First Draft Thoughts: Mindfulness

Today I dread writing.

I’m 60% finished with this book, square in the saggy middle, and aside from a few tentpole scenes, I have no idea what comes next.

Years ago, when I was much more inexperienced with this feeling of dread, I would let the anxiety win. I would stop returning to the page. I would finish nothing.

Now I see it for what it is: a necessary but temporary discomfort on the way to having a finished draft.

Doesn’t mean I feel it less, or that the duration is shorter than before. Often not. Often it feels worse than it ever has. Often I toil for days or weeks before I finally break through.

But I know now that if I keep working and sit with the discomfort long enough, there’s a finished book at the end of it all.

This process-this sitting with discomfort thing–is actually what made meditation and mindfulness make sense for me.

I’ve practiced meditation for years. Sometimes I find it helpful, but often I’m just going through the motions, meditating because I said I would meditate, but not really finding the flow.

Now I get it: it’s not about finding the flow, it’s about learning to sit with discomfort. Practicing sitting with discomfort, even.

Writing first drafts (this is the year of first drafts) is a whole lot of discomfort, in my experience. And I’m hoping that by learning how to sit with that discomfort, day after day, a little bit at a time, I’ll also get better and faster at drafting, and treat it with understanding and compassion rather than judgment and dread.

Unanswerable Questions

I started 2024 with big ambitions, hopes, goals, and all that other stuff that comes with the start of a new year. Three days in, I was hit with a debilitating migraine. Now all of those carefully made plans for January need to be re-assessed.

This is annoying, but it's also life.

I'm also hitting the midpoint of a book, and I'm wondering if I have made a disastrous mistake 13,000 words ago. Is it better to write through this draft as-is, or will it be better to go back and rewrite the book from that point forward.

This is also annoying. It's also life.

I've been taking a lot of stock of my writing life recently. I've been in this industry for over a decade now. Many of the writers I started with have moved on to new lives, new hobbies, new careers. I, myself, have also tried on new lives, new hobbies, new careers. I don't get excited about things the way I used to. Or panic the way I used to. I've hit a stretch where there's a comfort in the routine of writing. Even on the bad days.

I always thought I would hit a place where I had all the answers, if not through experience, then through osmosis. But the truth is, I don't know how to write a book today any more than I did twelve years ago. I've been agented for eleven years, and I still get nervous sending things in.

I still stress about whether I've made a mistake 13,000 words ago, and fret over if it's better to fix it now or continue as-is and see how it plays out.

The difference between me now and me then is that I now know it doesn't matter. There is no wrong choice. The best choice is the choice that gets the draft finished. And if it needs work after the fact, even a substantial rewrite, then that, too, is just life.

Writing Thoughts: Supportive Care for Writers

Today, I miss being a college student.

Not being young, exactly--I was officially a grown-ass adult when I went to college--but the support system. I enjoyed being on campus. I enjoyed the community. It lent a structure to my life that I've been unable to provide for myself thus far.

I wonder if a lot of neurodivergent creatives feel this way. Because the ones I'm friends with really flourished in college for this reason. They were able to, for a short amount of time, devote themselves wholly to their work, without having to worry about supportive self-care tasks. Everything is within a walking distance. The small community is built around learning and skill-growing.

I'm waist deep in a book right now, and I'm in that mad sort of place where if I think about it too long, I will talk myself out of every decision I've made, decide the entire book is wrong, and try to rewrite it from the ground up. I've done this before to books, and those books never see the light of day. They have 27 chapter ones, but that's it. That's all there is. And it's probably all those books ever will be.

So I have to be super careful at this stage not to think too much about the thing while at the same time moving forward with the writing of the thing. It's easy for me to become so zoned in on the writing that I forget those important care tasks--like eating and drinking. You'd think by now I would have figured out some magic trick to work all this out, but I haven't. It's still something I'm working on.

2023: A Year in Review

Goodbye, 2023!

My word of the year for 2023 was Deconstruct, and I don't know if I did that intentionally or if it just sort of happened, but a lot of structural things happened this year that allowed me to really look at the what but also the why and the how.

I've talked openly here and also on social media about my health struggles, and 2023 was also a challenging year in that I've had a frozen shoulder since July. There's some neck and spine stuff, too, that have made it pretty awful to sit at a desk and type. So one of the challenges I had to contend with this year was deconstructing my writing process and rebuilding one that wasn't entirely based on fingers-on-keyboard typing.

Let me be the first to say: dictation did not come naturally or easily to me. It really got to a point where it was either learn how to write books in a different way or come to terms with not writing them at all. I'm glad that toward the end of the year, I settled into a new process and it felt like it wasn't entirely wasted effort.

I also had to deconstruct how I think about my books, and publishing, and all the things that can go wrong when you're a writer. There's a never-ending supply of shit to worry about, and I was burned out from worrying about it all. So now with the help of a therapist, I worry about it less. Or try to, at least.

In addition to choosing a word for every year, I also choose one aspect of writing to study for a whole twelve months. In the past, I've studied character, queries, pitches, and intimacy. This past year, I studied and practiced dictation. (I will practice it even more in 2024.)

In 2024, I'll be studying fast drafting, finishing, and discipline.

I didn't finish any books in 2022. I finished 2 books in 2023. I want to finish more in 2024. I want to reset that habit of finishing, because the past few years have messed it up a little bit.

If you're on the fence about whether you should choose a word of the year or an area of focus for writing in 2024, I can't say enough good things about it. Especially if there are areas that you know needs work--Taryn and I both groaned when I told her I was thinking of making drafting/finishing my focus for the year, because we knew that was an area I needed to focus on.

Anyway, on to the stats!

2023 Stats:

Words Written: 105,567
Books finished: 2
Books published: 0
# of days written: 212
Longest writing streak: 5 days
Average words per day: 733
Average minutes per day: 43
Most productive days: Mondays and Wednesdays
Least productive day: Sunday

Pep Talks

Lately I've been starting my writing day by asking myself:

What is the pep talk I need to hear today?

It turns out that every day, this answer is vastly different than the day before.

Not only that, but sometimes the person I need to hear it from is not even me, but someone else, someone I may or may not have access to, which can get really tricky.

For example, a couple of days ago, the pep talk I needed--ridiculously enough--was encouragement from my fifth grade teacher, who is not only deceased, but also wasn't my favorite person and also not the nicest or most encouraging person when she was alive.

It was a situation where my brain told me I wanted something I was literally never, not in a million years, ever going to get.

This, friends, is what therapy does to you. It not only makes you aware of situations like this, but it also makes you aware of situations like this, if you know what I mean.

Because I think without therapy, I would go through my day, not really knowing what it was I thought I needed, only knowing I was never going to get it. But because I've gone to therapy and I've done the work and I can put the name to the thing and process through some of it, I feel like I'm required to then untangle some of those knots.

Lucky me.

My fifth grade teacher...I'm sure she had her own demons. Some of those demons, no doubt, were fifth grade kids. Have you met fifth grade kids? They're brutal. But let's just say...she was in the wrong profession for her temperament.

I have always been an avid reader and writer. I was that kid with a notebook when I was nine. The I-won't-bother-you-if-you-don't-bother-me type. The kind who would rather sit in the library than play outside. We could have just been cool with each other. But no.

One day a kid named Travis jerked my notebook out from under me, held it up for all to see, and announced to the class that I was writing a book and I wanted to be published.

The class laughed.

And then Ms. Sade joined in.

"That's ridiculous," she said.

She could have just said nothing at all. She could have said, "Dude, stop touching other people's shit." But no.

This isn't really a sore spot for me now, but it gutted me at the time. I was eight years old. I didn't know any better. All I knew was to be hurt.

So when I have these moments where I need reassurance but from a specific person or a specific point in the past, I try really hard to perk up and listen to what it's really asking.

This particular instance was asking for someone to stand up with a piece of my work, like Travis did, and ask: Could this be something? Or will someone laugh at it?

And the solution was simple: I sent a chunk of work to my agent, whom I trust will not laugh at me, and asked for feedback.

There's a whole big can of worms that comes with asking for what you need, too, instead of waiting for someone to magically guess, but I don't have time to get into that today. I have a kitten sleeping on my lap, and my coffee is fresh, and I have more words to write before the kitten wakes and the coffee goes cold.

So I will leave you with this, fellow writers and future me: don't be afraid to ask for what you need when you need it.

Writing Sprints

Today I am doing writing sprints to get my word count in for the day.

What are writing sprints?

Writing sprints are when you take a big chunk of time, ie: your writing time for the day, and you split it up into writing time and resting time, so that you get stuff done but you also don't burn yourself out or stress yourself out.

For me, today, this looks like 15 minutes writing followed by 15 minutes resting. You can write or rest for longer or shorter, depending on how you're feeling. The only rule is that you make the rules.

(If this sounds a lot like the Pomodoro Technique, you're not wrong! It's pulled directly from that, probably!)

Writing sprints are probably one of the best tools in my writer toolbox. Also, I think, the most intimidating, for me. Because what do you mean you just sit down and write for fifteen minutes, without stopping? Do you know what kind of crap I can come up with in fifteen minutes of writing without stopping?

One of the things that has tangled me up this year is this weird sort of stuck headspace, where I'll spend hours going over and over and over one chapter, one scene, without moving on. I know better. And still I get caught in this endless loop.

Writing sprints are what help me move forward in times like this, without too much mental frustration. Fifteen minutes on new things, and then I can fret over the old words for a bit. Then fifteen more minutes on new words... And so on.

Therapy has taught me over the years that when your mind gets "stuck" or "hooked" on certain things, it's likely for a very good reason, usually to protect you from something, even if that something or its methods don't make sense. It would be easy for me to say, "Going over old words is a stupid, useless, waste of my time, so I just stopped doing it!" But the reality is, it's likely a manifestation of something much greater, like anxiety, which isn't so easy to quell. So I just roll with it, and try to find a happy medium in the meantime.

Another thing that has been really helpful is to remind myself that every book I've ever finished, every book I've ever loved, every book I've ever submitted, every book that's ever been accepted, every book that's ever been anything has been written sloppily, in little bursts at a time.

Every. Single. One.

So my anxiety over the clean-up process--whether I can do it, whether it will be too hard, whether future me will be capable--is fear-based, not fact-based.

I can do hard things, because I have done hard things.

P.S.: If you would like to join me in writing sprints, beginning Thursday, December 28, 2023, 9PM-11PM EST, I'll post threads here and on Threads and Instagram where you can join in weekly!

Another Year of Writing Books

Every year on my birthday, I do a whole thing where I recommit to writing for one more year.

This isn’t an official recommitment ceremony or anything like that. It’s just a thing I’ve done the past few years that I’ve enjoyed doing, so I’ve kept doing it.

This year, because my actual birthday was a gloomy, rainy, lonely thing, I celebrated with a new journal, which I needed, and some new stickers, which I wanted, and a couple of pens and markers, which matched and were also on sale.

I’ve learned over the years to pay attention to the universe when it’s screaming messages at you at the top of its lungs. This, I think, was one of those times. And I’m still not exactly sure what it was saying, only that it was saying something, and maybe that is enough for me to shut up, lean in, and listen.

Another thing I need to do more of?

Talking.

Or blogging.

Sharing.

Whatever.

Years ago, when I used this blog to jot down writing thoughts between classes. Back then, everybody had a blog, so me having a blog felt a lot less like me having a blog.

I’ve talked before about how useful it was to write down thoughts, share them with others, and how the conversations (and the friendships) that came out of those times shaped the foundation of who I am as a writer.

I like to think I’m a better writer because of the smol effort I put into a smattering of words ten years ago.

I know I am a better person because of the friends I met.

Journaling hasn’t had the same impact for me. I still do it, three pages every day, a holdover from my time doing Morning Pages through Julia Cameron’s Artist’s Way practice.

But I miss sharing with others. I miss working riding the highs and lows with writer friends.

I don’t know what that looks like, though. I don’t know if it looks like a podcast or a blog or something else entirely. I’m here because this is where I left you last, this is what is most familiar and where I feel most comfortable.

And to be frank, I am tired tonight and don’t feel like learning a new app.

If you’re out there, maybe it’s enough to say:

I’m out here, too. I’m writing a big, scary thing. I’m turning in another big, scary thing this week, for the first time in a couple of years.

Hi. My name is Liz. I write books. It’s nice to meet you.

2021: Year in Review

I’m writing this on the afternoon of January 6, 2022. I am wearing a blue hoodie and fuzzy socks. The sky is dove gray and thick with the threat of snow—the first of this winter and this year.

I love snow. I love the smell of it and the cold of it and the coziness of it. I love how it blankets the earth and dims all those natural sounds I take for granted or block out with way too much TV. I love how it adds some extra crunch to boot steps and how it makes everything glow purple in the moonlight and how it takes an ordinary hoodie and an ordinary pair of sweatpants and some ordinary, nothing special fuzzy socks and makes them extra toasty warm. 

It’s 2022. And I’m trying to be more present this year. 

I struggled with being present in 2021. I spent most of the year in my head, looking toward the future or raging at the past, and never really being in the moment. And because of that, 2021, for me, is one of those strange gap years that doesn’t really seem to exist. 

I mean, it’s there, on paper. 

Like a planner that was used for a while, then forgotten about entirely, and then picked up again sometime later. 

It’s a gap punctuated with blank pages and To Do lists that never got done, goals I never really remember wanting in the first place, and things I wish I wish I had accomplished but just, you know, didn’t. 

Without admonishing myself too much, I want to be more mindful moving forward.

So what did I do last year?

Well, for starters:

I quit my toxic AF job in February.

It was a decision I made on a whim and for the life of me could not talk myself out of. 

Around this time last year, after a Zoom Christmas/New Year’s get together with some of my favorite people, one such favorite person took me aside and slapped me with some very blunt but true words.  He asked:

“Where did you go? Where did you go? When did you start believing [working your toxic job] was the most you could aspire to?”

Ouch.

His words stuck with me, so I took them to my therapist. And by the end of our session, I knew I had to go. 

Because I knew my bully boss was always going to be a bully. The sexism and misogyny was never going to get better. The FMLA retaliation and refusal to comply with ADA accommodations was never going to go away. HR was never going to do anything but collude with those same managers whom they admitted were in the wrong. 

And no one in my department was ever going to stand up for me or for themselves. They were too afraid of losing their jobs, their pensions, their next promotion.

They were afraid of ending up like me. Of ending up like all the women who came before me.

I choked on this for a while, I admit. It was a recurring theme in 2021—this intense frustration I feel when I have someone’s back but they don’t have mine. I get that it’s illogical, that not everyone is as comfortable as I am with what they call confrontation and what I call doing what’s right. But I waffled back and forth for a long time—between desperately wanting to help those who are now in the position I was then, and wanting to sit back and watch as the consequences of their own cowardice leeched every last drop of joy from their souls.

In the end, being free won out over being “right.” I turned in my notice (the best feeling ever), took a week’s vacation, laughed with my therapist over the fact that my bully boss tried to terminate me for resigning while I was on vacation, and napped. A lot.

It was a few weeks before it dawned on me that I would never receive another email from a superior calling me an idiot, or implying that I was somehow inferior because of my gender, my intelligence, my chronic illness, my rigid adherence to compliance standards, or be harassed because I wouldn't bully whomever they wanted bullied that day. When it did, I cried.

(And before you say it: yes, I know I could have sued. Some say I should have sued. 

(The attorney I consulted with would be included in that “some.”) 

But ultimately, as angry and hurt as I was, and as much as I still believe Something™ should have been done about how people, especially women and the disabled, were treated in that department, it would have compelled my co-workers to either lie and save their jobs or tell the truth and lose them (and possibly their retirement, their pension, their livelihood). 

I didn’t want them to have to deal with that. So I backed out. 

Yeah, I'm a softie.) 

Anyway, onto happier things!

I started my own business!

Remember that friend who was like, “Hey, where are you?” 

Well, that conversation ended with us collaborating on a consulting project. 

That consulting project led to another consulting project.

And, well, you see where this is going. 

Now we work with small businesses and boutique brands to create authentic, human-first front-end and back-end experiences through copy, marketing, social media engagement, and process management. 

I won’t lie—this is not one of those stories where it became an instant seven-figure a year business. Far from it—I took a massive pay cut to be able to do something I love.

But you know what? No one is emailing 2 minutes after my sign-in time asking me why I’m an idiot, or telling the department trainer to tell everyone I was fired, so in my book, it’s a win.

I also get to work from home—or from Starbucks, or from bed, or from the hospital—when I need to.

Which is good, because:

My health is still something I need to take very seriously.

The good news: 

• My bloodwork is looking really good one year after looking really scary.
  
  
• I took a month off between leaving the credit union and working with Nolan, which I really needed, since I had originally returned to work a month early, and I wasn’t yet up to sitting upright or wearing pants.
  
  
• I get a little bit stronger every day!

The bad news:

• Auto-immune diseases are nasty little jerks, and all these surgeries have aggravated mine to the point where it’s now eating my organs. So that’s fun.
  
  
• I found out this summer I have both Lyme and Celiac disease. I have been gluten-free now for almost seven months and I still miss pasta every day. Every. Single. Day.
  
  
• I’m. Still. So. Tired.
  
  
• The brain fog is like….what.

But believe it or not:

Yes, I’m still writing books!

OK, if you’re Melanie, my agent, and you haven’t seen anything from me in a year, you probably don’t believe this. But it’s true.

Only this year, I’m not really focused on publishing anything.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’d love to. That would be great. Never going to turn that down. Ever. Please give me a moderate sum of money to write a whole lot of books.

But…after four years of workplace burnout, three years of health issues, two years of pandemic, and a year of just staggering around like a drunk bear, I would really like to hone in on and learn to enjoy the act of daily writing again. Because the joy isn’t in the publishing. It was never in the publishing. It’s in the doing, and I really need to get back to the daily act of doing.

Not just with writing, but across the board.

Last year’s Word of the Year was Imperfection. It was a hard word. A word I had to remind myself of daily (and still do). 

But:

I stopped waiting for a nonexistent right time and imperfectly quit a job that was keeping me attached to very unhappy, purposefully damaging people.

I stopped waiting for a nonexistent right time and imperfectly started a business.

I stopped waiting for a nonexistent right time and imperfectly went back to school.

I stopped waiting for a nonexistent right time and imperfectly advocated for myself and my health.

I stopped waiting. And I imperfectly did.

2022 Word of the Year

I toyed with a bunch of words for 2022. Among them: Empower, Present, Mindfulness, Now.

And those are definitely energies I want to bring into 2022!

But the word I settled on was:

Fortitude: Courage in the face of adversity.

Not exactly an inspiring word, I guess, but it feels right. Like an extension last year’s “stop waiting and imperfectly do” message.

The world is never going to be a perfect place. I am probably never going to be in perfect health. There is never going to be a perfect day where everything fits perfectly.

So for me, Fortitude means: showing up for the daily do even when you feel like a hot mess or when the world is on fire or a cat is sick or the power is out or the blood work is questionable or your people have let you down.

Stop waiting. Show up. Have the courage to face the imperfect now. And just relax and enjoy the ride.

2021 Stats

Words Written: 166,512

Books finished: 0

Books published: 0

# of days written: 243

Longest writing streak: 72 days

Average words per day: 698

Average minutes per day: 63 

Most productive days: Mondays and Saturdays

Least productive days: Thursdays and Sundays

2020: Year in Review

Last year, when I did one of these posts, I promised myself I would do monthly recaps in a Word document to make it easier to cobble things together. 2018 and 2019 had been such weird transition years that I thought for sure I would Do Better ^TM in 2020, and LOL am I laughing or crying, because I can’t tell anymore, it all feels the same when you’re dead inside. 

 I KID. I KID. 

 But no, really. 

 Oh, 2020. The year that lasted 84 years and 19 minutes, all at the same time. 

 Here’s a breakdown of the year from this angle: 

 I started working from home. 

 2019 was really rough on me, work-wise. My day job was overwhelming and stressful and...honestly just a really just a very unhealthy place. My mental health suffered from it. My physical health suffered from it. My work/life balance was non-existent, and crying—no, not crying, openly bawling—at my desk was a daily occurrence. I remember telling a friend this time last year that I felt as though I was being held hostage, because thirty minutes after I was scheduled to leave, I was still being handed things to do. 

 And this was not a once in a while thing, either. This was every day. 

 Then the pandemic happened, and I was allowed the opportunity to work from home. 

 And I love it. 

 I love having my own space and being able to work in an environment that is conducive to how I work best. I like that I can get more done without wasting time on worrying about what I’m going to wear (yoga pants, hell yeah) or if traffic is going to be backed up or if it’s snowing. I like that I don’t feel as though someone is breathing down my neck all the damn time. I like that if I have a headache, I can take a shot and lower the lights. 

 I won’t lie: the pandemic hit me hard, and there are still lots of things about my job that need to be addressed in 2021. But being able to work from home for most of the year, even if I still cry about work from time to time, is probably the only reason I’m not trending on TikTok for “woman quits job via carpool karaoke mic.” 

What’s in store for 2021: As much as I love the function of my job, it’s become clear that the negative parts of it—the overwork, overwhelm, stress, and demoralization—aren’t going to change. So I would like to find something in 2021 that doesn’t make me cry and doesn’t make me sick and doesn’t undermine me as an employee or undervalue me as a person. It’s sad and it’s scary, but it’s time. 

 I had, like, a lot of surgeries. 

 OK, so maybe not, like, a lot of surgeries. But more than one, which is big to me, since before 2020, I’d had zero surgeries ever in my life. 

 My 2020 Word of the Year was Heal. I don’t think I talked about it a lot, because I kind of thought it was a boring word. Heal to me means slow down, rest, take care of your self, and I’m more of a do All The Things!, conquer the world type of person. 

 Problem was, I’d burned myself out doing All The Things! and conquering the world, so in 2020, my body had enough and flipped me off. In the end, I had six biopsies, underwent 4 surgeries, lost two organs, and spent a cumulative total of 11 days in ICU (spread over 3 visits). 

 It’s easy to make light of it now that I’m on the other side of it, but I think I have finally learned to put myself first and take my health seriously. I have also learned how important it is to advocate for myself and make sure others—doctors, friends, family, co-workers, insurance claims adjusters—take my health (and my time and my boundaries) seriously, too. There is a difference between “team player” and “self-sacrificing.” 

What’s in store for 2021: I’m already feeling so much better. But I’m not out of the woods yet. I still have a lot of work to do, both in terms of bloodwork numbers and making sure I take time for myself. One habit I would like to adopt in 2021 is to make sure I’m taking my medications as prescribed. Such a small thing, but I am so bad at it. 

 8,760 hours. 

 A big revelation I had in 2020 was how I relate to time and how that informs my tendency to procrastinate. 

 I have kept excellent writing records for years, and I always work with a daily writing goal in mind. I set goals for both words and minutes, short term and long term. I know the projects I want to work with and what I want to get done. And I know that things come up (like all the health stuff above) and not to count on a 365-day work year. 

This has worked out for me OK in the past. Not great, but not horribly. But I always seemed to hit patches where I had to cram a lot of work into the last few days of a deadline to reach the finish. I’m no expert, but I’m guessing that’s probably not very conducive to cutting stress and achieving work/life balance. 

Then a friend suggested instead of looking at my productivity based on a working hour, I look at my productivity based on the number of hours in a year. The idea is that this will give you a better estimate of how many days it will take you to finish a thing, based on your current rate of working on said thing. 

I like this because when I’m especially stressed or tired, I tend to push things off until later. Say, needing to write 5,000 words in 2 days because I was too tired/stressed/whatever to write 500 words a day for 10 days. 

Now I have a spreadsheet that tells me in plenty of time if I’m struggling to meet a goal and what I need to do to course-correct. And let me tell you, it is so much easier to stomach adding 50 words to your daily goal than 5,000. 

What’s in store for 2021: I won’t lie, I would love to sell a thing in 2021! More than one thing! More than one type of thing! But since that’s out of my hands, I’m going to be more intentional about what I can control. I can control how much I read. I can control how much I scroll Twitter and TikTok. I can control how wisely I use my time and how much attention I pay to the details of craft and language. Books don’t just happen, they are carefully cultivated out of time intentionally spent working on them. And I would really like to free myself up enough that I can write something I love without constantly fearing the person who reads it is going to hate it. 

 A new word for 2021. 

 Imperfection. 

This year of healing has allowed me to see and understand parts of myself that I have ignored for far too long. In a private goal-setting group, I made a comment that every year, I come up with 4-6 areas of life I want to work on, and as I dig deep in these areas, I always find a common theme tying them all together. This year’s common theme is emotional trauma. 

I’ll just say it like it is: there’s a lot of shit that I haven’t dealt with healthily or in some cases at all, and carrying that baggage from relationship to relationship, job to job, book to book, friendship to friendship, is the number one reason why these areas of life need improvement. 

Another harsh truth: I’m in a very unhealthy, abusive relationship with myself. And it’s not entirely my fault; I’m only repeating what I experienced when I was younger. There’s a voice in my head that came from someone else that doesn’t need to be there anymore. Now that I know it’s there and how it is negatively affecting my life, it’s my responsibility to silence it. 

What’s in store for 2021: I want to learn how to be better to myself. Kinder to myself. More compassionate and accepting of myself. I want to learn how to let others struggle with their own bad decisions without stepping in to clean up the mess. I want to learn how to set firm boundaries that protect the time spent pursuing my dreams. I want to know my own worth and refuse to settle for anything less. 

But mostly, I want to learn how to let my best be enough. 

2020 Stats 

Words written: 160,880/150,000 

Books finished: 2 

Books published: 0 

# of days written: 256 

Longest writing streak: 62 days 

Average words per day: 712 

Average minutes per day: 70 

Average words per working hour: 582 

Average words per hour: 18.3 

Most productive days: Sundays and Tuesdays 

Least productive day: Thursday

How To Keep Writing When Disaster Looms

Reset and recalibrate. I made a smart move at the start of the year by taking what I thought I could do in 2020 and cutting it in half. I did this again at the start of March, so now my yearly goal is 25% of what I wanted it to be. There’s always the thought process playing in the back of my ambitious, over-achieving mind that slashing a goal to 25% is not good enough, not words enough, not impressive enough. And to that voice, I say: You can always keep going. You can always do more. But it’s also important that I know it’s OK if I don’t.

Set bite-sized, achievable goals. 1,000 words in an hour every day is an admirable goal. But it’s one I’ll fail most of the time. For starters, I can’t write 1,000 words in an hour. I’m more a 700-words an hour kind of girl (or more accurately, a 200-ish words in 20 minutes kind of girl). I’m also more of a “most days” kind of girl rather than an “every day” kind of girl. And that’s when I’m not ill or covered up with work or there’s a global pandemic at large. Bite-sized goals will look different for everybody, but for me, especially right now, that’s been however many words I can scrape out of 5 minutes. (Remember, you can always keep going, you can always do more. But if I’ve put in my 5 minutes, I’ve done what I asked of myself, even if I spend the rest of the day screaming into the void.)

Effort counts. Some days those 5 minutes are spent staring at the blank page. But it still counts, because at least I opened the Word document when I didn’t want to. At least I showed up. Don’t discount the simple act of showing up.

Reading counts, too. When I’m not in the headspace to write new words, it’s usually because I need to consume new words. Old words. Audiobook words. Blog words. Just words in general. So I try to do a lot of that, too.

Track your progress. I love data and find it immensely helpful. But tracking things in real-time is hard because I’m super-critical of my own accomplishments. A happy compromise has been to create a Google form with which I track my writing sprints. The form is connected to a spreadsheet that automatically pulls things like words written and time spent writing, but also measures other metrics, like which days and times of day I’m most productive (so I can protect them and better utilize them), which project I’m working on and where in the pipeline it falls (drafting, editing, etc), where I’m writing (office, bedroom, outside, or pre-pandemic, Starbucks, libarary, hospital, etc), and which tools I’m using (Scrivener, Word, candle, music). I’ve recently even added a mood tracker (turns out I always think I suck about 80% through a draft, who knew?) and a comment box where I can make notes of what worked and what didn’t and what I could do better next writing session. The best part: the spreadsheet collects the data automatically, so I don’t have to look at it until I’m mentally prepared to do so.

Stop using fun as a reward for working yourself to death. I used to use Cinderella logic on myself, where I was like, “OK, if I will do this thing, but only after I do this impossible amount of work first.” And then walk around for six months having zero fun because I hadn’t earned any fun. Now I pencil in fun the way I pencil in writing. Sure, there are times I have to factor in that I have a deadline coming and a ton of work to do, and maybe I can’t binge a show or play a game for three days straight that week. But even then I can carve out a little time that isn’t just work work work.

Everybody needs a day off. “Writers write every day” is not only bullshit advice, but for me it has the tendency to really throw off my writing groove. Since I moved to a four-day work week (two days writing, one day off, two days writing, two days off), I feel like I’ve made better writing decisions, had better-feeling writing days, and backtracked less often. It’s also nice to have at least one day a week that is free from day job stress as well as writing stress, a day to just veg out and do what the hell ever.

And finally:

Don’t skimp on self-care. Take a shower when you feel gross. Nap when you’re tired. Know your warning signs. Too tired or depressed to cook and clean? Move to disposable dishes and cutlery, order take-out, and stock your pantry with non-perishable go-tos. Make your bed. Clean off your desk. Take out the trash. Unfuck your habitat. Believe me, no words you write when you feel shitty or exhausted are going to be worth suffering for.

The Art of Being Not Agented

I want to talk about agents for a second.

Maybe not agents, but more specifically, the being agented thing.

And even more specifically, the not being agented thing.

Ten years ago, when I was a college student and this blog was in its infancy, before I became too cool for blogging and sold my dreams for a job at a credit union and the ability to consistently pay my bills; before I signed with an agent and parted ways with that agent and signed with another agent; before I wrote a book that didn’t sell and wrote another one that also didn’t sell and wrote another that also didn’t sell… I thought I knew what I was doing.

And I kind of did.

Kind of .

But I also kind of didn’t.

Because working with an agent is one of those things that you can’t get adequate perspective of until you’re in the thick of it.

Ten years ago, when I started querying, rejection was a terrifying thing.

Rejection meant:

I am not good enough.

Other people are better at this than I am.

This thing that is so hard for me is so easy for everyone else.

I don’t matter and I don’t know how to matter.

My stories are broken. My process is broken. I am broken.

None of these things were true.

And yet, everything I did was in service to one goal and one goal only: do not get rejected.

I don’t know what I thought would happen when I got a yes, because I don’t think I expected I would ever get a yes. But I think it lay somewhere in the realm of:

If “no” means I’m not good enough, that my book is bad, that my dreams are over, then “yes” must mean that I am a good writer, that my book is a good book, and that success is within the vicinity of reach .

None of those things were true, either.

The truth was that nothing had changed.

And when the no that had turned to a yes turned back to a no and then again to a yes, still nothing had changed.

I am the same writer in 2020 that I was in 2010 .

I still know nothing about my books until I have drafted them.

I still get to the end of a perfectly fine book and unravel every inch of it to start again, because that’s the only way I know how to make it better.

I still weep for days after turning in a draft because I think it sucks, but also because I do not like change and turning in a book is rife with upheaval.

I still get it mostly wrong before I get it mostly right.

And most importantly:

I still only kind of know what I’m doing.

The only real difference between 2010 Me and 2020 Me is that 2020 Me has ten years more experience under her belt.

Or:

Five books, nine editors, two agents, numerous writing friends (each with their own experiences to share), a contract or two, and twenty-three filled-in writing notebooks.

As I type this out, I find I have a lot to say about that period of time. And I will, one day. But for now, I want to say something to specifically those querying writers who have been at this for years, but haven’t yet found their foothold:

You are good enough. Your process is fine. It’s hard for everyone. You matter. Your stories matter. There is nothing wrong with you.

In the darkest, bleakest of my writing nights (not that long ago, I might add), I had to find a reason to keep writing that had nothing to do with the approval or acceptance of another person.

But first, I had to give myself permission to stop caring what publishing thinks.

If you’re in a place where you’re doing everything right and everything is going wrong, I challenge you to give yourself permission to give zero fucks about the outside world and really hone in on what your vision for your writing is.

Not your writing career. That’s its own thing and you can sort that out later.

I’m talking about the time you spend every day immersed in story.

What do you want that to look like?

Why is it important to you?

And what steps are you going to take to keep life and publishing and the universe and everything from taking it from you?

2019: Year in Review

I haven’t done a Year in Review post for a lot of years, but since my areas of focus for 2020 is to get back in touch with my process (iterate and optimize!), be more positive about small, slow, incremental change, and to be more accountable to my writing, it seems like a good idea to look at the past couple of years before jumping forward into a bright shiny January.


2018

Since 2008, I’ve chosen a word to focus on each year. For 2018, the word was Metamorphosis. And boy, did it live up to that moniker.

2018 was a year of transition. And change. And upheaval.

2018 was the year I decided to start working on a YA. It was the year I changed jobs—twice. It was the year I parted ways with my first agent. The year my energy and overall health took a nosedive. The year I came to a deep understanding that fostering terminally ill cats didn’t only mean keeping them comfortable, but also letting them go; related: this is also the year I self-published a book to help pay for cat hospice.

I walked out of 2018--like most people, I think--thankful and a little baffled that I had made it through the year intact. Looking back, there isn’t any one thing that stands out as being overwhelmingly awful. More like, every day, the world just seemed to get a little bit worse. A little bit darker. A little bit more lonely.

As someone who was writing primarily romance, and still trying to find her voice again after a pretty major setback a couple of years prior, every day, every book, every word was an act of...not faith, but desperation. I felt as though I was rushing up the face of a crumbling crag and any moment I would lose my grip, my footing, my nerve, and plummet onto the sharp rocks below.

There was a moment during the Brett Kavanaugh hearings where I spent my days listening to the men in my office joke about not making eye contact with the women lest they be accused of rape, then spent my nights at Starbucks openly weeping through the first draft of what I was sure would be the last book I would ever write.

I forced myself to finish that draft in one mad weekend binge in December, hit save, and took the rest of the year off.


2018 Stats:
Words written: 65,004
Books finished: 2
Books published: 1
# of days written: 55
Longest writing streak: 12
Ave. words per day: 1,153
Ave. minutes per day: 48
Ave. words per hour: 1,579
Most productive days: Wednesdays and Saturdays
Least productive day: Tuesday

2019

2018 left me defeated, demoralized, and hungry for more. So hungry I feared I could never get enough: Validation. Success. Achievement. Purpose. Joy.

In her podcast leading up to the release of Big Magic, Liz Gilbert, in conversation with Brene Brown, talked about how creativity, if not used, has a tendency to metastasize into a bitter, toxic thing.

This is the feeling that consumed me in the first half of 2019. For years, I had allowed myself to be vulnerable in service to my writing, and in doing so, had opened myself to a fragility that did not lend itself to the world at large. Months of going through the motions of the daily things, ignoring the steady hum of creativity, had allowed it to decay.

I wanted so much more. But more felt…unattainable.

Rotting from the inside out, though? That was unpardonable.

Digging up the box where I had buried that part of myself was terrifying. I knew I couldn’t ease into it. There were no easy first steps. If I wanted more, I had to go after more. And I had to do so fearlessly. I had to change my thinking. My habits. My routine. I had to completely re-prioritize my life.

And then I had to leap.

So that’s what I did.

I joined a healthy group at work. I restructured my social groups, limited my time spent around negative, toxic behavior, and became more intentional in my relationships. I wrapped one day a week in iron-clad solitude and turned all the alerts off of my phone. I stopped working overtime and installed boundaries where before there had been none.

I pissed a lot of people off.

I got over it.

Years ago, I’d read on Jessica Lemmon’s blog about how she used a goal-setting system called PowerSheets to help her focus. Since it was mid-year, they were having a sale on the six-month undated version, so I thought, why not? It will be good practice for 2020.

Working through the exercises was like peeling layers of skin away from a blister. All that armor that had protected me from that all-consuming want was gone. I couldn’t ignore it. And I couldn’t pretend my rather comfortable life and pretty good job were satisfying anymore.

I poured as much of myself into writing as I could, but with a new rule: I wouldn’t be an asshole to myself this time. I would try for the sake of trying, not in the hopes of success, and I wouldn’t let failure stop me.

This is still a daily struggle. I’m not perfect and I never will be. There are going to be days when I let myself down, or things don’t go my way, or someone gets something I want and I react poorly to it. But I hope every day I get a little bit better at letting go of the outcome and letting myself write because there are stories to tell.



2019 Stats:
Words written: 150,598
Books finished: 3
Books published: 0
# of days written: 141
Longest writing streak: 20
Ave. words per day: 1,076
Ave. minutes per day: 63
Ave. words per hour: 1,121
Most productive days: Sundays and Fridays
Least productive day: Thursday

Same Liz, New Books

Many (many, many) years ago, when I was a college student writing my first book, I started a writing blog as a way to help me stay focused. The logic went: if I was blogging, then I was writing, and if I was writing, then something would eventually get done. And if something got done, then I had something to edit. And on and on.

Really, it wasn't a bad plan. It got me through two majors and five (5!!) books. I learned a lot (from other writers and trial and error) and I shared a lot and then...man, I just got tired. I got a job. I co-founded a non-profit. I started doing some ghostwriting. I developed a stress-related auto-immune disorder that causes my immune system to eat my organs whenever I get really excited or really scared or when it's Tuesday or I have to pee... Basically, I finish a book and go into liver failure. Eat a bagel, go into kidney failure. Wake up five minutes late, have no hemoglobin. It's fine. Totally fine. Everything is OK.

Point is, after a ten year hiatus, I miss blogging. Not so much for the accountability, because I don't need that anymore. But because I miss connecting with other writers on a more-than-120-characters level. And because, more than anything, I miss getting in touch with my process, that writer part of me that is always evolving, that doesn't get a proper check-in often enough.

(Sorry, writer me. You're important! You matter! It just doesn't always feel like you matter when there are other less important but more pressing responsibilities breathing down my neck! We're going to do better, you and I. I promise!)

Today I started a new book, which I love and think is great, except that right now the writer part of me is struggling with finding balance and being OK with not writing ALL THE THINGS! ALL THE TIME! The past few months have been the most creatively fulfilling months I've had in years, and it's been a fight to share my time with other responsibilities. Like, you know, work. And sleep. And self-care.

Twenty-two-year-old writer Liz would not have let those things get in the way of the words. She would have found a more accommodating job, loaded herself full of cigarettes and Red Bull, and powered through. This is probably why thirty-six-year-old writer Liz has no hemoglobin. :)

I just have to keep repeating to myself that small chunks of time are just as important as larger ones, small word counts add up just as quickly as big ones, and books that get continuous work will always eventually get finished.

That's the only way I have ever finished a book and the only way I ever will.

Do the work. Every day. Beginning with day one.

And all you have to do on day one?

Just start.