Have you seen any success in these parts?

Pictured over there is my favorite singer–Neil Finn. Most people in the United States don’t know he sang anything after Don’t Dream It’s Over as part of Crowded House, but in the UK and Australia he can fill a stadium. Is he a success? Some people think you have to make it big here in America to say you’ve truly made it. Does success have borders?

Success has been on my mind since I read a post over at DarcKnyt. What is success?

Do you define your own success? I don’t know…did Stalin think he was a success? But do you let others define success for you? That worked for Vincent van Gogh–after he was dead.

How much luck is involved in success? I’ve had the good luck to be born in central Florida instead of in slums in Bangladesh. I’ve had the luck not to be killed in infancy by SIDS, virus, or random accident. I’ve had the luck of being born in this time with after women’s lib and the Internet. These things required no work at all.

I’ve also spent years writing stories, rewriting, and making art from these stories. I like to think I put a lot of work into these things. But am I success?

Are you a success if you win the lottery or are born with money? I know this guy who will never have to work. The last I heard (he’s not someone I keep up with), he spent his money on golfing trips, wine buying trips, and trips to Mexico for the prostitutes.

How do you feel if success comes to easily? Some people believe they deserve the world at their feet even if they do nothing but look pretty. But some folks, perhaps more thoughtful people, worry they will be found out for frauds and they don’t deserve the accolades they receive. I’ve read interviews with writers who don’t understand why their book is successful when they know there are better writers out there. They worry that the next book will prove what frauds they are.

I’ve always thought there was more failure in not trying than in trying and falling on your face.

So you get this thing called success… then what happens? You have to keep it, of course. No one stays at the top forever. At the very least, you’ve got to die and whatever you’ve done will be outdone by someone else.

Cheery thought that!

You’ll get old. You’re books will stop selling. Is Harper Lee a success? If Hemingway was so successful, why’d he shoot himself?

I mentioned to Darc that I thought most people (I might’ve said all, but all is rarely ever correct) don’t believe they deserve their success. Not in their hearts. Oh, sure. I’ve met entitled people. They question nothing. They doubt nothing. But, all the same, I’ve heard plenty of Behind-the-Music-type interviews where people prove they think they are not worth all the praise, attention, money. Why self-destruct and throw everything away if success was happiness?

If you are not a success, then you must be a failure. Right? Really? But then maybe we aren’t all born sinners as much as we are born failures. Sounds a bit harsh though. Just try telling that to your kids. What would your kids have to do to be successful in your eyes? How different is that than what you expect of yourself?

So, if I never publish my novels, am I a failure?

Hiding until the fun starts.

a kiddo hiding in oatmeal and rice

I think I’ve been hiding. Not hiding very well, mind you, but hiding.

What more could be said about writing at this point? Perhaps I’ve said all I can say? Perhaps I am repeating my complaints and anxieties? So, what is this space for?

When this question is answered, I’ll let you know (assuming you’re still here). In the meantime, I’ve started a tumblr account just for fun. It isn’t about writing (though sometimes it might be). It is just a place to put things that strike my fancy, catch my attention, or whatever. You know, something for fun!

Fun. Now there is a concept.

Open the Cages

escaping jail!

I watched this video the other day about fear and permission. Chris Guillebeau quoted a lovely poem by Hafiz.

The small man builds a cage for everyone he knows while the sage, who has to duck his head when the moon is low, keeps dropping keys all night long for the beautiful, rowdy prisoners.

I think to write well, we have to have the keys and not hold onto them too tightly. Is there a poem or phrase that captures something of how you feel about writing? Are your characters beautiful, rowdy prisoners?

Aren’t I too old to crash a party?

So, I pick up this tiny flier down at IF+D. More of these fliers were on the counter at the coffee shop around the corner. And I realize that this Books & Beer event is a night that my husband and I will be kiddo-free. Books and beer! What is it exactly? I’m not sure. Maybe the author is going to be there? Who knows, but I’m all for supporting another writer and getting out for the evening.

Ah, silly me. Turns out it was a book group. Of course it was a book group. And everyone there were friends, had read the book, and all under 30. Luckily they were polite and said my husband and I were welcome to join them. Since I hadn’t read The Gone Away World, I didn’t have much to say. At a what seemed like an appropriate amount of time, I made our excuses and left.

Listening to them talk about the novel though was interesting. Gave me an idea what stands out in a story, what readers have trouble sorting out, and what they took special note of (it would be a kick-ass movie!). Just imagine one day if you are published, a group of young people could be sitting around discussing what you meant by this plot twist or with that character. It is enough to stop you from writing all together really. So don’t think about it too much.

My Magical Thinking

Getting my Master’s Degree took longer than it should have, but in spite of taking two years off to join the Peace Corps, getting married, and working full-time, I finished my thesis, passed the language exam, and got my degree. My thesis advisor and I still exchange Christmas cards.

How have I put this degree to use? Not at all. Well, it helped me get my teaching job, but not by much. And this is a teaching job with no benefits and no chance of advancement. The only other job I’ve had since getting that piece of paper was at Barnes and Noble. This is thanks to my lack of imagination. I was unable to figure out anything else.

I was also unable to figure out how to get a boyfriend. I didn’t have a boyfriend until after a graduated from college. Though I went on a few dates, I couldn’t seem to make those dates materialize into a relationship.

Habits die hard, don’t they? It seems that I’m waiting to trip over publication like a dream job or have an agent pick me out of the crowd like a prince chooses his bride. Then again, when I was 20 I didn’t really believe that Cosmo was going to make attractive to a guy anymore than I believe reading Poets and Writers is going to make me attractive to an agent.

For the next few months, I’m not going to pretend to try to get published. I’m going to look at all the stories already written and fix them. (I will, however, pretend fixing a story is possible.)

Do you ever suffer from magical thinking? Do you have a summer plan? Do you believe you can fix a story?

Finding Chemistry

In 11th grade my chemistry teacher let me come to school on teacher work days to take the tests. That’s the kind of help I needed to make sense of anything. Mr. H didn’t talk to me as if he thought I was dumb. One day he gave me bracelet that had been sitting in lost-and-found for months. By the time he quit to take a job that paid real money, I’d dragged my grade up to a B-.

For the last grading period the new teacher arrived. Mr. H was tall, slim, and in his 30s. The new teacher was short, pudgy, and balding. I didn’t expect the new teacher to give me the same breaks as Mr. H. Still, I suppose I expected something.

“I don’t understand this exercise,” I said. I’d read the chapter a couple of times. Nothing made sense.

“Do you have a specific question?” he asked. He crossed his arms over his chest.

I looked at the page. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Do you have a specific question?” he asked.

“I can’t, well, I mean, I don’t know what to ask.” My face burned.

“When you have a specific question, come ask me.” He went back to his desk.

I didn’t ask him anything again, and when we took the test, I read the questions, waited for the hour to end, and threw my test away as I left class.

My grade was so low at the end of that grading period, I ended up failing for the entire semester.

Chemistry grades don’t much matter more than 20 years later. But when I look at the pages of writing, I feel the same way. And I do not have a specific question.