Quiz: Should You Call Yourself a Writer?

A green sign that says Quiz TimeIt’s Time to Label It.

You heard me—today’s the day you call yourself a writer.

What’s that—you already do? Are you sure? Good thing I made you a quiz to find out if you really should call yourself a writer!

  1. You write:
    a) daily
    b) weekly
    c) monthly
    d) yearly
  2. You share your writing with:
    a) your family
    b) your friends
    c) your critique group
    d) no one
  3. You consider writing a:
    a) hobby
    b) passion
    c) chore
    d) all of the above
  4. You enjoy writing:
    a) true
    b) false
    c) all of the above
  5. When you’re at parties and people ask you what you do, you say, “I’m a writer”:
    a) first
    b) last
    c) not at all

Okay, save your answers because now I’m going to tell you a story.

When I was a little girl, I loved arts and crafts: play-doh and coloring books, beads and lanyards. I took art classes all through school. Spent my weekends learning to draw. I went to college for film and animation. And I landed my first job as a puppet fabricator for stop-motion animation. But still, I didn’t consider myself an artist.

Sure, I made art all day. I painted and sculpted, molded and casted, sewed and glued. But I wasn’t an artist! It wasn’t my vision. It was a skillset I had built and implemented. So what if I was passionate about it? So what if I worked my butt off to get there? If I were a real artist, my work would be in a gallery. I would have art shows. I would go through blue phases and red phases. I wouldn’t just make things—right?

It was when I voiced that line of thinking to a friend, who looked at me with raised eyebrows and said, “Melissa, you are an artist,” that I finally realized I was selling myself short. I had the experience, the passion, and even the job to back it up, but still, I felt undeserving of the label.

Is this starting to sound familiar? Good, then you’re ready for the real quiz question:

When will you be good enough for the label?

a) right now
b) right now
c) right now
d) all of the above

If you haven’t guessed it already, no matter how you answered the quiz questions, you pass. You are allowed to call yourself a writer. No, not allowed—entitled. You deserve it. Whether you’re on your first draft or your final manuscript. Whether you have an agent or a published book. Whether you write in a notebook that remains locked away in a drawer for three hundred sixty-four days of the year or type away on your computer daily.

You. Are. A. Writer.

And you don’t need a quiz or a friend or a publisher to validate that. You just need to own it!

Melissa Bloom is a writer, writing coach, and certified yoga instructor who is passionate about exploring the connection between productivity and wellness. As the founder and director of the Mindful Writer, Melissa has developed targeted writing tools and techniques that help people develop a sustainable writing practice to accomplish their writing goals without burning out. Melissa has a background in film, animation, and creative writing. She travels often, learns daily, and attends workshops, trainings, and conferences in a continued effort to hone the crafts of writing and living well.

Photo Credit: pixabay.com/2453148/

5 Places to Find Your Tribe

A black and white photo of many frogs with red eyes

  1. Writing Groups. I’ve been in a few groups, and let me tell you, they are wonderful. The sense of community is almost always immediate, and I guarantee that if you are experiencing some sort of difficulty with your work, someone else is too. I also like these groups because I get to see people develop and grow, which is fun and inspiring. Writing groups can also help improve your craft, which is never a bad thing. They support me when I need encouragement, and they call me on my bullshit.
  1. Reading Groups. It’s amazing to talk to people who love literature. Because they don’t just sorta kinda like this stuff. They loooove it. They breathe it in, over and over again until it feels like part of their soul, and they can’t help but talk about it. And that kind of enthusiasm and love is contagious. It reminds me of why I write, and how people communicate, and how sublime and transcendent writing can really be.
  1. Meetup Groups. I recommend hanging out with non-writers who are interested in something you’re interested in. I got interested in gardening a few years back, and so I went to a Meetup Group interested in permaculture (look it up, it’s pretty fascinating stuff), where I learned to air-layer a tree (similar to a graft). It was amazing and new, and I came away inspired by how many possibilities exist in the world around me. I also made some great friends and now have a yard that shows the effort of learning. Like writing a book, but it’s a yard. And the truth is, learning never hurts your writing. Never. Plus, you’re less of a moron every time you learn something, and there are definitely too many morons in the world today. **Cough**Trump**Cough**
  1. Conventions. I’ve been to things like Comic-Con and Wondercon and other random stuff. I’ve been to writing conferences, film conferences, and so on. Yes, they can be pricey, so I use them as rewards or vacations. And the people I’ve met at these things are really wonderful people. They’ve spent the money, made the commitment, and they’re in it with both feet. These are the kinds of people I want to be around. I don’t want to be around half-hearted hipsters who like things ironically and feign disinterest because they might be seen as uncool. And those people wouldn’t be caught dead at a convention.
  1. Fairs/Events. Book-signings, film festivals, art fairs, museum events, and so on are great places. Not only do you have the interaction with vendors, but also with other fans. They’re kind of like conventions in that regard. It’s also great for people watching, which is one of my favorite past times, and I remember it for when I need to write characters. Creepy as it sounds, observing people and remembering what they do is how writers find authenticity without having to write about their spouses or family (which always gets you into trouble).

PHOTO CREDIT: https://pixabay.com/1422219/

So You Wanna Write for The Feisty Writer. What’s Next?

The Feisty Writer Logo a Hand Holding a PenAh, jeez, thanks for your interest! We’re thrilled you love our site and want to join our roster of talented and spunky writers. As we approach our one-year anniversary, we’re looking for even more unique voices that offer fresh and original insights on writing and the writer’s life.

Is that right up your alley? Are you already feisty by nature? Great! Please look over our guest blogger guidelines below and then send in your submission. Best of luck and thanks again for your interest.

The Feisty Writer Guest Blogger Guidelines 

Submit blogs to The Feisty Writer Co-Editor, Tracy Jones, at tjjones1@gmail.com. You will receive a response within ten days of submitting.

Word Count: Short and sweet is best. Blogs should be at least 350 words and ideally no more than 1,000 words. If truly needed, blogs up to 1,300 words will be considered.

The Feisty Writer Voice: Of course, feisty. Punchy writing. You have something to say and aren’t afraid to shout it from the rafters. You have a distinct point of view. You’ve got something to get off your chest. You’re honest. You’re not scared to be vulnerable. You are not shy. Different is celebrated here.

The Feisty Writer Topics: Writing and the writer’s life but with a twist.

What’s the twist: your creativity and originality in how you approach writing. How to Be a Feisty Submitter—The Mustard Factor, Writing Through Trump, Establish Your Code: Navigating the Rules of Writing, Genderqueer, 5 Things My Inner Critic Says and How I Shut Her Up, Racist Bitch, Hitting the Wall, and Bring the Lover to the Bedroom are just a few of our favorite blogs.

We love informative blogs that show our readers the time, research, and love you spent in creatively organizing important information.

We live for inspiring blogs. Blogs that showcase how you overcame a writing challenge or roadblock, got to the other side, and how they can do the same thing, too. Share success stories that will have our readers dying to write.

A sense of urgency that ignites a flame under our readers’ butts, that the time is now to write, and that we’re going to be on this journey with them.

Embrace the Feisty Tribe: We want our readers to feel informed, inspired, and that they are part of a growing Feisty Writer movement. We want our readers to get to know YOU through your blog. Share your soul; let your freak flag fly. Almost any personal story, shitty experience, triumph or quiet moment can teach about writing or tell us something about the writer’s journey.

Risk, Dig Deep: This is the site where if you’re a little scared to hit submit, you’re probably on to something great. Be brave. Risk it all by being your most creative, vulnerable or opinionated self. Dare to be different.

If Accepted: We reserve the right to edit your piece including picking a new title that we feel may generate more clicks and views. You might also be set up with one of our two site editors to further edit and polish your piece. They’re experienced, easy to work with, and invested in helping our writers perfect their posts.

We will need a headshot/selfie, preferably one that showcases your personality and is more creative or fun compared to a corporate headshot. We will also need a short bio to include at the end of your blog. Again, highlight what you do in two to three sentences, and, if you can have a little fun, all the better. If you would like to add a link to your personal blog/website/Amazon page, we will happily include it.

A Note on Rejections: Due to our site’s unique voice and development of The Feisty Writer brand, not all guest blogs can be accepted. We are writers, too, and have had more than our fair share of rejection. We, too, hate rejection and understand your pain, anger or frustration if your blog isn’t right for our site. But know, it just isn’t a fit or a fit for now. And, it may be perfect for any other number of blogs out there. Please don’t let a ‘no’ from us deter your writing in any way. Keep writing, submit to other blogs, and if you have a more “feisty natured” blog in you, please resubmit!

Writing Full Time—Living the Dream? By Danielle Baldwin, the Newest Feisty Writer

A Smith-Corona typewriter

When I was six, I spent every Sunday morning sitting at the kitchen table with my mom. She would hover over the New York Times crossword puzzle, pencil poised as the smoke from her Kent Kings pulled lazily into the air. Some days I’d help, pushing my cereal bowl to the side to man the thesaurus and dictionary to help her look up words. Other mornings, I would pound away on her portable blue Smith Corona typewriter, crafting a story about flying giraffes or kung fu fighting squirrels.  I knew from those early years, swimming around in the words, splashing them onto the page, that I wanted to be a writer.

It was a dream I pursued through high school and college, one fiction or poetry workshop after the next. But when graduation came, so did a flood of fear; that I wasn’t good enough, that I couldn’t make a living doing what I loved. So instead of pursuing a career in writing, I got a “real job.”

I never left writing completely. I would steal loving glances at it on weekends, working on my manuscript, a short story, or even flash fiction. We’d meet in coffee shops, lock ourselves away in my home office. I’d attend writing retreats and conferences so we could spend more time together. I dreamed of being a writer full time.

So, at the end of last year, when my boss told me that my position was being eliminated, I was more ecstatic than sad. I could spend every waking moment working on my manuscript. This was my chance to become the writer that I’d always wanted to be!

The first few days after the holidays as a “full-time writer” went well. I was focused, energetic and eager to get to the page every morning. But as the days passed, my resolve wavered. Some days I would sit down at my desk, and it was just like days of old—I felt inspired, creative, the words flowed. Other days, I felt like taking a jackhammer to my keyboard.

While I made progress on the manuscript, I was surprised at how hard it was to stay focused.  I found every excuse I could not to sit down and write—laundry or dishes, an errand to be run, a phone call to make. One day, my procrastination efforts were so extreme that I chose to steam clean my furniture instead of sitting down at my computer.  Before losing my job, I could always fall back on a long list of excuses as to why the writing “couldn’t” get done, most of which involved a lack of time or brain capacity to do it. But now? There were no more excuses, and yet, there were some days that I had nothing on the page.

I learned some valuable lessons. Creative work, or really any type of work that happens outside of a traditional corporate environment feels different. The pace of my days changed from having every minute accounted for in meetings or deadlines to relatively open and unscheduled. To feel like I was still accomplishing something, it was important for me to build in some structure: writing dates with friends, accountability partners to keep me on track, and joining a professionally led read and critique group where I have pages due every other week.

I learned to have more patience with myself. There are times to work through your writing, to keep your butt in the chair and your fingers on your keyboard, and there are times to step away. I had to listen to my inner writing guide and learn which was which—to balance my need for a break, knowing I would come back with fresh eyes, with the guilt of walking away from my project.

And this new life still has stress, but it’s a different type of stress that comes from starting a new type of career, building a business around writing, and failing at things so that I can learn and grow. It has taken more time to adjust than I had thought and I still have my days of fear and doubt, just as I did when I was twenty-two, but overall as I sit at the kitchen table every morning with my laptop and my coffee, I’m incredibly grateful.

The Author, a lovely brunette, smiling

After spending twenty years in the corporate world, Danielle is transitioning into a more creative life, which alternately exhilarates and terrifies her. She spends her days working within the San Diego writing community and is honored to be the president of the San Diego Memoir Writers Association. Danielle received her B.A. in Creative Writing from Vanderbilt University and is currently working on her revisions to her memoir and blogging at her site at daniellebbaldwin.

PHOTO CREDIT: https://pixabay.com and Danielle Baldwin

Jackhammer — By Michelle Saint Germain, Guest Blogger for The Feisty Writer

a man jackhammering concreteI walked across the cul-de-sac to the single story house across from us.  I stepped past the demolished driveway, over the walkway reduced to rubble, and up to the front door.  I rang the bell, twice.  I wasn’t sure if the occupants would hear it over the noise of the jackhammers.

A good-looking guy in his late 20s answered the door.  As he stepped out of the house down to the dirt where the stoop had been, he introduced himself.

“Hi, I’m Mitch.”

Someone shouted from inside, “Honey, close the door!”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, pulling the front door shut behind him.

“Hi, I’m Michelle,” I said.

“Rachel?” he asked, over the noise from the construction.

“Michelle,” I said louder.

“Okay, gotcha.”

“When will this construction be over do you think?”

Mitch hesitated.  “I’m not sure.”

“I’m asking because,” and here I take a breath, “I’m a writer.  This jackhammering has been going on for at least a week.  Over there on the second floor,” I waved in the direction of my house, “is my office.  I can’t open the windows, and even with the windows shut the noise is deafening.”

“Well, it’s the best way to excavate all this,” Matt said as he swept his hand across the front of his large, pie-shaped lot.

“It wouldn’t be so bad if I knew when it would stop,” I said.  “In fact, it did seem to have stopped for a day or two, but then it started up again.”

“Oh, at first we just planned to do the walkway and the front step, but then we added the driveway.  Then we decided to put in new landscaping, and that meant a new sprinkler system, too.  Anyhow, what do you want them to do, use shovels?”

“Couldn’t you get one of those little Bobcat excavation things, whatchamacallits, backhoes?”

“I don’t know; I’d have to ask the foreman.”  Mitch frowned.

“Can’t you at least let me know, is it going to be another day, another week, or what?”

“Do you think we like this?” Mitch said, changing to a more aggressive response.

Don’t tell me how bad you have it, I thought.

“We have a three-week old baby.”

Poor timing.

“Well, if you could just let me know when you think this crew will be finished, I’d appreciate it,” I replied.

Mitch looked left and right, as if he didn’t want to be overheard giving away state secrets.  “Don’t quote me on this, but we’re hoping to pour concrete next Friday.”

Today was Saturday.  At least another four days of teeth-rattling noise.

“Ok, thanks,” I said, turning to go.

“Bye,” Mitch said as he went inside.

As I walked back to my house, I realized that for the first time I had uttered those words:  I am a writer.  I picked up my step, noticing the bright blue sky, and wished I could whistle.

photo of the authorAbout Michelle: After a 35-year career in university teaching, I decided to try my hand at creative non-fiction. It’s been a tough switch but after three years I feel I’m making good progress.  My other activities include riding my bicycle about 50 miles a week; working out in the gym, swimming, and yoga; and taking my new puppy, Kiah, on long walks.  I working on a memoir about overcoming a lifetime of depression and I’ve taken up meditation to help me sort things out.  At age 69, I look forward to the years I have left to be filled with peace and harmony.

 

Photo Credit: https://pixabay.com/en/construction-jackhammer-equipment-679973/

Confessions of a Memoir Teacher–The Beauty of Broken

a whole in broken glassThere Is a Crack in Everything, That’s How the Light Gets In” – Leonard Cohen

As a memoir teacher and as a therapist, I am privileged to see behind the mask that people tend to wear. On a daily basis, people from all walks of life, all ages and stages of the game, open up and share their true selves with me. And the gift of seeing so many true selves over so many years has changed the way I look at life, the way I see humanity itself.

“Why do you think people share all that stuff with you?” My son asked me once after I told him about a special class I’d just had where many students opened up and explored their deepest secrets in public and for the first time. And he had me stumped. I wasn’t sure why. I only knew that the more they shared, the more I saw their true beauty.

Not the “Facebook, I’m at Disneyland, just had a baby, look at my new puppy, we bought a new car, look at my promotion” kind of beauty. The “I’m scared after my divorce, who am I without my husband, I’m Bipolar, I’m addicted to pills, my dad never loved me, I’m scared to go to the next doctor’s appointment” kind of beauty.

As a person, I gravitate towards the “I’m trying to find my new passion, it hurts to risk, I’m scared to push myself further, I’m jumping in the deep end” kind of beauty.

To me, this is the real beauty of humanity. A kind of beauty that lives in the gray, yet in my eyes is fantastically and spectacularly multicolored.

The other day, while listening to a group member read her memoir, which is an introspective journey out of depression, I had an epiphany. The therapist in her story had stated, sort of matter-of-factly, that we, as humans, are all essentially broken. That being broken was just sort of part of the deal.

That flew in the face of the way I had been trained to think as a therapist, as an American, as a daughter, entrepreneur, wife, and mom. I’d always thought the goal was to work hard, earn, get more, be more–to eventually find my way toward wholeness.

Broken, in my eyes, had meant bad or less than.

But through this therapist’s eyes, broken meant human. Broken meant–just what is.

That night, I couldn’t sleep (and not just because our new kitten was attacking my toes). I kept thinking about the very concept of being whole. And the more I thought about it, the more I questioned it. I turned to the kitten, who may soon be named Mr. Apricot, and said,

“Mr. Apricot, this whole wholeness thing may just be bullshit.”  The kitten seemed to get where I was going, so I continued.

“What if wholeness and perfection are a bill of goods we have been sold along with the Cinderella myth?”

The next morning, I put pen to paper and wrote:

Every person I have ever met, including myself, is what I would consider broken. And what if I had been taught at an early age that that is the beauty of life? We are beautifully broken because we ache for something we don’t have because we are imperfect or slow artists because we lost someone or something because we have a dream yet unrealized because we fill with anger or angst or wish for yesterday. What if we are beautifully broken in a way that doesn’t need to be fixed?

And let me take it one step further, what if the broken places are where the fantastic growth stems from? What if we no longer feared falling, messing up, or failing because we knew these would all be opportunities to find what is most truthful and essential in our souls?

What if we were told that we are never going to have it all figured out, and that’s okay.

This doesn’t mean that you wouldn’t try to heal the hurt places. It means that you would know that perfection doesn’t exist anywhere at any time.

But what about hope, you ask? If I accept all my brokenness, won’t that make me lazy, won’t that mean I have no hope?

In my observation, I don’t see that happening. What I see is that when I work with a group of memoir students, and they begin to share their true selves with one another, their struggles and failures and losses, they experience more hope. They feel a connection with the community, they feel strength in seeing what they have survived. They feel empowered.

Healing, nurturing and loving ourselves, taking risks, pushing beyond bounds–hell yes, to all of that. I’m not saying to wallow in the brokenness. Instead, what if you let it be your personal disco ball? Dance in it, kick up your heels and allow it to surround you. Don’t fight it. This is your humanity talking. It wants to have a conversation with you.

So if you get to the part of your memoir when you are terrified to expose the broken parts, when you want to run and hide behind the old mask, remind yourself that broken is beautiful. Broken is where the light comes in. Broken is where we connect. Waste no more time chasing the concept of whole. Dive into your brokenness and disco the night away.

 

Photo by Jilbert Ebrahimi on Unsplash

Lady Muck

Lady in apron standing in the doorway of a stone houseI’m a self-doubter. One voice inside says, “I’m good enough,” but the ones I hear most are the critics, flying in from 1979, ‘82, 87’, 95’. All those careless comments, words nobody meant anything by…

“I was just kidding.”

“God, you’re so sensitive.”

“You think too much.”

Worse are the comments I didn’t visibly react to, that nobody knew how deeply they embedded. Hooks, tugging at my self-esteem, whispering, “You’re no good/You’re not very smart/How are you going to change anything?/Just accept the way things are/It’s your own fault anyway/If you weren’t so [insert: picky, sensitive, whiny, pathetic, female], everything would be fine.”

Gigantically unaware of how everything affected me.

Suck it up.

These hooks mostly came from listening in on too many adult conversations I wasn’t equipped to process–a weakness of mine from age two on.

Warning: the following comments on repeat are guaranteed to disturb any young girl prone to taking adult commentary as gospel:

“God, who does she think she is?”

“Nothing worse than a jumped-up bitch who knows too much…thinks she’s something special.”

“Doesn’t she think she’s Lady Muck.”

That was a popular one in small town New Zealand, said of anyone who occasionally wanted to rest/tool around, eat chocolate, or, God forbid, read–while everyone else was working their butts off. Money must be earned. “Doesn’t get handed to ya’ on a silver platter.” Introspection, navel-gazing was for losers–lazy, dole bludging no-hopers.

I was secretly a bit of a no-hoper. Life in my family was about action–a good day involved productive activities like getting the thistles ripped, clearing a paddock, cutting the lawn and planting a 2,000 tree orchard. “Plenty of time to rest when you’re dead.”

We spent an inordinate amount of time over cups of tea, standing around the tractor munching on homemade chocolate crunch, sponge cake or gooey caramel square. No matter how much heavy labor we were doing, everyone was overweight.

Then there was, “Needs cutting down to size, that one,” and those that struck at the heart of my deeply unaccepted tendencies, “I could do that! God, what a bunch of crap.” Referring to any piece of art that wasn’t a painted facsimile of a pretty landscape.

I grew up understanding anything I was helplessly drawn to was wrong, especially art. Also, books that ripped chests wide open for the rain to pour in, where people wielded emotions like rage, ecstasy, and sadness like swollen rivers, but in a complex language that didn’t immediately make sense. God forbid if nothing really happened in the story. Most things I loved were too artistic, or just weird.

My trick was to leave. At 12, I spent a month in Hawaii, and I wrote. At 16, I moved to Brazil for a year, and I wrote–a diary filled with lust, pining, and a shameless lack of brevity. A painful, emotionally-penned journey, detailing my relationship with the host family, boys, girls, sugar (I had an hour to hour survival stash of chocolate hidden in my undie drawer and by my bed), and a meticulous effort to fit in. Listing in detail all the Brazilian men I wanted, and the women I wanted to become. To invade. To take over. To body snatch.

For a while, I felt pretty morphed. Triumphant even. From a shy, fearful, hardworking academic girl, I returned from Brazil with hair down my back and arse hanging out of a g-string bikini. I felt beautiful, and, apart from becoming a famous painter and writer, I just wanted to get laid. So I did. Quite a bit. My favorite parts were always the build-up, the chase. I better not tell you about the beach, the moment the first tongue touched my labia, and I nearly died with the sweet pain of it. [Aaah, what the hell: It was a hot night in Ferrugem, and this Carioca boy was intense and brown and surfed so much I don’t know how he stayed awake to be lying in the sand with me when the moon was peaking. I primarily felt courageous to be with him.]

Over time, I left more places because I didn’t know how to stay. What I kept looking for wasn’t anywhere. Emptiness, a shell, a fake brittle world. I bolted New Zealand for England, England for Scotland, then Spain, Portugal, Sweden, London, and back to Brazil. Somewhere I lost my words. My connection with myself, with others.

As you can guess, I finally stopped, realized I could only find truth and love by getting okay with myself, with accepting how things are, as they are. Lady Muck? Turns out the giant, dumb, lazy blonde faker I had myself pegged for is also a reasonably sweet, intelligent, empathetic, loveable human.

And it’s all grist, right? For writing. The hurts, the awful memories. The ones that still make you cringe with what you said, what he did, what she asked, what makes you burn 25 years later. Write it down. Kind of fun, eh? I never imagined at 20, when I thought I wanted to write but was too afraid to apply for the creative writing program at Vic, that describing someone’s tongue on my labia would be part of a larger, far more cringe-worthy body of work. I never guessed I’d be excited at the thought of trying this spoken word thing now. Labia. Labia, my labia. It’s gonna be fun to say that one out loud.

 

Photo Credit: http://nos.twnsnd.co/image/136466723467

Pretend I’m a Kitten

Three newborn kittensWhile critiquing my writing, please pretend I’m a kitten. Because while I’m as feisty as they come, I’m also sensitive. This is not always a great combination. Sometimes I can serve it, but can’t return it. Sure, I’ll dish it, but I refuse to eat it. Mess with the bull, you’ll get the blubbering mess who has torn the horns from her scalp and is trying to stab herself with them while bemoaning, I don’t deserve to be so forsaken. I’m human; I have those days. For now, for the sake of argument, let’s assume every day is one of those days. And also that I’m a kitten.

Let’s role-play. Here I am, walking into our writing class/meetup/poetry jam/critique group/creepy online chat room. I might look put together because my shoes match my scrunchie, but that will be a fluke. Here’s the truth—on the inside, I’m a disaster. It doesn’t matter why. After this meeting, I’m thinking about tying a bunch of twigs together and floating myself out to sea, beckoning large black birds to come feast slowly on my vital organs, killing me softly with their beaks. (You can sing that last part.) I even brought some Styrofoam in my trunk in case the twigs aren’t buoyant enough with my weight on them, but I’d rather not use it because our oceans have enough problems without an additional slice of something with a gazillion year half-life. I will die miserable, but on good terms with our planet.

Before I take myself out, I’ve brought something to read aloud, and it stinks. Of course, it stinks, I wrote it while feeling sorry for myself. This piece reeks of Eau de VICTIM. Few people can get away with VICTIM as their theme. If the main character is a whiner, she better be darn good at something else too. As in, she’s a whiner but she bakes a crazy good cheesecake. Or, she’s a whiner, but she’s also a psychotic axe-murderer who held the word record for underwater hula hooping in 1985. Whining solely to air injustices doesn’t work. I hate to be so bIack and white about things; maybe there’s a person who can pull this off. In general, my thought is that whining is what journals and therapists are for.

Back to our group thing. It’s finally my turn. I read my woe-is-me story out loud (because I have a lot of them, in my journal). There is an extended moment of silence. You want to say, NO. Erase. Redo. Start over. Now is when you should remember that I’m just a kitten. I have big paws that I trip over. I fall asleep in crazy places and funny positions. I make noises that are considered adorable by cat people and, more often than not, I’m scared, but I puff up to look tough. Kittens like me prefer constructive criticism, because we just got here, and we have a lot to figure out. So please, tell me the truth because I’ve come here to learn and improve, but say it with kindness.

Here at thefeistywriter.com, we encourage you to embrace your feisty side, the part of you that says, “Here’s my story, no apologies!” We also remind you to create more distance between yourself and the parts of you that shun praise but shed all armor when baseless criticism is fired straight at your guts. People can be jerks. But not us feisty writers! We are gentle and helpful when people share their truth with us, even when their truth smells like a box of cat turds. We go easy. I’m a kitten; you’re a kitten. Let’s play around and be open and curious with this craft we love and encourage others to do the same.

Photo credit: https://unsplash.com/photos/Y_pLBbSAhHI

How to Be a Feisty Writer

Cowboy on Bucking BroncoIt’s not easy to be a writer. Writers are often plagued with heaps of self-doubt and loathing, so much so that it can be debilitating.

But there is a cure.

And it can be summed up in one sentence: Take the ego out and stay in creative motion.

Now I know that is easier said than done. In our culture, we are rarely taught to remove our ego from, well, anything. But for writers, this is not only a vital idea but a healthy survival skill. The reason is that there is no exact path to predict when success or even acknowledgment will arrive. And, in my humble opinion, writers give up way too soon, before they have had any time to gain traction. Any writer, especially a new writer, will encounter rejection and general knocks to the head. They tend to take these knocks so seriously that they are filled with pain, depression, anxiety, lack of self-belief. But really, it’s all part of the process. So how to keep moving and enjoy the process to boot? Adopt the feisty writer attitude.

A feisty writer is one who is always in creative motion, working toward their dream tenaciously, no matter what. They don’t travel along a lot of highs or lows; they just keep on with their craft. I personally have been feisty writing for so long that I may take it to an extreme. Recently, I had a play run in Chicago, and it got great reviews. Or so I heard because I didn’t read them. Don’t get me wrong; I was overjoyed to have them. But I’m no longer in the game for the highs or the lows—for the outside accolades. I’m in it to be a writer. So, in a way, I’m unstoppable because nothing anyone says, good or bad, can stop me. (This doesn’t mean I don’t take critique—every writer needs a healthy critiquing and editing process). It’s just I know the path I’m on and it’s no one else’s business to tell me if and where I belong. It’s up to me to define it for myself.

How can feisty-ness work for you? Here are some guidelines:

  1. Write every day.
  2. Don’t look for your writing to determine your self-worth. If it took a writer ten years to get recognized, should they spend the decade hating themselves? (No)
  3. Be in motion. You are a train that is constantly moving, creating, thinking, dreaming, churning out material.
  4. If someone tells you that you can’t do it, look to see where you can improve your craft (learning and growing as a writer is unending). Use that input as fuel. Then answer back: Just Watch Me.
  5. See rejection and failure as part of the rites of passage.
  6. Believe in yourself even when faced with a stupid rite of passage.
  7. Find your writing community. I can’t stress enough how important this step will be for you. A good tribe can keep you going even when you want to stop.
  8. Dive into the joy of what the moment brings you. Don’t miss all the amazing moments in search of outside praise.
  9. Never give up. Never ever ever ever ever. Just keep coming back. The world will notice. Eventually. And in the meantime, you will be doing what you love, surrounded by a tribe you love.

Photo Credit: New Old Stock: Cowboy on a Bucking Bronco nos.twnsnd.co/post/128035620901

Freakin’ Courage

freakin-courage-image

Lately, I’ve been thinking about all the freakin’ courage it takes to be a creative person. And especially to be a creative person that puts yourself out there.

Every day, in fact, I walk writers through their fears. I hear sentiments like:

“Who am I to write a book?”

“Why would anyone want to read what I have to say?”

“What makes me think I can make money at this?”

“Am I good enough, talented enough, whatever enough, to do this?”

“Can I live my dreams?”

We writers face these battles daily.

We are faced with thoughts that threaten to take us down. And maybe they do take us down. Maybe for a week, a year, a few years. But in my experience, most of us get back up. Despite all the fear, the passion is greater. We just feel too alive while writing to stop.

And therein lies the secret to a writer’s courage: Your passion is greater than your fear.

Your passion will always win.

But if you ever forget, if you ever dive into your fear and it seems you might get lost there, know you have a community. Reach out to me. I am totally serious here. Write me an e-mail. And I will remind you.

Much love,

Marni

Photo Credit: View from top of roller coaster looking east. VPL 12276   06/14/32  Photographer/Studio: Leonard Frank Studio  www.vpl.ca/historicalphotos