Note:  In the fall of 2008, I wanted to try my hand at writing a book but that plan quickly hit a snag:  me.  For a month I tried to wriggle my out of some heavy duty resistance, but the resistance ultimately prevailed.  Which was a shame.  (Or, maybe not as I can’t even remember what sort of book it was I wanted to write!)  At any rate, working through the problem did lead me into some interesting exercises.  So, it wasn’t a total loss.  It was, in a way, a partial win. This post was the last of a series I called Writer’s Knot.

My dog is having a tough week.  His seasonal allergies have flared up, his feet itch, and if I don’t give him anti-inflammatory meds and make him wear baby socks, he’ll chew his paws until they’re raw and bleeding.  He beetles around the house just fine despite the makeshift booties secured with velcro strips.  Dogs don’t like velcro, doncha know, which means he’ll leave the strips – and thus the socks – alone. And whenever he’s taken outside, the socks come off and he gets a bootie break.

Literary Ambition has been observing these little attentions and drawing comparisons.  She does not like what she sees.  She wants me to attend to the book in the same vein as the dog, to baby it through all the irritations and whimpers.  She also wants me to remove the sock on my brain, to let the itch to work on the book flare me into action.

Thus, The Organizer was tapped for a follow-up appointment.  Together we scanned the calendar entries I’d made the week before and then the number of checkmarks made on the days when the calendar entry was completed.  The latter took all of two seconds.  Well, murmured The Organizer, at least we have a clear understanding of what hasn’t been done. As if I didn’t already know.

Thus, The Organizer got the boot.  Hence, Literary Ambition began to cry.  It’s been nothing but problems, problems, problems for her.  As soon as she squirts tonic water on a three-alarmer, there’s a new four or five-alarmer for her to deal with.  I empathize.  RE: the grind, the hard graft of the task she’s been given.

I decided that she and I need a break, some breathing space. I want to pfaff around with Dreaming & Scheming for the next three days. They carry the seeds for the next planting, the next project.  Seeds don’t germinate in a packet, after all.  We need to prep the bed and plant those suckers.  While they’re forming roots, shoots and leaves, Literary Ambition and I can get back to the book.  It’s that simple.

Yet it’s not. Because Literary Ambition doesn’t want a break. She doesn’t like sound or the smell of that.

I went ahead with the drastic action of booking a three-day cruise for Literary Ambition against her wishes.  (It’s a 3-day Greek Isle cruise including an outing on Santorini – what’s not to like!)  She refused to pack a bag.  So, I tossed a few things into a tote anyway (including sunscreen), and arranged for a cab to chariot her to the port. I’m sorry she’s discombobulated and feels abandoned and unappreciated.  Who wouldn’t?

Still, I’m not going to let the need for a reprieve become a tsunami in a teacup – which would be my norm.

And it’s 50-50 if Literary Ambition will actually board the ship and take advantage of her all-expenses paid vacay.  I won’t be there to witness her choice.  Perhaps you will.  If so, I don’t mind at all if you tell me the outcome.

******

PS – Also, just want to thank my writing group buddies who have inspired me to post my weekly check-ins no matter the plot.

Note:  In the fall of 2008, I wanted to try my hand at writing a book but that plan quickly hit a snag:  me.  For a month I tried to wriggle my out of some heavy duty resistance, but the resistance ultimately prevailed.  Which was a shame.  (Or, maybe not as I can’t even remember what sort of book it was I wanted to write!)  At any rate, working through the problem did lead me into some interesting exercises.  So, it wasn’t a total loss.  It was, in a way, a partial win. This post was the third of a series I called Writer’s Knot.

The progress report on the book in a word: minimal.

The week began well.  I finished the outline and a draft of the introduction.  And then in two shakes, or so it seemed, lightning cracked, thunder roared and Dreaming & Scheming reappeared with a real corker of an idea that they dropped into my lap like a golden egg.  Literary Ambition had her hands full.  For two days I was consumed by this new idea, like a parrot enamored with its newest shiny toy.  For two days I refused to peck at anything else.  Not even the book that Literary Ambition kept quavering about.  At one point, her voice officially hit “shrill”, but in response she received a sorry sweetheart but you have to chill.   But, you’ll feel so guilty later, she said.  To which I responded with a humph and my back.

She was right, of course.  (The bitch. Did I just say that?  No I didn’t.  Yes, I did.  I’m so sorry. But it’s kind of true.  Still, that’s a terrible thing to say.)

By Thursday I had obsessed long enough with Dreaming & Scheming’s latest and greatest idea that I was exhausted by it all.  This is what I call the time testing phase.  It’s a relief, in a way.  But it’s also notable for its emotional freefall.  Some of the shine has rubbed off the idea.  It’s not quite so new anymore.  Which is not to say that it’s not still a corker, a golden egg.  But it’s not brand spanking new and the Voice Of Practicalities prepares to take over and VOP has a completely different way of viewing things and can be a real downer and…well, you get the picutre.

Meanwhile, the guilties had crept in and made camp.

One would think that Literary Ambition would have sent a distress call to Unconditional Love, the guilties would be sent packing, and all would be restored to harmony and equilibrium.

But no, Literary Ambition called up The Organizer, the bearer of calendars and lists, clear plastic folders in which to put the calendars and lists, and a label maker.  She’s perky and prim, The Organizer.  I trust her but don’t want to.  And she has this way of getting you to take sensible steps when you least want to do them that is annoying as hell.  Her saving grace is that TO has zero tolerance for guilt.  It is not in her vocabulary.  Thus, it will not be in mine.  At least for now or once The Organizer has left the building.

TO slid a calendar onto my desk, and said now, let’s break this big ol’ enchilada of a book into smaller chews why don’t we.

So, that’s what I did.  I planned what I would do over the next two months and wrote it on the calendar.  Never mind that I’ve already missed today’s entry thanks to the spontaneous decision to drive to Nice and the ensuing scramble. No, I will not mind that.  I will perservere in spite of it.

That’s what I’m wanting to amplify today, my perservence.  It’s untidy and scuffed.  But from what I can tell, it’s never left the building.

Note:  In the fall of 2008, I wanted to try my hand at writing a book but that plan quickly hit a snag:  me.  For a month I tried to wriggle my out of some heavy duty resistance, but the resistance ultimately prevailed.  Which was a shame.  (Or, maybe not as I can’t even remember what sort of book it was I wanted to write!)  At any rate, working through the problem did lead me into some interesting exercises.  So, it wasn’t a total loss.  It was, in a way, a partial win. This post was the second of a series I called Writer’s Knot.

Back in September I joined a Writer’s Success Group, thinking (quite rightly as it turns out) that it would play a key supporting role in completing my book.  Once a month there are check-in calls with this great group of talented, warm and funny writers during which we talk about our challenges and our progress and the overall experience of engaging in the creative process.  We’ve also agreed that each week we’d send a report to the group – what’s shakin’, what’s still, etc. This isn’t just about accountability, but more about leaning into what connects the six of us – all of us hear the undeniable call to write and create.

So, for the time being, I’m using this blog to update the group (and myself!) as to how I’m doing with my project.  I’ve decided to playful with it, especially the woes, and I’m so enjoying how these check-ins have given me a new way to reconnect with my beloved little ritual of self-congratulations. Thus…

Since we last spoke:

Team Changes:  Dreaming and Scheming got bored with the Just-For-Tomorrows and busied themselves with other projects.  This is fine.  Their job was done.

Mid-week I hit a snag thanks to a lack of sleep.  One night I drank one too many cups of tea and had caffeine induced insomnia.  Another night I drank two too many glasses of vino and had red wine induced insomnia.  On yet another night the phone rang at 2 AM (the downside of keeping our US phone numbers via Vonage) from some Georgia politico wanting me to vote them into office.  As a result there were some Just-For-Tomorrows that never saw daylight, and I began to berate myself and get anxious and seek comfort from a jar of peanuts that had been set aside for a dinner of Szechuan Pork.  I know this state of mind all too well.  I know where it sends me.  The bottom of Stew Pot Gorge.

Literary Ambition stepped in and pinged Unconditional Love, who was meditating (as she usually is) upon a velvet pillow, in her lush retreat high, high, high up in her mist-ringed mountains.  Please, have a word with her, was the gist of the request.  She’s in her Gorge below, picking peanut skins from her teeth and questioning everything. Sooner than later would be good, what with x grams of fat and x number of calories in every ounce of monkey nuts.

Once she regained consciousness (her meditations send her deep), Unconditional Love glided down to the gorge from her velvet pillow, from her high, high, high mountains. And when she landed she had this to say:  How many people do you know sleep with their rough drafts in the bed beside them?  That’s dedication. Finish chewing. Keep on trucking, my plucky duck. And then she smiled one of those cloud-lifting, gorge-busting, light-bearing smiles.  Except for the peanuts, Literary Ambition whispered from behind a rock.  Yes, of course!  Except for the peanuts.  Back up to her lush heights and her velvet pillow Unconditional Love floated, a faint odor of orange zest and sage lingering behind her.

Of course I immediately felt better.  Saner.  Seen.  Like it was safe and sound to climb out of Stew Pot and back into the light that is the imagination, the creative process.

Literary Ambition espied my loosened grip and swooped in, seizing the peanut jar.  Then she placed it in the hands of a new recruit, Peanut Jar Monitor, wisely anticipating that other dips into the gorge might lay ahead.  With her prune face and prison matron uniform and minotaur-like upper body, Peanut Jar Monitor is very, very hard to circumvent. Whatever else may happen to a person, you DO NOT want your face to freeze like that of PJM.  You DO NOT want your upper body to bulge in this fashion.  Trust me.

All through “the troubles”, Literary Ambition has stuck to me like a soft, fuzzy burr.  Enlisting the necessary reinforcements.  Keeping the Just-For-Tomorrow’s rolling with adequate regularity.  Even saying a very gracious à bientôt to Dreaming and Scheming.  We need just such a burr sometimes.  I’m so lucky she showed up.

Despite everything that’s gone one, there’s plenty for which I can self-congratulate today – leaving the gorge, listening to Unconditional Love and resisting the peanuts.  Not to mention that the Just-For-Tomorrow’s, despite the setbacks, have still created real, tangible progress, and the book is just where I want it to be:  nearly at the point where the bits and pieces are ready to be assembled into a true, coherent first rough draft.

But today I’m acknowledging Literary Ambition – my darling burr, for not whisking it off, for letting it stick.

As for the toad in the title…on our back terrace a toad seems to have staked out his winter home.  Since Wednesday he’s been burrowed in the verbena planter, under the mint boughs.  I know he’s alive, because when I water the plants he bristles, a little irritated at being disturbed with a cold shower.  I’m hoping he’ll rouse himself again and eat all of the snails. I hate the snails. They’ve wreaked havoc on my terrace garden since June.

I’m very fond of Toad.  He’s quiet, just blinks, the sac beneath his mouth pulsing.   It makes for nice company.

Note:  In the fall of 2008, I wanted to try my hand at writing a book but that plan quickly hit a snag:  me.  For a month I tried to wriggle my out of some heavy duty resistance, but the resistance ultimately prevailed.  Which was a shame.  (Or, maybe not as I can’t even remember what sort of book it was I wanted to write!)  At any rate, working through the problem did lead me into some interesting exercises.  So, it wasn’t a total loss.  It was, in a way, a partial win. This post was the first of a series I called Writer’s Knot.

I’ve been trying to write a book.  I didn’t move to France to write it, and it has it has nothing to do with the move to France.  It’s just that whenever I’ve noodled over one of life’s big questions – What do I want? -  that’s the one that’s always cha-cha’d over, grabbed my hand, and tried to pull me onto the dance floor.  It’s always shrugged off my excuses and pretended to not speak English when I list my reasons for rejection.  Finally, I said, “OK, let’s take a spin. Just one, mind you. Don’t get any funny ideas.”

So, I declared my intentions, concocted a timeline, scrawled an outline, and teed up all the supporting resources I thought I might need to write my book.  Except I stumbled pretty early, pretty quickly in the writing routine portion of the dance number and ended up with a sprained ankle of the ego.  Which my Demons of Doubt suggested, snidely,  that perhaps this dance marathon I had gotten myself into was not worth the swelling.

Luckily I’m a dreamer and a schemer, and while my ego slumped on old, tired sofa with a pack of ice, those other parts of me stepped under the disco ball and held a quiet pow-wow with my dance partner, Literary Ambitions.  Together they decided that it wasn’t necessary for me to commit to this book every day, but just for tomorrow.  Tomorrow morning I would set my alarm for 7 AM and give this book an hour of my time.  I did NOT have to commit to anything further.  Just for tomorrow.  And then I could wail like a great big baby about how hard it was to do this and how I couldn’t bear the pressure any further and give it up, no quesitons asked.

Fine. Dreamer, Schemer and Literary Ambitions held out a pen and asked me to sign off on my good intentions.  I said, “Pencil?”  They said, “Ink only.”   I sighed but signed.  After all it was just for tomorrow.

7 AM tomorrow came.  I woke.  I wrote.  I glowed.

I called my team over, we high-fived, and I said I can do this just-for-tomorrow, too.  Out came the pen.  On went the signature.  Next day:  woke, wrote, glowed some more.

By my fifth successful just-for-tomorow pass, I was hooked on scoring points.  The team rejoiced.  They suggested we cut a deal, that I sign a longer contract.  Didn’t I want to do something besides hold daily team meetings?

“Mmmmm…no,” I replied.  “I’m with you, but I’m sticking with my tomorrow-to-tomorrow terms.  Comprenez?”

They eyeballed each other, not sure if I was messing with them, perhaps wondering if I was holding out for a better offer. Right now, though, there is no better offer.  Just-for-tomorrow is my go-to game.  Each day dawns with a fresh finish line to freshly cross.

So, today I’m self-congratulating for stepping on the dance floor in the first place.  But also for falling on my ass.  And then for letting my ego rest and letting Dreaming, Scheming and Liteary Ambitions take the lead.  And for giving Just For Tomorrow a fair whirl.  And finally, for not getting too antsy, for taking charge and for calling the shots.