slacker/reset

I haven’t written a word for the past two days, but I’m trying not to be too hard on myself. My back’s giving me trouble, sciatica is keeping me up at night, and I’ve gone right back to my old habits after making it through just 2 weeks of my attempted 3-week junk food/fast food fast. Last night I woke at 3am and realized I’d made a mistake in I Love Snow! that will likely set my former English teacher’s hair on edge. None of my pre-publication readers caught it, so maybe my insomnia made the issue larger than it really is. I wasn’t able to fall back to sleep, so I just let my mind ruminate over the possible consequences. Will some librarian or blogger call me out for not hiring an editor to review my books? What does it say about my character if I know about the error but choose not to fix it? Because this is a story I wrote in 2002, there’s a part of me that just wants to let it stand as a testament to how I was writing at the time. And that same part of me knows that kids probably won’t notice or care. I’ve self-published 12 books at this point and three more are in production. Yesterday a librarian in Detroit asked about other books in the City Kids series; I have one that will be ready next month and another that I will try to finish before the winter holidays. With so many new books in progress, I don’t want to agonize about minor imperfections. And I think that is part of my character now. Or maybe I’m finally becoming that person after aiming for—and stressing out about—perfection for most of my life. I also found a small inconsistency in one of the illustrations in A Wave Came Through Our Window but decided to let it stand. It might be fun to ask kids if they can spot it as we read the book aloud. And at the end of the day, I don’t want to be known for writing perfect books (if there even is such a thing). A friend read my recent newsletter and suggested that my name ought to be more prominently displayed on my book covers, but I think picture books largely succeed or fail depending on the illustrations. I’m not trying to minimize my own role, but storytelling succeeds because of a number of different factors. I don’t really remember the books that my mother read to me—I think I grew into an avid reader because I remembered nestling against her large, soft belly and feeling safe, comfortable, and absorbed in another person’s world for at least fifteen minutes each day…

I had tea with friends last night and we talked about the steps we take to sustain our productivity as writers. I realize I might seem prolific to others, and just read a brilliant essay by another friend about how our Facebook posts can create a false image of the writer’s life. It isn’t as glamorous or fun as our photos and announcements might suggest, and this can be especially misleading for emerging writers who look to elders for an example of how to live in the world as a working artist. It’s Friday night and I’m doing laundry while blogging so that I can at least claim I did *some* writing today. Next I’ll go back to the novel-in-progress and try to stop grumbling about how this book feels like a chattering monkey I can’t get off my back. I’ve been cursing a lot lately and that likely won’t stop until I’m back in the classroom and this novel is finally done. I have managed to run in the park every other day, and will get back to my stretches so that the sciatica/back pain doesn’t make sitting in front of the computer such a pain. I’m going to try a 4-day cleanse that worked for a friend of mine; I don’t have all the food on the limited menu (and I hate fish so that’s not going to happen everyday), but I’m still going to give it a try. And if cake happens again next Friday, so be it. I’m human!