In the late 90s, murmurings were spreading through church. One of the ministers had a “blog.” It caught my attention, as whispers often do, and I didn’t know if I should stand up and applaud the man or lay hands on him as I begged God to heal him. A blog. Was it some kind of growth? An illicit side business? As is often the case, I was behind the times.
“It’s like a website, where you write about anything you want to write about,” a friend explained to me.
Sounds like a diary to me, I thought. Diary entries for the world to read? It was a terrifying thought as I recalled the dramatic writings of my youth, many which have been destroyed. I don’t want anyone knowing the full depths of my stupidity when I’m no longer alive to defend myself.
Years after my limited blog education, more and more people were blogging; it was commonplace. Brave souls.
I imagined some blogs were ramblings of stay-at-home moms, like myself, who yearned for adult ears to hear what they had to say. Too many Barney episodes can leave a woman desperately contemplating running away from home. The first blog I read was written by my friend Eunice. But her writings were hardly ramblings. Hers were intelligent, funny, well written, and thought-provoking articles that stayed with me long after I read them.
After writing daily for a year, I didn’t know what to do with my 132,000-word manuscript; blogging wasn’t an option for me. It might be fun, in a jumping-off-a-43-story-building kind of way, but it would never result in a book, and certainly wouldn’t bring a career, I assured myself. Many times, ignorance has made me an expert in what I’d “never” try.
During my first phone appointment with my developmental editor, Max Regan, at Hollowdeck Press, www.hollowdeckpress.com, we discussed the many pages I’d sent him. His input was gold to me. Then, he asked, “Have you thought about blogging?” Blogging – it sounds like a Dutch danced performed while wearing wooden shoes.
“You know, Max,” I confessed, “I know this sounds arrogant, but blogging doesn’t seem like real writing. It’s not published. It seems more like a hobby.”
As if ready for my objections, he replied, “I need you to open your mind about blogging. Go look at several blogs, and start reading them. Look for authors who do the same kind of writing you do.” Then he listed several well known authors whose roads to publishing books were paved with blogging.
I agreed to his suggestion, still thinking a blog wasn’t part of my dream. Most of the blogs I read were interesting, and the authors posted articles regularly. I remembered Eunice’s blog and how impressive it was.
Maybe I could do it, I thought. But what could I blog about? Raising a child with autism? I live it; why on earth would I want to write about it? My being from an alcoholic home? It’s been done, and by those more famous with more compelling stories than I. Marriage? We have Dr. Phil for that. Aging? That’s the human condition; nothing new there. I had no idea what to write about on a regular basis.
But I had rough drafts of numerous articles in my hefty manuscript. Maybe I could share those stories with others. Following Max’s advice, I divided those drafts into folders on my desktop according to topics. What I saw was my life staring back at me. It didn’t matter that others were covering some of the same subjects; nobody was living life exactly like I was.
It has been almost four years since I launched my website. I’ve used many of those drafts as the foundations for my articles, and many are still waiting to become full stories. But even with those trusty drafts, and new drafts I’ve written along the way, deciding what to write about each month can take more effort than the writing. It’s akin to Mom’s trying to decide what to cook for dinner each night, as she declared, “That’s the hardest part of cooking.”
Twenty-four hours in every day, 168 hours per week - you'd think it would be easy to choose a writing subject. But during uneventful weeks – the drama-less weeks I live for - who wants to read about laundry or the struggle of trying to give my dog a pill every morning?
Sometimes I visit my loyal friend Google for writing prompts. When nothing grabs me, I review my day, an exercise that often results in a long nap. I pray for help, within reason; I don’t want drama for the sake of a blog post. Finally, my muse shows up as I’m clipping my toenails or flossing my teeth – truly inspirational rituals. Then, I realize that lazy muse already brought that idea two months previously.
Is this writer's block - creativity's constipation? I ask myself. Or am I all washed up, with nothing left to say? How will I ever say goodbye to my readers? I will miss them. Oh, I rue the day I said I was a writer. What will I do for the rest of my days? How will I go in public without a black veil over my face and a 12-point Times New Roman scarlet letter F, for failure, on my jacket?
A writer is nothing, if not dramatic and self-defeating.
When my life becomes more complicated, creativity doesn’t just take a back seat – it jumps out of the car and runs for the hills, AWOL. In the last three months, my idea vault had declared bankruptcy in the face of rolling waves of stress. I'd become too complacent. Too dull. I needed fresh air breathed into my craft. I needed accountability. I needed a boot camp.
I checked my calendar to see if February 1 through 10 were free for me to commit. It looked doable. Then I called Flash.
“Hey, I’m going to take a writing boot camp led by Max. It’s 10 days, 1000 words a day, due to Max by midnight each night.”
“Okay,” he replied, probably wondering why I was using my Big Announcement Voice.
“So, it will be a priority,” I continued, then gave him the boot camp dates. “I have to do this; I’ve wanted to do this for years. Okay?”
“Okay,” he repeated.
“So it will come before other things, like groceries, laundry, paying the mortgage, and Russell Stover.”
Flash gasped, realizing the seriousness of my commitment. He agreed to support me in case I needed writing time in the evenings when he and Cowboy were home.
Short of the Second Coming, I'd meet the challenge. Historically, I've often written 1000 words or more in one day, usually writing two hours at a time. On average, it takes eight hours to write an article from start to finish; the longest I've spent preparing a blog post was 10 hours.
But for my boot camp, I decided to write one hour per day, every day. That seemed more structured and easier to maintain in the long term. I can find one hour much easier than two hours on days when Cowboy’s schedule calls for more of my chauffeuring duties. I was excited and nervous; boot camp couldn't come fast enough.
I couldn't sleep the night before. At 1:15 a.m., I checked email on my phone to see if I’d received the Day One assignment. It was there. I read through all Max’s craft notes and the assignment options, and went to sleep while paragraphs floated through my mind.
The first five days of boot camp, finding my writing hour was not too difficult. Writing in the morning gave me the rest of the day for chores and other appointments. But Day Six would be filled with a morning meeting regarding Cowboy’s progress in his program, my Thursday Bible study group meeting, picking up Cowboy, and my going to work that afternoon. I had to purposely and strategically plan my Thursday writing time before the sun ever dawned on Thursday.
It was a revolutionary idea to schedule writing time ahead of schedule - a great “aha” moment. Other important things are written on my calendar, to the detail, so why not writing? I thought. Less was left to chance, and it brought the discipline I’d been lacking.
Creating text in other genres was a breath of fresh air, and I fell in love with the art of writing all over again. Those 10 days brought reminders of why I write. I stretched myself and exercised my abilities, thinking outside my self-imposed box - the same box that defined blogging as not real writing, four years ago. Now, blogging is a huge part of my dream; it fulfills my desire to share in a community of mutual respect and love.
During the boot camp, I wrote for an audience of two: myself and Max, in that order. Writing for myself first keeps me authentic, uncontrived, and willing to pour out my soul. It helps me show compassion to myself and not take myself too seriously.
Which, in turn, helps me share my life with you, dear reader. And that doubles my joy in writing.