There is nothing like a broken leg to keep you in one spot, staring at the computer screen, and KNOWING with every fiber of your being that you should be WRITING. One of my biggest excuses for not getting that book on paper is "I'm so busy training, I just don't have time."
Now, it is gone, my bike is parked for the summer, and all I can do is stare at this computer, which reminds me every day that I should be putting words on "paper" and using this time wisely. I've always been a multitasker, juggling two or three to-do's at a time, always in the middle of a cleaning project, constantly taking on more volunteer or paid work than I actually have time for.
Now, my days -- especially when the family is gone and it's just me and the animals -- tick by agonizingly slow. I've watched movies in the middle of the day -- how absurd! -- devour books like candy (even the really bad ones), call long lost friends to see what's up. In my good moment, I'll hobble down to the kitchen to try to tidy up or crutch down to the basement to put a load of laundry in. But those chores are painstakingly slow on crutches, and eventually I retreat to the couch or bed or whereever it is I can put my foot up and ease the neverending throbbing.
But: Enough whining. The reality is (after watching "Wendy and Lucy" on pay-per-view, which I swear is my last daytime movie!) I knew I needed to get busy.
So I DID!
Officially opening a document, I started writing. It's likely all gibberish and will end up the victim of the delete button, but for one hour, I just sat down and considered the words. Pounding them out one after another, I still am not attached to the story, but it's a beginning. Maybe it will evolve into something that makes sense. Maybe it will be a small part of something completely different.
It's just that after sitting around for three-plus weeks reading books while I'm laid up, I'm finally bored. I look at the "About the Author" pages and peer at the pictures of these people who just made it happen. They all look normal enough -- why can't I do it too?
Anyway, this post is a bit dull -- I know, maybe my lively story-telling abilities can only last for an hour at a time. But this is a start, and I hope not a stop. You've got to begin somewhere and why not now, with a dead-end story and a laptop easy enough to haul around while on crutches?
Friday, May 15, 2009
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Missing in Action
Taking care of a blog is sort of like remembering to bathe your dog, and let me tell you: MY PUPPY IS DIRTY!
Now for the excuses: Life is in turmoil. About three hours after my husband decided he couldn't take it at his job anymore and told his bosses "no more" (I was SO proud of him!), I crashed my bike, broke my leg, underwent surgery to put it all back together, and have been recuperating ever since. It has been a monumental challenge because I am naturally the sort of person who likes to have about 25 things going on at once, and thrives under pressure.
Now I'm spending my mornings watching "Regis and Kelly" and feeling like my grandmother. A trip to the bathroom is a trek, and going downstairs to put the laundry in is an outback adventure. I need full hours to recuperate after these forays around my house.
As for my so-called Deadlines and Stopwatches, well, they really don't exist anymore. I still have some writing to do, but the training is kaput for the season. I won't see a bike again until fall at least. The races are all swiped off my calendar, the backpacking trips canceled, the campouts postponed. I don't want to think about it too much, because it's all too depressing.
Still, it's not the end of the world, and I know it could be worse. My injuries will heal -- maybe not perfectly, but I WILL ride again. And there will be other summers -- hopefully as beautiful as this one is starting off to be. I've got my family, and my friends' commitment to helping me overcome this challenge -- from cleaning my house, to cooking meals to ferrying the kids where they need to be -- has been humbling. In a way, really, this ordeal has taught me to look outside my own selfish needs or wants and realize how lucky I am.
And if I'm really honest with myself, it has brought me a level of contentment that I didn't realize could exist. In my mind, I've thought "FINALLY." It's a gift. And I treasure it more than anything. I don't want to lose it again.
Now for the excuses: Life is in turmoil. About three hours after my husband decided he couldn't take it at his job anymore and told his bosses "no more" (I was SO proud of him!), I crashed my bike, broke my leg, underwent surgery to put it all back together, and have been recuperating ever since. It has been a monumental challenge because I am naturally the sort of person who likes to have about 25 things going on at once, and thrives under pressure.
Now I'm spending my mornings watching "Regis and Kelly" and feeling like my grandmother. A trip to the bathroom is a trek, and going downstairs to put the laundry in is an outback adventure. I need full hours to recuperate after these forays around my house.
As for my so-called Deadlines and Stopwatches, well, they really don't exist anymore. I still have some writing to do, but the training is kaput for the season. I won't see a bike again until fall at least. The races are all swiped off my calendar, the backpacking trips canceled, the campouts postponed. I don't want to think about it too much, because it's all too depressing.
Still, it's not the end of the world, and I know it could be worse. My injuries will heal -- maybe not perfectly, but I WILL ride again. And there will be other summers -- hopefully as beautiful as this one is starting off to be. I've got my family, and my friends' commitment to helping me overcome this challenge -- from cleaning my house, to cooking meals to ferrying the kids where they need to be -- has been humbling. In a way, really, this ordeal has taught me to look outside my own selfish needs or wants and realize how lucky I am.
And if I'm really honest with myself, it has brought me a level of contentment that I didn't realize could exist. In my mind, I've thought "FINALLY." It's a gift. And I treasure it more than anything. I don't want to lose it again.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Where has journalism gone?
I'm sitting here, pondering the downfall of the print industry -- well, let's hope it's not that bad, but to be sure, newspapers are struggling in a way I've never seen before -- and wondering what we writers can do about it. The thing is, the newspaper industry as a whole has blamed things like Craigslist, online advertising, the immediacy of online news, and even things like this little blog, which spits out opinions along with millions of other bloggers, for the struggles they are having now.
I agree that some of that -- a large portion of that -- is probably true. But I also wish to hell that the industry would quit whining. Because during my 18-plus years as a reporter, here's what I saw -- even when times were good: management grew, grew, grew; time and resources for reporters shrunk, shrunk, shrunk. Good journalism, it seemed, became fewer and far between.
Now that's not to say there aren't great writers out there. In my Alaska world, I can count several whom I think still maintain that level of integrity that put them in a class their own. And they do it despite the constraints put on them by their employers.
But here's what really made me start thinking about all of this the other day, while talking to my other half, who's also in the print industry, about it. And it has nothing to do with shrinking budgets and expanding management. The question is: "Where did the REAL stories go?"
He and I differ on this subject quite a bit, and I don't think there's a right or wrong answer. Or, maybe there is and I'm completely blind to it, but it is one of the reasons I decided I needed to write on my own, choose my stories and follow my interests, which (in my mind anyway) would lead to a better product.
Let me explain. I think I'm beating around the bush too much. My question, when talking to my husband about all of this, is "Should newspapers write the 'he said-she said' version of every story -- you know the line we all hear as journalism students -- "Be fair, two-sided, let the reader decide after reading the facts, etc..."
Or "Should newspapers have their belief system -- be it conservative, liberal, economic, environmental, whatever" -- and then defend that stand to all ends?
Both sides make sense, but they also represent potential problems. Writing the two-sided story is, as a human, impossible. That's just me talking, and maybe there are scores of other journalists out there who would disagree and call me crazy. But my argument is that we are all human, we all come with our inner values and beliefs that no matter how hard we try to keep out of our "writing lives" must surely seep in. Even the way in which we interpret a comment from a source can be skewed in ways that are completely unconscious.
I can honestly say that when I worked as a newspaper reporter, I thought every single story I wrote represented a fair and equal side to whatever the issue was I was reporting on. I talked to those "for" an issue, and scribbled down their quotes dutifully. I talked to those "against" it, and did the same. In the story, both were quoted.
However, ask the readers and I'm sure you will get a different story -- "She was way too liberal on that!" they might say, "Or she totally misinterpreted what I meant!" another might accuse. Even the placement of each person's views within the story surely, somehow subconsciously, sent the reader to the path that was most aligned with my beliefs. Or, on the flip side, in an overzealous attempt to "hide" my beliefs, I'm sure there were times when my stories led readers down the opposite path.
And you know what? They believe what they are saying as much as I believe what I wrote.
And therein lies the rub (one of my most favorite but hated cliches of all time -- what EXACTLY does "therein lies the rub" mean, anyway?!).
The thing is, we all perceive life and events through our own filters, developed around how we grew up, the people around us, the places we've been, what we've experienced, and how we view the world. Asking a human to take those filters away is damned near impossible, and when newspapers claim to have fair and two-sided coverage of any event/aspect, etc., I think they are thinking much more highly of themselves as they have a right to -- somehow transcending human nature to provide the "facts." Give me a break, oh, lofty newspaper that you are.
So, you can see where I'm going with this. For me, writing is MOST honest, MOST fair, when written from the perspective of the writer -- i.e. scenario No. 2: "Newspapers should have their belief system -- be it conservative, liberal, economic, environmental, whatever, and then defend that stand to all ends."
Think about it: That is why blogs, online news, Twitter, texting, my-spacing, Facebooking, and all the other nonsense out there on the Internet is so popular -- we can't get enough of it. It's like the ultimate "chatting over the backyard fence with your neighbor." These kinds of conversations are what interest people because they are about real people.
Newspapers, in an effort to be so two-sided, lost sight of that a long time ago, and it's a shame because they just aren't interesting anymore. And now, as newspapers lose more and more revenue, they're doing the worst thing possible, which is to cut the lifestyles, local sports stories and real-life accounts of regular people doing regular things in favor of a condensed jumble of whatever is the news of the day. Furthermore, they're cutting staffs in such a way, that noone has time to be excited about thei jobs anymore. It's a survival game.
Through all of this, whatever the scenario, I still and always will believe that newspapers must print facts - I'm not at all saying that gossip and shoddy reporting should rule the industry. I just think newspapers have lost their personality in the struggle to keep readers, and that's where they are losing sight now -- ignoring that the readers won't care unless the newspapers really have something to say.
Consider this: You're at a party, and have two conversations. The first is with a perfectly friendly acquaintance who nods and smiles and agrees with everything you say. They don't talk or add to the conversation, but whatever you say, they just pleasantly take your position.
Before long, you're looking in desperation for the bar or a friend, or the bathroom -- anything to rescue you from this utterly B-O-R-I-N-G person.
You escape to the other side of the house and there collected around the fireplace is another acquaintance, talking about the latest "issue" of which you happen to have an opinion. He is speaking earnestly and respectful of others' opinions, but can answer every question with a fact or figure that supports his side of the argument. You find yourself drawn into this conversation, because it is making you rethink your position. You may not change your mind, but you've been challenged.
And by the fireplace you stay until the conversation ends.
I agree that some of that -- a large portion of that -- is probably true. But I also wish to hell that the industry would quit whining. Because during my 18-plus years as a reporter, here's what I saw -- even when times were good: management grew, grew, grew; time and resources for reporters shrunk, shrunk, shrunk. Good journalism, it seemed, became fewer and far between.
Now that's not to say there aren't great writers out there. In my Alaska world, I can count several whom I think still maintain that level of integrity that put them in a class their own. And they do it despite the constraints put on them by their employers.
But here's what really made me start thinking about all of this the other day, while talking to my other half, who's also in the print industry, about it. And it has nothing to do with shrinking budgets and expanding management. The question is: "Where did the REAL stories go?"
He and I differ on this subject quite a bit, and I don't think there's a right or wrong answer. Or, maybe there is and I'm completely blind to it, but it is one of the reasons I decided I needed to write on my own, choose my stories and follow my interests, which (in my mind anyway) would lead to a better product.
Let me explain. I think I'm beating around the bush too much. My question, when talking to my husband about all of this, is "Should newspapers write the 'he said-she said' version of every story -- you know the line we all hear as journalism students -- "Be fair, two-sided, let the reader decide after reading the facts, etc..."
Or "Should newspapers have their belief system -- be it conservative, liberal, economic, environmental, whatever" -- and then defend that stand to all ends?
Both sides make sense, but they also represent potential problems. Writing the two-sided story is, as a human, impossible. That's just me talking, and maybe there are scores of other journalists out there who would disagree and call me crazy. But my argument is that we are all human, we all come with our inner values and beliefs that no matter how hard we try to keep out of our "writing lives" must surely seep in. Even the way in which we interpret a comment from a source can be skewed in ways that are completely unconscious.
I can honestly say that when I worked as a newspaper reporter, I thought every single story I wrote represented a fair and equal side to whatever the issue was I was reporting on. I talked to those "for" an issue, and scribbled down their quotes dutifully. I talked to those "against" it, and did the same. In the story, both were quoted.
However, ask the readers and I'm sure you will get a different story -- "She was way too liberal on that!" they might say, "Or she totally misinterpreted what I meant!" another might accuse. Even the placement of each person's views within the story surely, somehow subconsciously, sent the reader to the path that was most aligned with my beliefs. Or, on the flip side, in an overzealous attempt to "hide" my beliefs, I'm sure there were times when my stories led readers down the opposite path.
And you know what? They believe what they are saying as much as I believe what I wrote.
And therein lies the rub (one of my most favorite but hated cliches of all time -- what EXACTLY does "therein lies the rub" mean, anyway?!).
The thing is, we all perceive life and events through our own filters, developed around how we grew up, the people around us, the places we've been, what we've experienced, and how we view the world. Asking a human to take those filters away is damned near impossible, and when newspapers claim to have fair and two-sided coverage of any event/aspect, etc., I think they are thinking much more highly of themselves as they have a right to -- somehow transcending human nature to provide the "facts." Give me a break, oh, lofty newspaper that you are.
So, you can see where I'm going with this. For me, writing is MOST honest, MOST fair, when written from the perspective of the writer -- i.e. scenario No. 2: "Newspapers should have their belief system -- be it conservative, liberal, economic, environmental, whatever, and then defend that stand to all ends."
Think about it: That is why blogs, online news, Twitter, texting, my-spacing, Facebooking, and all the other nonsense out there on the Internet is so popular -- we can't get enough of it. It's like the ultimate "chatting over the backyard fence with your neighbor." These kinds of conversations are what interest people because they are about real people.
Newspapers, in an effort to be so two-sided, lost sight of that a long time ago, and it's a shame because they just aren't interesting anymore. And now, as newspapers lose more and more revenue, they're doing the worst thing possible, which is to cut the lifestyles, local sports stories and real-life accounts of regular people doing regular things in favor of a condensed jumble of whatever is the news of the day. Furthermore, they're cutting staffs in such a way, that noone has time to be excited about thei jobs anymore. It's a survival game.
Through all of this, whatever the scenario, I still and always will believe that newspapers must print facts - I'm not at all saying that gossip and shoddy reporting should rule the industry. I just think newspapers have lost their personality in the struggle to keep readers, and that's where they are losing sight now -- ignoring that the readers won't care unless the newspapers really have something to say.
Consider this: You're at a party, and have two conversations. The first is with a perfectly friendly acquaintance who nods and smiles and agrees with everything you say. They don't talk or add to the conversation, but whatever you say, they just pleasantly take your position.
Before long, you're looking in desperation for the bar or a friend, or the bathroom -- anything to rescue you from this utterly B-O-R-I-N-G person.
You escape to the other side of the house and there collected around the fireplace is another acquaintance, talking about the latest "issue" of which you happen to have an opinion. He is speaking earnestly and respectful of others' opinions, but can answer every question with a fact or figure that supports his side of the argument. You find yourself drawn into this conversation, because it is making you rethink your position. You may not change your mind, but you've been challenged.
And by the fireplace you stay until the conversation ends.
Friday, March 27, 2009
No more lollygagging
Back from Mexico -- which was so incredible, I'll have to definitely fill you in on soon (by the way, humboldt squids apparently aren't all man-eating after all). But for today, here's what's on my mind, for whatever reason:
This time of year reminds me of my life a whopping 16 YEARS ago -- wow, I can't believe it's been that long -- when I was just a young thing, hiking a long trail with my crazy dog. We started the day after what the weather people called "The Storm of the Century," which dumped more than 3 feet of snow on the east coast, from Maryland to Georgia. For we Alaskans, this is just another snowstorm, but there? It stopped everything. Power outages, school closures, infinite accidents, blocked roads, etc. You name it, the weather did it.
Still, my plan for hiking the 2,100-mile Appalachian Trail had been in the works for months, and I was not ready to give up. My start date -- March 17, 1993 (St. Patrick's Day, and now, coincidentally, my daughter's birthday) -- was delayed by one day, but I made it to north Georgia on March 18, ready to begin the six-month journey toward Baxter State Park, Maine. My partner was my 2-year-old German shepherd-greyhound mix, Ruby (Trail name: Order; I was Chaos, for obvious reasons), and we were accompanied by a guy from Michigan, also starting the trail, named Mark. We planned to hike together until we both were comfortably acquainted with trail life (which turned out to be about 10 days) then move on at our own paces. I never saw him again.
To this day, I'm still not real sure what my parents thought of the plan. I was out of college and had a good job at the Roanoke Times, the regional newspaper. Why then was I dumping everything to live out of a backpack for six months? I'm sure they thought I'd lost my mind.
The story is complicated, and involves a lot of soul-searching on my part, but the short answer is this: I didn't want to be one of those people who let life pass her by. I wanted to see what was out there, and I was afraid, at that point in time in my life, that if I kept on the working-woman routine, I would find myself confined to an office with no windows in just a few years, looking around me, going, "What happened?" eating Little Debbie snack cakes and shopping at Wal-Mart.
Life was too short -- I knew it.
So off I went.
Appalachian Trail thru-hikers call this time of year "Springer Fever," because with spring there also comes that restlessness that makes one want to get moving. Even here in Alaska, where I'm watching snow fall heavily right now -- winter is still here despite what the calendar says -- I'm getting that itch. I want to do something different, shake up the pot, see what comes tumbling out. My god, one can only do so much laundry and wash so many dishes before they become invisible.
All romance and adventure aside, though, hiking the Appalachian Trail was a tremendously difficult mental and physical undertaking. While hiking is not, say, as adrenaline-rushed as blasting down white-water or climbing inverted rock faces, it is most definitely an endurance event. Every day, from March 18, 1993 to Sept. 11, 1993, I had a goal, a purpose and a reason to keep going. It was simple, really, and even on the days when I "lollygagged" -- only hiking three or four miles because I just couldn't muster the willpower to go more (or, more likely, because I was enjoying a good book, or time with friends I'd met along the way, or just taking in the scenery) -- the fact is, life was simple. Hard, but simple.
I yearn for that now, and I get frustrated when people say, "It's different, you have kids, bills to pay, 'responsibilities.' " What the hell are "RESPONSIBILITIES" anyway? This is a rhetorical question -- of course I understand what I need to do to raise children who can add to society, become functional, compassionate adults. I just question the "getting-there" process that seems so wrapped up in money, status and possessions. Can't my family and kids learn this a little differently?
My mind is wandering like a heavily braided river right now, and I'm not exactly sure why, but I know a good portion of this blather has something to do with the arrival of spring, and that "Springer Fever" itch I'm feeling to make more of our life than the monthly mortgage and homework routine to which we so easily fall back on. To instill in our kids a sense of adventure -- and confidence to follow-through with it -- is much more valuable to me than making sure they have the latest "whatever is in style" these days. It's a balancing act of earning enough to provide this (which is why we spend more money on travel than we do on home, possessions, etc.) while still inserting some sort of sense of normalcy (although normalcy is much overrated, but that's just me....)
I could've driven the Interstate from north Georgia to Maine, checking out all the cool places along the way, making a wonderful vacation of seeing the towns and meeting the people through each of the 14 states through which the Appalachian Trail passes. The end destination would have been the same.
Still, I believe the route is the key. In fact, it's not the same trip at all.
And I don't want to lose sight of that now, when all the pressures of the "must-haves" seep in to today's life.
This time of year reminds me of my life a whopping 16 YEARS ago -- wow, I can't believe it's been that long -- when I was just a young thing, hiking a long trail with my crazy dog. We started the day after what the weather people called "The Storm of the Century," which dumped more than 3 feet of snow on the east coast, from Maryland to Georgia. For we Alaskans, this is just another snowstorm, but there? It stopped everything. Power outages, school closures, infinite accidents, blocked roads, etc. You name it, the weather did it.
Still, my plan for hiking the 2,100-mile Appalachian Trail had been in the works for months, and I was not ready to give up. My start date -- March 17, 1993 (St. Patrick's Day, and now, coincidentally, my daughter's birthday) -- was delayed by one day, but I made it to north Georgia on March 18, ready to begin the six-month journey toward Baxter State Park, Maine. My partner was my 2-year-old German shepherd-greyhound mix, Ruby (Trail name: Order; I was Chaos, for obvious reasons), and we were accompanied by a guy from Michigan, also starting the trail, named Mark. We planned to hike together until we both were comfortably acquainted with trail life (which turned out to be about 10 days) then move on at our own paces. I never saw him again.
To this day, I'm still not real sure what my parents thought of the plan. I was out of college and had a good job at the Roanoke Times, the regional newspaper. Why then was I dumping everything to live out of a backpack for six months? I'm sure they thought I'd lost my mind.
The story is complicated, and involves a lot of soul-searching on my part, but the short answer is this: I didn't want to be one of those people who let life pass her by. I wanted to see what was out there, and I was afraid, at that point in time in my life, that if I kept on the working-woman routine, I would find myself confined to an office with no windows in just a few years, looking around me, going, "What happened?" eating Little Debbie snack cakes and shopping at Wal-Mart.
Life was too short -- I knew it.
So off I went.
Appalachian Trail thru-hikers call this time of year "Springer Fever," because with spring there also comes that restlessness that makes one want to get moving. Even here in Alaska, where I'm watching snow fall heavily right now -- winter is still here despite what the calendar says -- I'm getting that itch. I want to do something different, shake up the pot, see what comes tumbling out. My god, one can only do so much laundry and wash so many dishes before they become invisible.
All romance and adventure aside, though, hiking the Appalachian Trail was a tremendously difficult mental and physical undertaking. While hiking is not, say, as adrenaline-rushed as blasting down white-water or climbing inverted rock faces, it is most definitely an endurance event. Every day, from March 18, 1993 to Sept. 11, 1993, I had a goal, a purpose and a reason to keep going. It was simple, really, and even on the days when I "lollygagged" -- only hiking three or four miles because I just couldn't muster the willpower to go more (or, more likely, because I was enjoying a good book, or time with friends I'd met along the way, or just taking in the scenery) -- the fact is, life was simple. Hard, but simple.
I yearn for that now, and I get frustrated when people say, "It's different, you have kids, bills to pay, 'responsibilities.' " What the hell are "RESPONSIBILITIES" anyway? This is a rhetorical question -- of course I understand what I need to do to raise children who can add to society, become functional, compassionate adults. I just question the "getting-there" process that seems so wrapped up in money, status and possessions. Can't my family and kids learn this a little differently?
My mind is wandering like a heavily braided river right now, and I'm not exactly sure why, but I know a good portion of this blather has something to do with the arrival of spring, and that "Springer Fever" itch I'm feeling to make more of our life than the monthly mortgage and homework routine to which we so easily fall back on. To instill in our kids a sense of adventure -- and confidence to follow-through with it -- is much more valuable to me than making sure they have the latest "whatever is in style" these days. It's a balancing act of earning enough to provide this (which is why we spend more money on travel than we do on home, possessions, etc.) while still inserting some sort of sense of normalcy (although normalcy is much overrated, but that's just me....)
I could've driven the Interstate from north Georgia to Maine, checking out all the cool places along the way, making a wonderful vacation of seeing the towns and meeting the people through each of the 14 states through which the Appalachian Trail passes. The end destination would have been the same.
Still, I believe the route is the key. In fact, it's not the same trip at all.
And I don't want to lose sight of that now, when all the pressures of the "must-haves" seep in to today's life.
Friday, March 6, 2009
We will return after a brief message...
Just a quick update -- we're here in sunny LaPaz, Mexico, enjoying an awesome beach, snorkeling, and , beginning tomorrow, a weeklong kayaking/camping trip with the kids. Just got back from a nice long run the malecon, right along the ocean.
Anyway, I thought I'd get a chance to write before leaving, but, of course, it didn't happen amid all the chaos of packing and organizing the camping gear.
Will write more when I get back -- enjoy life, read lots of books, write *no matter what!* and get in a good run or two!
Anyway, I thought I'd get a chance to write before leaving, but, of course, it didn't happen amid all the chaos of packing and organizing the camping gear.
Will write more when I get back -- enjoy life, read lots of books, write *no matter what!* and get in a good run or two!
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Practice makes perfect....
The first story I ever wrote – about an effort to build a school in a sister city overseas – appeared in 1991. I had been working at the regional newspaper for about a year and had worked my way from editorial assistant to full-fledged reporter, and I was shaking at the thought of my words going out for the whole world (well, at least about 90,000 southwest Virginia readers) to see.
All of a sudden I had gone from the relative anonymity of public service announcement writing, compiling wedding listings and school lunch menus to putting something out there that had my NAME on it, undeniably me, for better or worse.
It’s sort of like standing naked in front of a doctor, all vulnerable and nerve-wracking. Worse though, your critics are anonymous, letter-writing people who never have to make their jabs up close and personal, like a doctor.
That was some thousands of stories ago – I long ago stopped keeping track of the stories I’ve written – and it has definitely gotten easier. But there’s always a part of me that still quakes a little with every published piece.
And to be honest, I think that is as it should be. While I’ve gained a lot more confidence with my writing over the years, I also am keenly aware of my very “human-ness,” and the reality that mistakes will happen. It keeps me honest, one my toes, when writing, and that is probably a good thing.
It seems that no matter how hard one tries and no matter how meticulously one thinks they have worked on a story, there will be times that mistakes will happen.
They can, and do, happen to us all, and the degree of mistake varies as well. I’ve made errors ranging from the omission of a letter that creates a misspelling (“She hats that soup” vs. “She hates that soup”) to the misspelling of a name (an egregious mistake because Rule No. 1 in journalism is “Always doublecheck spellings of names.”) to getting dates, phone numbers or other critical information wrong. They were honest errors everyone and all journalists make from time to time – don’t let anyone tell you they don’t, either.
The challenge, of course, is to always strive for that perfection, to approach each story as if it will be flawless and most of the time, that’s exactly what happens.
But those aren’t the stories worth telling. It’s the cringe-inducing “How could I have done that?” stories that, as we say in the writing business “Make the Headlines.”
Worst error from my rookie years: I was writing about a meeting of the Daughters of the American Revolution (DAR), an antiquated posse of old ladies who get together to relive the glory years of pre-computer, pre-teenage angst, pre-automobiles, shopping centers, McMansions on the hill (other than the plantations of course...). Other than that, I'm not exactly sure what they do.
So these women were already intimidating enough, looking me over (I was just 24, straight out of college and very wet behind the ears as far as journalism goes), approving or disapproving of my outfit, watching my every move for signs of "good breeding." It was all very uncomfortable, but I managed to smile and nod and scribble furiously the notes in my reporter's notebook.
I rushed back to the office to write up the story, feeling accomplished and successful at a long day' worth of work. I doublechecked spellings of names, made sure the facts were correct and filed the story under the old computers we used for publishing at the time.
Then I drove home, probably went for a long run or relaxed on the front porch and waited for another day.
It came -- all too soon. No sooner had I woken up when my home phone rang unforgivably early (reporters generally don't even start their work day until 10 a.m.). I answered, bleary eyed and half awake and was immediately taken to task by a very old and angry sounding woman who was none too happy with my story.
I will spare you the excruciating details of the rest of my day, as the phone rang at the office repeatedly, each one an angry spinster scoffing at my ignorance. A few of the calls even made it to my editor, the daughter of a Daughter of the American Revolution, who, thankfully, took pity on my stupidity and chalked it up to experience.
The mistake: In my zeal to get every fact, name, date, etc. correct, I swiftly wrote a sentence in the story about the people for whom the Daughters of the American Revolution hold their meetings. But instead of calling them the "ancestors" of the DAR, I called them the "descendents." Stupid mistake, the result of a mind typing faster than it edits, but it made it into the paper, past the editors, past the copy editor, and now I looked like the moron I felt I was.
Fortunately, this was a minor error in the big scheme of things -- I didn't defame anyone or create huge legal problems for the paper. I'm sure I've made worse errors since.
But that one scarred me for life. Because I know there are (or "were" -- this was many years ago, after all...) a bunch of casserole baking, gray-haired women out there in a certain region of Virginia who shake their heads and cluck at "stupid kids these days."
All of a sudden I had gone from the relative anonymity of public service announcement writing, compiling wedding listings and school lunch menus to putting something out there that had my NAME on it, undeniably me, for better or worse.
It’s sort of like standing naked in front of a doctor, all vulnerable and nerve-wracking. Worse though, your critics are anonymous, letter-writing people who never have to make their jabs up close and personal, like a doctor.
That was some thousands of stories ago – I long ago stopped keeping track of the stories I’ve written – and it has definitely gotten easier. But there’s always a part of me that still quakes a little with every published piece.
And to be honest, I think that is as it should be. While I’ve gained a lot more confidence with my writing over the years, I also am keenly aware of my very “human-ness,” and the reality that mistakes will happen. It keeps me honest, one my toes, when writing, and that is probably a good thing.
It seems that no matter how hard one tries and no matter how meticulously one thinks they have worked on a story, there will be times that mistakes will happen.
They can, and do, happen to us all, and the degree of mistake varies as well. I’ve made errors ranging from the omission of a letter that creates a misspelling (“She hats that soup” vs. “She hates that soup”) to the misspelling of a name (an egregious mistake because Rule No. 1 in journalism is “Always doublecheck spellings of names.”) to getting dates, phone numbers or other critical information wrong. They were honest errors everyone and all journalists make from time to time – don’t let anyone tell you they don’t, either.
The challenge, of course, is to always strive for that perfection, to approach each story as if it will be flawless and most of the time, that’s exactly what happens.
But those aren’t the stories worth telling. It’s the cringe-inducing “How could I have done that?” stories that, as we say in the writing business “Make the Headlines.”
Worst error from my rookie years: I was writing about a meeting of the Daughters of the American Revolution (DAR), an antiquated posse of old ladies who get together to relive the glory years of pre-computer, pre-teenage angst, pre-automobiles, shopping centers, McMansions on the hill (other than the plantations of course...). Other than that, I'm not exactly sure what they do.
So these women were already intimidating enough, looking me over (I was just 24, straight out of college and very wet behind the ears as far as journalism goes), approving or disapproving of my outfit, watching my every move for signs of "good breeding." It was all very uncomfortable, but I managed to smile and nod and scribble furiously the notes in my reporter's notebook.
I rushed back to the office to write up the story, feeling accomplished and successful at a long day' worth of work. I doublechecked spellings of names, made sure the facts were correct and filed the story under the old computers we used for publishing at the time.
Then I drove home, probably went for a long run or relaxed on the front porch and waited for another day.
It came -- all too soon. No sooner had I woken up when my home phone rang unforgivably early (reporters generally don't even start their work day until 10 a.m.). I answered, bleary eyed and half awake and was immediately taken to task by a very old and angry sounding woman who was none too happy with my story.
I will spare you the excruciating details of the rest of my day, as the phone rang at the office repeatedly, each one an angry spinster scoffing at my ignorance. A few of the calls even made it to my editor, the daughter of a Daughter of the American Revolution, who, thankfully, took pity on my stupidity and chalked it up to experience.
The mistake: In my zeal to get every fact, name, date, etc. correct, I swiftly wrote a sentence in the story about the people for whom the Daughters of the American Revolution hold their meetings. But instead of calling them the "ancestors" of the DAR, I called them the "descendents." Stupid mistake, the result of a mind typing faster than it edits, but it made it into the paper, past the editors, past the copy editor, and now I looked like the moron I felt I was.
Fortunately, this was a minor error in the big scheme of things -- I didn't defame anyone or create huge legal problems for the paper. I'm sure I've made worse errors since.
But that one scarred me for life. Because I know there are (or "were" -- this was many years ago, after all...) a bunch of casserole baking, gray-haired women out there in a certain region of Virginia who shake their heads and cluck at "stupid kids these days."
Thursday, February 19, 2009
No more mystery letters
Hey, Kristy, this note is for you. Check out the "comments" section -- you should be able to post now without that annoying "identify letters-spinning forever" thing happening. Let me know how it works! Best to all you hard-working writers out there. Keep it coming, word by word...
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Dreams vs. Real Life
Another week begins and for the first time in as long as I can remember, I can go, "Ahhhhh."
That's right. No pending deadlines. No major stories due yesterday that I'm trying to catch up on. No urgent to-do list items weighing on me. It's a very unusual feeling, and one I can't relish for too long.
But then again, that's what it's like living the life of a freelancer. You have to take the work as it comes, and sometimes it comes in bucketloads. Other times, it's a vast desert of emptiness, with no writing assignments in sight.
And that's what I'm thinking about as I write today -- took a little breather from my usual Monday writing routine since the kids were off from school and all. One of my blog followers, Kristy -- who knows, maybe my only follower! -- wrote to me with an interesting and valid question about freelancing, living the way I do. She's been having trouble posting her comments on the site for some reason (if anyone else is also having problems, please let me know, so I can figure out what's going on!) but sent me this email, that I will share with you because it's a great discussion about the art of writing, how to pursue it as a true career, and how to manage it.
Kristy was writing in response to last week's post, in which I talked about my inability to ever live an 8-to-5 existence and preferring instead the unpredictability but freedom of freelancing. Here's what she had to say:
"Wow, sounds like a very interesting and enjoyable life you live as a freelance writer. The flexibility and comfort (despite the turmoil that comes with it) of working independently are definitely a huge plus over the 8-5 madness, especially if you CAN make enough cash to pay bills and everything else. After speaking with two friends who are writers (one of them is a single mom), they shared that freelance work alone is not enough to make ends meet and quite inconsistent (is this accurate?). So, they're stuck with the 8-5 gig, they don't have a choice right now. I have a question, are you a single earner? If not, do you rely on a primary income and your freelance income is an addition to the first? If that's the case, then the picture you're painting may not be very realistic to a lot of folks like my friends. I think it's neat that you're able to do this BUT I don't think everyone has that luxury, considering the state of our faulting economy right now. Any thoughts out there from anyone?" Kristy
So, here are my thoughts on the topic. To answer Kristy's first question, no, I am not a single earner, which is a huge point, especially now that I have kids and a mortgage and other responsibilities. There is no way I could support my family just on the income I make from freelancing as it is right now, because I don't pursue as much work as I believe is out there. My working hours are approximately 20 to 25 a week, depending on my deadlines and numbers of assignments going on. I did, at one point in my single life, support myself on freelancing, but I lived much more simply than most people would prefer (they were actually some of the best days of my life, but that's another story...) and had no debt or children or other responsibilities.
My current writing life is a setup by choice. With two young children at home, I feel a large part of my "job" is taking care of them, getting them to and from school, activities, and simply being there for them. That is a job I take seriously, too. So I purposefully try to keep my writing hours at a minimum.
But what I meant in last week's post -- about not being able to keep those steady hours of an 8-to-5 -- would still apply if I were a single mom. Could I make it alone as a freelancer? I honestly think there are plenty more writing opportunities out there than people are willing to take on. Some of them -- writing press releases, editing medical journals or technical manuals, doing research for books in progress -- can be tedious and do not particularly hone your "craft," but they do pay the bills and can provide a steady income in between the exciting magazine pieces you might be wanting to write.
Second, if I were a single mom, I still would shy away from an 8-to-5. My background is in journalism, and even when I was a sole-income-earner, working in that field remained interesting. As a reporter, the hours were varied, some weeks crazy busy and others slower than average. The ups and downs and changes in routine kept the job fresh for me, and I got out of the office constantly to cover assignments. From my first cub reporting job back in Virginia in 1990 to my last at the Anchorage Daily News that I left in 2008, the ability to get out and about, THEN sit down at a computer to write is what kept me sane. That will never change, even with my freelance writing.
Another thing Kristy brought up that her writing friends mentioned -- that freelancing is inconsistent. This is, of course, an understatement. Working as a freelancer, you pretty much have to take the assignments you get, when they come. Sometimes they all come at once and you have a brain-crushing three-week period in which you live on caffeine and late nights. Other times it's slow and you wonder where the money will come from. That alone -- the money part -- is a challenge because depending upon the publication, you may be paid when the story is assigned (rare but it does happen), when it's accepted by the editor, or upon publication. And editors change their minds at a drop of the hat, haphazardly moving your April story to the November issue, meaning you won't get paid until November.
It's maddening really, the "check's in the mail" mentality that makes you never really know when or how much you will make in a given month.
All I can say about this aspect of writing, is that there ARE ways to make it less painful. Find writing gigs that are freelance or contract but that are somewhat scheduled. I have one standing writing "job" like that, which helps me budget some money that I know will be coming in month to month, and I constantly look for other opportunities to take on regular freelance work that is predictable and dependable.
Freelance writing is by no means an easy way to live, especially if you are at all an orderly, scheduled type of person. And it is not glamorous in any way --- stressful, unpredictable and all-encompassing. The convenience factor of working at home is often outweighed by the fact that my work never leaves me -- it's there at my desk staring me down when I'm trying to play a game of Blokus with the kids. It weighs on my mind when I'm trying to enjoy dinner with the family. It plays guilt trips with me when I weigh, "Do I run the dogs today or get more work done on the kayaking story?" I can move the computer to another room, but inevitably, I slip back in, drawn to it like a druggie, needing to get in a few last paragraphs before falling asleep.
For whateve reason, those of us who love to write will always do it. We will always find a way to make the words come, whether it's in a journal, for an assignment or a letter to a friend. Don't give up, whether you're a single mom struggling to make ends meet, an independently wealthy jetsetter with places to go and people to meet or someone in-between, like me, who, for whatever reason, is motivated by words and their power.
That's right. No pending deadlines. No major stories due yesterday that I'm trying to catch up on. No urgent to-do list items weighing on me. It's a very unusual feeling, and one I can't relish for too long.
But then again, that's what it's like living the life of a freelancer. You have to take the work as it comes, and sometimes it comes in bucketloads. Other times, it's a vast desert of emptiness, with no writing assignments in sight.
And that's what I'm thinking about as I write today -- took a little breather from my usual Monday writing routine since the kids were off from school and all. One of my blog followers, Kristy -- who knows, maybe my only follower! -- wrote to me with an interesting and valid question about freelancing, living the way I do. She's been having trouble posting her comments on the site for some reason (if anyone else is also having problems, please let me know, so I can figure out what's going on!) but sent me this email, that I will share with you because it's a great discussion about the art of writing, how to pursue it as a true career, and how to manage it.
Kristy was writing in response to last week's post, in which I talked about my inability to ever live an 8-to-5 existence and preferring instead the unpredictability but freedom of freelancing. Here's what she had to say:
"Wow, sounds like a very interesting and enjoyable life you live as a freelance writer. The flexibility and comfort (despite the turmoil that comes with it) of working independently are definitely a huge plus over the 8-5 madness, especially if you CAN make enough cash to pay bills and everything else. After speaking with two friends who are writers (one of them is a single mom), they shared that freelance work alone is not enough to make ends meet and quite inconsistent (is this accurate?). So, they're stuck with the 8-5 gig, they don't have a choice right now. I have a question, are you a single earner? If not, do you rely on a primary income and your freelance income is an addition to the first? If that's the case, then the picture you're painting may not be very realistic to a lot of folks like my friends. I think it's neat that you're able to do this BUT I don't think everyone has that luxury, considering the state of our faulting economy right now. Any thoughts out there from anyone?" Kristy
So, here are my thoughts on the topic. To answer Kristy's first question, no, I am not a single earner, which is a huge point, especially now that I have kids and a mortgage and other responsibilities. There is no way I could support my family just on the income I make from freelancing as it is right now, because I don't pursue as much work as I believe is out there. My working hours are approximately 20 to 25 a week, depending on my deadlines and numbers of assignments going on. I did, at one point in my single life, support myself on freelancing, but I lived much more simply than most people would prefer (they were actually some of the best days of my life, but that's another story...) and had no debt or children or other responsibilities.
My current writing life is a setup by choice. With two young children at home, I feel a large part of my "job" is taking care of them, getting them to and from school, activities, and simply being there for them. That is a job I take seriously, too. So I purposefully try to keep my writing hours at a minimum.
But what I meant in last week's post -- about not being able to keep those steady hours of an 8-to-5 -- would still apply if I were a single mom. Could I make it alone as a freelancer? I honestly think there are plenty more writing opportunities out there than people are willing to take on. Some of them -- writing press releases, editing medical journals or technical manuals, doing research for books in progress -- can be tedious and do not particularly hone your "craft," but they do pay the bills and can provide a steady income in between the exciting magazine pieces you might be wanting to write.
Second, if I were a single mom, I still would shy away from an 8-to-5. My background is in journalism, and even when I was a sole-income-earner, working in that field remained interesting. As a reporter, the hours were varied, some weeks crazy busy and others slower than average. The ups and downs and changes in routine kept the job fresh for me, and I got out of the office constantly to cover assignments. From my first cub reporting job back in Virginia in 1990 to my last at the Anchorage Daily News that I left in 2008, the ability to get out and about, THEN sit down at a computer to write is what kept me sane. That will never change, even with my freelance writing.
Another thing Kristy brought up that her writing friends mentioned -- that freelancing is inconsistent. This is, of course, an understatement. Working as a freelancer, you pretty much have to take the assignments you get, when they come. Sometimes they all come at once and you have a brain-crushing three-week period in which you live on caffeine and late nights. Other times it's slow and you wonder where the money will come from. That alone -- the money part -- is a challenge because depending upon the publication, you may be paid when the story is assigned (rare but it does happen), when it's accepted by the editor, or upon publication. And editors change their minds at a drop of the hat, haphazardly moving your April story to the November issue, meaning you won't get paid until November.
It's maddening really, the "check's in the mail" mentality that makes you never really know when or how much you will make in a given month.
All I can say about this aspect of writing, is that there ARE ways to make it less painful. Find writing gigs that are freelance or contract but that are somewhat scheduled. I have one standing writing "job" like that, which helps me budget some money that I know will be coming in month to month, and I constantly look for other opportunities to take on regular freelance work that is predictable and dependable.
Freelance writing is by no means an easy way to live, especially if you are at all an orderly, scheduled type of person. And it is not glamorous in any way --- stressful, unpredictable and all-encompassing. The convenience factor of working at home is often outweighed by the fact that my work never leaves me -- it's there at my desk staring me down when I'm trying to play a game of Blokus with the kids. It weighs on my mind when I'm trying to enjoy dinner with the family. It plays guilt trips with me when I weigh, "Do I run the dogs today or get more work done on the kayaking story?" I can move the computer to another room, but inevitably, I slip back in, drawn to it like a druggie, needing to get in a few last paragraphs before falling asleep.
For whateve reason, those of us who love to write will always do it. We will always find a way to make the words come, whether it's in a journal, for an assignment or a letter to a friend. Don't give up, whether you're a single mom struggling to make ends meet, an independently wealthy jetsetter with places to go and people to meet or someone in-between, like me, who, for whatever reason, is motivated by words and their power.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Staring at the screen
First of all, apologies for my recent absence -- off to Virginia to surprise my folks for their 50th wedding anniversary, which was lots of fun and very meaningful. Now I'm back here in Alaska, back to real life, and back to babbling on about the writer's life in the dead of a cold-Alaska winter.
Where to begin?...
Sometimes I think being a writer is the best possible career on the planet. I mean, where else can you combine thoughts, snippets of conversations, theories and other day-to-day nonsense that happens and somehow mold it into something someone might want to read? (And even get paid for it?)
Other times, writing seems a curse, something that is always lurking there in the back of your mind, never letting you rest, reminding you how inadequate your thoughts are, how stupid your ideas. There is the stress of what you SHOULD write, versus the reality of what often ends up on the page.
I can't tell you how many times I have started a story and gotten so frustrated by it that I just start pounding the keys in an incoherent "computer keyboard temper tantrum" --- fhksjth4o6u35y rlkdmflyu yo;lg -- something like that, often with choice "fuck-damn-shit"expletives thrown in for good measure.
I look at this behavior and realize it is the equivalent of someone yanking their piece of paper from the old typewriter, wadding it up into a ball and chucking it into the nearest trash can. I imagine this Hemingway-esque scene when I'm having my own pity party. But without the drama of such antiquated equipment, I abuse the keyboard instead. (I've vowed not to do this as much with my new computer but already have had a few mishaps...)
On days like those, I am at least thankful that anything went on the page at all. The worst scenario is when I stare at the computer screen, and my mind is a big, tired blank -- as open and cavernous as the white, wordless document I've created. There is nothing more strangling than knowing deadline is looming and the words are simply not there. Sure, the story is half written in my head already, the transitions smoothly documented in my mind's eye.
But it's not a story until the words are on paper. And some days, that just doesn't happen.
It is on days like those that I wonder what the hell I am doing with my life. The jumble of ideas and emotions in my brain, are they REALLY meant to be put on paper? Or are they better left off stuck there, swilling around like old beer to torment me intead of the general public?
At times like these, I want to insert myself into the being of an accountant, perhaps, a doctor or engineer or someone whose technical abilities dictate the success of their career, not the random blather that seems to seep out from between my ears. I want to know, "Are they constantly feeling the itch to scribble down thoughts and feelings or is this just some aberration on my part?"
Despite the turmoil surrounding this writer's life, I have to admit I can think of no better fit. I could never, in a million years, handle the 8-to-5 existence that the majority of the population is forced to endure. For me, it would be a slow, arduous descent toward death -- the afterlife, or whatever happens to us once our hearts stop beating. Given the choice, I'll take the torment of writing over that any day.
So it is that my writing Monday has begun. The fingers are moving, the page is filling up. Whether I've written anything worth reading? I don't know. But at least it's right here on the screen, not all screwed up in my head. And that in itself is a serenity worth pursuing.
Where to begin?...
Sometimes I think being a writer is the best possible career on the planet. I mean, where else can you combine thoughts, snippets of conversations, theories and other day-to-day nonsense that happens and somehow mold it into something someone might want to read? (And even get paid for it?)
Other times, writing seems a curse, something that is always lurking there in the back of your mind, never letting you rest, reminding you how inadequate your thoughts are, how stupid your ideas. There is the stress of what you SHOULD write, versus the reality of what often ends up on the page.
I can't tell you how many times I have started a story and gotten so frustrated by it that I just start pounding the keys in an incoherent "computer keyboard temper tantrum" --- fhksjth4o6u35y rlkdmflyu yo;lg -- something like that, often with choice "fuck-damn-shit"expletives thrown in for good measure.
I look at this behavior and realize it is the equivalent of someone yanking their piece of paper from the old typewriter, wadding it up into a ball and chucking it into the nearest trash can. I imagine this Hemingway-esque scene when I'm having my own pity party. But without the drama of such antiquated equipment, I abuse the keyboard instead. (I've vowed not to do this as much with my new computer but already have had a few mishaps...)
On days like those, I am at least thankful that anything went on the page at all. The worst scenario is when I stare at the computer screen, and my mind is a big, tired blank -- as open and cavernous as the white, wordless document I've created. There is nothing more strangling than knowing deadline is looming and the words are simply not there. Sure, the story is half written in my head already, the transitions smoothly documented in my mind's eye.
But it's not a story until the words are on paper. And some days, that just doesn't happen.
It is on days like those that I wonder what the hell I am doing with my life. The jumble of ideas and emotions in my brain, are they REALLY meant to be put on paper? Or are they better left off stuck there, swilling around like old beer to torment me intead of the general public?
At times like these, I want to insert myself into the being of an accountant, perhaps, a doctor or engineer or someone whose technical abilities dictate the success of their career, not the random blather that seems to seep out from between my ears. I want to know, "Are they constantly feeling the itch to scribble down thoughts and feelings or is this just some aberration on my part?"
Despite the turmoil surrounding this writer's life, I have to admit I can think of no better fit. I could never, in a million years, handle the 8-to-5 existence that the majority of the population is forced to endure. For me, it would be a slow, arduous descent toward death -- the afterlife, or whatever happens to us once our hearts stop beating. Given the choice, I'll take the torment of writing over that any day.
So it is that my writing Monday has begun. The fingers are moving, the page is filling up. Whether I've written anything worth reading? I don't know. But at least it's right here on the screen, not all screwed up in my head. And that in itself is a serenity worth pursuing.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Winter training in Alaska
So getting on the bike trainer for another day of intervals just seemed like torture yesterday. I don't know why but I was dreading it all day long. On Saturday I was supposed to have done intervals, too, but as soon as those big fat heavy snowflakes began falling, I went for a run. I just love running in the snow.
So I knew that yesterday, there were no excuses: I had to ride. Of course, I don't HAVE to do anything, if the truth be known. I could sit on my ass all day and eat chocolate chips out of the bag (one of my favorite pasttimes). I could read a book. Or go to the movies. Or organize my underwear drawer or whatever.
It's just that my pysche doesn't work that way. Because as much as I complain about sucky Alaska weather and hard grueling workouts, there is really nothing better than the post-ride/run/dog mush/ski high to be enough motivation to keep coming back for more. I guess in a way I'm addicted to training -- even though I'll never be the best, I just enjoy that natural energy that comes from challenging myself to better heights.
But at 3 p.m., I wasn't feeling that love. I had the bike set up, my gear on and my water bottle filled, but I was having one of the worst inner battles about whether or not to follow through on my ride. The rational part of my brain knew that the effort would be worth it, that I'd have that after-ride glow that keeps me powered through the day (and keeps headaches at bay, so there's reason enough there to be motivated). But the "person who is ready to ride her bike on actual pavement" was in on this battle too, thinking, "Trainers suck. Yes, they are a necessary evil, but why do you live somewhere where a third of your training miles take place on a stationary trainer?"
It went back and forth like this for a few minutes. Andy (my husband) had gone out on an errand, fully expecting me to be on the bike by the time he got home. So when he walked in the door and said, "I thought you were riding" and I bit his head off like he was an unruly child, he had every reason to be perplexed.
I fiddled around with a few other things, finding reasons to put off the ride, and then finally just strapped on my shoes and got peddling.
And PRESTO. My mind and body fell into the rhythm and within 2 minutes -- just two stinking minutes -- I could think of nothing I would rather be doing. Even when the harder part came of pedaling the higher-powered intervals I was comfortable -- sweaty and struggling -- but comfortable with the well-known routine that is my life on a bike.
I just don't get it -- I sometimes wish my mind was not so complicated -- that we humans just "did" things without the turmoil that comes with "weighing the options." Hell, I don't want options. I want to run. Bike. Write. Love. Play. Create. I want my brain to just stop messing with my heart and let me see a path that is simple and clear.
I was sort of bummed when Lance Armstrong announced his non-retirement from cycling and has rejoined the ranks of the pro cyclists. Like all the other pro athletes before him who made the big comeback because they could not leave their glory days behind, I thought, "Ugh, you should have stopped while you were on top."
But actually I sort of get why he did it now (and I'm not complaining that I get to see him in the news more often either!). Not that I'm even remotely close to that sort of ability, but the fact remains we all have our comfort zones -- those routines and things we do that come naturally and do not seem forced. Lance once said -- and I can't remember where I read it because I've read so much about him, all his books, articles, etc. -- that in retirement, he was afraid he would miss the absolute knowledge in what each day held: training, training and more training. To have days sprawling wide open before him, to be filled with whatever he wanted, was more daunting to him than tackling a four-hour hill climb at 400 watts avg. for days on end. Yes, it's insane, but that's his life.
So, on my tiny scale back here in podunk, Alaska, I got on that bike trainer and felt my own comfort zone settle in immediately. Why I had that battle of wills, I don't know because it goes against my comfort zone. But knowing that I ultimately did what comes most naturally to me, I do understand. It's how I stay sane. It's how we all stay sane -- no matter our "comfort zone" -- baking, sewing, running, biking, building, reading, etc. Unless they're destructive habits, I think we all owe it to ourselves to abide by those comfort zones and learn to tell our inner naysayer to take a hike.
So I knew that yesterday, there were no excuses: I had to ride. Of course, I don't HAVE to do anything, if the truth be known. I could sit on my ass all day and eat chocolate chips out of the bag (one of my favorite pasttimes). I could read a book. Or go to the movies. Or organize my underwear drawer or whatever.
It's just that my pysche doesn't work that way. Because as much as I complain about sucky Alaska weather and hard grueling workouts, there is really nothing better than the post-ride/run/dog mush/ski high to be enough motivation to keep coming back for more. I guess in a way I'm addicted to training -- even though I'll never be the best, I just enjoy that natural energy that comes from challenging myself to better heights.
But at 3 p.m., I wasn't feeling that love. I had the bike set up, my gear on and my water bottle filled, but I was having one of the worst inner battles about whether or not to follow through on my ride. The rational part of my brain knew that the effort would be worth it, that I'd have that after-ride glow that keeps me powered through the day (and keeps headaches at bay, so there's reason enough there to be motivated). But the "person who is ready to ride her bike on actual pavement" was in on this battle too, thinking, "Trainers suck. Yes, they are a necessary evil, but why do you live somewhere where a third of your training miles take place on a stationary trainer?"
It went back and forth like this for a few minutes. Andy (my husband) had gone out on an errand, fully expecting me to be on the bike by the time he got home. So when he walked in the door and said, "I thought you were riding" and I bit his head off like he was an unruly child, he had every reason to be perplexed.
I fiddled around with a few other things, finding reasons to put off the ride, and then finally just strapped on my shoes and got peddling.
And PRESTO. My mind and body fell into the rhythm and within 2 minutes -- just two stinking minutes -- I could think of nothing I would rather be doing. Even when the harder part came of pedaling the higher-powered intervals I was comfortable -- sweaty and struggling -- but comfortable with the well-known routine that is my life on a bike.
I just don't get it -- I sometimes wish my mind was not so complicated -- that we humans just "did" things without the turmoil that comes with "weighing the options." Hell, I don't want options. I want to run. Bike. Write. Love. Play. Create. I want my brain to just stop messing with my heart and let me see a path that is simple and clear.
I was sort of bummed when Lance Armstrong announced his non-retirement from cycling and has rejoined the ranks of the pro cyclists. Like all the other pro athletes before him who made the big comeback because they could not leave their glory days behind, I thought, "Ugh, you should have stopped while you were on top."
But actually I sort of get why he did it now (and I'm not complaining that I get to see him in the news more often either!). Not that I'm even remotely close to that sort of ability, but the fact remains we all have our comfort zones -- those routines and things we do that come naturally and do not seem forced. Lance once said -- and I can't remember where I read it because I've read so much about him, all his books, articles, etc. -- that in retirement, he was afraid he would miss the absolute knowledge in what each day held: training, training and more training. To have days sprawling wide open before him, to be filled with whatever he wanted, was more daunting to him than tackling a four-hour hill climb at 400 watts avg. for days on end. Yes, it's insane, but that's his life.
So, on my tiny scale back here in podunk, Alaska, I got on that bike trainer and felt my own comfort zone settle in immediately. Why I had that battle of wills, I don't know because it goes against my comfort zone. But knowing that I ultimately did what comes most naturally to me, I do understand. It's how I stay sane. It's how we all stay sane -- no matter our "comfort zone" -- baking, sewing, running, biking, building, reading, etc. Unless they're destructive habits, I think we all owe it to ourselves to abide by those comfort zones and learn to tell our inner naysayer to take a hike.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Finding focus
My mind is wandering today. There's something about Mondays that seems to prompt this sort of behavior in my head. On Sundays, I go to bed with my to-do list long and ambitious. I've had the whole weekend to look around the house at everything that needs to be done and know that THIS is the week it will happen. From writing to working out to home-improvement projects to, well, whatever, THIS week I will do it.
And here it is, 1 p.m., and my list is still sitting in front of me.
So I'm wondering what other people do to find focus? I'm not one of those militant types, strict about schedules and good about following rules (this habit did not serve me well as a younger person, by the way). But I do have a need to be busy, and if I don't have a to-do list looming, I feel like I'm wasting time.
What is the balance between the two? How does one stay on task but not SO on task that they miss the fun in life, the spontaneity that comes with tossing the list aside and reading a book all day or turning the one-hour dog run into an all-day adventure? How do we feel accomplished yet not overworked? I don't know if I'm ever going to find that balance -- maybe it's a character flaw that has me always chastising myself to do more.
The thing is, I throw the to-do list away all the time, opting for the all-day mushing or reading or playing with the kids. But I don't lose the guilt that comes at the end of the week, knowing the things on my list did not get accomplished, either. And that's what bugs me.
In writing, as in training for any sport, it does take some bit of militant attitude to keep going, and I remind myself of this when my mind or body starts to wander. You know the wornout cliche, "No pain, no gain?" It applies to both writing and training for a sport.
Today, for instance, I want to run outside instead of doing the bike trainer ride my coach prescribed. I want to read a book I'm into instead of finishing the freelance stories whose deadlines are looming. I want to call my sister and talk for an hour instead of finishing the painting on a home project we've got going.
But I have to stay focused, remember my to-do list, and peck away at it bit by bit. I have to find that balance but keep that focus. And, more important, I have to be at peace with it all rather than have this inner struggle about what I "should" be doing.
So that inner struggle is what prompted today's post: How do we get that balance? How do we stay focused yet still have fun? I wish someone out there had the perfect answer to this conundrum. Because my head aches thinking about it all the time and it would be so nice to check off "Mellow Out" on my to-do list!
And here it is, 1 p.m., and my list is still sitting in front of me.
So I'm wondering what other people do to find focus? I'm not one of those militant types, strict about schedules and good about following rules (this habit did not serve me well as a younger person, by the way). But I do have a need to be busy, and if I don't have a to-do list looming, I feel like I'm wasting time.
What is the balance between the two? How does one stay on task but not SO on task that they miss the fun in life, the spontaneity that comes with tossing the list aside and reading a book all day or turning the one-hour dog run into an all-day adventure? How do we feel accomplished yet not overworked? I don't know if I'm ever going to find that balance -- maybe it's a character flaw that has me always chastising myself to do more.
The thing is, I throw the to-do list away all the time, opting for the all-day mushing or reading or playing with the kids. But I don't lose the guilt that comes at the end of the week, knowing the things on my list did not get accomplished, either. And that's what bugs me.
In writing, as in training for any sport, it does take some bit of militant attitude to keep going, and I remind myself of this when my mind or body starts to wander. You know the wornout cliche, "No pain, no gain?" It applies to both writing and training for a sport.
Today, for instance, I want to run outside instead of doing the bike trainer ride my coach prescribed. I want to read a book I'm into instead of finishing the freelance stories whose deadlines are looming. I want to call my sister and talk for an hour instead of finishing the painting on a home project we've got going.
But I have to stay focused, remember my to-do list, and peck away at it bit by bit. I have to find that balance but keep that focus. And, more important, I have to be at peace with it all rather than have this inner struggle about what I "should" be doing.
So that inner struggle is what prompted today's post: How do we get that balance? How do we stay focused yet still have fun? I wish someone out there had the perfect answer to this conundrum. Because my head aches thinking about it all the time and it would be so nice to check off "Mellow Out" on my to-do list!
Monday, January 12, 2009
good, better or best
As I ran the sled dogs along the Inlet this morning, I watched Carson, pulling as if her life depended on it, sprinting so fast that poor Inca -- my kind, gentle-spirited co-leader -- could barely keep up. Behind him, Otter ran right on his heels, pushing him even harder, making him run faster than he felt comfortable going.
I felt bad for him and kept slowing the team to keep him happy and performing within his abilities. The dogs were raring to go, so it wasn't an easy chore. They ran excitedly after having several days off.
It's strange how one thought will lead to another and another -- in what might seem like a random pattern but in the end really makes some sense. Because I watched Inca, who really is the most well-rounded dog on my team -- gentle, strong, lovable and smart -- and compared him to Carson, who can be bitchy, nippy but runs like the wind. She's the best at what she does, whereas Inca is an all-around great guy who just can't quite make the speed.
So watching Carson made me think of my conversation with Willie Hensley last week. I met with Hensley, a respected Native elder, business leader, social activist and now book author for a freelance story I'm doing, and as we talked, he admitted that he has never been a "specialist" in any one thing, opting rather to explore the interest of the moment and see where it takes him. (He also happens to be one of those people who is successful at just about anything, too, so it helps).
When he said that, I could relate. I sometimes think I am lacking, this inability to focus intently on ONE thing year in year out. Look at Lance Armstrong (my personal crush, but that's another story...). Cycling is what he does. What he knows. How he operates. Because he puts 110 percent of his being into that activity, he has become the best. (and best-looking, but again, that's another story...)
Me, I can't seem to operate like that. Instead of becoming obsessed with one thing, I find myself bouncing from one to the next to the next, trying it all out, but never really deciding "This is it." I love backpacking, hiking, running, cycling, dog mushing -- you name it. And while I've won a race or two and have improved vastly at most sports I've tried, I can't say that I've ever really dedicated my whole life to that "one" thing.
So, my thought is: Is this normal? Should I have a "true passion" for one thing? To be a successful writer, athlete, mom, etc. do I need to give it 110 percent? Or can I split those percentages into fractions and sample a little bit of everything?
I guess the easy answer is that "To be the best, you have to focus 110 percent." That's how Lance has done it, after all. That part is easy enough to get. But again, Lance is the VERY best.
I mean for we mere mortals: Is having, say, three athletic passions mean it will somehow lessen our ability to perform at our peak? I know, in my heart, that I've never reached my potential in any sport I've tried merely because I have not WANTED to. Instead of riding, riding, riding everyday, I sometimes want to go for a run. Instead of pushing, pushing, pushing myself on every ride, I sometimes just want to pedal around and see the sights.
Part of me knows this is OK. But there's another part of me that says that is a copout and that I should work harder, train longer, ride harder.
Same goes with writing, and here again, is why I'm thinking of Willie Hensley as I run the dogs along the Inlet today, watching a thin, welcome layer of clouds scud across the skyline.
Is it OK that I write the freelance stories, take on varying topics, meet different deadlines, just for the sake of writing? Or should I focus, focus, focus my brain and get the real story written? It's there -- I tell myself if I just get started it will come. But at the same time, will it just be drivel? (I'm saving that for this blog, see?!) I think I'm too scared to try.
I can rationalize. I can say I have to make a living. I have to have something to do (Ask my parents, my husband, my kids, my friends: I've never been good at "sitting around.") But I guess there's a tiny part of me that hopes these story assignments will spark some flame that will get the writing ball rolling.
Or will it just be another "thing" that I add to my to-do list because I can't be content with what simply "is."
No offense to Kenny Rogers, but I'm no real fan of his. Call me ambivalent. But I THINK this quote is attributed to him, and for that I've always liked his way of thinking. (And by the way, if you know WHO is the real author of this quote, LET ME KNOW!) But he said he'd rather be good at a lot of things than great at one.
And that quote has stuck with me. It appears to be the mantra by which Willie Hensley has lived, too, and that's a good reason to be hopeful for good things, too -- Hensley's a cool guy. Maybe I just need to accept what is, and follow suit. I have a good role model, after all.
I felt bad for him and kept slowing the team to keep him happy and performing within his abilities. The dogs were raring to go, so it wasn't an easy chore. They ran excitedly after having several days off.
It's strange how one thought will lead to another and another -- in what might seem like a random pattern but in the end really makes some sense. Because I watched Inca, who really is the most well-rounded dog on my team -- gentle, strong, lovable and smart -- and compared him to Carson, who can be bitchy, nippy but runs like the wind. She's the best at what she does, whereas Inca is an all-around great guy who just can't quite make the speed.
So watching Carson made me think of my conversation with Willie Hensley last week. I met with Hensley, a respected Native elder, business leader, social activist and now book author for a freelance story I'm doing, and as we talked, he admitted that he has never been a "specialist" in any one thing, opting rather to explore the interest of the moment and see where it takes him. (He also happens to be one of those people who is successful at just about anything, too, so it helps).
When he said that, I could relate. I sometimes think I am lacking, this inability to focus intently on ONE thing year in year out. Look at Lance Armstrong (my personal crush, but that's another story...). Cycling is what he does. What he knows. How he operates. Because he puts 110 percent of his being into that activity, he has become the best. (and best-looking, but again, that's another story...)
Me, I can't seem to operate like that. Instead of becoming obsessed with one thing, I find myself bouncing from one to the next to the next, trying it all out, but never really deciding "This is it." I love backpacking, hiking, running, cycling, dog mushing -- you name it. And while I've won a race or two and have improved vastly at most sports I've tried, I can't say that I've ever really dedicated my whole life to that "one" thing.
So, my thought is: Is this normal? Should I have a "true passion" for one thing? To be a successful writer, athlete, mom, etc. do I need to give it 110 percent? Or can I split those percentages into fractions and sample a little bit of everything?
I guess the easy answer is that "To be the best, you have to focus 110 percent." That's how Lance has done it, after all. That part is easy enough to get. But again, Lance is the VERY best.
I mean for we mere mortals: Is having, say, three athletic passions mean it will somehow lessen our ability to perform at our peak? I know, in my heart, that I've never reached my potential in any sport I've tried merely because I have not WANTED to. Instead of riding, riding, riding everyday, I sometimes want to go for a run. Instead of pushing, pushing, pushing myself on every ride, I sometimes just want to pedal around and see the sights.
Part of me knows this is OK. But there's another part of me that says that is a copout and that I should work harder, train longer, ride harder.
Same goes with writing, and here again, is why I'm thinking of Willie Hensley as I run the dogs along the Inlet today, watching a thin, welcome layer of clouds scud across the skyline.
Is it OK that I write the freelance stories, take on varying topics, meet different deadlines, just for the sake of writing? Or should I focus, focus, focus my brain and get the real story written? It's there -- I tell myself if I just get started it will come. But at the same time, will it just be drivel? (I'm saving that for this blog, see?!) I think I'm too scared to try.
I can rationalize. I can say I have to make a living. I have to have something to do (Ask my parents, my husband, my kids, my friends: I've never been good at "sitting around.") But I guess there's a tiny part of me that hopes these story assignments will spark some flame that will get the writing ball rolling.
Or will it just be another "thing" that I add to my to-do list because I can't be content with what simply "is."
No offense to Kenny Rogers, but I'm no real fan of his. Call me ambivalent. But I THINK this quote is attributed to him, and for that I've always liked his way of thinking. (And by the way, if you know WHO is the real author of this quote, LET ME KNOW!) But he said he'd rather be good at a lot of things than great at one.
And that quote has stuck with me. It appears to be the mantra by which Willie Hensley has lived, too, and that's a good reason to be hopeful for good things, too -- Hensley's a cool guy. Maybe I just need to accept what is, and follow suit. I have a good role model, after all.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Getting started
So, how do you begin writing a story? As I sat across the table from Willie Hensley today, sipping Kaladi coffee and listening to him talk about his new book, "Fifty Years From Tomorrow," I wondered, "How could this guy, who has done so much for Alaska, and been so influential in the state's development condense it all into this cluster of pages that I'm holding?"
Listening to him talk, I thought about my own work, mentally compared it to a kindergartner's scribble, and felt it lacking.
Willie's story took more than three years to tell, but I've started reading it and can't put it down. His honesty about growing up in a village is so refreshing after so many Outsider stories that glorify the life of Native Alaskans. That's not to say there is nothing worth glorifying, either, the way he describes summer camp and the beauty of the region outside Kotzebue where he grew up. The descriptions conjure a purer, albeit harder time, and I felt a certain naivety to my own life here in the suburbs of Anchorage, which really isn't what the rest of the state is about at all.
So, having this conversation with Willie made me think: How do you start a story? How do you put one sentence down, keep going and keep going, until you have a book in hand? I should be able to answer that, having written my own book -- but it was a guidebook, more of a resource than the putting-down of feelings and emotions on the page. I've written articles, too -- some of them thousands of words long. But those, too, were the compilation of a specific topic -- a person, a place, a destination -- and the focus became clear early on, making it safe to take that first step.
What I'm getting at is the larger picture of telling a story on many levels. Willie's story, for instance, is about more than just "growing up Native." He touches on morality, humanity, religion, politics, family, love and struggle. He somehow weaves it into a tale that tells more than just the story of his life, but represents an entire culture that is being ambushed by outside influences on a daily basis.
So, he got started on this story. And it grew. And grew. It got so long, his editor made him cut it by 50 percent. He didn't like it, but that's the writer's life, so he did his best.
We talked for an hour. I could've listened to him all afternoon. Articulate, funny, thoughtful and a little bit of a rebel, his stories kept me planted in my seat until he finally announced he had to get back to work. My reason for meeting with him -- to write a short profile on his book for a magazine assignment -- seemed so inconsequential after hearing him talk.
After more than an hour of chatting, I thanked him for his time, tucked my notebook into my bag and got up to leave. Crossing Sixth Avenue to head back to my car, though, I realized I forgot to ask him -- "How did you start? What was that first line that got the book moving along? Is there some easy answer that can make the idea of sitting down to write a book that less daunting?"
I'm dragging my heels. I know it. The book is in there, like a tiny dervish that I'm scared to let free. My nickname, after hiking the Appalachian Trail in 1993, was Chaos. I was named so after the times I'd come into the trail shelters and have what the other thru-hikers called a "pack explosion." One by one, each piece of gear came out of the pack, until a pile of fleece, camp food, cooking gear and sleeping bag/pads were strewn across the shelter floor.
Then, like a bird cleaning its nest, I'd reorganize each piece creating my "home" for the night from my few posssessions.
I want to look at my writing that way, as if I can just have a "word explosion" and then reorganize all that chaos once it's down on paper.
But I'm scared, I guess. I haven't let myself do it, for fear that the words will be empty, the possessions worthless. The Chaos in me remains buried, waiting for that secret formula -- that "first sentence" to propel me forward.
Listening to him talk, I thought about my own work, mentally compared it to a kindergartner's scribble, and felt it lacking.
Willie's story took more than three years to tell, but I've started reading it and can't put it down. His honesty about growing up in a village is so refreshing after so many Outsider stories that glorify the life of Native Alaskans. That's not to say there is nothing worth glorifying, either, the way he describes summer camp and the beauty of the region outside Kotzebue where he grew up. The descriptions conjure a purer, albeit harder time, and I felt a certain naivety to my own life here in the suburbs of Anchorage, which really isn't what the rest of the state is about at all.
So, having this conversation with Willie made me think: How do you start a story? How do you put one sentence down, keep going and keep going, until you have a book in hand? I should be able to answer that, having written my own book -- but it was a guidebook, more of a resource than the putting-down of feelings and emotions on the page. I've written articles, too -- some of them thousands of words long. But those, too, were the compilation of a specific topic -- a person, a place, a destination -- and the focus became clear early on, making it safe to take that first step.
What I'm getting at is the larger picture of telling a story on many levels. Willie's story, for instance, is about more than just "growing up Native." He touches on morality, humanity, religion, politics, family, love and struggle. He somehow weaves it into a tale that tells more than just the story of his life, but represents an entire culture that is being ambushed by outside influences on a daily basis.
So, he got started on this story. And it grew. And grew. It got so long, his editor made him cut it by 50 percent. He didn't like it, but that's the writer's life, so he did his best.
We talked for an hour. I could've listened to him all afternoon. Articulate, funny, thoughtful and a little bit of a rebel, his stories kept me planted in my seat until he finally announced he had to get back to work. My reason for meeting with him -- to write a short profile on his book for a magazine assignment -- seemed so inconsequential after hearing him talk.
After more than an hour of chatting, I thanked him for his time, tucked my notebook into my bag and got up to leave. Crossing Sixth Avenue to head back to my car, though, I realized I forgot to ask him -- "How did you start? What was that first line that got the book moving along? Is there some easy answer that can make the idea of sitting down to write a book that less daunting?"
I'm dragging my heels. I know it. The book is in there, like a tiny dervish that I'm scared to let free. My nickname, after hiking the Appalachian Trail in 1993, was Chaos. I was named so after the times I'd come into the trail shelters and have what the other thru-hikers called a "pack explosion." One by one, each piece of gear came out of the pack, until a pile of fleece, camp food, cooking gear and sleeping bag/pads were strewn across the shelter floor.
Then, like a bird cleaning its nest, I'd reorganize each piece creating my "home" for the night from my few posssessions.
I want to look at my writing that way, as if I can just have a "word explosion" and then reorganize all that chaos once it's down on paper.
But I'm scared, I guess. I haven't let myself do it, for fear that the words will be empty, the possessions worthless. The Chaos in me remains buried, waiting for that secret formula -- that "first sentence" to propel me forward.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Biting off more than I can chew?
So, in my mind I'm thinking about the six story deadlines looming. I've committed to six stories in one month, and fear that this might be, what should I say, A TAD TOO MUCH?!
I mean, what is wrong with me? I made a conscious decision months ago to only take the assignments I want, so that I have time for other things, like going for long runs, adding extra intervals to the bike workouts, running the dogs for entire afternoons. Things like doing laundry and dishes and cooking inspired meals that will make my children smile.
The thing is, I sort of want all these assignments. Each one seems like a challenge, some easier than others, but still.
So instead of actually sitting down and working on these stories, here I am, calculating the math of how much time I have for each one. Let's see: 26 more days, divided by 6 stories gives me about four days for each, at 8 hours a day (OK, 4 hours if I'm really honest with myself) - wait, that's only 16 hours per story.
That's not much time.
But then I get to thinking about pay. Some of these things only pay $200 per story, and at 16 hours per story, that's a paltry $12 or so. I might as well work at McDonalds. Maybe I DO have time to go skiing, dog mushing and running after all. I'll take the $600 stories seriously, but $200? Come on now.
See? This is looking up already. Freelancing can be such a manic way to live. I've been doing it, at varying levels of intensity, for more than 10 years now, and it still doesn't get any simpler. There's the constant job searching, the careful negotiating, the endless waiting -- for an assignment, a paycheck, an answer from those faraway editors who don't seem to think we writers have lives and schedules, too.
You know what? Forget this computer. I have plenty of hours left in January. The sun is out, the temperature has finally climbed to a whopping 3 degrees below 0.
I'm going mushing.
I mean, what is wrong with me? I made a conscious decision months ago to only take the assignments I want, so that I have time for other things, like going for long runs, adding extra intervals to the bike workouts, running the dogs for entire afternoons. Things like doing laundry and dishes and cooking inspired meals that will make my children smile.
The thing is, I sort of want all these assignments. Each one seems like a challenge, some easier than others, but still.
So instead of actually sitting down and working on these stories, here I am, calculating the math of how much time I have for each one. Let's see: 26 more days, divided by 6 stories gives me about four days for each, at 8 hours a day (OK, 4 hours if I'm really honest with myself) - wait, that's only 16 hours per story.
That's not much time.
But then I get to thinking about pay. Some of these things only pay $200 per story, and at 16 hours per story, that's a paltry $12 or so. I might as well work at McDonalds. Maybe I DO have time to go skiing, dog mushing and running after all. I'll take the $600 stories seriously, but $200? Come on now.
See? This is looking up already. Freelancing can be such a manic way to live. I've been doing it, at varying levels of intensity, for more than 10 years now, and it still doesn't get any simpler. There's the constant job searching, the careful negotiating, the endless waiting -- for an assignment, a paycheck, an answer from those faraway editors who don't seem to think we writers have lives and schedules, too.
You know what? Forget this computer. I have plenty of hours left in January. The sun is out, the temperature has finally climbed to a whopping 3 degrees below 0.
I'm going mushing.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
New year, new hopes, new deadlines!
As the mercury plummeted even LOWER today, my brave new goal of running outside regardless of the temperature went straight out the window. I mean, come on, this is getting RIDICULOUS. It was 23 degrees below 0 this morning, and it's only gotten up to a whopping 15 below right now.
So, I'm digressing, but that' s because I'm all sweaty from running on the treadmill in a house that feels like a Brazilian rain forest (68 degrees) compared to what's outside (15 below, although admittedly very wintry and beautiful). I must not be thinking clearly.
The point of my rambling is to say welcome to my new blog, one of the millions of pointless ramblings that people are posting everywhere, but one that I hope will become like a loved child -- cared for, nurtured and shared with other writers/athletes/etc. (see my bio for details).
I do, however, have a goal in mind this year, and I think this one I can stick with because it has NOTHING to do with the temperature. And hopefully, this blog's point will indeed make it worthwhile.
I have many passions -- my family, the environment, the fact that the Republicans didn't worm their way into office, good food, good wine, etc. And likely you'll get to hear about all of them from time to time.
But this blog is focused on two of my particular passions, that of writing and fitness/outdoors. Of all the things that matter to me, I have found that these two particular obsessions are best fueled by the encouragement of others. At no other time have I been more amped up by my road cycling than after beginning to work with a coach. Having that daily encouragement and direction really propels me to do my best -- whether he has me doing puke-prompting intervals or easy 5-K runs.
The same is true with writing. I don't know about all of you other writers out there, but I find ideas swirling through my head all the time and inspiration comes at the oddest moments. Some of the those moments I have the sense to stop what I'm doing to write them down, in case they lead to something. But at other times, I just let it slide and perhaps miss an opportunity.
So, if anything, this blog will force me -- and hopefully anyone else out there who wants to share -- to get more of those thoughts down. Isn't that what all the experts say? To be a writer, you have to write, write, write. So even if what I'm plopping down here on the page is a bunch of BS, at least that part of my brain is going to be engaged this year.
Who knows where it will lead? Wanna come along?
So, I'm digressing, but that' s because I'm all sweaty from running on the treadmill in a house that feels like a Brazilian rain forest (68 degrees) compared to what's outside (15 below, although admittedly very wintry and beautiful). I must not be thinking clearly.
The point of my rambling is to say welcome to my new blog, one of the millions of pointless ramblings that people are posting everywhere, but one that I hope will become like a loved child -- cared for, nurtured and shared with other writers/athletes/etc. (see my bio for details).
I do, however, have a goal in mind this year, and I think this one I can stick with because it has NOTHING to do with the temperature. And hopefully, this blog's point will indeed make it worthwhile.
I have many passions -- my family, the environment, the fact that the Republicans didn't worm their way into office, good food, good wine, etc. And likely you'll get to hear about all of them from time to time.
But this blog is focused on two of my particular passions, that of writing and fitness/outdoors. Of all the things that matter to me, I have found that these two particular obsessions are best fueled by the encouragement of others. At no other time have I been more amped up by my road cycling than after beginning to work with a coach. Having that daily encouragement and direction really propels me to do my best -- whether he has me doing puke-prompting intervals or easy 5-K runs.
The same is true with writing. I don't know about all of you other writers out there, but I find ideas swirling through my head all the time and inspiration comes at the oddest moments. Some of the those moments I have the sense to stop what I'm doing to write them down, in case they lead to something. But at other times, I just let it slide and perhaps miss an opportunity.
So, if anything, this blog will force me -- and hopefully anyone else out there who wants to share -- to get more of those thoughts down. Isn't that what all the experts say? To be a writer, you have to write, write, write. So even if what I'm plopping down here on the page is a bunch of BS, at least that part of my brain is going to be engaged this year.
Who knows where it will lead? Wanna come along?
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