I should be writing something real right now

– that is, I should either be finishing the edits on my completed novel or writing the second chapter of my new one. I should be, and I think I might actually get some real writing done tonight, but first I’m going to warm up here.

(I know, I know. I don’t write any blogs for two months and then suddenly I write two in two days! It’s practically scandalous. Or just unpredictable. One of those, for sure.)

Have I mentioned how Twitter has changed my life in profound and beautiful ways?

No, really. I’m serious.

If not for Twitter:

• I would not have done a trapeze lesson on my 31^st birthday
• I would not have the letters DFTBA tattooed on my right wrist; I probably wouldn’t even know the acronym or anything about Nerdfighteria
  
• I would not know about the Beckoning of Lovely
• I would not know (in no particular order): The Mountain Goats, Amanda Palmer, Maureen Johnson, David Levithan, Scott Westerfeld, The Bloggess, or Libba Bray

(I would be a significantly less entertained and less enlightened human being without those things, by the way. They've all been a crucial part of working on love.)

And here’s why Libba Bray is so important to me TODAY:

This is the magic/curse of writing: That in crafting your fiction, you leave yourself open to sudden moments of unguarded truth, and you have to be willing to tolerate that again and again. You have to keep raising your sword and charging, even knowing you could retreat scorched and missing a limb. You have to keep doing it even when you don’t want to. Especially when you don’t want to.

(And, speaking of The Mountain Goats, there was also this recent amazing quote by John Darnielle: “Part of it is recognizing that while writing is a mystical process, it's also work. If you show up to work five days in a row, nobody's going to pat you on the back—everyone does that. Well, do that with your writing. Just show up. Be there for it. When you get an idea, write it down somewhere and then be a steward of that idea.”)

When the writing is good, it feels like I’m just channeling something that comes from somewhere else. And I feel like this is what I was born to do. When it’s not good, I totally go to the dark “I suck” place and I want to hide hide hide and never come out. Or, at least, never face my computer or a pen ever again. EVER.

But, Libba and John are both right. And brilliant. And I wish that I could shrink them down into pocket size and carry them around with me to repeat these words whenever I start to doubt myself or give myself too long of a break from the writing. The truth is, I’m never really happy or fulfilled when I’ve let the writing go for a while. Sometimes it’s about survival. Sometimes I’m distracted enough to not notice the missing pieces of my soul. But, whenever I let it go too long, there’s this low, constant nagging that pulls at me. And who wants to live like that?

I saw Libba’s blog today and I immediately emailed some writer friends. I told them, “This leads me to think that people who are wired to write are also wired to think they suck and to get completely overwhelmed with the possibility of writing and to shut down. But also? I think we're wired TO PERSIST.”

Okay, diving back in…. Think happy thoughts for me.

"We are made to persist. That's how we find out who we are."

- Tobias Wolff, In Pharaoh's Army

I’ve been in a terrible mood for the last couple of days. I’m stressed out in about every way I can imagine and it makes me feel totally shutdown and overwhelmed. (Like, “Gee, wouldn’t it be nice to sit in a room and make origami butterflies all day?” overwhelmed.)

Part of it is that I am obsessively checking my email, awaiting a response (even a negative one) from my first-choice agent. I sent a query (including synopsis and prologue) five weeks ago today. An exclusive query. I should have heard back within four weeks, according to this agency’s website. And, they invite people to inquire if they have not heard within the timeframe. Still, I don’t want to be annoying and so I’m going to give it until Monday before I check in again. (I’ve already got my second choice lined up if this one isn’t interested, so it’s not so much the fear of rejection that’s killing me. It’s the waiting. I hate waiting. I am not a patient girl.)

Earlier this month was the 18-monthiversary of Mom’s death. My shrink said that I wasn’t allowed to make any major life decisions for a year to a year and a half after Mom died, and I kind of get why now. At 18 months, I feel a lot different than I did even at one year. It’s like that quote from Dollhouse last year: “You never get over it. It just becomes part of you.” I’m certainly not over my mom’s death (or her illness or her permanent absence from my life), but being motherless is part of who I am now. It’s hard and it will always be hard, but it also just IS.

If it sounds like I’ve moved to some great enlightened place about all this, I haven’t. Last night, I posted the following status update on Facebook:

About nine kinds of overwhelmed right now and all I can think is, "I want my mommy." Which makes me really sad.

Several friends commented their commiseration. Sometimes, misery does love company, because it’s just NICE to know you aren’t alone. But, sometimes, it sucks to know that your friends are as sad as you.

My 16-and-a-half-year-old cat, Mazzy, is doing the thing she did starting last May through the fall where she cries and howls every couple of hours through the night. No particular reason that I can find. The white noise machine doesn’t drown her out. Closing the door doesn’t drown her out. Closing the door AND putting on the white noise machine doesn’t work. Yeah. It’s AWESOME.

In the wee hours of last night, she decided (after crying at me) that she wanted to climb up on the bed. (Yes, climb. She doesn’t jump like a normal cat.) Due to the craziness that is my luck, she hooked a claw into my cheek. (Go ahead and picture it and then laugh. An 8-pound black and white cat with one claw in my cheek, trying to climb up on the bed. Objectively, I can admit that the image must be pretty funny.) Thankfully, I wasn’t badly hurt and I didn’t get too much blood on the pillow case.

But, that’s the kind of couple days it’s been – just dreary weather and not enough sleep and anxiety about emails that haven’t arrived and tons going on at work and at home and not writing and and and and and.

Until I got home from work today.

I was surprised to find a greeting card in my mail. I opened it up, and my hand flew to my heart just as soon as I read the outside of the card: “My heart is grateful for you…”

The card was sent by Jackie (who has a track record for sending really amazing cards). It was a follow up to an email she sent me last week, thanking me for a CD I mailed her. It was a mix of music I’d listened to during my grieving process that I thought helped me. Her dad died shortly before Christmas and I wanted her to know I was thinking of her and I wanted the music to help bring her just some small measure of peace, if it could.

The inside message of the card is: “…and for all the many ways you make my world a better place.” Jackie replaced the word “my” with “the.”

And there’s the lesson once again: KEEP WORKING ON LOVE.

All I had to do was reach out and show the smallest bit of kindness to this person who means so much to me (Jackie is, unquestionably, one of my top five favorite people on the planet) and she reaches back. She shows me that no matter how overwhelmed I may feel, there are still incredible people in my life. Incredible people who appreciate me for who I am, as I am.

And why?

Because sometimes – just sometimes – I remember that lesson. I remember to tell people what I think of them. I remember to tell people that I think of them. I remember to show kindness and caring. I remember that love takes work, and I keep working at it.