Degrees of Thawing

I'm a little bit paralyzed. I've spent over two years writing and editing two books in a series, and the ideas are there for a third, but I find them just sitting there in the folds of my brain, waiting for me to DO SOMETHING.

Unfortunately, like I said, nothing will come out. 

I think to myself, maybe what I need is a change . . . new characters, new setting, new world. So, lucky me, I have another promising idea for a book for a slightly younger audience (maybe 8-12, instead of 10 and up). I've developed the characters, laid out much of the plot. I've gotten excited about it. But still, it sits inside of my head—in the confines of this dense skull that insists on hoarding my ideas and keeping them prisoner. I can’t write a word of it.

Why is this happening?

I think it happens to all writers at some point or another, and right now just seems to be my time. You see, the rejections have started rolling in, and despite my intellectual understanding that facing rejection is, indeed, the lot of the writer . . . I also know that we’re a sensitive bunch. Well, perhaps I should just speak for myself:

I am a sensitive, wildly open-hearted, hopeful, vulnerable soul. And rejection hurts.

My head tries to tell my heart that there are a million reasons why an agent will decide not to take on a manuscript. I know this. I know that it is not enough for them to like it. It's not even enough to LOVE it. They have to love it more than they love fifty or more others (and that’s once they've weeded away the hundreds that they REALLY don't want).

But this mind-brain connection of mine doesn’t seem to be functioning properly. Someone pulled the plug on those nerves whose job it is to get this message to my heart—the message that says that none of this polite (even encouraging) rejection means that I’m not talented, that my story is worthless, or that my voice is useless. I cling to stories of famous authors who were told there work was un-publishable (James Rollins) or who got 10, 20, 30, 40 or more rejections before their manuscript found a home.

And yet, my writing brain is frozen.

What I can’t figure out is how to jump start it again—how to turn off the “fear of rejection” sensors so that creative messages can start flowing freely again.

(pause)

Now hold on a second, I just re-read what I wrote and realized that I specifically said that I was “a little bit paralyzed.” But, that’s not really paralysis then, is it? If it’s just a little bit, then isn’t it technically paresis? (Can’t turn off the Speech Pathologist’s brain) Paresis is a reduced ability to activate those neurons, rather than the complete inability to do so. So, that means that I can move. I can begin. I can take the first steps to strengthening those writing muscles that have begun to atrophy under the influence of fear. (Pretty sure I’m mixing neurological metaphors all over the place. Please forgive me.)

There is a fantastic book out there, which actually gave me the mental and emotional freedom to begin my writing journey in the first place. It is called, Write for Your Lives: Inspire Your Creative Writing with Buddhist Wisdom by Joseph Sestito. I don’t remember a lot of the details from the book, but I do remember that it taught me about applying mindfulness practice to writing. It finally hit home to me, two years ago, that I cannot live in any moment but this one, and I cannot write any page, scene, or chapter than the one I am in. Instead of thinking about the end of the book, or about agents and publishing houses, success and failure . . . this book taught me to stay with what my characters are doing, feeling, and experiencing NOW. Then walk with them into the next moment, and the next . . .

What you’re really doing is staying present with yourself, RIGHT NOW.

So, what I’m starting to realize is that maybe my intellect and my emotional self need slightly different things at this time. . . .

For the purposes of feeding that intellectual beast who knows that sometimes getting published really is a numbers game, I will continue to post each rejection on my corkboard like a badge of honor. I will also turn right around and send my manuscript out again each time I’m rejected, to reassure that “thinker” that I’m not giving up.

But, for the purposes of that fragile being that lives inside my chest, taking rejection much to heart, I will find a way to purge every moment but this one, and I will write something new to make her sing—I will put words on paper that make her fly to other worlds and see through different eyes until there is nothing to do but to remember that, for me, writing is everything.

There is a certain freedom that comes with putting a manuscript in the hands of an agent who has requested it, an agent that you really feel might understand your story, your protagonist, your journey. Don't get me wrong, there is also terror. This is your baby, after all. Not to get too biblical, but I've likened it to Moses' mom (or was it his sister?) sticking him in a basket and tucking him in the Nile River, hidden amongst the reeds—just waiting for someone to come along and take care of him.


In my case, I've spent over two years writing, revising, and living with my characters. I've embarked on a sequel, so in my mind, the story goes on and on, and the characters are as real to me as anything in my daily life. So, yes, it's terrifying—wondering whether the agents are reading it yet, if they like it, if it's what they hoped for when they requested it. But, at a certain point, I have come to realize that all I can do is let it go. Whatever happens, happens. Do I want these  agents to love it, to offer representation? Of course. That's the whole point...to share my stories with others—to introduce my characters to the world. But, there is also a freedom in the waiting. Now, I can say, "I've polished my work the very best that I can. I've loved my characters and breathed life into them. Now, it's in someone else's hands." So, now I'm free to get back to my sequel and write new scenes and chapters—new adventures. I'm free to blog for fun (See my new installment of "Angus Drew") :) and to let the creativity flow.






“Incredible change happens in your life when you decide to take control of what you do have power over instead of craving control over what you don't.”
― Steve Maraboli, Life, the Truth, and Being Free

New Blog - Angus Drew

Children with Autism, all across the spectrum, are unique and beautiful people with diverse challenges and distinctive gifts. I have long pondered the idea of writing a story or stories with a child with Autism as  the protagonist. Given my own Sensory Processing Disorder (long undiagnosed), I relate particularly strongly to the sensory overreaction that so many people with Autism experience when faced with textures that are too rough, sounds that are too loud, or lights that flicker or are too bright. Angus Drew is dedicated to all the children I know who struggle, finding miraculous ways to overcome.

http://angusdrew.blogspot.com/




K. S. Bartow

My Heart is in Upstate New York Tonight

My heart is in Upstate New York tonight, settling into the spaces between the trees, where the mountains cradle me with their gentle giant hands, where healing and love echo in the laughter of friends coming together to share their journey. I hear the rushing of the streams across the campus, and see the windows of the buildings glowing in the dusk as the sun makes it's last dip toward the horizon. I peer inside with my mind's eye and see those dear souls milling about, finding one another, and settling in for three days of heart-healing connection.



You see, every Spring, right around the time of my birthday, there is a Women's retreat that takes place in the Catskill mountains of New York State. It is nothing short of magical. It has been going on since 2004, and until last year, I had been going there every year. My first year, it opened the floodgates to creative and spiritual awakening in me, and that forward momentum, that growth toward my deepest intentions, has never stopped propelling me toward my highest vision for my life. 


The reality is that I've moved myself and my life south, and while it's been a good move in many ways, it makes the trip longer, more arduous, and more expensive. So, I've had to give it up for the second year in a row, which means letting go of the healing energy of the fresh mountain air, and missing out on the outpouring of love and joy that we all share together.


What is it about the heart that it has the ability to be broken and to dance at the same time?


It leaves an ache in my chest to know that they are coming together tonight without me. It makes me long for their voices, their smiles and their shared stories. I feel like my heart could sink into my stomach as I think of all that I am missing tonight: the beginning of the mural, the games, the shared artwork, the tales of joy and sorrow from the year, the words with which we tell each other once again, "I cherish you deeply."

Yet, there is also a joy in my heart, right there mingled with the sorrow. I know that these wonderful women, with whom I've shared countless awakenings, are coming together tonight, faces beaming with joy as they find one another in the crowd after a long year apart. I feel the pure delight in their hearts, see them embracing and laughing, talking over dinner as they prepare for the first night in the cabins, where they will giggle like young girls, too excited to sleep. I know that tomorrow will find them doing yoga and hiking the mountain trails, drumming in the lodge, painting with watercolors, delving into the secrets of their dreams...whatever it is that calls to them in the morning and as the day progresses. I picture them gathering in the solarium to write, draw, knit, chat with friends, or simply to watch the birds at the feeders outside.There will be reiki energy, shared creativity, and endless encouragement. Then, when I think of tomorrow night, I can feel the outpouring of emotion,the peaceful meditation, the exuberant dancing, and the aroma of the fire. 


Just thinking about that place, those women, and all that will transpire this weekend is, for me, a reminder of all of the best things that life has to offer. It awakens bliss in my heart, just as if I were there beside them. And they know that, in my heart, I am.

Creating Mental Space


Ah, the dreaded first blog. No matter how many journal entries I’ve written or stories I’ve told in my nearly 40 years, there’s something daunting about that first foray into the public journaling arena, where once private thoughts are now on display. I won’t lie; I’ve spent some time staring at the blank page today, thinking that maybe I’d forgotten how to write entirely.

I’m happy to report that it isn’t the case. However, I find that my avenue to the page has changed from that which I had anticipated. I thought that today I would write about writing—about what I love about it and why it’s important to me. I thought that maybe I would share the journey that’s carried me from piles of notebooks, stacked in closets, full of the inner workings of my mind, to this page, here . . . today, where I’m writing for anyone to see.

But, I don’t think I’m going to write about writing.

Instead, I want to write about meditating. Now, if you’re thinking that this is going to be a sermon, I promise you, it’s not. I may be a preacher’s kid, but I don’t swing that way. It doesn’t matter to me what gets you to where you’re going; you certainly don’t have to go my way. It’s just that I realized what was standing in my way today. Trying to write about writing on my first day out was like calling my own personal critic on the phone and asking for her thoughts on the matter. What I got was that inevitable voice of negativity that says no one will want to read what I write—the one that asks who the hell I think I am, anyway, thinking that my ideas, my words, my art, would be of value to someone else.

So, after some minor internal temper tantrums, I stopped for a moment to meditate. No cushion, no shrine room, nothing fancy (though I have, and use, a cushion and it sits in front of a shrine of sorts). I just meditated where I was, in a chair, on the porch, while listening to the sounds of the world around me.

It didn’t take long for my mind to settle down and for my personal critic to take a hike. (She knows when she’s no longer welcome). Meditation is what has taught me slowly but surely, over time, that I can let the words go. I can drop the storyline and be with my breath and tolerate the shaky, panicky feeling in my chest that tries to send me running for the hills when the writing gets rough. Let the words go? I know, it’s hard to imagine a writer letting go of words, but I know that it’s just temporary. I have confidence that they’ll be waiting for me when I return from my own, self-imposed “time out”, and they might even make more sense after I’ve provided them with some boundaries.

It turns out that, for me, stopping the constant flow of words that echoes off the cavernous walls of my mind, lets me experience what the fresh air feels like flooding my lungs, and what the scent of cedar outside my window does for my peace of mind. It encourages me to notice the sun stretched out across my legs and the comfort of the pillow supporting my back. It allows me to feel planted firmly on the earth.

When I allow myself to notice that what I’ve been doing is “thinking”, not observing anything real (I am not, in fact, an idiot, nor am I the worst writer who ever lived, thank you very much), it creates a space. I recognize that I haven’t been creating or seeing truth, I’ve just been letting my thoughts run roughshod over me. In that space, created by meditation, I can hear the birds singing and children laughing. Cliché? Maybe—but it’s real. What’s more, I can see my characters’ faces and hear what they’ve been trying to tell me over the din of my own internal shouting. In that space, I remember that I am here . . . now, everything else is just chatter.

It’s ironic to me that, when I started out writing this morning, all I could think of was the public nature of this, the potential for rejection or criticism. But now, in the space I’ve created, I remember that it’s never been about that. Do I want to publish? Of course I do. Do I hope that one day my characters and my stories will live in the hearts of others, that children, specifically, will take delight in them? Yes. I’m a writer—it’s what we long for. But because of stopping to breathe, to be here with myself in the midst of my own little panic attack, I remember that it’s really just about finding my way into the fresh air and the sun. It’s about giving voice to the parts of myself that don’t speak as loudly or take up as much space. It’s about giving them a place to roam and have adventures, to talk to me and with each other, to learn about one another and themselves—no bullies keeping them down.

Writing, for me, is creating a world for myself in which I’m free to play and fight, climb and fall, succeed and fail, unhindered by that well-meaning, over-protective parent voice that really just wants to keep me from getting hurt.

Huh . . . I guess I ended up circling around to writing about writing after all. Thanks for sticking with me until I figured that out.

My  art, in all its forms, is a weathered mirror that reflects back to me my imperfect image. It's an image wrought with spots and stains that I would sometimes rather avoid. Yet, in the flaws and the virtues of my characters, in their failures and triumphs, I witness my own shortcomings as well as my own limitless potential . . . my own beautiful journey. I also see the smiles and tears of those I love, and the joys and sorrows of strangers I pass on the road. In my sketches and mixed media excursions, I encounter my own raw vulnerability. There is no hiding from what I find on the page. 


Through this blog, I will share my rambling thoughts, the artwork that emerges from my pencil or my paintbrush, the music and poetry that inspires me, and the people and places that make my heart sing.