I wanted to win. I'd entered a contest for authors who had published books independently. I thought I had a really good chance. I'd hired a talented editor to tighten all the loose spots, and the designer who crafted the cover is a gifted artist. I'd had a lot of positive responses to the book, so mailed out the finished product with high hopes. When the winners were announced, though, I hadn't even placed. In the past I'd entered other contests and not won. I didn't really think much about it, actually. I always told myself that simply entering contests was noteworthy--that I hadn't stopped trying--that was success in and of itself. But I was struggling this time around. I wanted external validation, not merely the internal affirmation that I could provide myself. As I grappled with the feelings of disappointment, I was able to bring myself back to my foundation--words--and the artistry of piecing them together.
I love words. Who can resist the beauty of "flecked" or "convivial" or "infeasible?" I never tire of finding new ways to describe the sky. "I wanted to fly into that blue portal." When I see clothing in a store window, I think about how one of the characters in my novel might like to wear the vintage hat or the red coat. These are the foundational delights that drive my motivation to write--not winning contests.
Who doesn't love good writing? When I find an author I like, their newest book is buried treasure. "Oh, how I wish I could write like that!" I exclaim when I read the last sentence. There is no end to the pleasure of a good book.
And so I press on--appreciating the art in a sentence and writing to win--whether hidden or heard.
It all began at Target. In homewares. Giovanni stood there by the rows of cutting boards and boxed stainless steel cutlery. He wore his striped shirt and green corduroy vest. (He loves vests). It was an ordinary Saturday. I walked up to him with the red Target cart and said, "I think we better go over to the Tide aisle. We need laundry soap." "Wait," he said, and steered the shopping cart over to the framed pictures. I was a little puzzled. Giovanni is not fond of looking at framed art. He really doesn't like pictures on our walls. He much prefers a smooth surface. But I followed him. He pointed to a black and white photograph of the Eiffel Tower. "Would you like to go there?" he asked. "What do you mean?" I queried back. "Do you want to go to Paris? "Well, of course, some day." I was getting impatient. Why was he asking me about this? Just as I was about to steer the cart over toward the Tide, Giovanni said, "You won't have to wait until some day. We're going for Valentine's Day." And then he pulled out the itinerary from the pocket of the green corduroy vest and kissed me on the cheek. The intensity of that romantic gesture continues to thread its way through my mind as the memories we created those five days in Paris remain sumptuous.
We had perfect weather and stayed outside like little kids, riding the Metro all over the city. We even had sun on our cheeks in February. Giovanni had been there before, so knew his way around (He's good at directions anyway, with no GPS). The famous wheel of stained glass in Notre Dame mesmerized me. And the Eiffel Tower seemed to hover over the city like a sheltering angel. I never tired of gazing up at it. We strolled along the banks of the Seine on Valentine's Day holding hands and feeling the warmth of the sun on our heads. I kept thinking, "I've got to remember this. I've got to hold this memory in my mind." And I have. That remembrance sustains me on days when we are tired from working all day and can hardly muster the energy to say three words to each other at dinner. When we have to figure out insurance bills and who's going to stay home for the repair person. Those intense romantic gestures are like gold--like treasure. Somehow fundamental. The occasional, necessary ingredients in the life of a couple.
I read a good book this week. The novel has an unusual title, and I'm always attracted to intriguing titles--The Obituary Writer by Ann Hood. The book tells the story of a woman, Vivien, who lives in San Francisco in 1919 and does not know if the man she loves died in the terrifying 1906 earthquake. She feels the shattering loss and withstands the sickening constancy of not knowing what happened to him. To assuage some of her own grief, she begins to write obituaries for the hundreds of people who lost loved ones in the quake. Only her style of writing about the deceased is unique. She ascertains that people come to her and first give all the details--where their loved one was born, names of siblings, information about their education and what they did for a living. After the individual summarizes the deceased's life milestones Vivien pronounces, "Let me make you some tea and toast." And when the sricken person sits down to eat the buttered toast and sip the tea, Vivien says, "Tell me about your loved one." Viven finds that this is where she uncovers the real heart of the obituary, because the story is not just about the details, but about a life.
I beleive I resonate with the book, because at one time I, too, found myself caught up in processing a loss that had never been resolved. Here is a brief excerpt from An Ocean Away, the memoir I wrote of the love story between me and my husband. A stranger in a seminar I attended said to me the equivalent of Vivien's, "Tell me about your loved one."
"It was about twenty-five years ago," I said.
"I met an Italian boy on a cruise sheip and we fell in love--communicated for about a year, saw each other a few times, but then he stopped calling me. I just felt so sad I didn't know what happened."
"Didn't you try to find out anything?" asked the stranger.
"Not really. I think I felt so hopeless that anything could be done that I gave up."
"I'm sorry," he said. And he nodded his head in understanding, his kind eyes testimony to my ancient and authentic mourning.
We do grieve, and our culture is not fond of asking us to remember. It is somehow more important to move on. But the one who mourns wants to say the name of their loved one out loud. They long to have someone offer them a cup of tea, look into their eyes and say, "Tell me about your loved one."
I am a loner. My friends know me as a "raging" introvert. And I don't mind being alone. In fact, I spend great quantities of time at my desk. If writing was "just writing" I'd have it made. But if an author wants readers, well it's a different ball game these days. One needs to learn how to market. I'm not one easily coaxed out of her comfort zone. Not long ago in an effort to learn more about marketing tools, I attended a seminar for self-published authors attempting to promote their books. One of the women attendees from New York stated she had dressed up as a chicken and stood in front of a large bookstore in Manhattan to promote her latest recipe book. There was no way that I could do that. No that wasn't me. I left early.
Yesterday I took a walk in a local park near my home. On the lake in the middle of the park I observed a Canadian goose swimming slone. He was gorgeous--the understated colors of his taupe, white and black feathers reflected in the blue lake waters. He sort of reminded me of myself in a way. I wear a lot of taupe and black in the winter and taupe and white in the summer. I don't like standing out with bright colors. Give me pearl stud earrings and a pair of black leather Bandolino kitten heel pumps, and I'm good to go. Just enough to be fashionable, but not enough to draw a lot of attention. And surely, please don't even think of seeing me dressed as a chicken. Yet I want readers, so I must market myself in some way. The other day I wrote in my journal and even "tweeted" that it is important for an artist writer to know who they are NOT to keep moving toward their creative destiny.
As I rounded the corner of the pathway I walked, I saw to my delight that the lone goose had been joined by another. I sensed that the Lord comforted me with this image, assuring me that He would bring the right people, the right supporters, the readers that I need as I take the risks that He nudges me to take in the book marketing world. I'm gradually taking steps forward. This time last year, I still had a flip phone and rarely texted. This year I have a smart phone that I know is smarter than I am, but I'm using it. I'm even on Facebook and Twitter. God is helping me day by day. The fact that I'm sitting at the keyboard and blogging feels like a miracle. And I didn't have to dress up like a chicken. In fact, i have on my pearls, and sure enough the T-shirt I'm wearing is taupe. So, today, dear artist, if you feel as if you're swimming alone, link up with yourself and know who you are NOT, then take the next step and surely others will join you.
Remember dodge ball? You may be too young. The game might be considered the rudimentary form of paint ball. The object is to hit as many people as you can with a large rubber ball that stings when it hits one's face, or back, or leg. I used to hate it when it was time for dodge ball as a kid in elementary school. I tried to get "hit" early so that I didn't have to be pursued. And when I was forced to be the one in pursuit, I could hardly stand throwing that ugly, rust-colored ball at the other kids. I always lost. But there were some kids who got sort of a thrill when they could hit someone really hard. They loved the zing of that rubber ball when it hit another child's body. (Surely this game is no longer allowed in schools.)
As I traverse the writing and publishing world, I can sometimes feel as if I'm playing dodge ball. There are times when I get metaphorically hit. A person I thought was safe to share my writing with judges my efforts--not in a constructive way--but rather in an overly critical way. "You should have started social media years ago. How do you expect to get your work out there now with so much competition? The book world's changed." Gee thanks. Zing. Bam. I'm out--sitting on a bench, holding my bag of critical comments--discouraged and sidelined.
As writer artists we must find safety. We'll never avoid all the hits, but we don't have to be part of a game where the main goal is to get injured. We can rise from the bench, leave our negative baggage behind and walk toward that open door that is light-filled. "But where do I find safety, Priscilla?" you may ask. You discover it by finding people and material that support you, when you write badly and when you write well--who give you kudos for walking through the door. Several years ago I was part of a writing group and one member constantly put my pieces down. Double Zing. The comments were meant to hurt. I found I stopped writing and constantly second-guessed myself and my creative ideas. I made a decision to leave the group and sought a more supportive environment. My creativity rebounded, and I began writing again. I'm so glad I made that decision, as I think I might have given up writing the novel I eventually published. And I love that novel. I love the characters. See how one hard hit can do so much damage?
If you don't have safe writing support, I highly recommend Julia Cameron's book, "The Artist's Way." Julia Cameron. I do not want to wax overly-dramatic, but her material saved my writing life--and her material continues to make a difference for me when I feel discouraged. I try to move through "The Artist's Way" once a year as a means of validation and creative support. I need all the help I can find to stay off the bench and walk toward the light.