It’s Groundhog Day (All Over Again)

The Micro Farm

Time has lost meaning (I know, it’s cliche at this point). But, it’s true and it’s universal. Frequently I hear (read on social media) that people wake up unsure if it’s a week day or weekend. Also, we seemingly have all the time in the world . . . yet not enough..

When I worked at HP as a technical writer what really was years ago, my boss Nick used to say, “I’m having déjà vu all over again.” We all laughed. I mean what a redundant statement.*

Until it’s not.

I truly feel like every day is the restart of the previous. I do the same things now I used to do (since I’ve worked at home for years), but it’s different some how. Although I start with exercise, like I always have, I no longer go to the gym–now, it’s some combination of running/walking, indoor bike, weights. And sometimes the time stretches to a later time (one day I finished at 8 p.m.). Then I sit down to write.

But sometimes I don’t, because I don’t have time.

Because now:

I feed the sourdough starter (this is labor intensive especially since I turned one starter into two).

Water the microfarm of microgreens

Bake bread. Yesterday a loaf of whole wheat bread, frozen for the week’s use. Today the Challah recipe my daughter-in-law sent me. BUT that will use the final packet of yeast, hence the sourdough starter. There’s a national yeast shortage as well as shortages of other things, hence my next activity…

Procure food. This is perhaps the oddest new thing I do. Peruse the web for increasingly rarer and more basic ingredients. For example, no longer bread, now yeast and flour. No longer one pound bags, now twenty-five pounds. Flour, beans, cheese, rice (which is the toughest to find, I’ve found). Things will be shipped directly to our home. I am now watching preppers and homesteaders on Youtube, and asking myself, “Who am I?”

Then, I write. When I can. About anything I can focus on. (Which isn’t much these days outside of the above.)

Repeat.

All of this takes place in the very small radius of home, of course, yet interspersed throughout the day, during the breaks in my new routine, I take “trips” to the outside: I reach out to beloved too-far-away-family and friends far and near because you are who anchor me and remind me what is most important in life.

I observed to my daughter that life right now feels a lot like the movie Groundhog Day. Everyday is a day to perfect/work on what we have not gotten right for the day(s) before. Every day is a do-over.

As Nick would say (and believe me, he’d be incredibly smug to hear me say it), “It’s déjà vu all over again.”

What are you working on during this Groundhog time? Also, if you have an inside line on where to order (bulk or otherwise) brown rice, let me know!

* I know Yogi Berra first (and famously) said this phrase. But when Nick said it, it was the first time I’d heard it.

 

The Days Are Long . . .

All rights reserved by Julia Munroe Martin

It’s been over a year since I last posted. To be honest, I wasn’t sure I’d ever post again.

That was before. (We all know before what.)

I had the idea to start blogging again right after I got back from a trip to Tucson to see a close friend.  (Is blogging still even a thing?) That was a little over two weeks ago . . . or was it two months? (I know old joke by this point.)

Still . . . the days are long but the years are short.

Or . . . is it the years are short but the days are long.

The minutes go on forever.

I could go on forever. Time has lost most of its usual meaning. The day before yesterday I realized I wasn’t sure what day it was, only remembering when I reminded myself it was an upper body workout day.

Remember when we went to the gym to do that?

Every possible routine has changed. MEH (My Engineer Husband) has now joined me in working from home. And I am struggling to work . . . to write . . . period. Again. I digress. Our routine of picking up our daughter’s dog Milo every morning so she could go to work and we could dog sit doesn’t happen anymore (she works at home). MEH’s routine of running with Milo every morning doesn’t happen anymore (Milo is with our daughter, social distancing). I now run with MEH (and he is much slowed down).

Every morning I hear the Carolina wren, singing her heart out. This is one routine that hasn’t changed.  I can hear her more clearly than I used to in fact, no traffic and all. I cling to that. She is the connection I feel to my son and his wife in the south. (We had to cancel a trip to see them.) I also cling to going upstairs to lift weights, something that I’m so very glad I’ve been doing regularly now for eight months. Another routine. I cling to my online friends, and I’m glad I have that community even more than ever. Actually (almost) all my friends are now online. Except close neighbors. I cling to seeing Arlene, my 80-something neighbor, from afar. I love seeing her lights in her house before it’s light outside. A connection.

Yesterday I wrote a piece of nonfiction (the first paid work I’ve done in a very long time) unrelated to anything I’ve ever written about, and it felt good to write. I’ve been very lax in any kind of schedule for a while now, and I realized how much I’m craving it. Not just feeling the ability to concentrate and write, but the reality that life is going on.

It reminds me that regular life is still there, humming under the surface of my fears and anxiety and uncertainty. And that’s something to cling to.

How are you doing?

 

Going (a little) Viral

Photo by Julia Munroe Martin, all rights reserved

Once in a while you get lucky. You get to see something or witness something that becomes a phenomenon. And once in a while it helps you go viral.

Enter the Westbrook Ice Disk.

If you’re like me, you’ve never heard of an ice disk or ice circle—why would we? I mean it’s a rare occurrence, described by Wikipedia in this way:

“Ice discs, ice circles, ice pans, or ice crepes are natural phenomena that occur in slow moving water in cold climates. Ice circles are thin and circular slabs of ice that rotate slowly in the water. It is believed that they form in eddy currents.”

That’s what pops up if you search for “ice disk” in Google. But what also pops up are photo after photo of the latest ice disk—described as one of the largest, if not the largest on record, at 300 feet in diameter—located in Westbrook, Maine, less than half an hour from where I live.

When I first heard about the ice disk, Friday of last week, I naturally told MEH (My Engineer Husband) immediately. I knew we had to go see it. We planned an early morning, sunrise viewing the very next morning. The area where the ice disk is located is right below the Sacrappa Falls on the Prescumpsot River, a spot conveniently next to a four-story parking garage. We drove to the top of the garage and took some photos—along with four other photographers—at six-thirty in the morning. By the time we left, there were cars lining the other side of the river for a glimpse of the ice disk, ice moon, ice circle . . . the phenomenon.

But I had my pic. A photo taken with my iPhone of sunrise at the Westbrook Ice Disk. I posted it to Instagram expecting my usual 250 to 300 likes of a nice sunrise or sunset, but within an hour I had over 400.

Photo by Lee Martin, all rights reserved

Later that day, MEH said he wanted to go back—to catch the sunset lighting up the disk, as we’d seen at sunrise. Alas, with a huge snowstorm bearing down, there was no sunset to see, only gray skies, but MEH took an amazing wide angle shot of the disk. And this time when we went back, it was crowded on both sides of the river, so much so we got stuck in a traffic jam on the drive to the river.

But It was worth it. It’s really something, that ice disk. And it helped me achieve something I’ve wanted for a while—to go (a little) viral. My photo of the ice disk now has over 1500 views on Instagram.

Have you ever witnessed a phenomenon?

Opening the door

This morning at 5:47 a.m., I spit into an Ancestry DNA test tube and placed it into the postage-pre-paid box.

When I was two years old, my bio-father walked out on my older brother, my mother, and me. He left for a younger woman who was a student at the local state college where we lived in Pennsylvania. The story I always heard was that he left my brother and me with a neighbor while “babysitting us,” my mother out for the day. After my mom figured out what had happened, she went to the college and had the “other woman” thrown out of school—she was always proud of that—then she moved with my brother and me to Boston and entered a graduate program at Harvard.

A year or so later she met a fellow graduate student, and they married three weeks later—he was the man who raised me from the time I was four, the man I called Dad. After they finished their degrees, we moved to California where he and my mom taught at a small college. The two spent their lives teaching and traveling the globe, conducting research together in cross-cultural child development. At the same time, they raised my older brother and me and had another son eight years my junior: the half-brother I grew up with.

Meanwhile on the east coast, my bio-dad Paul married the younger woman, and they too had a son, also eight or so years younger than I am. I saw Paul just three more times in my life and met that half-brother only once when I was a teenager, twice as an adult. But when that half-brother was about five, Paul left him and his mother, too—for another woman.

What I didn’t know until about a year ago was that Paul would repeat this pattern—with women, if not with children—at least four times in his life; he died twenty years ago.

To say I had a complicated relationship with my family would be an understatement. My fathers not withstanding. My mother, who died twenty years ago, and I were quite different. Among other things, she was both brilliant and also strong-willed (not that those things are mutually exclusive or that I am labeling myself as not-brilliant). She wanted me to bend to her will, to her high standards for me, and I spent much of my young life trying to live up to her expectations—at the same time fighting like hell to figure out who I really was and what I really wanted to do with my life rather than fighting against what she wanted for me. It’s been a struggle.

The whole time I was growing up, I longed to have a close relationship with my bio-grandmother (Paul’s mother). I felt closely akin to her, I’m not sure why. She, a Russian immigrant, lived in NY City; me, a very-American teen, lived in California. I saw her maybe once a year, if I was lucky. But in temperament, in spirit, I was very much my grandmother’s granddaughter—her only granddaughter. When my grandmother died I was “not invited” to the funeral. As in, I was asked not to attend. I suppose it was too complicated with various of Paul’s girlfriends/fiancés/wives, and at the same time, Paul was notoriously ill tempered—at least one relative told me I should be happy he wasn’t in my life. But to me, it felt like the ultimate rejection. I wish I’d gone to her funeral, and it still stings that I chose not to.

In the past six months, I’ve become active on Ancestry.com. I’ve researched both sides of my family—my biological roots—going all the way back (if I’m to believe Ancestry research) to my fifth great-grandfather Rabbi Eliyahu Zeldovich born around 1850 in Minsk, Belarus. On the other side, to the late 1700s (!!!) in Switzerland.

I’ve also found living second cousins and third cousins and distant “aunts and uncles,” some of whom I met when I was a child, at my grandparent’s lake house near New York City. All told tales of life in eastern Europe and Russia, some told harrowing stories of escaping to the freedom of the United States. These stories fascinated me and still do, so I hope someday soon to visit a cousin and “uncle” whom I’ve reconnected with, who know more of those stories.

But to actually find people I’m related to via DNA? It took me a while to get there. When I first heard about the test, I was skeptical. What would that give me? But as I thought about it, I realized. Paul . . . his various wives, girlfriends, etc., I’ve known men like that. Surely there may have been others. Other relationships.

The younger half-brother I grew up with died five years ago. My older brother and my other half-brother (the one I’ve met three times) are still alive. But . . . the elephant in the room . . . did Paul have other children? One of Paul’s errant relationships (let’s be honest, here—no one likes to think of their parents this way—one errant sperm) could have produced another half-sibling. Another half-brother? Or half-sister? Maybe someone who’s wondering the same thing on Ancestry.com.

But to be willing to open that door. That’s something. That’s what I feel like I did this morning. I opened a door to . . . something . . . or nothing. I won’t start to find out for at least six to eight weeks.

To be continued . . .

Have you delved into your family’s history? Have you (or would you) explore DNA testing?

In Search of the Zone

By Daniel via Flickr’s Creative Commons

Last week I wrote about by desire to re-enter the writing zone.

My intention was to have a resolution list ready to go on January 1. Things I’d do in 2019 to help me “get there”—back to the zone—but here it is January 15, and I’m just sitting down to capture my new year’s writing resolutions.

I keep an “everything list,” I update every month or so (most recently at the beginning of this new year), everything from decluttering closets to finding more vegetarian and vegan recipes to catching up on all the things I didn’t do in 2018. None of the things on this list will necessarily bring me closer to my writing goal.

Enter List 2. Ways to bring back the writing zone. In addition to continuing to go to the therapist, here are the things I’m planning to do to try and recapture the writing magic.

  1. On the top of this second list is the nebulous goal to “do new things.” This is similar to how Julia Cameron suggests going on “artist dates” with yourself: “a once-weekly, festive, solo expedition to explore something that interests you.” To ask yourself, “What sounds fun?” I’m hoping introducing new things into my daily or weekly routine (though not necessarily always festive or artistic) will spark ideas and creativity.
  2. Another of Julia Cameron’s suggestions: morning pages. I have not been particularly successful at this in the past, feeling inhibited as I write, perhaps worried I’ll be upset or self-conscious when I read things later? (I’m not sure about why, to be honest.) The editor I’m working with suggested I shred the pages after I write them. I’ve done this a few times and it really helps me write more freely. My goal is to write pages every morning.
  3. Regular exercise—a tried and true method for kicking my creativity into higher gear—has fallen by the wayside as 2018 got busy.
  4. Write regularly. As in a daily word count for fiction. This has worked for me in the past; I’m hoping it will work again. Also, blog weekly.
  5. Read more.
  6. Less screen time. Specifically, less social media.
  7. Use my “happy light” every morning for half an hour or more. The Mayo Clinic says light therapy may help “if you typically have fall and winter depression, you may notice symptoms during prolonged periods of cloudy or rainy weather during other seasons.” Maine winters are notoriously long and dark—the county I live in ranks 2,622 out of 3,111 counties in the country for solar radiation. Mind you, this is an annual average, and during the summer we get a lot more sunlight. In the winter, it starts to get dark a little after three. BTW, curious where your county ranks for natural happiness light? Check out this cool map.

Most of the things on my writing resolution list are things I like to do as soon as I get up (exercise, write morning or daily pages, write fiction). My energy for these things fades as the day goes on. I’m thinking of using the therapy light later in the day to see if I can emulate the early morning hours, to see if it stimulates more creativity.

That’s my plan. It has not escaped me that I’m approaching the recapturing of a very untethered feeling (the writing zone) in a very structured manner. This does and does not worry me because whether it’s by design or through some mysterious alchemy, it doesn’t really matter, I just want to get back there.

To that end, at the end of last year, I started to feel tiny sparks from time-to-time, sensations of writing days past. These glimpses have become more frequent. Maybe this will morph into the writing excitement of days gone by? When the twinges first started, I felt sad—they seemed so out of reach—now when I get these feelings, I’m more excited . . . and curious. This makes me hopeful that a breakthrough is getting closer.

I’ll keep you posted. Do you have a new year’s writing list? I’d love to hear! We’re all in this together!

Finding My Way

Photo by Julia Munroe Martin, all rights reserved

Last year was a tough year full of change. And I didn’t do much writing because of it. I’ve written about some of these transitions here and on Writer Unboxed, too, as I figure out how to move forward with my writing.

Toward the end of last year, after one of my Writer Unboxed posts, I started to work with an editor—to develop some of my fiction ideas and to edit some of my past works. She and I have been working together for about three months now, and I’m happy to say that I’ve made a little progress.

But . . .

Not enough. Don’t get me wrong, she has been wonderful. Our weekly Skype sessions are not only helpful but also very enjoyable. I respect her opinions, and it’s great to have someone to bounce ideas off of. And I’ll continue to work with her.

But . . .

Something is missing. I still haven’t recaptured the feeling of being in love with writing. I’d almost describe it as feeling as though my writing is locked inside. Even when I have an idea that I love, I can’t seem to pursue it. I no longer feel the breathless excitement for writing like I used to; a lot of my enthusiasm is gone; when I do write, the flow or finding the zone, is almost impossible.

Do I want to give up?

Absolutely not. Quite the opposite. I want to re-find the zest I used to have. I miss it and long for it daily.

Blogging to the Rescue, Part II?

When I started this blog, I posted every day. And while I’m not sure I want to go that far, I do want to start to blog again (certainly more than three times a year like last year and the year before). My original intent for blogging was to kickstart my fiction writing (it worked: I finished one novel and wrote five more with many more partial manuscripts); I’m hoping blogging will do the same this time. For a while now, I’ve also planned to redesign my blog.

One of my long-time blogging friends Nina Badzin just added a subdomain to her main site, for her friendship advice column:

“I made a new site–a subdomain of this site–and that will be the home for all the friendship posts I’ve written since 2014 and all the friendship-related posts I will write in the future. You guys, I made the site with my bare hands.”

(By the way if you haven’t looked at Nina’s friendship advice posts, you should. She’s really helped me and taught me a lot about friendship. Invaluable advice!) But to the point today, kudos to Nina for making the site herself. She has inspired me to take a crack at redesigning my own blog. I had planned to hire someone—and still might—but between having some free time and a background in the tech industry as well as a husband who’s a software engineer (MEH—My Engineer Husband—for those of you who have known me for a while), I’m willing to at least give it a try.

In a way, spending more time blogging is like returning to my roots.

But . . . That’s Not Enough

I’m not so naïve to think that working with an editor or deciding to increase my blogging is the answer to coming out of what I need to admit is a writing slump (I can’t and won’t go so far as to say I’m blocked—I’m not a fan of that expression anyway).

So, I’ve also started seeing a therapist. I sought out someone who works with creative people. My goal is that she will help me find my way back to “the flow” I once felt while writing.

Talking with her has given me the chance to name my feelings and give them space—sometimes I don’t acknowledge I have a right to feel the things I feel. The therapist pointed out that in 2018 I dealt with a trifecta of life changes, and said it’s understandable how those changes would impact my ability to focus let alone my ability for writing to flow. Just talking with her, hearing her acknowledge my feelings and fears, has brought me a sense of peace and acceptance I haven’t felt in a while. And I’m hoping it’s just the beginning.

I know I have a long way to go, but the fact that I’m acknowledging that, and that I’m writing a blog to do so, is encouraging me. I know it’s just one step in many I’ll be taking this year as I find my way with my life and with my writing.

That’s what 2019 has in store for me—I’d love to hear what you’re up to!

Lost Not Found

By Patrick aka Herjolf via Flickrs Creative Commons

Yesterday I lost something. To be specific, I can’t find it. This thing—something recently given to me, a tiny book—is personalized. And highly personal. Truly priceless in its contents.

I’ve gone through every obvious place it should be . . . like the table where I last remember seeing it, on bookshelves, and in drawers of paper products. But I’ve also searched not so obvious places like piles of folded laundry and car glove boxes. I searched through the box of batteries and the junk drawer, too. I’ve looked through bags and boxes of all kinds of things.

When my son was a teenager, I lost my favorite pair of sunglasses—they disappeared out of the car. I searched high and low but never found them. My kids laughed along with me as I questioned each of their friends for months about my sunglasses, every time I drove one home from school or a group of kids to the beach. It became a joke, but it bugged me. I never did find the sunglasses and eventually agreed with the likely hypothesis that they fell out of the car.

Once when we were packing for a move—this before we had children—MEH (My Engineer Husband) and I misplaced a hammer (how do you do that?). We looked for weeks but never found it. We’d been using it in the old house, packed the last box, loaded it in the car, but never found the hammer in the new house. We searched both houses to no avail.

“Maybe I left it on the roof of the car,” MEH mused back then. We’d lost several coffee cups that way.

A pack of peat pots disappeared once. My son’s pre-school backpack (that really did disappear off the roof of the car, but when we turned around, seconds after we saw it fly off in the rearview mirror, we couldn’t find it anywhere). Socks, of course. A favorite nightshirt.

But nothing as irreplaceable as this.

In all other regards, it’s been my lucky month—my son and daughter have both been home. But I’ve been out of my usual routine, so I’m imagining I tossed the book aside as I ran to greet them, to chase the dog, or to pull a boiling pot off the stove.

But I wonder.

“I have a mystery on my hands,” I mentioned to my son when he came downstairs for coffee in the morning. He’d come home in the middle of the night, so the book had already gone missing before he arrived.

My daughter, though, had been home; I’d shown it to her and her boyfriend the day it disappeared. Had it somehow slipped into their things? They’re both in medical school and they always have plenty of books and papers, laptops, bags of more books—endless studying!—maybe I placed it on one of their stacks?

Déjà vu all over again (as an old boss of mine used to say)—like the sunglasses. After they left, I emailed them:Had they accidentally scooped it up? They checked and re-checked their things—

No such luck.

Last night, just before we went to bed, MEH went through the trash. (He’s nice like that; he kindly takes on many of life’s less savory tasks.) Then the recycling. We both looked under the couches and the dog bed, through the sock basket, through stacks of books. My folders—again.

Still no luck.

It’s missing. Gone at least for now.

I Googled missing things (of course I did), wondering—do other people go through this? Big things disappear. The whole city of Atlantis. Blackbeard’s Treasure. There are countless stories about those kinds of losses. But also . . . a story about a woman who lost her wedding ring while gardening, found it sixteen years later growing on a carrot. Another woman who lost an autographed book, only to find it five years later when she ordered a used book on Amazon—it was her very own personalized book.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t think either of these extreme things will happen. I think in the distraction of everyday life, I put my lost item somewhere unexpected. Just waiting to be found. I fully expect that someday when I least expect it, I’ll open a drawer I’ve opened a hundred times and there it will be—in plain sight.

At least that’s what I’m hoping.

UPDATE: Four hours after I posted this blog, I found the little book…  it had fallen down into the mechanism of an office chair. Keep your eyes peeled for the hammer, the peat pots, and Blackbeard’s treasure, though!

Have you ever lost anything valuable? And irreplaceable? Did you find it? Any suggestions on where I should look?

Flying Solo

Photo by Alistair Morris, Flickr Creative Commons

Photo by Alistair Morris, Flickr Creative Commons

I wrote this in January but didn’t have the heart to post it. Last month, my dad died, and I thought about this . . . written during another period of mourning. It seems fitting to post now, and maybe in another few months I’ll be able to post what I’ve just written about my dad. Today, please join me in celebrating the life of Eva Thompson.

When our kids were growing up, my very good friend Eva and I sent emails to one another when we were worried about something. We called them Worried Mother Alerts, almost immediately shortened to WMAs. If I got an email from Eva with WMA in the subject line, I’d open it right away, knowing she needed some support. She did the same for me.

When our kids were younger, it was always small stuff. School and teacher struggles. Heartbreak after one wasn’t invited to a beach party; anxiety after one was invited to a co-ed overnight prom party. One didn’t get a part in a play she had her heart set on, one was taking a solo train trip.

As the kids got older, the stakes got higher.

Once, while studying abroad, Eva’s daughter was stranded in Europe, traveling alone at night, and she’d lost her credit card. By the time I got the WMA, Eva had already come up with a solution, but she needed to write to someone who understood her worry and fear. I did. Eva was there for me, too, when my daughter moved across the country to San Francisco after finishing college.

Two worrying moms always seemed better than one. It certainly lightened the load. Made us feel like we weren’t quite alone in our fears. Like we didn’t need to worry as much as we thought we did. I think, although I never verified this with Eva, that I was the bigger worrier. I certainly had a more vivid imagination about what could go wrong—being a writer and all, Eva frequently said—and I was the bigger crier. Eva said she’d only cried twice in her whole life.

Eva would talk me down, tell me everything would be okay. She was always right.

Soon, we expanded the WMA. When my husband was laid off from his job and suffered from depression, I reached out to Eva with a WWA (Worried Wife). And when Eva received her cancer diagnosis four years ago, I sent her this email:

I’ve added you to my WMA list, flying this one solo.

That’s the day I came up with the WFA (Friend).

Eva wasn’t a big one for phone calls. We’d meet for lunch or coffee once a month or so, always arranged via email, occasionally texts. In fact, I only ever talked to Eva on the phone three times over our twenty-some-year friendship.

Once when we got our lunch places mixed up—she was on one end of town, I on the other. Once when I was trying to find her house after she moved. And once when she got the news that her cancer treatment wasn’t working, and they’d told her she had about six months to live.

Eva cried that day.

I cried, too.

And I cried last week when I heard the news I’d been dreading —my friend Eva had died. I sent texts to a few good friends to tell them, but it wasn’t quite the same. They’d never met Eva, just knew I had a friend who wasn’t doing very well. And they didn’t know anything about the WMA. I’d never really even told my husband about it—I don’t know if Eva ever told hers—not about the formal program, anyway.

To be honest, the WMA never entered my mind when I first heard about Eva’s death. But this morning I woke up sad and full of worry. My daughter called yesterday to tell me she’s moving four hours away. It’s a move dictated by her studies, not her first-choice location, and I cried when she told me—so she did, too—worried about me. I’d felt lucky that since her move to San Francisco, she’d returned to the east coast and was a quick two-hour hop from home. Now, she’d be way far up in the tippy top of Maine.

Eva’d have understood.

I felt selfish after I cried. Here I am, I’ll be fine. My daughter, too. So, I’ll drive a little farther to see her—is that so bad? As my daughter said after she told me: “It’s not like it’s San Francisco or anything, Mom.”

It’s the kind of thing Eva would have written in her return email.

But it wasn’t that. It was the realization. The letting go. Knowing that I’ll never again get an email from Eva with the WMA subject line. That I’ll never again be able to send a WMA email to her and share my worry . . . or sadness.

WFA. My good friend Eva died, and I miss her so much.

Eva would’ve understood. And now all I can do is cry.

I’m a Writer, Not a Waiter!

inspiration writing fiction Julia Munroe Martin Poynter amwriting One of my writer friends has a sticker on her computer that says, “Waiting for inspiration to write is like standing at the airport waiting for a train.”

I’ve been feeling a little bit like that lately, which could explain why I haven’t blogged since December. It doesn’t mean I haven’t been writing, but my writing inspiration has been challenged, and I can really relate to the quote above and others from Dan Poynter—because it turns out that’s who wrote that airport train quote.

He also said, “If you wait for inspiration to write, you’re not a writer, you’re a waiter.”

I feel a bit like a poser. Like an imposter. But I’m working actively against those feelings, and one thing I do as frequently as I can to combat them is to hang out with other writers, particularly at conferences and retreats.

Hence, I just got home from the New England Romance Writer’s Conference, and although I do not technically consider myself a romance writer (even though I do write about love and I am co-writing a romance novel), I go to every conference I can conveniently get to because I always learn so much.

This one was no different. Here are some of the things I learned:

  • It’s really, really wonderful to be around other writers all day long—they “get it.” Meaning what it means to be a writer, and that’s a very comforting feeling.
  • I always meet people who are fascinating to talk to: writers but also non-writers who are traveling through the conference venue.
  • I agree with another writer (sorry, I can’t remember her name) who said she always comes away inspired to write more. Me too—thank goodness, because I’m not sure I could write less.
  • My author time is spent almost exclusively on writing, with almost no time spent on the business side of being a writer, and I need to learn more about marketing and SEO—thank you to Nam Patel and Sarina Bowen for the really excellent sessions on these topics.
  • Closely related: I don’t and have never done enough marketing of my indie-published novel, Desired to Death, written as J.M. Maison. This seems particularly important right now as I’m getting ready to publish the second book in that mystery series.
  • I pitched manuscripts to two literary agents, and I was reminded that any time I have a chance to meet face-to-face with literary agents is time well spent. I’ve read that some authors and some agents, too, have mixed feelings about pitch sessions, but I love them—not only because I can pitch my work, but because I get valuable information from every literary agent I talk to, and also because meeting agents as people helps me humanize the whole experience.

Finally, a word about Dan Poynter. When I decided to write about his quote, I had no idea who he was. Dan Poynter was an author, publisher, passionate skydiver, and parachute designer, who wrote over 130 books and 800 magazine articles. I can’t be sure, but I imagine that Mr. Poynter wrote through some rough patches because he wrote such apt quotes. But more so, I imagine he went through those periods because every writer I’ve ever known has gone through them.

I’ll talk about what I’m doing to address my own rough patch in future blog posts—one of the goals I made while I was at the conference was to set a regular blogging schedule—but I haven’t done that yet…

Stay tuned!

What are your writing goals? Have you ever had a rough patch? If so, what do you do to be a writer not a waiter?

Cheers,

Julia

Hello Old Friends

Writing friends at the Ungathering in Vermont last month. Photo by Therese Walsh (who should be in the picture!)

Writing friends at the Ungathering in Vermont last month. Photo by Therese Walsh (who should be in the picture!)

My blog started—almost seven years ago (I can hardly believe that!)—as a daily endeavor to get me writing fiction every day. I blogged every single day for a year, then a little less often, then even less often, until now I blog, well, sporadically. In 2016 I blogged eight times, and this is only my third post for 2017.

I’ve thought about shutting the whole thing down, but the truth is, I like having a blog, knowing it’s here if I want to write a post. I’ll keep my domain name regardless, so why not the blog?

A little update on where my fiction writing stands.

I’m focusing on finishing the second book in my mystery series. I self-published Desired to Death about three years ago under the pseudonym J.M. Maison. That book is languishing on Amazon, but I still get occasional downloads, and I’m hoping to breathe new life into it with book two—it’s always been my goal to have a mystery series.

I’m also really happy to announce that I’m co-writing a novel with my friend Amy Rachiele, mob fiction romance, the first in a trilogy. It’s been a long-time goal to co-author a novel, and I can’t think of a better partner. We have a lot of fun together, and I’m honored to be writing with someone who has so many successes. Check out Amy’s page on Amazon.

Earlier this year, I shelved a novel (commercial/literary) I’d spent about a year working on; I wrote a blog about that for Writer Unboxed.

I’m still looking for traditional homes for two other (commercial/literary) novels I wrote in the last few years. One is a time travel novel, the other is a historical novel about a Vietnam era love story. I had an offer for representation this year, but it wasn’t a great fit so I turned it down. That was a tough decision, but I see it as another commitment to my writing. To the professionalism of my writing—making conscious choices about how and where and when I want to direct what I’m writing.

At the end of 2016 I attended my second-ever writing conference—the Writer Unboxed Unconference. I can say that experience was truly life changing. Since then, I’ve attended two other conferences and two retreats, all with a subset of my “Uncon” friends. These writers, along with my accountability partner Jess, whom I talk to every Monday, and a few other writers I’ve been fortunate to meet along my writer’s journey, keep me writing on a regular basis. I can’t say enough about how much my writing friends have helped me—something I wrote about in another blog on Writer Unboxed.

As I embark on the new year, my goals remain the same as when I started this blog. To write fiction every day. To seek traditional publication for my work. I’ll add one more goal this year: to self-publish at least the second book in my mystery series and the first book in the trilogy with Amy.

None of this would be possible without all of you. You all keep me writing.

What are your goals for 2018, friends?

Happy New Year,

Julia