inflection, with no tone or ambience in mood, can be misinpreted?

I say, "No more." I'm tired of holding out, of denying myself one of the barest means of communication.

Writing is what I'm good at. If I can't sit with the best of intentions and form an amazing letter, one that says what I need it to say, then I'm not worth the title of writer.

So I'm promising myself: If I have issue with someone, when I have something I need to get off my chest, and it's crucial to the life I'm living, I'll write a letter. I'll pour my heart into the document. I'll cuss and I'll be snarky; I'll delete and re-write. I'll edit and make it pretty. I'll be tactful, humble, so as not to cause strife. I'll be clear. I'll be wise and I'll form beauty with my words.

Because I'm a writer, and that's what I do.

What It Takes to Be a Writer

PASSION: I feel like sometimes people throw this word around on a whim; a romantic or melodramatic whim. Sometimes I cringe when I hear it. But passion doesn’t just refer to over-the-top desire or emotion; also to interest, affection, enthusiasm. And this is where passion molds with writing. It’s what drives this dream of ours; to express ourselves, to put our thoughts out there for others to absorb, to understand how our words can so clearly, poignantly touch another.

DISCIPLINE: Probably one of the hardest yet most integral parts of a writer’s life, for it doesn’t take just thinking. Or plotting. Imagining. It’s the wherewithal to sit down and do. You have to stop the niggling voices (sometimes internal, when they tell you you’re no good… sometimes external, when your physical space is shared), find that zone, sometimes fight through the wall of a blank mind and a blank page. It takes a firm inner voice, one that tells you you’re going to do it, no matter the effort or cost.

PATIENCE: Success as a writer doesn’t come all at once. I could liken it to golf: Tiger wants a record-breaking score. He wants the trophy. But he has take the course one hole at a time, and each goes best if he’s calm and focused. Likewise with writers. It takes steps, many of them, approached with a patient mind and patient heart. And there may be obstacles, hazards, loose impediments along the way, but patience will make our progress smoother.

POSITIVE OUTLOOK: We all get discouraged. I hope I’m not the only writer who wavers between confidence and uncertainty. But even when we question ourselves and our goals, when we see how another writer has found success and wonder where we’ve gone wrong, we must look at the bigger picture. It takes an understanding that every writer is different. We all have different talents within this literary world, and there’s a niche for them all. In addition, no two writers’ plans are the same. We have to believe our time is out there, and that each step we take – individual to our schedules, preferences, resumes, styles - takes us closer to our plan. It’s focusing on that, not where others can be found, or how others (like agents) have thus far perceived us, that gets us through.

CONFIDENCE: Confidence is one of the biggest elements pushing us forward. It’s believing in ourselves and our talents, even when doubt tries to break through. It takes faith in what we’re trying to write and how we’re writing it, because one who doesn’t believe in himself and his words doesn’t stand a chance of making himself and his words believable to his reader.

PERSEVERANCE: We cannot give up. If all these things – passion, discipline, patience, positive outlook, and confidence – have lined up within us, we have no choice but to proceed with perseverance. Throwing the towel in does not grasp us our dream. Fruition never comes if we don’t keep pushing and seeking. We cannot give up.



Can you think of anything to add to my list?



I'll be leaving town this afternoon, with plans to attend a Lit Fest tomorrow. I'm looking forward to it! I'll report back when I return.

Have a great weekend!

A Job Ends

I've spent the last few months - a pace upon which the client and I agreed - professionally critiquing a manuscript. (See my writing and editing business.) I finished my final review this evening.

I'm pleased the work is done, for now I can (until the next job comes, that is) focus on my own manuscript edits. But I'm also sad to see it end, because assisting another writer with their work proved envigorating for me. I loved throwing myself into their manuscript, playing a professional role in figuring out how to make the story better and, maybe most importantly, building a rapport and gaining a friend.

I hope to do it again soon.

Merely A Definition?

Don't know if I've announced it on a large scale, though a few of you may have picked up that we're remodeling our house. We bought it almost two years ago knowing it needed a complete overhaul, but seeing the amazing potential. Anyway, we've come a long way, baby. Still yet, there's a lot to be done. And with the spring weather fast approaching (right? tell me it is, please?) the projects are coming to life again.

So a contractor my husband knows is helping us build our new front deck (and the new front wall for the entire house... someday I'll show pictures and you'll see why it's necessary...) on the weekends. He and I chatted a bit yesterday, and he asked, "You're an author right?" Though a part of me inside cringed, wanting to clarify the difference between an author and writer -- ongoing discussions have taken place on AW, arguing that one can only be considered an author when a book as been published in their name -- I just nodded my head. Then that inevitable question: Have you had anything published? I told him yes, articles in print and online, but felt like a fraud when he said, "Cool! Now I can tell people I know an author!" I've felt, in mere terms, like only a writer. I can only be an author once Bliss Lake makes it to print, true?

But then I got to wondering what the literal definitions of these two words are. Here's what I found:

An author, according to Merriam-Webster online, is one that originates or creates or the writer of a literary work (as a book).

And a writer is one that writes: as a: author.

It sounds to me like they could be used interchangeably. What do you think? And how do you categorize yourself?