For Lent, Can You Give Up “Not Writing”?

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I have been declaring myself a writer for … well, ages. I love meeting writers and talking about their writing with them, but among the many people I meet, two groups baffle me:

1. Writers who don’t admit that they write. (And why the heck not?)

2. People who want to write, and don’t.

If you are in the latter camp, I’d like to challenge you to write for at least five minutes every day for the next 40 days. Just 5 minutes. 40 days. Easy-peasy.

Whether or not you belong to a religious tradition that celebrates Lent, it begins today, 14 February, this year, and it’s a great time to take on this modest, 40-day challenge. “Lent” by the way is an Old English word, meaning Spring, and probably relating to “the lengthening of days.” The Greek equivalent means fortieth. 

For whatever reason (I’m sure there is one), 40 is an important Biblical number. Noah’s Flood was caused by 40 days of rain. Moses and the Hebrew Tribes wandered in the desert for 40 years. Christ fasted in the wilderness for 40 days. There are other examples. And for anyone in a more secular mood, you could think of Franz Kafka’s Hunger Artist, who fasts for 40 days.

Lent is often thought to be synonymous with fasting — you’ve no doubt heard of chocolate fasts (but why would you?), shopping fasts, giving up anything generally “not good for you.” I like to think of the flip side of that, and use Lent as an opportunity to do something positive for 40 days.

What would you write? 

Don’t get all intimidated by this. If you have a project that you have been meaning to start and you can start it, by all means, do that. If you can’t, just practice being present with a notebook and pen.

Write a very small list of gratitudes. Try to come up with new ones every day. (What you focus on will grow.)

Write about one person who has been on your mind or buzzing about your memory.

Take a photographer’s approach, but instead of taking a picture of the same spot in your garden or on your walk every day, write a little description of it.

Copy out a poem, not necessarily yours. (Any writing counts.)

Draft your own poem — let it be as bad as it needs to be — and then make notes and write variants of it for 40 days — just to see what happens (I’ve been doing this with a poem about my mother).

Write a letter each day.

What if you get all tied up in knots with resistance?

If five minutes are impossible, write for one minute.

Treat yourself like your employee (or child!) — I do this by setting a timer. (Look, here, Bethany, I’m setting the timer for five minutes and I expect you to write until that chime goes off!)

I’m willing to bet that there is some sort of writing that you do already — tweets or Facebook posts or emails. So try writing on your chosen itty-bitty project in that forum. Collect the results and keep them in a folder or envelope or desk drawer. Don’t look at them until the 40 days are up.

Give yourself itty bitty rewards. Big rewards get me all nervous and are weirdly counter-productive, but I will write for red X’s or shiny foil stars. And I don’t know why I’m so compulsive, but I just love an “every day” project. (Ask me how many days in a row I’ve done the dumb little game my daughter downloaded to my phone.) Doing something every day (like walking for at least 5 minutes every day since January 5!) begins to contain its own motivation and rewards.

Remind yourself, it’s just for a few minutes. It’s just for 40 days.

And, while I’m at it, if you are a closet writer (see group #1 above), why not find a way to challenge yourself to share a little bit of work every day for 40 days? You could email it or message it to a friend, and they could do the same for you.

Think of this project as not fasting (giving up anything), but as choosing joy for 40 days. And why not?

 

 

 

Writing — guilty pleasure or basic need?

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So here it is, January of the New Year. I have a few resolutions I’m working on, and someone suggested that I reframe why I set them, and that conversation got me thinking.

Then, at Writing Lab today, one of our writers admitted that she doesn’t write very much, even though she’d like to, because taking time for writing feels self-indulgent. Others chimed in. She wasn’t alone.

I kind of want to whine here. If, instead of writing, you are busy finding a cure for cancer, or homelessness, or world hunger, maybe you have a point. But, frankly, I don’t think any of us at the table today were doing anything stop-the-presses-newsworthy instead of writing.

And of course I’ve heard this from so many people over the years that it shouldn’t be jaw-dropping any longer. To illustrate, I have one friend who, in all the years I’ve known her has never been able to sustain a writing practice. It isn’t that she wouldn’t love to write; plus, she’s got the know-how — she has advanced degrees in writing. I asked her once why the heck she wasn’t writing, and she told me an amazing story about a teacher of hers who wrote despite having “crazy needy children.” Then she continued, “And I don’t want my children to go crazy.”

She was not trying to get a laugh; she was sincere. And although it seemed absolutely bizarre at the time, now that my friend has grandchildren and I’ve seen her in action for a number of years, I think I understand. She’s busy with work and keeping body and soul together, and when she does find any free time, she wants to spend it on her family.

For the record, I approve of people lavishing attention on the young’uns in their lives. But I don’t think that’s quite the problem here. You can substitute your non-negotiable here (unless it’s checking Facebook or watching Criminal Minds). At this point, I’m not even sure it’s about making the time to write (I’ve tried before to address how you might do that). So maybe, for you, like me with my New Year’s resolutions, it’s time to rethink your why. 

all pictures from pexels.com

And since we’re talking about writing here, which is — at least some of the time — about making stuff up, let’s talk about re-imagining why you want to write. (And I don’t mean so that you can pull down the big bucks. I mean why it’s important to you.) To get really really clear here, the belief that writing is self-indulgent is a belief, just like the belief that being a writer = crazy offspring is a belief. Not one of those beliefs like believing in God (let’s not mess with that) or not (or that). It’s not even a belief like your political beliefs, which I think we all know by now are troublesome enough.

No, this belief is simply something that you made up at some point in your life. Maybe at that point it helped you cope with some difficulty or other. Maybe it kept you alive.

But it’s just a belief, and you can replace it. Here are a few suggestions, all of which are true for me:

  • I write because writing is good for my brain. (This is also my piano lesson argument.)
  • I write because writing is healing. (See Louise DeSalvo.)
  • I write so I can be a better __________ (teacher/mom/pastor/committee member/friend).
  • I write to gain objectivity.
  • I write because I want ____________  (your students? your children? someone else?) to see that it’s possible to balance a busy, even over-full life with one’s passion.
  • I write so _____________ (my daughters) will see that having a passion is important.
  • I write to find out what matters to me.
  • I write because writing keeps me sane.
  • I write because writing gives me joy.

There must be other good reasons to write that you can gin up, and one may very well be to make a living (kudos for you), or bringing joy to others.

Writing is a guilty pleasure and a basic need. If you want to write, that’s a good enough reason to write.

What’s Your Morning Routine?

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My mother used to say, “I have no secrets.” In other words, if she thought it, she shared it.

So I want to share with you the secret of my morning routine.

As soon as I get up–well, pretty much as soon as I get up–I go out to the kitchen, flip on the Keurig, and then I go to the sink and pour myself 16 oz. of water.

While my coffee is making, I do some kind of exercise, maybe bending to touch my toes ten times.

I take my coffee to whatever spot I’m writing in these days and I pick up my journal. Now that we are almost empty-nesters, I write in a favorite chair inside the house; my dog appreciates it; besides, the cabin is really cold this time of year.

I write 2-3 pages in my big Everyman’s Journal, which I like to think of as my Everywoman’s Journal.

I have a couple of small assignments right now that I’m wrapping into my journal. I’ve written a very short entry every day since my mother has been on Hospice (today is day #52). It’s either a description of a visit with her, or a memory, or a reflection of some sort.

The other assignment began January 1. I came across a One-Bad-Poem notebook from 2007-2008, and it occurred to me that I could spend a few minutes each day revisiting a poem written 10 years ago. Here’s a sample:

Like Chalkboard Erasers

When I clump the old poems together
letters and phrases and whole lines shake loose
and drift over me in a chalky cloud.

Having this particular morning routine works for me, and it usually launches me into a day of getting writing done. Even if I have a day of driving ahead of me, appointments, or whatever, I move into my day knowing that I’ve accomplished something that matters to me, something that makes me feel alive. Writing.

So here’s my secret, that is not a secret at all if you’ve followed my blog for very long.

I don’t have to drink 16 oz. of water. I don’t have to write 3 pages in my journal. I don’t have to be brilliant in my mom diary. I don’t have to revise the poem, and it (still) doesn’t have to be good.

All I have to do is offer myself the opportunity. I pour the water. I pick up my pen. I think about my mom. I recopy the poem. Sometimes it’s a bit lame. But I’m not here to be wildly successful. It’s more like an experiment. I see what happens.

What It Looked Like

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I stayed up late New Year’s Eve — making a last-ditch, under-the-wire effort to meet my submission goals for 2017. “Getting my ducks in a row.” Or attempting to.

I believe my husband said goodnight and went to bed at 8:30. Daughter #3 (the only duckling still at home) disappeared into the night around the same time.  I am of two minds about this: 1) that this was a little pathetic of me; and 2) that hanging out with my poems and stories and various journal web-sites and submittable pages was a perfectly healthy way to spend the holiday.

Anywho, that’s what I did. And here’s a quick recap of the year’s send-out.

I submitted poems to 55 venues in 2017.

This was only 5 short of my goal of 60, and if I were better at counting, I would have had 60, so…I’m okay with that. Of the 212 (approximate) poems I submitted, 17 were accepted and one was a contest winner. The 12 submissions between 12/24 and 12/31 of course have not yet enjoyed a response, and 4 others from earlier in the year are still hanging fire.

In 2017, I submitted 12 short stories —

This met my goal – which was no small potatoes when you look back at my (abysmal) history of short story send outs. Moreover, one story was a runner-up in Calyx’s Margarita Donnelly contest and is published on-line (hurrah!). A BIG first for Bethany! I can’t report on the ratio of send-out to acceptances yet, as five just went out, but I’ll keep you posted.

On the south coast of Ireland, Sept. 30, 2017

What I learned from submission efforts is a topic that I need to revisit, and will revisit in future posts. I LEARNED SO MUCH, even (especially) from the missteps.

A recap of 2017 could include so many other important details — the blog overhaul (which is still on-going), the novel which is still not 100% finished with me but somehow made it to 4 contests (1: no; 3: awaiting response), plus into the hands of my film-school graduate friend. The new (“new”?) novel that is happily underway…

Oh, and family life (that!), trips (Ireland!), not to mention writing conferences (2!) poetry readings, new poems drafted, and books read…and so forth.

So what do I write about next?

Thanks to a challenge at Donna Vorreyer’s blog I have made a commitment to write a blogpost at least once each week in 2018, which will give me lots of wiggle room to get you caught up on well, moi, and the writing life.

If you have any goals (even baby step goals) in 2018, please share in the comments. If you think I can help, email me at bethany.alchemy@gmail.com — you can also leave your email on the sign-up form (whether or not you’d like to open the PDF of my 7-days-of writing encouragement) to receive my sporadic newsletter updates.

No matter what else 2018 holds for you, I hope you write.