Stacie Ramey's Blog
August 30, 2015
We Are World Builders
As writers, we are world builders.
I don’t just mean when we sit down to write our stories. I don’t mean during Nanowrimo or any other wrimo. I don’t mean during word counts. I mean that we, as writers, are building worlds together.
The people we meet at conferences and workshops, on Facebook and Twitter, those people are parts of our world. The things we add to it. They are the building materials, the blue prints. They are pieces we need. They are the minutia and we couldn’t do it without them. But they themselves are not the world building.
It’s how we connect to them in a real way that is. That’s how we actually build our writing worlds. We do that with our actions. We build our worlds when we read for them. When we critique them. When we invest in their passion and their process.
Now I’m talking about the word challenges and wrimos that we do together. With our writing community. I’m talking about every single person we root for. The ones that root for us. The ones who stumble, maybe even fall, then get in there and get it done.
We build our writing world when we share our stories and our news and when we listen to theirs. When we check in with them. When we are real. We are building worlds. Every time we share our friends’ blogs. Every time we tweet someone’s good news. Every time we clap for a friend. We are building our writing worlds. And these worlds are every bit as important as the ones we write about.
These writing worlds have generals and soldiers and nurses and medics. We have ledge watchers and guards and knights in shining armor. They might be women or men under their chainmail. But whoever they are they are part of our hero’s journey. Writing is a team sport, for sure.
Without our critique groups and conferences and networking what do we have? Book signing, party of one. Without the mentors and writing coaches and workshop leaders where would we be? Would we be as successful? Would anyone care if we were? Would our work even matter?
In order to write what we know, and have it be real, we have to recognize the sanctity of what we do and who we do it with. We have to stop just adding on. We have to build a world, an ark, a temple. Theplace we feel free to do our sacred work. Alone, butt in chair. Then together as a community. Each person contributing in their best way. Each person bringing a thoughtful sacrifice to the altar of Writing. Each person honestly participating, ardent as a pilgrim. Each person part of our world. As we are part of theirs.
Dare I say, Amen.
I don’t just mean when we sit down to write our stories. I don’t mean during Nanowrimo or any other wrimo. I don’t mean during word counts. I mean that we, as writers, are building worlds together.
The people we meet at conferences and workshops, on Facebook and Twitter, those people are parts of our world. The things we add to it. They are the building materials, the blue prints. They are pieces we need. They are the minutia and we couldn’t do it without them. But they themselves are not the world building.
It’s how we connect to them in a real way that is. That’s how we actually build our writing worlds. We do that with our actions. We build our worlds when we read for them. When we critique them. When we invest in their passion and their process.
Now I’m talking about the word challenges and wrimos that we do together. With our writing community. I’m talking about every single person we root for. The ones that root for us. The ones who stumble, maybe even fall, then get in there and get it done.
We build our writing world when we share our stories and our news and when we listen to theirs. When we check in with them. When we are real. We are building worlds. Every time we share our friends’ blogs. Every time we tweet someone’s good news. Every time we clap for a friend. We are building our writing worlds. And these worlds are every bit as important as the ones we write about.
These writing worlds have generals and soldiers and nurses and medics. We have ledge watchers and guards and knights in shining armor. They might be women or men under their chainmail. But whoever they are they are part of our hero’s journey. Writing is a team sport, for sure.
Without our critique groups and conferences and networking what do we have? Book signing, party of one. Without the mentors and writing coaches and workshop leaders where would we be? Would we be as successful? Would anyone care if we were? Would our work even matter?
In order to write what we know, and have it be real, we have to recognize the sanctity of what we do and who we do it with. We have to stop just adding on. We have to build a world, an ark, a temple. Theplace we feel free to do our sacred work. Alone, butt in chair. Then together as a community. Each person contributing in their best way. Each person bringing a thoughtful sacrifice to the altar of Writing. Each person honestly participating, ardent as a pilgrim. Each person part of our world. As we are part of theirs.
Dare I say, Amen.
June 29, 2015
Sometimes I Lie to Myself
Sometimes I lie to myself.
When I’m waiting for news on a project, sometimes I lie to myself. Sometimes I tell myself it’s already sold to an editor who loved it. Sometimes I envision the letter I’ll get. The launch party I’ll plan. Sometimes I lie to myself and allow myself that amazing feeling of being happy about my writing.
Some people would say this isn’t lying at all. It’s simply envisioning the future, putting it out there, for the benevolent Universe to provide. Sometimes I believe that, too.
But then the days turn to weeks and the weeks to months and how do we sustain ourselves in the meantime when all we can see is the next five minutes and the emails that don’t miraculously appear just because we’ve closed our eyes and believed our intentions?
We just keep writing. The next book. The book after. The one we always wanted to, even when we thought nobody would want it, because nobody wants (fill in the blank) this year. Good thing, too, because this year is going to turn into next year and then the next and then maybe this book, the one we want to write will get noticed.
And it’s the thought that the only thing we can do is keep writing that feels so beautifully simple. Because sometimes the lies do come true. Most times they don’t. Most times that particular editor doesn’t take the book or doesn’t even respond. At least not on our timetable.
I was watching a Winter’s Tale this weekend (for the fifth time) and I loved the part when Lucifer says demons don’t understand the concepts of now and time.
Writers definitely don’t.
Because sometimes the it-didn’t-sell blues is just the it-didn’t-sell-yet blues…yet. Man, I love that word. Yet.
So we keep writing, counting our progression in terms of word counts or chapters or drafts or revisions. And at some point that writing amounts to something. Maybe it’s not a deal. Yet. Maybe it’s not an agent signing. Yet. Maybe it’s just the time that it takes to get better or to see more or to understand entirely. But until then I’m gonna be honest with you, I’m probably going to lie to myself.
I’m doing it right now.
Right now I’m telling myself that this book, the one I’m working on now, that I wrote initially six years ago. This is that book’s time. Right now. Good thing, too, because this book has me distracted enough to not check my emails every five minutes concerning my last book. The one I started last year. The one that hasn’t sold. Yet.
I always say Writing is a bad boyfriend, and it’s true. But right now, Writing believes in me. Truth is he always has. Through every draft and every revision and every rejection, He has shown back up, held his hand out with a really cute expression on his face as he asks. “Wanna dance?”
And my answer is always the same.
Writing distracts me from everything bad in my life. Writing listens to all my sad stories. The funny ones, too. Writing tells me other people will want to hear them. One day. Maybe not this day, but that’s cool. Because Writing may be an audience of one, but he always, always throws roses on the stage for me when I’ve dug so deep I’ve spilled blood all over the place. Writing bandages me up and tells me we can always paint over that damage.
Writing is always, always there, even when I stay away, even when I’m sure I can’t do it anymore, even when I’m at my lowest with this whole process. Writing tells me all I have to do is write the next word. The next scene. Writing tells me I just have to keep going. Because even with all the times I’ve lied to myself, I know Writing never lies to me. And if I’m going to be honest with myself, I’m going to have to admit that Writing makes my life better. Even when he makes it worse.
Writing’s like that. Complicated. Deep. Difficult. Demanding. Gut wrenchingly honest. So when he tells me to get back in that chair and do the work, I listen. But I don’t tell him that the whole time I’m still telling myself little lies…I can live with that.
When I’m waiting for news on a project, sometimes I lie to myself. Sometimes I tell myself it’s already sold to an editor who loved it. Sometimes I envision the letter I’ll get. The launch party I’ll plan. Sometimes I lie to myself and allow myself that amazing feeling of being happy about my writing.
Some people would say this isn’t lying at all. It’s simply envisioning the future, putting it out there, for the benevolent Universe to provide. Sometimes I believe that, too.
But then the days turn to weeks and the weeks to months and how do we sustain ourselves in the meantime when all we can see is the next five minutes and the emails that don’t miraculously appear just because we’ve closed our eyes and believed our intentions?
We just keep writing. The next book. The book after. The one we always wanted to, even when we thought nobody would want it, because nobody wants (fill in the blank) this year. Good thing, too, because this year is going to turn into next year and then the next and then maybe this book, the one we want to write will get noticed.
And it’s the thought that the only thing we can do is keep writing that feels so beautifully simple. Because sometimes the lies do come true. Most times they don’t. Most times that particular editor doesn’t take the book or doesn’t even respond. At least not on our timetable.
I was watching a Winter’s Tale this weekend (for the fifth time) and I loved the part when Lucifer says demons don’t understand the concepts of now and time.
Writers definitely don’t.
Because sometimes the it-didn’t-sell blues is just the it-didn’t-sell-yet blues…yet. Man, I love that word. Yet.
So we keep writing, counting our progression in terms of word counts or chapters or drafts or revisions. And at some point that writing amounts to something. Maybe it’s not a deal. Yet. Maybe it’s not an agent signing. Yet. Maybe it’s just the time that it takes to get better or to see more or to understand entirely. But until then I’m gonna be honest with you, I’m probably going to lie to myself.
I’m doing it right now.
Right now I’m telling myself that this book, the one I’m working on now, that I wrote initially six years ago. This is that book’s time. Right now. Good thing, too, because this book has me distracted enough to not check my emails every five minutes concerning my last book. The one I started last year. The one that hasn’t sold. Yet.
I always say Writing is a bad boyfriend, and it’s true. But right now, Writing believes in me. Truth is he always has. Through every draft and every revision and every rejection, He has shown back up, held his hand out with a really cute expression on his face as he asks. “Wanna dance?”
And my answer is always the same.
Writing distracts me from everything bad in my life. Writing listens to all my sad stories. The funny ones, too. Writing tells me other people will want to hear them. One day. Maybe not this day, but that’s cool. Because Writing may be an audience of one, but he always, always throws roses on the stage for me when I’ve dug so deep I’ve spilled blood all over the place. Writing bandages me up and tells me we can always paint over that damage.
Writing is always, always there, even when I stay away, even when I’m sure I can’t do it anymore, even when I’m at my lowest with this whole process. Writing tells me all I have to do is write the next word. The next scene. Writing tells me I just have to keep going. Because even with all the times I’ve lied to myself, I know Writing never lies to me. And if I’m going to be honest with myself, I’m going to have to admit that Writing makes my life better. Even when he makes it worse.
Writing’s like that. Complicated. Deep. Difficult. Demanding. Gut wrenchingly honest. So when he tells me to get back in that chair and do the work, I listen. But I don’t tell him that the whole time I’m still telling myself little lies…I can live with that.
December 5, 2014
Where's My Super-Suit?
I’m not one of those people who claim that writing is my super-power. I’m pretty sure that ordering the perfect drink at Starbucks might be it for me (Doppio con Panna extra whip, dusted with cinnamon and half a packet of Sugar in the Raw), but that’s not exactly an achievement anymore is it?
Even if writing isn’t my superpower, that doesn’t mean I don’t need to wear my super suit when I’m writing. I totally do. And this is why.
I am not a full time writer.
I am a mother of three. A full time speech language pathologist. A wife. A sister. A critique group attender. A critique group leader. An author. And now, thanks to UncommonYa, a blogger.
People ask me how I do all of these things and still have time to work on my craft and actually write the books I care about. You know what? It’s not easy. So I take a little help from my superhero friends. I suit up. Just like football players and doctors and even judges, I put on my writing uniform and I get to work.
Do I work in a really cute writing office in my house? I do not. Think open-floor plan. Think a house-full of teenagers. Think televisions blaring sports events. I do not plug in or tune out. I write while life goes on around me, and I like it that way. I don’t need earbuds or headphones or even a writing soundtrack. I just need myself, my laptop, and my writing jeans. That’s right. I have writing jeans.
They change year by year, but one thing always remains the same, they are ridiculously soft and filled with holes. Since rips in your jeans are in style this year, I’m in style. But when they are out of style, I don’t care. I just know when I am wearing my ripped jeans I feel young and energetic and totally myself. And myself is an author of young adult books.
So when I want to get in the writing zone, when I need to crank out my daily quota of words, I reach into my closet and grab my jeans that are always, always clean and waiting for me. Even in the mess of my closet, I can find them. Like Batman’s Bat-suit, they call to me. Because they know that without them I’m just a person and not a superhero at all. Without them I can’t make myself focus on the job at hand. I can’t take the huddle, call the play, or throw the touchdown pass. I can’t save the city. And I definitely can’t entertain or connect with my readers. So, thank you, ripped jeans. Stay clean. Stay with me. Stay. I can’t do this without you.
Even if writing isn’t my superpower, that doesn’t mean I don’t need to wear my super suit when I’m writing. I totally do. And this is why.
I am not a full time writer.
I am a mother of three. A full time speech language pathologist. A wife. A sister. A critique group attender. A critique group leader. An author. And now, thanks to UncommonYa, a blogger.
People ask me how I do all of these things and still have time to work on my craft and actually write the books I care about. You know what? It’s not easy. So I take a little help from my superhero friends. I suit up. Just like football players and doctors and even judges, I put on my writing uniform and I get to work.
Do I work in a really cute writing office in my house? I do not. Think open-floor plan. Think a house-full of teenagers. Think televisions blaring sports events. I do not plug in or tune out. I write while life goes on around me, and I like it that way. I don’t need earbuds or headphones or even a writing soundtrack. I just need myself, my laptop, and my writing jeans. That’s right. I have writing jeans.
They change year by year, but one thing always remains the same, they are ridiculously soft and filled with holes. Since rips in your jeans are in style this year, I’m in style. But when they are out of style, I don’t care. I just know when I am wearing my ripped jeans I feel young and energetic and totally myself. And myself is an author of young adult books.
So when I want to get in the writing zone, when I need to crank out my daily quota of words, I reach into my closet and grab my jeans that are always, always clean and waiting for me. Even in the mess of my closet, I can find them. Like Batman’s Bat-suit, they call to me. Because they know that without them I’m just a person and not a superhero at all. Without them I can’t make myself focus on the job at hand. I can’t take the huddle, call the play, or throw the touchdown pass. I can’t save the city. And I definitely can’t entertain or connect with my readers. So, thank you, ripped jeans. Stay clean. Stay with me. Stay. I can’t do this without you.
