I’ve been looking forward to updating you all on how my Write Every Day Challenge is going. Thank you to those of you who are keeping me accountable!

Here are two very common excuses I have received when encouraging writers to write every day.

1. “Some days, I simply just don’t have the time.” It’s true. Writing each and every day can become difficult, especially for those of you who have children and/or work a day job. Or for someone like me who must cope with daily physical ailments and lead a busy life as a pastor’s wife. However, I’ve learned something very important this past week. You can make time. If you’re a morning person, wake up a couple hours earlier than your family does. If you’re a night person like me, wait until your family falls asleep and then sneak your notebook or laptop out, even if it’s in bed, and write just before you sleep. This past week, I went easy on myself, because it was my first week of being more consciously consistent with my writing (and I had a bad Fibro flare up). Each day, I set a goal for myself. Most days, it was to write one new paragraph (you can follow me on twitter for updates). On other, more busy days, my goal was to write one new sentence. Even if I managed to write just one new sentence, I was happy, because I was, one, getting my writing in for the day, and two, moving forward. And if you are a writer, you know that this kind of satisfaction, of knowing that your story or novel or blog post is progressing, is of utmost importance to remain fulfilled as an artist.

2. “What if I’m not feeling inspired on a particular day?” As writers, we all believe in the power and necessity of inspiration. How else are we supposed to get excited about what we’re working on and put our heart and soul into it? We are close observers of the world, because that’s where we get our ideas from. We are spies and master eavesdroppers. Some days, we feel extremely inspired, and can’t wait to write. Some days, however, we sit at our desks and stare at the blank page that taunts us to fill it with something. Anything. But we can’t. We flip through our journals, walk our dogs until they are begging us to go back inside, read a few chapters of Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird (run to the bookstore, do not walk, if you don’t have this already), go out to buy milk and make conversation with the woman bagging our groceries, all in hopes of stimulating our muse. Here’s my advice: screw the muse! Yeah. I said it. Your inspiration should stem from your overwhelming desire to write the story that is longing to emerge.

I have a neon yellow 3X5 card posted on the board next to my desk in our office. On it is a message to me from Charles Baxter (author of The Feast of Love). I wrote about my contact with him in a previous post. It says:

“…the writing that you do is not about yourself, or your career, but about the people, and situations, and the beauty and truth you can get into the work. You’re the medium for all that. If you think of yourself as a medium, a means for getting other people onto the page, your writing will come more easily.”

And that, my friends, is what inspires me each day. The notion that I am the medium for giving my characters a place and a situation in which to do what they need to do. This is enough for me, because like all other writers, I can’t rest until I write my stories down.

As we begin week two of our WEDC, push yourself to write at least one new sentence every day, and don’t wait for inspiration. Let your inspiration be the fact that you are moving forward with your story.

And that’s what matters most, because you are the only person that can give your story life.

Week two–Ready, set, write!

I fight a battle each day. I have been losing so much that I am now determined to claim victory. My opponents? Laziness, feeling like I’m not good enough, distrust in my ability, and waiting for someone to push me to act. In reality, I’m the only person that can push myself (unless you join me in this challenge). Discipline is my weapon–the only thing that helps me overcome all of the things that hold me back from consistent creative output.

In addition to warring against my lack of confidence and my inability to be disciplined, I have to fight against my own body each day. Fibromyalgia has a way of bossing your body around. It causes daily, unwelcome symptoms, including extreme fatigue and widespread pain. For the past three years, I let it take over. I let it do it’s thing. You know, push me onto the couch, give me anxiety, make me feel hopeless. I gave in. However, this past year I made a conscious decision that has changed my entire perspective. I decided to push back. Yeah, you heard me, Fibro. I’m fighting back. When I was first diagnosed, doctors bombarded me with treatments that included lots and lots of medications. Desperate for relief, I followed their directions. A few months into treatment, when I almost passed out in the shower, and jumped out, unable to feel scared, unable to quite remember how to get a hold of Mgo, followed by an intense, uncontrollable anxiety attack, I decided to stop taking medications. The doctors failed to tell me that most FMS patients don’t do too well with medication. Thanks, docs. You were a dozen panic attacks too late. So, I decided to treat FMS with natural remedies. Which brings me to my point (thanks for hanging in there)–I have begun exercising. I realize that this may not seem like a big deal. However, anyone who struggles with chronic pain understands that movement is not an easy thing. Flare ups make it difficult to get up to wash the dishes, or put a load of laundry in, or even use the powder room (ugh). But I’ve come to learn that just the right amount of movement, a consistent exercise schedule, has really helped me have more good days than bad. And that, my readers, is a small miracle–one that I am clinging to.

Now, most of us struggle with staying consistent with exercise. It’s like our bodies reject the very idea. But I’ve realized that the more I exercise, the more my body craves it. My 15 minutes on the treadmill is quite a workout for my frail body, but every time I get on, I feel stronger. Strength? Something I forgot I could have! And, ladies and gentlemen, strength is returning, and I am determined to keep it.

During my time on the treadmill, I read magazines such as The Writer and Poets and Writers. It motivates me and prepares my mind for what I know I NEED to do when I get home. A lot of times I run to the front desk in the middle of a work out to jot something down. An idea about what my character could do next. A detail about the setting the character is in. An subject for a blog post. A title for an article I’m working on. All the while, the trainers giggle because they know I’m a writer, fumbling around to find me a pen. But am I? Am I a writer if, when I get home, I don’t get to it. If I don’t get down to business, sit my butt down, and actually do the writing? And let me tell you. When writing doesn’t happen, I feel disjointed, awkward, a bit fuzzy, until I sit down and do it.

Today on the treadmill, my right foot began to flare up slightly, but I pushed through it. I kept walking. And guess what? I broke my usual 15 minutes, and went up to 20! My body wasn’t as achy as I thought it would be. It was my third workout of the week. And then it hit me. I have been consistent and disciplined with my workouts, and thus have been able to push my body farther, more easily, and improve how I’m feeling. It’s the consistency that strengthens my muscles, and improves my emotional state of mind. And then it hit me again–if I want to be a better writer, I need to push myself to be consistent. My writing skills will develop if I spend time with my characters every day. I will get to know them better. I’ll get to know what they want most, and will push them to their limits accordingly.

So here is where this all comes together. Discipline and consistency are hard things to master. But they are the key to being the best you can be, at whatever you’re trying to accomplish. For me, consistent exercise strengthens my body and keeps my pain down. Daily writing develops my characters and stories toward completion, and sharpens my skills as a creative writer.

My challenge to you is to make a promise to yourself to be consistent. If you’re a writer, promise yourself that you’ll write every day. I’ve challenged myself to write at least one new paragraph a day. And, already, I feel more confident in my craft. Remember, that you have to write badly before you can write well. Writing starts with a rough draft, and then improves with revision. So allow yourself to write a horrible sentence. Then another, and then another. Then look down at your page and realize that a miracle has occurred, because your story is one paragraph closer to being completed.

Fibromyalgia and fiction are two very big parts of my life. With consistency, I am taming one and setting fire to the latter.

Won’t you join me?

Please leave a comment if you want to join my Write Every Day Challenge, and I’ll do my best to keep you accountable!

I was recently invited to write for a blog comprised of a group of writers who each post 100 words of creative writing once a week. Each writer takes something, an image, an emotion, or a word from the last post, and write one hundred words of their own. It was a bit intimidating at first, since most of them are professional, published writers. I agreed to join the group a bit hesitantly, but it has proven to be a great learning experience for me as a writer of fiction.

 I believe that a lot of times fiction writers focus on their characters and plots as a whole rather than the words they use to depict their stories. I was one of them, because I believed that prose was different than poetry. To me, poetry was juice concentrate, straight out of the package, and that prose was juice concentrate watered down. Prose had to follow rules. The package says add water. If you don’t add water, you don’t have enough scenes, dialogue, or scenes. Poetry didn’t need water, and poets were allowed to break the rules of creative writing. It had to be more concentrated with dense imagery and precise wording. Writing one hundred words once a week woke me up, shook me, and made me slow my writing (and reading) down.

My first post was difficult. I began by putting my anxiety about writing with such a talented group aside. Then came the really hard part. I stared at a blank document on my computer screen for some time. I occasionally typed a few words, but deleted them quickly. I did this over and over again. Once I had my “shitty first draft” (I have come to believe that horrible first drafts are essential to getting a story started, thanks to Anne Lamott’s advice in her book, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life), I revised revised revised. It took me most of the day to get my one hundred words to its final draft. To say what I wanted to say. To deliver the image that I wanted to elicit. Here is my first “one hundred words:”

“Look Her in the Eye

She looked down at her fingers, her knuckles ashy and rough, her fingernails sloping in different directions, jagged and sharp. Dark spots of blood formed on her cuticles, seeping out of her skin until it hit the air, then dried, looking like fig jam on burnt toast. She wondered if the darkness that crept, circling around her, would ever stop and look her in the eye. Her arms cradled her knees against her chest, and she rocked, back and forth. She felt its warm, wretched breath tickle the back of her ear. In the kitchen, her toast was burning, and in here, her body was misbehaving.”

 I’m still not happy with it. It’s rough and needs work. But every time I read it, I remember how I focused on every word and thought about whether or not I used them in the right way. I asked myself, is this word in the right place? Is it the right word to use for this particular scene or image? The 100 word limit has forced me to contemplate the very building blocks of language: words. It has transformed the way I write and revise. After all, if I am not using the right words, I am not doing my characters, my story, justice.

 I just finished reading The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion. Her work is such a joy to read, because after years of writing, she has mastered the use of words and is able to describe situations and emotions that are extremely difficult to put into words. Here is an excerpt that I must have read a hundred times.

“Nor can we know ahead of the fact (and here lies the heart of the difference between grief as we imagine it and grief as it is) the unending absence that follows, the void, the very opposite of meaning, the relentless succession of moments during which we will confront the experience of meaninglessness itself.” The Year of Magical Thinking (P. 189)

 Didion is able to put into words what most people, most writers, are unable to, because she uses the right words to convey her thoughts.

My hope is to continue writing and reading slowly, relishing each word, so that my images are clear, my characters are real, and my stories are worth savoring.

I’m in my post-graduation phase of my writing life and I’ve been going back and forth between alone and scared. I no longer have a constant flow of criticism and encouragement from professors and fellow fiction writers. When I wrote in college, it was safe. I had professors who were paid to care about my writing life, to answer my questions, to push me to keep writing even on the days I was most unmotivated. Now, I have deadlines. I am not getting graded for my various drafts and revisions. I don’t have professors that challenge me and push me to push my characters over the edge. To encourage me to ask myself questions such as: “why are we with your character on this particular day?” and “what will this conflict lead your character to do?”

Today I did something bold, and I think it was a good idea. I emailed one of my favorite authors, in hopes of getting some feedback for my work. I’ve heard of some writers getting responses and even critiques from authors they look up to, which helped them with their own work. So, I did it. What have I got to lose? I emailed Charles Baxter. Know him? He wrote The Feast of Love, which is an award-winning film. I read much of his novels and stories as I worked on my thesis. His stories are real and simple, and his characters are extremely captivating. They’ve stayed with me long after I finished reading his novels. Baxter helped motivate me to get my collection of stories written, and revised, and polished. My adviser, Thomas Cobb, and I were, thankfully, on the same page when it came to constructing a story, and the one author he kept pushing me toward was Baxter. I soon realized that he did this because Baxter and I had a similar writing style, and wrote about similar situations.

Charles Baxter emailed me back. As some of you know me better than others, you’ll quickly realize what a big deal this was for me. He’s that unreachable celebrity that many of us dream of being able to hang out with in person. I was stunned, at first, unable to click on the email. I couldn’t believe he responded. He told me that he is currently buried in his own students’ work (oh how I wish I lived in Minneapolis to be in one of this classes) and that he would not be able to look at my work. The interesting part was, that that wasn’t his reason for not critiquing my work. In my email, I explained to him that I have just graduated with my Master’s and am losing my drive to keep working on my fiction. He told me that the only person that could help me now was myself. That I have come to a phase in my life that would require me to encourage myself, and that it would not be easy. “…you have to launch into the period of your life when you have to self-motivate,” he said. Talk about a slap in the face. A bit hurtful at first read. He used words such as “lonely” and “scary” while describing this phase in my writing life. Next, he gave me two pointers about how to do this (thank goodness) that changed my hurt feelings into courage:

— Have Helping Friends and Readers: I have come to learn, through years and years of sitting in workshops with fellow writers, taking turns critiquing each other’s work, that having “writing friends” is essential. Writing is, indeed, very lonely and scary. However, if we have friends who are willing to share their work with us, and to give feedback about our work, we find a constant, a common denominator, a source of motivation that keeps us writing. Commit to a local writer’s group, or take part in an online workshop, such as the writing classes provided by the Gotham Writer’s Workshop at http://www.writingclasses.com/index.php.

–Self-Pep Talks: This was an interesting piece of advice. However, after giving it some thought, I’ve realized that it’s good advice. Picture yourself pacing in your small, messy room that is also serves as your bedroom and dining room, wrestling with an idea that you’re not sure how to put into writing. Then you spot the mound of dirty underwear that is quite hard to spot, now that you think about it, and then you remember that your mom’s birthday was yesterday, and that that library book on your desk was due three weeks ago. Stop. Stop pacing. Close your eyes. Remind yourself that you’re a writer. YOU ARE A WRITER. There. That’s good. Now, kindly, gently, tell yourself that in order to establish yourself as a writer, writing has to actually take place. I know. Breathe. It also has to get revised, revised, revised, oh, and revised. Polished. Then you must send it out. This of course is after you’ve revised the crap out of it, and allowed a few trusted writer friends or mentors read it and tell you what they really think about your piece. Listen to them. Change what you think needs to be changed. This is my pep talk to you, and to myself. Remember. You’re writing because you want to. Because it’s who you are. Don’t turn back now.

On that note, if any of you fiction writers out there are in search of an honest, close reader who will give feedback on their writing, email me at tam.abadj@gmail.com. Introduce yourself and tell me why you’re writing, and what you’d like me to look at. I promise that if I choose to read your work, I’ll use everything I’ve learned in both undergraduate and graduate school studying the art of creative writing to give you advice, and another pep talk, if needed.

Thanks, Mr. Baxter. You have motivated me to begin motivating myself. Today, I don’t feel so lonely. Or scared. Thanks for the pep talk.

I was talking with a friend the other day who told me that his profession has already begun taking over his whole life. His thoughts are always consumed by it, even though he has only just begun studying it. And he told me that he hated this.

I thought about this for a while. I’ve been sort of realizing the same thing lately. No matter how hard I try, I can’t get away from literature.

Our apartment is literally overflowing with boxes. We haven’t unpacked them mostly because we don’t have any more room. Shows you that moving from a house to an apartment is rather difficult. I miss our basement in Rhode Island. The truth is, most of the boxes are full of books. Our guest room/office is crawling with books. Every flat surface in the room has a stack of books. And the closet? Packed with boxes filled to the brim with books. My desk is covered with cards and letters I’ve written or that I am going to read. There’s a large box of personalized stationary on my desk (thanks to my husband). About five notebooks. A manuscript waiting to be read and reviewed. A book waiting to be read and reviewed. My kindle is also on my desk. Mgo got it for me, hoping it would lessen our book load. I love my kindle, but there’s nothing like the smell and feel of a real book. There post-its scattered around that are notes to myself about articles that I’m working on, and stories that I’m writing. Sometimes I find such notes at the bottom of my purses, on our coffee table (sorry, honey!), on my nightstand, and sometimes even in the kitchen.

The truth is, I have bouts of not wanting to be a writer anymore. Some days, I don’t even want to approach my desk. I try to ignore the glares my books give me as I walk by. I put my journals away. I shut the office door. I read Glamour or Cosmopolitan just to get my mind off of writing. I watch television for hours at a time, scrub the sink until my skin gets so dry it cracks and bleeds, take very long walks, get up and go to Trader Joe’s because the milk might be bad, take naps, reorganize the medicine cabinet…well, you get the picture. But when I read Glamour, a picture or sentence sets off a potential scene or image for my story-in-progress. As I scrub, walk, and drive, I think about the conversation my characters are currently having and work it out in my head. When I nap, I have nightmares about losing all my work. I literally cannot get away from my writing.

This frustrates me, and I think that by not writing, I am rebelling. Maybe I am. But when I don’t write, I get even more frustrated. My stories loom over me and poke at me and shake their fingers at me if I don’t address them.

I recently read an article in The Writer (yes, even the magazines I read are about writing) and quickly cut out a paragraph and pasted it in my journal. Here’s what it says:

“Discipline means putting your butt in the seat every day at the appointed time, even when you don’t feel like it. It’s easy to keep your appointment with yourself on those days when you’re bursting with energy and have a great idea. It’s more difficult when you feel like you’d rather be doing anything else. But that’s when discipline matters most, because even on low-output days, when you might only manage a sentence, that’s a sentence more than you had the day before. And books are written one sentence at a time.”

–From “Self-Help for the Budding Novelist” by William Kowalski

The real truth is, if I don’t write, then I’m not a writer.

Literature does consume me. But I can’t say I don’t love it. I can’t say I don’t enjoy putting a story together. I can’t say I don’t enjoy hanging out with my characters all day long. I certainly can’t say I don’t feel immense satisfaction when a story finally works.

Whatever your profession is, I hope you love it as much as I love mine. Whether you’re an insurance agent, sell used cars, or are a stay-at-home mom, I hope your work brings you a sense of joy and accomplishment.

So by writing this post, I have forced myself to put my butt in my seat, at my desk, among my writing tools and ideas.

And today I will add at least one new sentence to my story.

Here is one of my most recent book reviews for Pacific Book Review. For more reviews, visit http://www.pacificbookreview.com. More to come!

Title: Grave Markers, Bird Feathers, and the Aegean Sea
Author: Kathryn Heuston Clark
ISBN: 9781466367968
Published: 2011
Pages: 371
Genre: Fiction
Reviewed by Tamar Mekredijian for Pacific Book Review

Grave Markers, Bird Feathers, and the Aegean Sea by Kathryn Heuston Clark highlights a woman’s spiritual journey of reevaluating her life during and after her father’s and husband’s deaths caused by cancer. The progression of the story leans on the looming illness and death that cancer brings upon her family.

Written in first person, the novel unfolds as the narrator describes her experiences. The story is interwoven with the affects of cancer and death on the narrator, and trips to Greece, which hold a significant place in the narrator’s heart. She feels the most spiritual peace in Greece, and believes that her healing comes from true understanding of herself in the world, and of her life after the death of both her father and her husband due to cancer. She often refers to Greek mythology to try to gain a better understanding of life and death.

The novel has potential to be a great story, however, poor characterization makes it difficult to sympathize with the situations that the characters claim to be dire and sad. Left nameless, the characters of the story are not shown to the reader; they are merely told. The narrator tells the reader about what she’s experiencing, and how those experiences make her feel, however, we know nothing about her, or her family. The lack of background information deprive the reader of one of the most important parts of a story: where the characters have come from, in turn, making it hard for the reader to understand where they want to go. Unfortunately, not only were the family members flat characters, but the main character, the narrator, was as well. Throughout the story, the narrator tries to come out of the depression that sets in after her father and husband die. At the end of the novel, she tells her children that she has changed. However, as a reader, I did not see a change.

There were so many instances in which I hoped for a scene rather than just the narrator’s internal thoughts about the situations that her and her family were in. Instead of her telling the reader how the death of her husband made her feel, I wanted to see what that emotion drove her to do. There were a few moments in the story where I slowed down my reading and savored the scene. For example, on one of her trips to Greece, the narrator remembers that her husband bought her a necklace when they were in Greece together, and she misses that moment, trying to see the reflection of the necklace in a window. It was a wonderful image, but one of the very few we are given. The author does portray the typical coping-with-loss methods, like the narrator remodeling her house and traveling to break through the sadness. However, most of the situations have been done over and over in literature. I was hoping for something unique or interesting, and was disappointed. Most scenes are made up of the narrator’s thoughts about her trips to Greece, which felt more like a history lesson rather than an attempt to put the narrator in a situation in which she would react and the reader would see the characters true nature and desires. Seeing the characters act out their emotions would have better depicted their personalities and given the reader a chance to connect with them.

Overall, the lack of characterization and language issues distracted me from being concerned about the cancer and other illnesses that spread through the family. The fact that none of the characters had no names made it hard to keep track of which of her children she was talking about, created a disconnect between the characters, and made the language feel choppy. Perhaps the cancer was a character, and the only one that was given a name, to capture the reader’s sole focus. With more attention to character development and the refining of diction, this could be a story about a woman who wanted to find the real meaning of life, and to find a way to cope with the “anguish” that these deaths bring into her life. For readers looking for more of a memoir about a woman’s internal thoughts while coping with loved one’s deaths, this could very well be the right book for them.

Writing comes easy for me. It’s not hard for me to put sentences together, turn them into paragraphs, and eventually into a coherent and informative body of work. Since I was a little girl, the world of words enchanted me. It wasn’t the princess gowns or the dashing princes that stole my heart when my mom read me fairy tales. It was the story. I was so taken by the characters in these stories, and throughout my adolescent years, I spent many hours ignoring my math and science teachers, and daydreamed. Not about the possibility of a future prince, but by putting myself in dramatic situations and creating dialogue, conflict, scene, setting all in my head. Now that I think back on those daydreams, I so wish I had written them down!

I have a confession: I also used to dream of being an actress. What better way to put myself in a story setting than putting myself on the stage? Every time I imagined this, I was in extremely dramatic situations. I’m talking the works: crying, wailing, falling to the floor in grief with the back of my hand on my forehead. And of course, I was always wearing the most beautiful costumes. Long shimmery gowns, my hair in ringlets, and glitter eyeshadow. That was “beauty” in my adolescent mind. As I got older, I realized that this wasn’t what I really wanted. I was more interested in how the stories came together. I didn’t necessarily want to be on the stage. So, my daydreams changed. I dreamed of being a writer. Of creating these dramatic situations and putting characters in them. Of being behind the scenes.

This past weekend, I attended the Central Valley’s 6th annual Dance Festival as press. It is part of my research for a story I’m working on for one of the magazines I write for. I got in for free. That was all very nice. But for the first hour or so, I wasn’t even given a seat. I sat on the floor, in the very back, where late guests went in and out of the swinging doors, letting in an obnoxious amount of bright light from the foyer. It wasn’t the most comfortable seat in the auditorium. I watched dance group after dance group perform. I took notes in the dark and hoped I would be able to read my handwriting later. The show was great, and I was getting the experience I needed, but certain parts of my body were going numb, and if the rather large man in front of me stood up one more time to take a picture… During the intermission, I found the man at the door who was collecting tickets, and told him I had not yet been introduced to the coordinator of the event, who had promised to give me a statement. Of course, I waited for him to finish participating in the communal dance lesson with the rest of the audience. When he was done prancing around, he told me to follow him. We got lost a few times, but he finally came to a large gray door and said, “Aha, here we are.” He opened the door, and suddenly, I found myself backstage. We shuffled through sweaty dancers and security guards, and when the music died down, he introduced me to the coordinator. I did a short interview, and then she told me to stay and watch until the end. The music started up again, the lights came on, and men and women in costumes ran passed me and onto the stage. It suddenly hit me that I was on a stage. I could see the faces of the dancers before they ran out into the bright light from behind the curtain, nervous, focused, and determined. I was on the inside, where I’d always dreamed I would be. I imagined myself directing the dancers, giving them cues, and encouraging them. I couldn’t help but smile.

I looked down at my notebook full of notes about my story, and felt like a real writer for the first time.

My dream of being on stage as a writer had come true.

At the moment I am rejoicing. I am excited. No, I’m thrilled. Wait for it…

I just received my first “rejection” from a literary magazine that I submitted a story to. Yes, you heard me. I am joyous. Why, you may ask? Well, for those of us who have been writing since the moment they could read, (a lot of writing takes place in the mind before the pen actually touches the page), it is only certain that publication is visible in the distant haze of our writing lives. It’s a mere prospect. For those of us who are writers because we have to be, because our minds are continuously flooded with stories to the point of explosion without literary output, publication isn’t necessarily the end goal. I already know that some of you, if you are writers, are frowning now, maybe growling, perhaps shaking your fists at your screens. But I must tell you, that I did not begin writing at a young age with hopes of getting published. And, no, this is not a pity party.

I have been studying literature and writing for over six years, which to some can seem like a lifetime to devote to such things. However, to others, it’s obvious that I am only in my baby steps of writing. And you, the latter, are right. When I picked up my first novel in fourth grade, I marveled at how words became sentences, and sentences paragraphs, and paragraphs pages, and so forth. To me, it was like magic. I had entered a realm that seemed almost like a secret. It was so private. Just me, and my story. I devoured Antoine de Saint Exupéry’s The Little Prince and discovered my hunger for literature. From that day forth, the writing began as I read avidly, trying to curb a hunger that became a monster. A monster that stayed with me for years, which made me major in English just so that I could keep reading. Soon, I became hungry again, but the books weren’t filling my appetite. By chance, I signed up for a creative writing course during my sophomore year in college, as an elective. And as soon as I attached my pen to my pad, the stories came faster than I could write them down. And for the first time, I began to feel relief. The kind of relief a vocalist must feel when they hit that high pitch and hold it so that as the sound escapes them, their bodies and minds find comfort. I guess I can tell you that I’ve always felt joy in my writing life, but that would be a lie. It was painful! It had a hold of me, and I knew that it would never let me go. However, through the years, I have discovered the delight that artists feel when they create something they are truly proud of, and I do enjoy it very much. But don’t get me wrong. It is hard work. It consumes me almost every minute of the day. My characters are with me always.

All this to say, that when I began to write, it was NEVER for publication. It was just who I was, and who I will always be.

However, I do believe that my work, over the years, has developed into stories worth telling. It’s a scary time in a writer’s life, to realize that they want their stories to actually be read. That is where I am now.

I am wholeheartedly rejoicing about my rejection today, because I was ready enough to attempt publication. Because someone, the editor, the publisher, the freelance graphic designer, the office assistant’s five year old son, read my story.

I am delighted. I am patting my monster lovingly on the back. I am finally sharing.

It is a strange thing when you begin writing nonfiction when you’ve been writing fiction for six years, and probably more absurd when you find yourself sitting across from a man during an interview, and the interviewer is you.

I must tell you, readers (and I hope that you are all indeed readers), that this was indeed a moment in my life that I won’t ever forget. First of all, it was my first interview, for the first magazine article I’m ever going to write for publication. Yes, let me hear the applause and the congratulations. I believe that for any type of writer, your first opportunity to get published, even if it’s not what you’ve been working toward for most of your life (in my case, fiction), is pretty exhilarating. Us writers need to start somewhere, right? Right. But I went into the interview a bit apprehensively. No, it wasn’t nervousness. It was that I wasn’t sure if I was excited about it. I know, I know. My first chance at publication should be approached, no, run to, with fervor and beginner’s thrill. However, I prepared my questions with much less excitement than expected while working on my first real writing assignment.

It wasn’t until I walked through the doors of the nursing home and told the concierge that I was there to interview _________ with ________ Magazine, that I felt a certain strength and pride come over me. As I was led to the room that the interview would take place in, I was treated with respect. When I shook the interviewee’s hand, I suddenly felt empowered. When he began to tell me his story, I felt humbled and extremely intrigued. When he eagerly asked me when the story would be featured in the magazine, I felt proud. How curious it was to hear this man tell his story, and trust me to write it correctly and well! Now it’s in my hands. It’s my responsibility, and my desire, to tell it in a way that will highlight his courage and his ardor for life despite his setbacks.

Throughout my writing life, my priority has been to shape and mold characters that resemble real people with real problems. If you’ve read my “Poetics” post ( http://odetofiction.blogspot.com/2010/12/poetics.html ), you know that my reason for writing is to stir in the hearts of my readers and remind them of the tangibility of life. For years, I’ve teased my characters, pushed them to the edge, put them in the midst of tragedies, given them illnesses and relationship issues, so that readers would see them in the light of real life.

Now, I have been given the opportunity to write a real living human being’s story about facing the very situations that my characters have been facing for years, and I’m not afraid to tell you that it is quite refreshing! This switch from fiction to nonfiction is giving me the opportunity to realize that no matter what I write, each experience will shape me. I know that this piece will educate me and sharpen my skills to write better stories.

And that’s all I want, from any literary situation. To learn to be a better writer.

I am officially a resident of Fresno, CA, and coming back to the West Coast has been quite surreal. Sometimes I feel like I am just on vacation. That could be due to the amazing weather, living in an apartment and not having to worry about fixing my own sink or mowing my lawn, and not having a definite routine or schedule. At first, this was wonderful. All of a sudden, Mgo and I were busy going out to dinner with friends, making random froyo stops, going to Farmer’s Markets and buying cheap, fresh produce from local farms, driving around and taking pictures of the orchards and the cows, going swimming at the pool in our apartment complex, getting jamba juice every day for lunch, and spending our afternoons unpacking boxes and decorating our new place. It was a glorious three weeks.

Then, before we knew it, it was July 1st, and Mgo began working. All of a sudden, I’d wake up and the coffee was not ready, the blinds in the den were still shut, and I was alone. It had been months since Mgo worked away from home. Since January, to be exact. Talk about a wake up call. Life has been long morning coffee sessions on the couch, afternoons at the beach, reading until we were hungry for dinner, and four hours of movie watching after dinner. Knowing that Mgo is hard at work in his new office makes me realize that I need to slowly pull out of this phase in our lives. I’m not going to lie. It was quite wonderful. I enjoyed it very much. However, it’s time to start a new phase.

I just received my Master’s in English with a Concentration in Creative Writing. Yes. It’s a mouthful. For now, I’m done with school. So I guess the most sensible thing to do is to put what I’ve been studying for the past seven years to work. Some people call it income. I am now in the process of sending my Curriculum Vitae and my resume to different job postings. Ultimately, I want to teach Composition and Literature courses at community colleges, but until an opportunity opens up, I am stuck. At first, stuck sucked. But I’ve slowly realized that stuck is great.

Here are some things I’ve learned about Fresno. Anyone who does not live in Fresno hates Fresno. Interesting, no? When I told my friends in Los Angeles that we’d be moving here, their reactions were less than enthusiastic. There was a lot of “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry,” and “Um, what’s in Fresno?” For one thing, Fresno is much more developed than what people outside of Fresno think. But it is very quiet here. As you drive through Fresno, in the midst of residential and commercial areas, you suddenly come upon an orchard, a vineyard, or a large group of cows, horses, or sheep. I even saw a donkey once. Then there are vast flatlands that go as far as the Sierra Mountains. Space. There’s lots of it here.

There is a whole lot of nothing in Fresno. And by nothing, I mean large commercialized areas and a real city. But I’ve realized that I am very comfortable with that. As a writer, I feel as though the vastness, the openness is MY space. There’s just more room here to think. It’s like I can finally stretch out my legs, and get comfortable with my creativity. Like I can run with it as far as I please, without running into a distraction. I am brimming with experience. With things my writing soul wants to purge so that my mind doesn’t explode.

And looking around, I think there’s plenty of room for that most needed creative output. Here’s to having a routine again. A new phase. Strictly literary.