Dealing With Negativity

Dealing with Negativity

(From the people whose opinions you actually care about)

I can’t tell you how many book dedications I’ve read where writers thank their family for putting up with them while they were in the throes of writing their book, their kids eating peanut butter sandwiches so mommy can keep writing and so on and so forth.

I think that’s wonderful. I also wonder (with a certain feeling of shame for doubting their veracity) whether their families really were as supportive as all that. 

Because mine is not.

My kids don’t care whether or not I’m trying to squeeze out time to write a book. They want dinner, and help with homework, they want clean plates to eat off and clean clothes to wear. Books be damned, they want mommy dates and snuggle time. My boy wants a chance to work through how some kids at school called him stupid because he has autism and is hyper-focused on Elvis, the king of rock and roll this month, and Elvis is Not Cool. My girl wants a chance to talk over how some little girl was her friend last week and this week hates her and is hanging out with some other little girl.

This is life-shattering stuff for them folks.

Then there’s my husband who thinks its all a waste of time, that I’ll never finish any of it, (except I did) and even if I do, I’ll never make any money off of it (probably true) so why not focus on something that actually brings in a living wage. Of course, I already make a living wage a different way, so then writing in his mind is a hobby. And hobbies shouldn’t take away from snuggle time and eating chips in bed while watching Supernatural with him, from doing “my Fair Share” of paperwork and dealing with crap all adults have to do but never want to like incorrect bills and disputes about who is responsible for replacing the air conditioning system. Hobbies are for doing in free time.

And you know what? They have a point.

Writing is a huge time suck. And my kids deserve all those things they need. My husband shouldn’t have to deal with all the crap of life because I want to—let me rephrase that—I need to write.

I get it. 

But I don’t get “free time.”  I’m not even sure I believe in this mythical thing  people call Free Time.

Any time I have is stolen--I get it by not doing something else I should be doing.

So how do you avoid this kind of negativity from the people whose opinions you actually care about: your close friends and family?  And if you can’t avoid it, how do you deal with it?

The question isn’t rhetorical folks.

I have no idea what the answer is.  I would have liked to quote that biblical verse about how a prophet isn’t respected in their hometown. But lets face it—I’m no prophet. Probably you aren’t either.  And to be fair, these people in our lives have a valid point. So what do we do?

For now, my answer is to try to prioritize. I try to meet my family’s needs as best I can (and buy paper plates so I spend less time doing dishes.) 

(Sorry Earth.) 

I cut writing time out of sleep time and reading time.  I deny myself so that I don’t have to deny them.

It means everything comes so much slower writing wise.

It means I’m tired a lot.

It means sometimes writing feels like a chore, not a joy.

But the words still come.

What do you guys do? Is there a better way?

Living on the Edge: Writers as Outsiders

Are writers supposed to live on the fringes of society? I mean, as writers and artists, we regularly ponder horrific existential truths that would scare the pants off regular people. We’ve tapped into something huge, man. Something beyond everyday reality, an existence in the margins. Just makes sense we'd be outsiders, right?



Reality Bites (1994)

I’ve been percolating on this sentiment for weeks, but couldn’t really put words to it until I read poet Tony Hoagland’s recent column in The Writer. “I was living a vagabond life, encountering a lot of people who were living outside of all the systems,” writes Tony of his younger days. “That’s very important for writers, because we really are the outsiders, and we have to maintain our outside perspective…We really can’t speak truthfully or with that renegade precision that turns over rocks unless we know how to navigate between the systems and not to be co-opted by any of their resident vocabularies.”


Poet Tony Hoagland

I read Tony’s column while on a roadtrip with family and friends to New Mexico for Spring Break. It could’ve been my altitude sickness or the peculiar Native American landmarks, but his words resonated with me. A vagabond life…Renegade precision that turns over rocks…I don’t know about you, but something about that description gets me all fired up.

Almost every writer I’ve met views the world differently from the mainstream. For some of us it takes years to claim the role—pretending we fit in, trying to be normal, yet seeing things that others don’t (then shutting up about it, so as not to disturb the status quo). But somewhere along the line we'll sit down over a keyboard with reverence, take a deep breath, and start writing. When that happens, watch out. We’ll turn over rocks with renegade precision like warriors—word warriors—armed with smoking-hot vocab and deadly syntax.

Which leads me to my next point: is there something more substantial than gratuitous self-identification to this concept of writers as outsiders? Is there a purpose?

Yes and yes.

As writers, we put words to emotions and sensations that others feel but can’t articulate, so that when someone reads it, they think, “Yes—that’s exactly it. That’s how I feel.” This can happen in millions of ways in every genre. Stephen King once said that fiction is the truth inside the lie. When writers wrap a story around real emotions, readers identify with that story because they’ve also felt those same core emotions. It can be cathartic for both writer and reader.

Besides serving as emotional conduits, writers are also in the unique position of pointing out societal failings. Most people learn quickly in life not to speak of those little things (and sometimes really big things) in our culture that don’t ring true. Writers and artists have the ability to expose these discrepancies. Why? Because we’re outsiders. We know the lay of the land, but we see it from a different perspective.

So raise your coffee mugs and take up your keyboards, because right now someone out there might need you to flip over a rock or two. You’re a writer, baby. Get to work.

 

In Defense of Hope

At my day job, I represent the Department of Family and Protective Services in cases involving abused and neglected children. Lately, my job has been harder than usual.

We see terrible cases, terrible facts, facts where it’s almost impossible to believe that one human being could treat another that way, never mind an adult treating a vulnerable child they should be protecting in that way. And lately, the after-effects of that severe abuse has been in-your-face apparent in my cases. 

It’s heartbreaking.

It makes it hard to go on, to keep fighting and trying the cases, when by the time I get to fight for these kids, the damage is already done. 

And sometimes that damage seems irreparable.

Don’t misunderstand me. 

We slap on the bandages, and the tourniquets. We have hospitals for the malnutrition and broken bones. We try counseling, and residential treatment centers, medications, and group therapy for the psychological wounds. We find new, loving families for these children who have never experienced that simple right.

But sometimes, (more often than I can bear lately) it seems that no matter what we do, no matter how much plaster we slap on the cracks of the psyche, we can’t heal these kids. We can’t shore up the injuries they’ve already experienced. We run out of options, we run out of ideas, and so we just keep plastering over the cracks as they appear—suicide attempts=a stint in the state hospital, self harm = medication tweaks and more counseling, perpetrating the abuse they experienced against other kids in the new home = removal and counseling for everyone ad nauseum.

But these children deserve the effort, no matter how hopeless it seems. 

And sometimes, against all odds, they eventually heal. They find a way to live fully, to be happy, to recognize the wrongs that were done and somehow move beyond. 

That’s why I keep fighting beyond what I think I can bear, bucket of plaster and trowel in hand.

So how does this relate to writing? 

It has to, right? 

After all, this is a writing blog.

It’s simple. 

Sometimes, I feel like my stories are children. 

And sometimes, I feel like I’ve performed a disservice in writing those stories, that they’re flawed and riddled with cracks. The black moment is misplaced, the characters aren’t fully rounded, the writing is simple crap. 

Sometimes, I’m right, and I want to give up on the difficult stories, to shove them into that desk drawer we all have for hiding things we don’t want to deal with because they’re to hard to fix.

But these are my stories. They are an expression of the unique way I see the world, and because of that, they matter.  Your stories matter just as much. And really, stories are easier to fix than most things in life. We have all the tools. We have communities of wonderful writers willing to brainstorm, and spitball and beta read and help in every way they can. 

So I challenge you to drag out the story you’ve stashed. Pull out your mortar and your trowel and start fixing the cracks. Choose hope that you can make that story shine and get to work.

Your story deserves it.