Becca Wilhite » debts to the Universe

Good morning. Ten things:

becca — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 15:36:11 +0000

… And it’s a balmy Seven Degrees here in the Frozen Mountaintops. Frozen nose and fingers. From taking the garbage to the curb. It’s not that far away.

… Started reading the first Stephen King book (fiction, that is – I read ON WRITING and was thrilled) in more than twenty years this weekend. It’s creepy, I tell you what. (It’s the 11/22/63 one about the Kennedy assassination. And I’m scared. The man can tell a story.)

… Kids 3 (10.5) and 4 (very nearly eight) played Catchphrase yesterday afternoon while I was making Lemon Pound Cake. They were so funny. I wish you could have been a fly on the wall, because not much of it translates to blog. They speak their own language, frequently referencing platypus love, obscure MONK tv episodes, and pineapple. They’re cute. You can trust me on that.

… Amazon, get ready. I’m coming back today, armed with a credit card.

… Shopping is almost done. See above.

… Got the lights and decorations on the tree, and candles in the windows. I should take a picture. It looks precious. And I mean that with all the sincerity I can possibly muster. Truly.

… I love the little kids I work with at church. All 80 of them. They are adorable and hilarious.

… Scotch Tape, where have you gone? I mean it. Where are you?

… We sang Christmas songs in church yesterday, and it flipped a switch in me. Suddenly and without warning, I committed to singing in the Messiah Sing-In choir next weekend. The rehearsal last night brought some “who-do-you-think-you-are” eyebrows at our late join-up, but the music makes me crazy happy. To be alive. To worship Jesus. To sing alto. To repeat “we like sheep” until I have to actually put my hand over my mouth to suppress the “baaaaaa” noise. To want to dig deep into Isaiah and understand the Mysteries. Happy, happy.

… Hope is a thing with feathers, Emily Dickinson said. I love to see some feathers fluttering around here.

Those Days

becca — Thu, 17 Feb 2011 16:33:25 +0000

You know those days where you feel like a change really needs to happen,
and so you wait for it to happen,
and you think that if you just wait it out, the change will come?

And then you get cranky because you’re really not that good at waiting,
and so you start talking about the change,
because you think that if you talk it out, the change will come?

And then you think about the change some more, and you see what a great change it would be,
and you ponder the change,
because Sending Out the Positive Thoughts is all the rage, and surely the change will come?

And then you think that someone really ought to get on this thing, making this change,
So you whine about it for a while,
because then everyone will get the hint and make it easy for the change to come?

And then you eat something?

And then you take a nap?

And then, you know that moment when the realization hits
that it’s nobody’s change but yours,
and that if you really want the change, well then, for the love, it’s time for you to make it come?

I know those days, too.

IOU to the Universe

becca — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 14:36:00 +0000

When you go to writer’s conferences, there is a great deal of excitement and anxiety. And here’s why: Every person attending the conference thinks*, “This is it. This is my break. I’m going to meet the agent and both editors in attendance, and they are all going to fall at the feet of my manuscript. There will be tears and begging and promises of Best Friendship Forever. We may near the word “auction” thrown around. I am here at this conference, and I Have Arrived.”

Sound familiar?

Except, really? Not.

There’s some research somewhere that would tell you the percentage of conference attendees who win a contract on the manuscript they bring to the conference, but honestly, we all know I’m too lazy to do that research. So I’ll just tell you this: It’s not a very big number.

Here’s why.

A ton of the attendees at any given conference are bringing a first draft. Do I really need to say more about that?

Of the ones carrying a polished manuscript, many, many of them are first manuscripts. As in, this is my first novel.

WARNING: Here’s where this hypothetical-ish blog post turns into a hypocritical blog post.

People don’t usually get first manuscripts published. (Just stay with me, please.) Since with the act of writing, we become better writers everyday, it naturally follows that a third novel will be greater than a first, and the fifth will be vastly more wonderful. Paraphrasing several authors’ takes on this, a writer needs to write four unpublishable novels before he’s ready to have that golden #5 purchased.

At this point, you may be thinking that I got very lucky.

You would be correct.

I wrote a first book that was submitted, agent-free, to a publisher, chosen out of the slush pile, shined up, given a fabulous cover, and published. Then I wrote a second one that was also published (and will be in stores, like, any minute). So, if we’re doing the math correctly, here’s the thing. I owe the universe something like eight unpublishable manuscripts.

And I’d like you to know that I’m hard at work filling that IOU.

The things I’m writing at right now are bland. Un-spark-ish. Contrived. And it’s seriously discouraging. BUT. I know that the exercise is good for me. I’m flexing the writing muscle, even if it goes nowhere. Someday I’ll regain my cleverness. I’m certain. And the only way to do that is to keep working on it. Keep flexing that muscle. Keep the words coming, and not worry too much that they’re boring or stupid or heartless.

Why am I telling you all of this? Because I know, I KNOW that I am not the only one discouraged by the spewing of un-brilliant words. We can’t all be on our game all the time. And I want you all to get it — it’s not ON all the time, and that’s so totally okay.

Just keep writing. Just keep writing. Scratching. Scribbling. Plotting, dialoging, twisting, charactering. Writing, writing, writing.

The Universe will thank you.

*We really do think it, even if only in a tiny portion of our subconscious. Why? Because we’ve loved and nurtured and sweat over and lost sleep about this manuscript. It’s precious. Like a favorite child. Not that we’d ever have a favorite child. Natch.