Just last night, during a conversation about missing homework, I told my son (in a very frustrated tone of voice) to just sit his butt down in a chair and do the work.  Just get it done.  Quit procrastinating, quit finding excuses, and just work.  A few hours later I was sitting in front of my new laptop, playing Mah Johng, and not writing.  And I had to cringe when my voice echoed inside my head, reminding me of what I’d told the fifteen year old.  Isn’t it easy to give advice?  When it comes to writing, it’s also impossible to follow that same advice.

It shouldn’t be that hard right now.  I’m not working on anything new.  I’m not struggling to create a character or send a plot soaring, or trying to get that dialog just right.  Instead I’m reworking a story I wrote years ago, as I’ve mentioned earlier.  I’m having fun reading it again.  I’m having fun cutting and pasting and swapping things around and even deleting things.  I’m meeting much stronger characters, and even some new ones who should have been in the story to begin with but were obviously hiding in the shadows.  All in all it’s much less work when compared to the first time around.  And yet I’m procrastinating and looking for things to delay the moment when I have to step into that world again.  Why?

Well, once it’s done I might have to come up with something new.  That’s a terrifying thought.  What if there isn’t anything new?  I know that’s a common fear of writers, but still, the possibility looms.  What if I’m just wasting my time and this rework won’t be any better than the first time around?  Or worse, what if I’m just filling time?  So many ‘what if’s’. 

The other odd thing is that once I finally sit down and start working, I slide right into that alternate universe and leave this one behind and fall in love all over again with writing.  I have fun, I get lost in the story, and I’m happy with what I’ve done with it when I finish.  Which makes me wonder even more why it’s so hard to start. 

It’s all just weird, plain and simple.  Guess it’s time to follow my advice.

I’ve been facilitating a writer’s group for several years now.  There is a core group that attends faithfully, and it has been fantastic to share their voyages.  Some have become published authors, some have been able to open up about very personal journaling, and some are just having a lot of fun writing.  The thing that has been hard for me though, is keeping their interest.

A few years ago when it felt like everyone was getting bored, I stirred them up by having the group sponsor a writing event for a local grade school.  It was a huge amount of work and a lot of fun.  More recently, when I could feel the group slowing down, I contacted author Jessica Page Morrell and asked her to give us a class.  We opened it up to enough people to pay for her expenses, but kept it small enough that we got some fantastic one-on-one time with a talented writing instructor. 

I asked the members to give me suggestions about how they would like the group to go.  I got back responses such as wanting more critique time, and an online group.  I changed the agenda to include more time to present, and started a Facebook group, that only a couple of members use.  And yet, in spite of the lack of response, everyone keeps coming back, and they all seem to be having fun.  They get along so well that we have to be careful not to digress into an hour-long visit that has nothing to do with writing.  So maybe I’m worrying about them being bored for no reason.  I guess if they were really unhappy they wouldn’t keep coming back. 

What I fear, what this boils down to, is that the group will turn into a meeting where you know exactly what is going to happen, and when.  That before they even arrive, the members will know exactly who is going to say what and who will be talking about what. 

So what do you do to counter boredom or, even more dangerous to the health of a writer’s group, complacency?

My son recently attended his very first school dance.  And danced.  Twice.  Which is more than I ever did in school.  Attend or dance.  Never went to a single one.  I asked him if most of the guys danced or if they held up the wall, and he said not many danced.  He did because girls asked him.  I wanted to know why he hadn’t asked any, and his answer was ‘I don’t know.’  Which to me actually said, ‘I was afraid of rejection’.  No one who attended highschool just read those words without instantly flashing backward in time.  Rejection had to have been a humiliating experience.  But with the passage of years, I now think about how much courage it took for someone to step out into the social spotlight and risk rejection.  At least that person was doing something, instead of, like me, hiding behind a book or in a dream story.

Writing has the same risks though.  You face rejection every time you ask that first, trusted reader, for an opinion.  Every time you send out that first query letter.  Every time you open your mouth at a writer’s conference or writer’s group.  Every time you post a blog. 

What terrified me when I sent out my first query letter wasn’t so much the fear of rejection, but the fear of losing my new-found confidence.  It was safer to write in that dark closet alone, then to confess to people I was a writer, send out stories to be edited, and then think I had a right to send out a query letter.  I was terrified that getting a rejection would deflate that fledgling confidence and shove me right back into the closet. 

What happened though, was that I ended up very, very excited about the first rejection letter.  I showed it to everyone, and showed it proudly.  Because it was proof that I was doing something.  In some ways, the rejection proved to me that I was a writer.  Which is kind of embarrassing to admit to because we write for the love of writing, not for publication, so why did a rejection seem like proof?  No idea, but it did.  Maybe because it was a tangible thing I could hold that said I not only worked with words, I did something other than secret them away in the back of that closet.   And I still love getting rejections. 

I’ve also learned since that first query letter that there are levels of rejection.  Some are good, as when the letter comes with personal comments.  And some are awful, as when your return envelope comes back empty, but with a ‘no thanks’ hand-scrawled on the back of the envelope for every postal worker to see.  Of course I prefer the ‘good’ rejections, but I still get a tingle even with the ‘bad’ ones. 

Because it’s still proof of life.