Questions

Journaling is awesome. And hard. My mother has a dresser drawer full of her old journals and her mother has entire bookcase dedicated to them. I kept diaries when I was little. They said things like “OHMYGOD Jordan totally kicked me at the playground. He’s so mean. Hopefully we’ll hold hands later.” Or “I like juice.” That’s real life, y’all.
Several years ago I was introduced to The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. In it, she recommends a few things to help break down internal barriers to get in touch with your inner artist. The one I most closely associated with was the morning pages. This is where you sit down, ideally right after waking, and vomit in your diary. This is a gross simplification but that’s basically what you do. Whatever comes into your brain, you put on the page. She recommends three pages, about thirty minutes of writing. Hopefully your inner demons and critics come out and you rid yourself of them to make room for creation. Three-page-days are rare for me. I mostly stick to two. I won’t say that they’ve cured me of anything. I won’t even say I’ve sufficiently broken down any barriers. Since beginning “serious” journaling almost six years ago, I haven’t even been able to stick to it regularly. I’m only on my third journal in my adult life! The journal from my 19th year on this blessed Earth was so outrageously sad that I threw it away. I regret that now.
But in the past few months, during this period of deep reflection, I’ve been writing nearly everyday. It has to happen with a few minutes of getting out of bed or it won’t happen at all. And I have to have started drinking coffee or nothing would happen ever. I admit, writing my thoughts, observations, questionable decisions down have helped keep me sane. My inner bitch stays somewhat rational and a few interesting ideas have cropped up.
When I started developing the idea for this project I wasn’t sure what it was going to be. I’m not even sure what I was expecting. Miracles maybe? I think I’ve made it clear that I like it best when things are easy. The thought of combining my morning pages and writing seriously every day contributed to my delusion that greatness was around the corner. That I haven’t broken through and written a stunningly compelling novel in the last few days, while disappointing, shouldn’t be surprising. But I am surprised. What’s up with that? Why is it so hard for me to keep my expectations in check? OK, maybe I didn’t expect to pen (type) the next Great American Novel. But I was hoping for a little more insight.
I read an interview with a successful agent that got me thinking. In it, he talks of a client who spent ten years writing his novel. I think Donna Tartt spent at least that writing The Goldfinch, for which she won the Pulitzer. There have sadly been zero indications that I have innate genius bubbling beneath the surface, begging to be released. I guess that’s fine. And also perhaps the point. One of my greatest challenges is that I have trouble committing to almost everything. It’s more of a revelation when I see something through. Wow, I’ll think, I finished something! (See The Goldfinch.)
I didn’t even get past the first part of Julia Cameron’s book. I got to the end of the morning pages section and was like, finally! A cure for what ails me.
My husband on the other hand has an uncanny dedication to things. A little over a month ago he started this diet that requires complete elimination of dairy, refined carbs, and joy. If you like eating protein and vegetables at every meal then this is the diet for you. If you think butter takes away from the integrity of broccoli and green beans or does nothing for steak, this diet is for you. And finally, if you like home cooking every. single. meal. This diet is for you. Apparently, my husband doesn’t mind all of this. He has stuck to it, rigorously. Most times, I watch in stunned silence. It’s fascinating! He decided on his own to do something hard and is doing it. Other times I grumble at my healthy plate of food that I didn’t have to cook.
So, yeah. This project has no definition, rather very loose and vague intentions. I intend to write every day and see what happens. Maybe by committing to the act of putting words on paper, hopefully words that make sense when grouped together, I can start to define a more intentional path.
I have my writing group tonight and I’m trying to figure out what piece I will bring for their critiquing. Will it be part of my novel I am trying to keep alive? Or something else? So far all I have prepared are blank sheets of paper and a stapler. Last time I used no binding agent for my five sheets of paper. The pages weren’t numbered either so I spent a lot of time shuffling the pages around and putting them back in order for people to read. It didn’t inspire a lot of confidence in my abilities.
I’ve said before that process isn’t something that comes naturally to me. For a lot of things in life, there is a dedicated order one must follow to even have a chance. I think this is where I went wrong with my book. I thought I had already done the hard part. The actual writing of the book, in my mind, should have been the most difficult step of creating a publishable work. That there were many, perhaps years of, more steps involved triggered my fear button. I made the cross with my fingers and backed away slowly. For me, historically, the process has been mangled and garbled. For years I thought that was just how I did things. I tried to revel in my chaos and label it as part of my way of doing and being. It never quite worked.
Today I ask you for help. What are things you have done that work for you? Experiences you have learned from? Is this a break down, break through situation?