I just finished reading Page after Page by Heather Sellers and she says “Many of the productive writers I know believe they are simultaneously shit and undiscovered geniuses.” It’s what keeps us coming back to the keyboard.

Self confidence gets me through the first draft. Self doubt gets me through the revisions. I know I have something important to say. I just don’t think anyone else wants to hear it. The constant back and forth is what keeps me writing. I know I can only become a better writer by writing. I just wish it wasn’t so hard…personal…scary…anxiety producing…time consuming…full of rejection. But if it wasn’t any of those things would it mean as much to me as it does now? If it was easy, would I lose the sense of accomplishment I feel when I fill a page with words?

After much hesitation and tinkering I finally sent my first short story out. St Martin’s press was running a contest for previously unpublished authors and I needed to start somewhere. I followed the submission rules and sent it off a few hours before the deadline.

The next night I dreamt the phone was ringing and when I answered it I heard “This is St Martin’s Press. Congratulations on being our…second place winner.”

Second place? It’s my dream and I still can’t win?

I was working on a short story last week and afraid that I was being too cryptic with the ending so I asked my non-writer husband to read it and let me know if he could see any major gaps in the plot. His only comment was that he liked the beginning but then it just went…blah. I asked him what about it was blah and he looked at me sideways and said he just didn’t like it. Fair enough, I don’t need him to like what I write but I really wanted to know what didn’t work for him. I pestered him over dinner until he turned to me and finally said, “You should be writing happy stories.”

I don’t do happy.  I tend to create more serial killers than princesses. My characters are more apt to be seeking revenge then to be looking for love and I find sociopaths fascinating.

Cory doesn’t like my writing because he thinks it means I could be damaged or depressed or just plain crazy. Why would a happy person want to delve into the mind of a psychopath?

When I show my work to those outside my writing group will they see me differently? Will they be hiding the knives in case I snap?

What does our genre of choice say about us? Can happy people write about horrible things?

Do non-writers look at horror writers differently than those that write fantasy? Are all romance writers sex crazed and all science fiction writers geeks?

Maybe…maybe not.

Previously published at bridgetshaffer.wordpress.com

I look forward to August and ‘back to school time’ every year. Not because I have little ones driving me crazy but so I can go shopping. I don’t care to shop for shoes, clothes or jewelry. My weakness is office supplies; folders, pens, paperclips, post-its, binders, index cards and notebooks. I have a soft spot for all things office related.

When I’m having a bad day, I head to Staples and browse the aisles. I must have enough paper to last me two years or more but I can’t resist a new notebook with a cool cover.

A new notebook symbolizes a fresh start, a new chapter. The clean crisp pages call to me, enticing me to fill them up with ink.

I used to buy fancy, leather journals but the fear of making a mistake kept the pages from filling up. College ruled, wire bound notebooks work best for me. If I have to cross something out or spend some time doodling, it doesn’t bother me. When I’ve found the flow and my hand is having a hard time keeping up with my brain, I don’t have to worry about my sloppy handwriting. I can’t ruin the pages. My notebooks aren’t for perfect writing. They’re for my first thoughts. The ones I don’t want to lose.

I prefer to keep myself and my muse content, happy and excited to write. A new notebook is an easy way to keep us both on track.

My new project has been full of surprises the past couple of weeks. The chapters are sounding more like essays than memoir-ish pieces. I think it works. I just have to be careful not to sound like an amateur self-help guru.

This is the first time I have written something personal that is meant to be shared with others and it’s surprising that so far I have written everything by hand. Other than some brainstorming or sporadic journaling, I’ve always preferred the keyboard. But this time the words refuse to come when I’m looking at a screen. I must admit that I am enjoying the process. It’s so satisfying to fill up a page with ink. Every time I turn to a new page I am much more aware of my progress. Writing by hand also keeps my internal editor somewhat quiet. My hand has a hard enough time keeping up with my first thoughts that I can’t worry about incomplete sentences and misspelled words. There are no red and green squiggly lines to distract me.

Previously published at bridgetshaffer.wordpress.com