Rejection

Rejection hurts in whatever form it comes, whether it be for example: a partner who leaves, a friend who moves on, a perfect job you didn’t get, or a faceless entity that rejects your artistic endeavors.  It is something I’ve feared and dealt with my entire life and the turmoil it fires up hasn’t cooled as I’ve aged, I’ve just learnt to deal with it a little quicker refusing to allow it to take the sheen off of my day.  Now, when the lesser, day-to-day rejections strike, I allow myself 24 hours to wrestle with it and then I kiss it goodbye and let it go.  Although, I think my partner leaving may take a little longer to get over! 

As a teenager oversensitivity was my middle name and I couldn’t take any kind of criticism - constructive or otherwise – which meant I was a tough cookie to be around as family and friends found they had to walk on egg shells.  But, as I’ve matured and grown in my emotional intelligence I can see that this is self-obsession gone a little crazy and I’ve learnt to relax, realizing that not everything is about me.  Other people are dealing with their own issues and insecurities and sometimes say or do things that can be misinterpreted.  I’ve learnt to chill and let things go; although I'm still a work-in-progress.

I’ve always lived my life on the outside looking in, or so it feels, and it used to make me sad but now … not so much.  Oversensitivity does have its advantages:  I can read energies – negative and positive - between people.  I can size up a crowd and know who feels what about whom.  It’s a wonderful gift to have as a writer.  I can be quiet, I can be vague, but I’m always watching, always listening.  It feeds my creativity and provides the emotional threads I need to write. 

Yesterday was a bad day for me, my work being rejected once again.  I was more than ready to throw in the towel and stop writing altogether; but today I’ve decided to view it a little differently:  its almost a writers rite of passage to garner enough rejection letters to paper a wall before they can earn their stripes as a bona fide scribe, and I’ve not reached the required level yet.  In any case, a lot of stars have to be in alignment for any debut novelist to get picked up in today's market: catching the zeitgeist being one of the biggest challenges of all. 

So, yes, rejection does suck but it comes with the territory and I’ll continue to deal with it in my own cobbled together way.  And maybe my struggles with rejection are preparing me for the biggest test of all: when my son no longer says to me ‘Mum, you’re the best!’  I won’t always be his hero I know that, so I'll make the most of it whilst I am.  Anything else … well, I just take it on the chin and move on.

Poetry

There are some things about Newport Beach that I’ve had to go native on and its Library is one of them.  Holey moley, it is very impressive.  A marble stoned great hall on two football pitch sized floors filled to the rafters not only with books but magazines, DVD’s and CD’s.  The children’s section is to die for.  Row upon row of mini computer screens linked into the library’s very own children’s educational channel.  There was not one spare station when I went in yesterday.  The toddler’s den has its very own events schedule ranging from daytime singing sessions, to 7pm Pajama Bedtime stories to the more elaborate Little Mermaid productions.  As always, JJ’s social calendar filled up nicely.  Mine?  Not so much.  Most of the scheduled talks of award winning authors were sold out.  Maybe I’ll catch the Spring/Summer events. 

Having a bit of time on my hands (still no work visa) I have been spending a few hours each day at the library reading rhyming picture books (my new favorite thing to write) and learning about the art of good poetry (there is a fine line it would appear between what works and what sounds decidedly naff).

 I learnt a great deal about the history of the poet laureate.  Much more interesting than you might think.  I had no idea it used to be a lifetime post.  Once appointed, the Poet Laureate was charged with writing Ode’s to the King or Queen of their day with varying levels of success.  The greatest of the great was Lord Tennyson and after his death the post stayed vacant for four years as there was no-one good enough to fill his shoes.  Quite right too.  My maternal grandmother, Nanny Lily, loved poetry and her one claim to fame was when she was picked from her class to read The Charge of the Light Brigade to a packed auditorium of servicemen.  Nanny Lily described the scene many times, so clearly, it felt like I was there:  the whole audience hushed, doubting eyes suddenly pin sharp on my Nan as she took them on the journey of the brave 600.  The drama of her performance held the whole room spellbound, tears springing into war weary eyes as soldiers made comparisons to their own rushes into battle.  A natural performer, Nanny held the audience in the palm of her hand right to the very last word, a gentle hush preceding thunderous applause.  Her fondest memory is, as she walked away, one of the red eyed soldiers pressing a half crown coin into her hand: a small fortune to a young girl from a family of thirteen kids who lived mostly on bread and jam.  I read that poem again yesterday and I could still hear her voice carrying it with such passion.  Maybe her love for Poetry is coming out in me.

I’m no Tennyson but I can happily lose many hours penning jaunty poems on modern themes aimed at making children smile.  When I write from a place of true memory the words flow; when I use my brain to try to conjure up contrived events the lines stumble over each other. 

So, its over and out from Wendy in Newport Beach.  Keeping it real (in rhyme).

Running

The sapphire ocean throbs; grainy mounds swallowing my feet as I scramble toward the crushed shoreline.  Grooved shells play peek-a-boo as the waves wash to and fro a fresh covering of sand. The never-ending roar highlights the severity of Mother Nature and I imagine a tidal wave smashing against the jagged rocks and tossing me out to sea.  A terror I would hate to know. 

The burn of the sun flames my skin and I can feel the first trickle roll along my spine as my exertion begins to ramp.  Just as I’ve been tutored, I raise my knees high, pumping my arms like rods on a steam engine, surging to a pace that finds its natural rhythm.  The untouched landscape, raw and vital, hems me in, the jaded cliffs looming like a Giant shadowing its prey.  I edge closer to the foamy waters, the firmness underfoot addressing the screaming of my thighs. 

A stream born out of the past evening’s storm cuts off my passage, so I retreat through ragged palms and seaweed bulbs, my ankles buckling in the unstable terrain.  Flies swarm, military in their flight, as their temporary home is disturbed under the thunder of my worn out shoes. 

Not far now until the final test separates girl from woman, winner from also ran.

I cannot hear my breath but I feel its struggle as it fights to fill up my lungs never quite being enough.  The steep cliff path beckons and I begin my ascent steeling my nerve, quieting the voice that shouts ‘give up!’ 

All is hell now.  Limbs, heart and air go wild as I weaken, a sob at the back of my throat, tears threatening as I pound: left, right, left right.  I can see the horizon, hear the distant motors purr, the finish line edging close but at a snails pace.

Finally, I’m there!  I want to scream ‘Victory!’ but cannot; instead I plunge forward dizzy but elated.  As the adrenaline ebbs I take one final mental snapshot and it dawns: the coastline’s beauty is never lost whether free to roam within its womb or spied from lofty ledge.  I marvel life’s fortune and go home. 

Sunny Side Up: Losing the Plot

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Losing the Plot

If I had thought that the cult of the wannabe was an overblown myth then I’ve learnt to think again.  In Southern California you can guarantee that any party of five or more that you find yourself socializing in, at least two or three are in the ‘biz’ or trying to break into it.  I’ve met a screenwriter, a theatre production director, a gospel singer, a handful of actors and actresses and a million writers.  OK, not a million, but at least a dozen and I’ve only been here three months.  The whole vibe is an artistic one and no-one is in awe of you or thinks you are self indulgent.  It’s the opposite.  You are expected to explore and develop your talent; after all, this is the land of opportunity. 

With this kind of nurturing and positive environment you’d think having the amount of time on my hands that I have, my writing would have flourished and I’d have half of my next novel flowing out as I sat at Crystal Cove listening to the waves crash.  Wrong.  Life just doesn’t work like that.  My narrative flow has ground to a shuddering halt.  I don’t know whether it’s the newness of everything that I find overwhelming, or the realization that I am a tiny grain of sand on a beach-full of aspiring authors.  It has taken time, longer than I thought to find my bearings and allow Newport Beach to get under my skin.  I wanted the setting of my latest novel to have an American feel but this couldn’t happen over night.  Californian culture takes time to soak up and I still haven’t really gotten into their take on how life is.  I’ve only just scratched the surface, which doesn’t make for a scintillating read.  Characters need depth, contradictions and secrets that ring true to their environment and this can only be nailed through time and a whole lot of people watching and listening.  Thankfully, being an introvert, I’m just the woman for the job.

So, I’m ten thousand words in after three months hard labour but have now pulled in for a pit-stop.  But all is not lost.  I’ve been studying hard and thrown all my efforts into characterization and plot development.  I’m wrestling with my story worthy problem and battering into submission every section’s chapter worthy issue that moves the story forward.  This is not easy especially when you have three voices to perfect.  To keep my sanity, I’ve read some amazing books on the theory of novel writing and get regular issues of Writer’s Digest which is a fantastic information source for all budding writers.  In another positive twist, my overwriting has calmed into the odd burst of over exuberance and my use of similes and description mainly match the tone of the book.  Hurray for that.

My hunt for a critique group that matches the quality of the one I left behind, alas, has fallen on stony ground.  Californians are protective of their work and sensitive to any kind of criticism, which doesn’t make for the most productive of meetings.  So, on I must plod, alone, through this sticky patch until the plot shows itself to me and the strands of my character’s wants somehow mesh and mean something.  Thank goodness for Starbucks and Sunshine; my two newest best friends.    

Progress

It’s always a little nerve wracking joining a new group whatever the theme.  But a first night at a writer’s critique group is a double whammy as you are not only meeting new faces but you are putting your writer soul on the line too.  It takes a little courage and a whole lot of faith.  Stereotypically, writers test very introvert, preferring the comfort of their dens and the tip tap of their computer to schmoozing and self-promotion.  I am no different.  But, as I learnt last night, here in California it’s all about your Platform.  What are your writer credentials?  What magazines have published your work?  Do you blog and what is your Internet address?  It’s all about progression, baby!  Gee, I just want to write … but, apparently, that is not on option.

Californians are different.  I find them intriguing.  Most but not all, have a cool confident air and are VERY polite.  It’s the Californian way.  It’s a little disconcerting as I am used to irony and pithy sarcasm.  That just wouldn’t work here as proved very convincingly by Ricky Gervais at his Golden Globe debacle.  Personally, I thought he was brilliant.  LA did not. 

The critique meeting was fun and friendly but the format was quite different from what I am used to.  We all read our pieces aloud which was incredibly nerve-wracking.  Words that you’d slaved over and had marveled at suddenly jarred and clunked.   Oh dear, back to the drawing board.  But there were loads of positives to take away too.

Here, it is taken as a given that you are confident about who you are and what you write.  I think it is good for me to be around my newfound fellow scribes as it brings into question just what it is I am insecure about and wonder whether I just need a good ol’ British clip around the ear!  Maybe … but, no matter how far you travel you can never run away from who or what you are and I’ve come to an inner place where I enjoy being me and accept who I am.  Now, that’s what I call progress! 

But, taking all into consideration, weighing up the pro’s, the con’s … at the end of the day … ok, ok, I know I’m sliding into Sir Humphrey of Yes, Minister now – you can’t beat a healthy dose of cynicism and a good old fashioned bit of leg pulling.  Bring on the Brits!

Voice

The character voices I hear in my head come through loud and clear when I lay awake at night (I’m a poor sleeper); when I’m driving the school run (maybe I should be concentrating?), and when I’m watching the sunset with a glass of something nice.  But when I sit at my computer the journey from my brain to my fingertips seems to water down their strength.  Maybe the clue is in the word ‘brain’.  I’ve read two books now on Voice both extolling that good writing does not come from this part of our anatomy.   It comes from a mystical place deep within that you need to meditate to access.  I am trying, as Voice is something I need to work on. 

Results so far have been mixed.  I have used the dreamscape method: writing as soon as I awake when Voice is supposed to be at its clearest, untarnished by the day’s tribulations.  I wrote a girl’s voice, teenage Rachael, who juggled her time between being the school swat to fitting in with the coolest crowd.  I have to say it worked.  She came through loud and clear, her confidence obvious, tinged with every teenager’s worst nightmare: not fitting in.  I should have kept the momentum going.  But I allowed life to get in the way and allowed Mr. Procrastination to creep back in and I filled my morning with displacement activities.  Who doesn’t love unloading the dishwasher?

I then tried keeping a sensory journal, writing small excerpts everyday, closing my eyes, imaging the scene, the setting, the voice and allowing the words to flow.  I kept this going for quite some time managing ten or so pages.  But as I reread my daily entry twenty-four hours later, what I’d been blown away with the previous day now seemed overblown.  Damn you overwriting!

I have read a book called Outliers: the story of success which gives the background on how hugely successful people have got there.  One of its key messages is that to become good at anything you need to have put in your 10,000 hours.  This certainly rang true with the case studies the book highlighted and it felt right to me.  When it comes to writing I don’t think a smattering of talent is enough.  Outstanding prose comes from thought, practice and a shed-load of re-editing.

With regard to Voice, I think I will dip in and out of all the suggested exercises I’ve come across until I find one I can actually stick at.  In the meantime I’ll keep racking up the hours until I hit the magical 10,000.  Who knows, maybe by then I’ll actually write something that’s worth a second look.

Wendx