Liz Michalski's Blog, page 11

How Not to Lose

Last week, as I faced off against my ever cocky teenaged fencing opponent, it occurred to me: I was going to lose.

Sadly, this is not the first time I’ve been graced with this epiphany. I have never been the speediest turtle, nor the most coordinated.  Because I am old and crafty and gifted with decent stamina and taller than everybody under the age of 10 in class, I’ve been able to hold my own for the first few months.  But now, the little ones are improving and gunning for me.  The older teens, the ones who have the agility of Spiderman and the reflexes of Flash, have been killing me since day one.  And the middle group, the ones who make me work for my wins, are catching up.  Last week, I got skewered badly enough that my husband, who after seeing me kicked across the barn by my temperamental TB tends to be pretty blase about my daily injuries, actually noticed the bruise.

So, as I stood there staring across the blade of Mr. Teenaged Superhero, I realized I needed a new strategy, one which, even if I couldn’t win, would allow me not to lose. Preferably a strategy that did not involve being shish-kabobbed.   So no more mad dashes forward.  No more desperate attempts to land a hit. No more leaving my vulnerable side exposed as I charged across the floor.

And you know what?  It mostly kind of worked.  I emerged unscathed from my first match, and got hit only once during my second. (Granted, these were short practice sessions, not full-on matches, but I was pretty happy.) Of course, I didn’t score any points, and not getting hit sometimes involved throwing myself backward in a distinctly ungraceful way as opposed to the fluid footwork my instructor prefers, but hey, you can’t have everything.

Writing is a little bit like fencing a superhero.  It’s a business which, if we’re not careful, will stab us in the heart every time we let it.  We get a form rejection from our dream agent. The editor who bought our best friend’s book won’t even glance at ours. Our contract is for a miniscule amount, not the six-figure check we’d hoped for.  We sell a single book, not the three title series we’ve worked on for years.

If we see each setback as failure, there’s no reason to keep at it.  Instead, we need to change how we see the game.  The form rejection is a chance to hone our query until an agent can’t refuse us.  The editor who turns down our novel is telling us the writing’s just not ready and giving us a chance to improve. The small advance gives us room to grow. The single title takes the pressure off during the writing process.  If nothing else, we can focus on one chapter, one page, one sentence, on making those words as perfect as we can, one word at a time.

I don’t fence because I expect to be in the Olympics.  I do it because, even when I’m losing, it’s fun.  Or it’s supposed to be, anyhow.  It’s only when I lose sight of my goals, when I focus too much on winning, that it becomes unpleasant.  And, ironically, the more I try to win the more I leave myself open to mistakes.  So if I can just focus on enjoying the game, and on not losing, I come out ahead.  It’s the same with writing.

At the heart of things, writing is supposed to be enjoyable, and it’s far too easy to lose sight of that fact.

I’m a Penguins fan (the cartoon, not the hockey team).  And as Skipper says, “That’s not failure.  That’s redefined mission objectives.”

Happy writing.

Snark, Deleted

Apparently I need this t-shirt!

This was originally a snarky post to the driver who almost sent me into a ditch when I was out jogging this weekend, but cooler heads have prevailed. (Lady in the tan SUV, you can thank my husband. In the meantime, back away from the accelerator!)  While I calm down, I’m sending you over to Vaughn Roycroft’s blog (Did you know Roycroft means Royal Craftsman?  Neither did I, but he’s certainly well-named) for a post that compares house building to writing.

And when you get back, I am sending you right back out to buy Last Will, by Bryn Greenwood.  I have quietly stalked Bryn’s blog for years, and whenever she posts a bit of what she’s working on, I can’t get it out of my mind.  So when I had a chance to win this book, I couldn’t resist.  And I won!  And now I can’t put it down.  It’s quirky and odd and funny and not like anything else I’ve read lately. So go buy her book, darn it.  Particularly if you are a woman who drives a tan SUV.  Because lady, after what my husband made me pull off this blog, you owe me.

Wild Things

When my babies were little, they loved Where The Wild Things Are.  On rainy days like today, we’d sometimes turn the living room into a forest, with topsy-turvy chairs and blankets to hide beneath, and stage our own Wild Rumpus.  Max was baaaad, they said, and delighted in his misbehavior, and in the fact that when he came home, some one loved him enough to have a dinner waiting that was still hot.  And included cake.

Rest in peace on this rainy Tuesday, Mr. Maurice Sendak. And I hope, when you get where you are going, there is a joyous wild rumpus, and that someone has remembered the cake.

 

Staring at the Sun

A writing board I am on is asking tough questions these days. Questions like ‘Why do you write?’ and ‘Will you stop writing if you don’t get published?’ (Usually the questions are more like ‘Does anybody want to meet for drinks on Friday?’ and ‘Who is hotter, James McAvoy or Daniel Craig?”) A few of the writers on the board have their work out on submission to agents and editors, so the questions have a renewed sense of urgency.

I write because I am an extremely internal person, and writing things down helps me to process them. It’s a way for me to work things out. I tend to have the self-awareness of a starfish, and oftentimes I don’t realize a problem is bothering me until it shows up on the page.  And then I’m all “Hey, I wrote about X today.  I wonder why that came up?” And my husband just shakes his head.

I write because I am a storyteller at heart, and I always have been. As a child, I told my sister sweeping sagas about a little girl who looked just like us but lived on the moon.  I tell those same stories to my children now. I kept journals for years, well before I’d earned a byline. And when I have been too busy or too tired to write or make up stories, I’ve retold classics like The Wizard of Oz, adding elaborate embellishments.

I would write and tell stories even if I was never published, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be.  But for me, writing a whole novel with the single goal of being published is off-putting.  It’s too big of a journey, with too large of a disappointment at the end if it doesn’t work out. I can only write the way I write, one page at a time, with the goal of a cohesive whole at the end.

Looking at publication directly is too blinding, like staring at the sun. I can only look at it with soft eyes, at the peripherals that surround it: Crafting a readable story with a viable plot and characters that hold my heart. If I do that, if my work is the best it can be, I’ve done everything I can do.  Anything else is beyond my control.

Why do you write?

Spring Has Sprung

It is spring, and the bloody bluebird, instead of laying eggs, is sitting on my bird feeder, gobbling up the grubs and then flying his fuzzy blue you-know-what off to someone else’s nesting box.  (To be fair, the bluebirds DID begin a nest, but their nest has disappeared and a chickadee is happily building there instead. Digression: Did you know that bluebirds and chickadees use totally different material for their nests?  Bluebirds use primarily pine needles, and chickadees use moss.  These are the things you learn when you have a bluebird competitor who is willing to share information right down the street).  The crows are having a fine time scooping up the leftovers, and it is darn cold out.

BUT — on the bright side, the asparagus is poking green shoots up.  We had some last night for dinner.  The radishes and lettuce seeds are in the ground. It is bound to get warmer soon.  And I’m writing as much as I can, storing up words and chapters for my next novel before school lets out in a few short weeks and these hours are no longer my own.

I hope spring is treating you well, wherever you are.

This is Microsoft's asparagus. Ours is pencil-thin and delicious.

Inside Out

When my daughter was born, I promised myself that I’d stand firm against the sea of plastic I saw other kids playing in.  I wanted only handmade, beautiful toys for her, in the Waldorf tradition, made by elves who only ate organic food, drank milk from virgin yaks,  and shunned sugar.   We even went to a Waldorf play group for two years, until I had my second child and the 45 minute drive became too crazy.

And then, somewhere along the way, I found myself drowning in the same sea of plastic and more.  There’s an air hockey table in the basement, along with a full-sized basketball arcade game, from the same godparents who are just dying to buy a pony.  There’s a scooter that was supposed to be an outdoor toy, but that my kids prefer to use for runs to the bathroom or to the kitchen.  There are enough stuffed animals to set up a toy store. And while I stood firm against Bratz dolls and violent action figures, I did get sucked into American Girl Dolls and Thomas the Train. (Curse you, Mattel!)

But despite the concessions, I have managed to keep one small Waldorf-esque tradition — the nature table.  Each season, we deck it with natural (or natural looking, since I’m a sellout these days) materials that represent what is happening outside.  I’ve done it in different places in the house, but it seems to work best on our dining room table.  It’s such a part of our lives that I don’t even notice it most of the time.

The other day we had a loud, rowdy play date that seemed to involve almost all of the toys in the house.  (And to complete my fall from grace, lots of processed sugar, too.) And then I was passing by the dining room and I heard one of the visitors say “You know what I like most about your house? It always has something from nature in it.”

Even when you think they’re not paying attention, apparently they are.

At least one of these things is from nature, right?

Best

Today, if you are lucky, you may meet the person who completely changes your life.  That's what happened to me, twenty-five years ago. Happy Anniversary, sweetheart.

Young and happy. (Still happy, at least, today!)

 

The Bluebird of Happiness

Years ago, when we lived in Connecticut, our house overlooked  a meadow.  It was wide and grassy and bordered a copse of trees, the perfect habitat for birds.  We'd put up a large bird house to attract purple martins, because we also had mosquitoes the size of eagles.  And then one day when I was working at my desk, a flash of blue at the edge of the yard caught my eye.  It was brighter than a jay, slightly larger than a chickadee, and with a breast as bright red as a robin's.  I'd never seen a bluebird before, but my handy Audubon guide confirmed what this cheeky visitor was. Within a few days, he'd moved into the bird house.  And then he brought friends.

Over the summer months, I counted at least four male blue birds.  It was an excess of excitement — they'd swoop around the garden, like fat little fairies who'd fallen into a vat of dye. My birding friends were amazed and impressed — until the bluebirds discovered my car.

Back then, we had a one-car garage, and my husband, because he commuted, had dibs on it. My vehicle, an enormous SUV, hulked in the patch of gravel off to the side.  Because I towed a horse trailer, the SUV had oversized side mirrors. One of the bluebirds discovered it and, convinced his reflection was a rival, would sit and scold all day long.  Of course, while he was chattering, he also pooped — a lot.

For weeks I would show up at gatherings, the right side of my car brilliant white with bird poop.  I suffered through more than my fair share of "Don't let the bluebird of happiness crap on your car jokes' until I came up with the bright idea of taping  brown paper sandwich bags over the mirrors.  This worked fine, so long as I remembered to take them off before I got in the car — otherwise I was liable to take out a mailbox or two. The bluebird of happiness had turned into a big fat pain in the rear.

When we moved to our new house, I set up a feeding station almost immediately.  We brought our old bird houses, too — the ones supposed to be too big for bluebirds — and lo and behold, the bluebirds followed us here. I knew they weren't the same birds, but it was comforting, when everything was new and strange, to have those bright flashes of blue outside my window.

And then one summer, the bluebirds stopped coming. In early spring, when they usually start checking out the houses, the garden remained empty.  I didn't see a single bluebird – until I happened to take a walk down the street one afternoon.  There, in my neighbor's yard, a pair of the pint-sized chirpers sat on a nesting box, one built specifically for blue birds.

I was crushed — they'd abandoned me! I immediately forgot all the bad words I'd said about them and set about trying to woo them back.  Now my neighbor and I engage in a friendly rivalry for who can attract the most nesting couples. (Friendly enough that he even gave me two nesting boxes of my own.) I spend a crazy amount on bird food, but it's worth it — I had a mated couple of my own last year that laid and hatched four eggs.

A bluebird is on the feeder as I type this, fat and sassy and full of himself.  There are pine needles in the nesting box, a good sign.  Happiness is fleeting and changeable and sometimes messy.  Grab hold when you can.

Flyby

What happened to spring?

It has been pointed out to me that I've been sounding a wee bit melancholy lately.  I suppose I am.  Living in New England is a special gift.  You see, first hand, how fast the time goes with the changing of the seasons, how quickly the buds blossom and disappear.

Heck, sometimes we don't have to even wait months for a change of seasons — in New England, it can happen in a day.  On Saturday, for example, we were frolicking outside in shorts.  Today, I had to dig out the winter coats and explain why they must be worn to my son, the future lawyer, who argues each decision as if before the Supreme Court. The robin that was having such a good time in my bird bath two days ago is clearly regretting his decision to visit us. "What's WRONG with this place?" he's clearly thinking, miserable and hunched up in the rhododendron bush.  "Who turned the heat off?"

An excellent question.  Not one I can stay to answer today, though.  Instead I'm going to direct you to some interesting links that I stole from friends, as well as do some blatant self-promotion.  (WHAT?  A writer's gotta do what she's gotta do these days.)

How can something without feet be so smart? The incredible mimicking octopus. (Think it talks back to its mother?)

Can your kids fend for themselves in the kitchen? My friend Jan O'Hara talks about why this skill  is important, and steps you can take to make them more independent.

Amy Sue Nathan is celebrating the one year anniversary of her blog Women's Fiction Writers with a mega book giveaway.  Head over there for a chance to win some great books!

Finally, since I post to this blog only on Tuesdays, I wanted to let you know that on Friday I'll be guest blogging for one of my very favorite virtual people, Rosemary DiBattista. (I keep trying to meet her for a drink and make her nonvirtual, but it hasn't happened yet.)  She's funny, warm, and kind, and she has her own book series (!!) coming out beginning in 2014.  She's a doll.  And she's letting me share one of my best recipes (the one that doesn't involve ordering pizza and opening wine) so please remember to stop by!

Spring Ahead

When we moved to our current house, eight years ago, I bought a bag of 100 daffodil bulbs.  It seemed a ridiculous number, a luxurious indulgence, and as I planted the brown lumps I imagined a riot of yellow color, uncountable riches poking through the ground to announce Spring's arrival.  It's my favorite season, and in the time we've been here the daffodils have naturalized, spreading throughout the garden.  But it's not the blanket of uninterrupted color I thought it would be.  The hundred bulbs that seemed to be so plentiful when I was digging them into the ground turned out to be not quite enough.

Last week I took the kids to the doctor's office for a checkup.  I was leafing through a parenting magazine when this statistic caught my eye: There are approximately 940 Saturdays between when you bring your baby home from the hospital and when she heads off to college.  I'm no mathematician, but that number seems about right.

Almost 1,000 days.  It would have seemed a lifetime to me, all those years ago when I first became a parent. But now I'm over halfway there, and the days are slipping through my fingers.  The harder I try to hold on, to pack each moment with meaning, the faster they go. One thousand Mondays to kiss a sleep-scented, bed loving boy awake.  One thousand Sundays to curl up in the sun with my book-devouring daughter. One thousand weekends, while I blink and each crop of daffodils grows and fades, a reminder of how fleeting is Spring, the giddiest, most promising season of all.