I've hired myself as a writer...

I've hired myself as a writer for the summer and, after six days of recovering from a school year's worth of stress and last Friday's oral surgery, I think it's time to put away the pain medication and get to work. The job doesn't pay much now, but I'm hoping that by the end of the summer I'll have something more valuable than a check: a working manuscript that I can schluff off on would-be editors/friends for feedback :)

Two novel-length projects have been simmering in the back of my head for at least six months now. Maybe it's the inexperience speaking, but I truly think it will be a joy to finally get these tales down on paper (and by that I mean typed up in the magical thing that is Microsoft Word: I praise you, O Holy Computer Program, and pray that you continue working flawlessly on my laptop all summer long. We don't need another meltdown any time soon).

So, what am I writing about? One story is what I would categorize as upper elementary age fiction; the other is a non-fiction passion project of mine. That's all of the details I'm willing to divulge at the moment...more later, I'm sure.

But perhaps even more important, what does my writing space look like? Well, let me tell you about that. I sit at my old high school desk that's traveled with me from living space to living space for the past 15 years or so. It's currently stationed at the back of the living room behind the love seat facing the wall in what I like to call my little nook. My chair is a red exercise ball that I bought for ten bucks at Target two or three years ago. Actually, I think Dave bought it. On my left sits a lamp and a small stack of books: a blue composition book with all sorts of important notes on my projects hidden inside, my new day planner calendar thing, and a copy of the 2009 Writer's Market (because I like to get ahead of myself). In front of me (besides my ancient laptop) is a framed certificate that says I completed the most recent NaNoWriMo: it reminds me that, above all else, I need to give myself permission to write crap every day. Finally on my right sits my printer, a jar full of wine corks and writing utensils, and an empty bowl of gelato (which, if I'm not mistaken, means "soft but delicious" in Italian).

So with my writing nook all set up, my mouth nearly healed from having my wisdom teeth removed, and nothing but the good 'ol dog days of summer before me, I am ready to embark upon my writing mission. I hope all goes well....

Go boldly in the direction you've chosen

These past few weeks I've been working on a college research project with my AP juniors. On a daily basis, students approach me with the following concern: "how am I supposed to complete this project when I don't even know what I want to study in college or do with my life?" I'm forced to remind them, for the umpteenth time, that colleges don't necessarily care about what you want to do, they care that you're driven and motivated to do something. Once you get there, you can change your mind. So I tell them to pick something and go boldly in that direction.

Inevitably when I'm giving such repetitive advice, I find myself pondering whether or not I'm following it myself. Am I going boldly in any direction right now? It turns out I'm not.

I've had this non-fiction/memoir in my head all year long, but haven't exactly been able to get a solid start on it. Why? Fear. I'm afraid I'm not a talented enough writer and that I'll let people down if I attempt something too great and totally fail. I keep spending time on the little things (like putting together a scrapbook of old newspaper clippings about my subject or reading books by other authors who wrote in a similar genre to start thinking about my own "angle") in order to sidestep the actual writing work I know I need to do.

Listening to my fear of failure is a trap I fall in far too often. It looms over me every time I sit down to write, every time I start researching, every time I think about setting up interviews. But the truth is that I can either fail right now as I sit typing at my computer - I can quit and nobody will judge me for it because not too many people know about this passion project of mine and because I'm good at making excuses - or I can persevere and get through drafting a manuscript that, after many editing sessions, I can attempt to find a publisher for. If I fail then, fail to publish a memoir I'm proud of writing, what of it?

The truth is I don't know. I've always been too scared to pursue anything that I deem "risky". I take the safe road, plain and simple. Why did I become a teacher? Because I knew the system, I knew the schedule, I knew that if I followed a prescribed path I would easily attain the goal. That's why writing scares me. There's no "do these things and you'll be a writer" formula out there. It's sheer luck, a lot of hard work, and a bit of talent emerging at precisely the right moment.

But it will all be worth it. I figure if I can run a marathon (Portland Marathon, 2007) and complete a 50,000 word draft of a novel in a month (NaNoWriMo, 2008), then I should be able to go boldly in the direction of writing an actual memoir and see what happens.