During the process of resurrecting writing from wherever it went, my oncologist told me to think of it as a chore.  I had told him that by the time I finished with the day’s chores, I was exhausted and too empty to write.  So he suggested that I add it to my list of chores, and give it a time that it had to be done.  For example, at eight at night I tell myself, now it’s time for the task of writing.  If I think of it as something I have to do rather than something I want to do, then it feels less like a selfish act.  I know it’s all semantics but it did help start the words flowing.  Well, at least trickling. 

It reminds me of a quote from author Karen E. Peterson, who wrote a book called The Write Type.  She said ‘We get 168 hours every week and if you only give the world 167 hours, no one’s likely to notice.’  She then followed that with, ‘If writing is relegated to the last thing on your list you haven’t learned to respect or cherish yourself as a writer enough to make writing an integral part of your life.’

Ouch.  That makes me squirm.

It also makes me wonder how I define myself.  When asked what I do or who I am, I rarely answer ‘writer’.  Instead I list my job running a town, or talk about my husband or son, or where I live.  Why is that?  Well, because I can’t move past the feeling that writing is a selfish act.  And do I want to be known as someone who is selfish?  Someone who leaves dirty dishes to go write?  Someone who doesn’t fix dinner for the son, to work on that chapter?  Of course I don’t.  In spite of the fact that my husband does dishes and my son cooks.  Well, actually, he can microwave.  The point is, I don’t define myself by describing something that is a deep part of my soul, that gives me peace, that has been part of me as long as I can remember.  

This makes me question what it takes to be selfish for an hour each night, without guilt.  Well, maybe the ‘without guilt’ part is asking too much.  Maybe the question is, what does it take to write in spite of guilt.  I haven’t figured out the answer yet.  But one thing I have figured out is that writing at night is much harder now.  It used to be my favorite, and most productive, time.  But now I prefer writing on Fridays, after the son leaves for school and before the husband gets up.  I know it’s only one day, but that’s not saying I don’t find other moments to write.  It’s just that this is a scheduled time.  And it works in spite of chores and guilt because I can tell myself I can write while he sleeps because any chores will make too much noise and wake him up.  See? I’m still having to justify writing time.

So yes, I force myself to write and call it a chore, and justify it in the mornings by calling it a quiet chore.  But whatever works, right?

I’ve been chafing under the mystery genre for a while now.  Don’t get me wrong, I love mysteries.  Reading and writing them.  But lately I’ve had a hard time finding new authors because when I read the jacket blurb, they feel too formulaic.  In reading the short blurb I can tell exactly how the story is going to go and no longer feel the need to read the book.  That’s not true of all of course, just many.  It’s almost as if the mysteries out there these days are falling into the ‘Harlequin’ of the mystery genre.  You know, the author looks up the required template, changes the names and the book is written. 

I’m starting to wonder if that chafing feeling means it’s time to stretch as a writer and try something new.  The problem is, I can’t switch to a genre that I don’t read and am not familiar with.  At least that’s the common school of thought.  Plus, I still love mysteries, and anxiously await new ones from my favorite authors.  Which then begs the question, what is it about the formula mysteries that bugs me?

Something awful happens, the woman gets involved, a man shows up to help or hinder, becomes a romantic conflict, there’s a big drama where she almost dies, either saves herself or the guy saves her, and then she solves everything. 

If that’s the basic premise of most mysteries, and the basics are bugging me, then maybe the problem is not switching genres, but figuring out how to take some of those elements and turn them on their head.  Not a unique idea, I know.  Some of the best mystery writers do just that.  The problem for me is figuring out how to accomplish that, without copying someone else, and with still keeping the story uniquely mine. 

And doesn’t that boil down to the basic problem for all writers?  How to create a story that is original, unique, and alive, when there are only so many basic story structures out there?  I’m thinking in particular of the structure of The Hero’s Quest, which is where almost all mysteries get their underlying plot structure. 

Maybe the problem isn’t me getting bored with the mystery books out there.  Maybe it’s actually me getting bored with my writing.  Not with writing, but with my skill level.  Maybe that chafing feeling is actually the need to grow as a writer.

Mystery solved.

Was it Stephen King who said that those who sit in coffee shops and cafes with their laptops are those who want to be seen writing rather than actually writing?  I can’t remember who wrote that, but I remember laughing out loud.  Being fairly new to the taste of coffee, I have gone into these places and smiled inside (with a superior look, I’m sure) at those sitting with their laptops.  I’ve even felt that I can point out who is the writer and who is sitting there playing Mafia Wars (my husband).  One place had a young man with stylishly messy curls, those tiny little rectangle glasses, the carefully casual clothes, and boots that have never tasted dirt.  He looked so earnestly hard at work.   A writer struggling with his craft.  Yet I never saw his fingers touch the keyboard.  Not even once.  So I doubt he was writing, or even editing.  But he sure looked like a writer.

Now, with the advent of the Christmas laptop from the Mafia Wars husband, I have become one of those coffee-house writers.  The reason?  High speed internet.  We don’t have the internet at home, and locally it is still dial-up.  Which was fine with me, until my husband and son made it so easy for me to discover the joys of the real world.  I write a blog post, click  ‘publish’ and whoosh, it’s gone.  No waiting and waiting and waiting for it to download.  Of course that ‘whoosh’ means I have to be really sure I’m ready for the piece to disappear before I hit the send button.

I now sit in the local coffee shop with my laptop, and feel very self-conscious, very aware that others can look at me and think, ‘there’s a writer on display and not writing’.  But here’s something else I’ve discovered besides high-speed internet.  For some strange reason, it’s easy to write with the background noise of commerce.  I used to write with music, and still do.  I can write in absolute quiet, too.  Or at least I used to, until radiation changed my writing, as I’ve posted ad nauseam.  I’m still learning what works for me when it comes to writing, and clearly, I like that public noise.  I don’t think it will work for editing; for that I still need quiet and solitude.  But for writing a blog post that’s going to be public, a crowded coffee shop works.  Weird.

I’m sure all writers know the old adage that if you are blocked or struggling, to try a different writing location.  Move from the bedroom to the living room, from the office to the couch, from the laptop to the notebook, etc.  I guess that works. 

And just so you know, when I’m sitting there in front of the laptop and not writing, not touching the keyboards, it’s not because I’m wanting to be seen as a struggling writer.  It’s because I’m eavesdropping on all the conversations around me and saving up tidbits to appear later in stories.  As the other old adage goes, ‘Careful or you’ll end up in my novel.’