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.

How to Make Lemonade

When I first sat down to write this post, I had totally planned on talking about how demoralizing one of my classes has been, and what a struggle it is to write happy things when someone in your life is trying his damnedest to make sure you know just how horribly you suck.

But then halfway through I realized that focusing on the muck is what keeps you in the muck, and what I really should blog about was how to get out of the muck.

Ready? Here goes.

When life hands you lemons, send them through a juicer

Since toxic people bear toxic fruit, it can be dangerous to try and digest their special kind of feedback, skin and all. Instead, you have to separate the bitter/inedible parts from the juice, which might otherwise be useful. I like to do this by blacking out--either literally, with a Sharpie, or mentally--those things you think are invalid, unfounded, or just plain mean.

Can't find any juice? Don't worry about it. Some people are just mean for the sake of being mean.

Dilute, dilute, dilute

Being the designated whipping girl isn't fun, especially when it seems like every move you make is met with a smack on the rear. But the truth of the matter is, even though a person's ire may be directed at you, it's usually not because of you or anything you've done. Toxic people are experts at finding faults in others they think will deflect from their own insecurities.

Pour some sugar on it

Let's face it: rejection stings, even when it's from someone you don't like. Take the hurt out of it by revising their demoralizing feedback with something a little more constructive. For example, if someone accuses you of rambling inanely, make a mental note to double-check for cohesiveness.

Serve it ice cold

Never, never, never try and tackle a nasty critique right away. Let it sit for a day/week/month, until you can read it without over-analyzing every little thing.

And when you're done, put it on ice permanently by tossing it in the wastebasket where it belongs.

Quiet Time

 
Believe it or not, my favorite time of day is just before dawn, when I have the courtyard outside the library all to myself, and an hour and a half to do whatever I please. Sometimes I read. Sometimes I write. Sometimes I lay my head down on the table and stay that way until the sun comes up. Regardless, it’s my time to do whatever I want to do, and that kind of freedom is worth its weight in gold.