My life was overflowing with tasks and errands. My husband and I were looking forward to getting away on a Harley overnighter weekend with old friends. We put a new windshield on Stoker, our Harley trike. He checked the tires. We both washed it. Our overnight luggage was packed. The weather looked like it was going to be perfect.
The morning of our trip, I got up early and made breakfast. I got dressed in part of my layers for the morning chill. When it was time for my husband to wake up, he told me about his horrible headache. We had to cancel. I texted our friends to let them know not to wait for us.
If you believe in God, you’d probably remind me God is in control. His plan was for us to miss our Harley trip. I trust God with my life, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t disappointed. In that moment, I was crushed. In the Bible, Proverbs 19:21 says, “Many are the plans in the mind of a man, but it is the purpose of the Lord that will stand.”
My husband and I spent a quiet weekend together. It was perfect. We watched movies and talked. His headache got better. My creativity was recharged so I could work on my new book. It was the weekend we needed, not the weekend we had planned.
When I retired from teaching almost four years ago, I thought my book would find a publisher within the first year, and I’d be busy working with editors and planning my book launch. Within the first two years, I did sign with an agent, but still waiting on my book deal. That doesn’t stop me from reading craft books, going to writers conferences, and writing new books.
I have been given the gift of writing. Part of my purpose is to nurture that gift. I write children’s books to shine a light on truth so that future generations will find their way. I have no control over the publishing industry or any timing on my writing career. Unless I self-publish, I can’t plan when my book comes out. The only thing I can do is write.
There are many aspects of our lives we can plan. We can plan where to live, whether to marry, what type of career to pursue. But there are other events we would never plan like losing a job, losing a spouse, illness, and time of our death. I want to walk confidently through the events set before me, knowing behind it all is a greater plan than I could ever understand.
And I still make plans and fill my calendar, remembering that they are only written in pencil.
Ever since two of my books went on submission to publishers, I have felt like I was holding my breath. I knew nothing would probably happen right away. But I still checked my email five times a day. After the first full manuscript requests, I could barely think.
Weeks passed. Months passed. When I checked the Google sheet my agent set up, I could see some rejections with comments. More submissions went out. Those full manuscripts were still out there.
A year passed. Everyone who’s been through this tells you that you should be working on your next thing. Forget about submissions. You can’t control editors and acquisition meetings. Focus on your writing. I completed a new book and took it to my critique group.
In the back of my mind, I kept telling myself I needed to keep my writing time open. When my book was sold, there would be new rounds of revisions. I would be too busy to write anything new. With my mind reeling with possibilities for my debut book, it was hard to generate any new ideas.
More months passed. Maybe my books out on submission would end up dead. I needed to work on the next thing. Before I signed with an agent, I had more patience with the traditional publishing process. It took me six books to land my agent. Somehow, I had mistakenly thought that mean my publishing dream was nearing reality.
Another month passed. Finally, I released my illusion of control over my books. New ideas are flowing. When I lose myself in my newest project, I find myself again.
A creator must create. A writer must write. And no matter what happens, I move on to the next thing.
Finally, we’ve reached the end of January, the longest month of the year.
This past month has been full of unplanned expenses from dental to house repairs. When I total it up, I spent more in January than I spent on Christmas gifts in December. February’s starting out strong though, with a major pool repair scheduled. As soon as I type this, I realize I should have no complaints. My house has not been destroyed by a wildfire or hurricane.
January smothered my creative productivity. My writing time was eaten up by phone calls, estimates, Home Depot runs, and bank transfers. It was difficult to find quiet moments to focus. Although we didn’t have snow storms, high winds whipped up my allergies and gave me brain fog. At night, I found little rest as my mind was burdened with my overflowing calendar entries.
I am extremely thankful to have the resources to deal with January’s problems. But I take a deep breath as I turn the calendar page. February is a month of love, remembered national heroes, and the Super Bowl. And for Southern California, refreshing rain.
Those who call ourselves writers often struggle to find time and energy for our craft. After all, there is no story without conflict. Some writers work full time jobs before coming home to take care of their families. Others are caretakers for their spouses or parents. Still others contend with their own health issues or past hurts.
But even when we have a January full of trials, we come back to our computers in February. While we still have breath, we write. Even when things fall apart around us.
When your precious children, birthed after years of tears and struggle {otherwise known as your unpublished manuscripts), are out on submission, it feels like you’re in a nightmare. You know the one that cycles over and over again. Every time you reach for the exit door, it opens into darkness. Cruel laughter taunts you. Who do you think you are? You can’t even write a clever Instagram caption.
For years, I knocked on agents’ Querytracker doors, attended writers conferences, and scrolled through MSWL. If I had a literary agent, they would champion my books to editors and escort me through the publishing process. Within months, I would be able to walk into a bookstore and secretly sign copies of my book on their shelf. Kids would cheer me at my school assemblies when I talked about the joys of creating stories.
“I only need one yes.”
That was my whispered prayer when rejection after rejection hit my inbox. Then five books later, when I had almost given up, I got a phone call. And a Microsoft Teams video meeting.
Tia became my agent. After a few rounds of cleanup edits, we started the waiting game again.
“We only need one yes.”
First we sent out my MG novel. A couple of editors wanted to read it. More rejections. The MG market was soft. Then Tia and I revised my YA novel and sent it out. A few editors wanted to read it. More rejections.
“We only need one yes.” But the waiting is a nightmare. Even though I’m working on new projects, there is a certain space in the back of my mind where I hope for the yes. And worry about the no.
Maybe you’re like me, trying to launch your writing career. No matter where you are on your journey, keep pushing forward.
Waiting for a query reply is like being stranded on a desert island after you’ve sent out messages in bottles. As the waves continue to crash onto the shore, you squint against the blazing sun to scan the horizon. Hoping to see the glint of a returning bottle.
Or you check your email box. Twenty times a day.
Experienced writers advise you to start a new project. Ignore the fact that somewhere, someone is looking at your synopsis and deciding whether you’ll fit into their client list. If they even read it. Waves of anxiety crash against your overconfidence. Maybe your book wasn’t ready. Maybe your critique group doesn’t want to hurt your feelings.
Maybe your voice doesn’t matter.
This world doesn’t seem friendly anymore. Social media isn’t fun when every comment you make could be used against you. All your writer friends are being published. Everyone in your family is being published, even if they’re not writers.
Even a message asking for revisions would be a victory.
All you can do is on the beach, watching the waves crash against your dreams. Then you notice a seagull creeping up on the sand. It stares at the sandwich in your hand, cocking its head back and forth. The bird hops a little closer, reminding you of that boy in sixth-grade, the one who always wolfed down the hated liverwurst sandwich Mom packed for you.
Ideas flood your mind. Jumping up, you brush off sand and head to your laptop. As you furiously type away, you can still barely hear the waves in the background. You’ll check your email box later, but for now, the magic still works.
Have you ever decided to become an expert at something, only to find out the more you spend time doing it, the less you actually know about it?
In my earlier years, I was a visual artist. For most of my childhood, I expressed ideas through drawing and painting. My first degree was a BFA in Fine Arts. But after college, real life intruded, and I had to make money. My creativity was expressed in clothing displays and sale setups. I continued to draw and create intaglio prints at the local community college.
Then came motherhood. My creativity emerged in birthday cakes and scavenger hunt parties. My creative genes were passed down to my youngest, who although she drew and painted, she preferred photography and video.
When the retail industry choked after 9/11, I went back to school to become an elementary school teacher. In my classroom, my creativity generated bulletin boards and diagrams of the water cycle. When I took on the after school musical theater program, I created backdrops and sets.
After my husband suddenly died, writing became my comfort. I could write about my characters’ struggles and pain easier than my own. Although I’d always written short stories, I had my heart set on novels.
How hard could it be?
Years later when I retired, I imagined I would crank out novels every year to make up for all those earlier years with no time for writing. My short stories appeared in anthologies. I got my first writing advance ($15).
After I finished three novels, I began to send out query letters and sample chapters. My heart was set on traditional publishing, so I knew I needed a literary agent. As the form rejections rolled in, I realized I didn’t know as much about writing as I thought I did. It wasn’t just about having a great story idea. I was responsible for creating character arcs for all my major players, as well as the villain. Novels had to be divided into acts and move at a certain pace. Forget the glorious description of the setting. You needed to blow things up.
How could I get better?
I took classes. I attended writing conferences. I hired editors. But the most helpful step was joining a critique group. It would take a long time to go through my novel in a critique group, but it was well worth it. After three years, we finally reached the ending of my novel. My faithful critique group tore it to shreds. They had permission to do so, as they had lived with my story for a long time.
Who knew endings were so hard? I made some corrections and resubmitted to my group. Still it wasn’t enough. Or rather it was too much. Apparently, I had another entire novel embedded in it.
I can’t help it if I keep coming up with new great ideas.
After much soul-searching, I now sit in front of my laptop, cutting chapters and characters, trying to salvage my novel. I’ve learned a lot. My next novel will be so much better.
As of this date, I haven’t deleted this story yet. The revision process may be painful, but it is a good teacher. You can read all you can about how to write, but in the end, you have to go through the process yourself.
And blowing up the ending of your book is a great way to learn.
Writers often complain about finding more writing time in their day. As a retired teacher, I thought I would have endless hours to type on my laptop, scribble outlines into notebooks, or muse about new story ideas. Instead, my schedule filled up quickly. I have heard it said, and now understand: “I am busier now than when I was working full-time.”
So I returned to my old writing time. It’s hard to turn off the alarm at 5:00 am and jump out of my warm bed. I’m not working. Why would I get up so early? I’ll admit sometimes I’ve hit the snooze button and gone back to sleep. But when I got up and grabbed my coffee, I’ve never regretted it.
Early morning. The perfect time to write. It’s so quiet I can hear my brain work. My husband and dogs are asleep. No daylight beckons me to go outside. Too early to do laundry or mop the floor.
My mind is a blank slate, not yet overloaded with the day’s problems and responsibilities.
Ideas flow. Possibilities seem endless.
Getting up that early may not work for you. You may prefer the dark hours of the evening. But the idea is the same.
Find the quiet hours in your day and use them for writing. You will find there is great reward gained by writing in the dark.
Rain has been pounding on my roof all night. And most of yesterday. Today it’s going to be the same. I’m stuck inside my house, longing to stretch my legs and feel sunshine on my face.
Storm after storm after storm. No chance to catch my breath.
I’m not the only one who’s gone through storms over this holiday season. Each person has their own storms to face. To someone else, my problems would only be annoyances. For me, as each problem piles on top of the next, it becomes mind-numbing.
Incessant rain. Grey, swollen skies that hold the day captive.
My creativity is held captive with the California sunshine. My hands hover over my laptop keyboard yet nothing is typed on my screen. Maybe the query rejections were right. Maybe writing a novel is too hard.
Maybe my story is not important.
My responsibilities come tumbling out like junk out of a woman’s purse. Days fill up with important tasks. People I care about need me. When things break, it takes time and money to fix them.
Cars drive by my house, splashing up water from the gutters.
An email arrives. A short story I wrote last year was shortlisted for a fiction contest.
Silence catches my attention. The rain has stopped.
Maybe I can write a story that is important.
My hands fly over the keyboard. Characters, storylines, wonderful places flood my mind. When my stolen moments pass, the story takes hold in my mind and rests there, waiting for my next writing time.
Out comes the sun and dries up all the rain.
And the itsy-bitsy spider climbs up the spout again.
It was difficult for Lola to decide whether she wanted to be a dancer or a painter when she graduated from college.
“Why choose at all?” her guidance counselor said with a smile. “Take both the Dance and Art placement tests. You can double major at university and then apply for a split career. Young people do it all the time. Then when your superior talent emerges, you can go full time in your strength.”
Lola loved ballet. Most of her high school classes were either studying its history or experiencing the dance itself. Even her science classes involved kinesthetics and the physics involved in dance. But when sixth period came, she took off her ballet shoes and emersed herself in the joy of oil painting. She loved drawing and painting the human body. Her high school hired models (dressed in swimwear of course) so that students could draw from life. They studied anatomy along side color theory.
Their president was an artist too. Dr. Hansen was responsible for the laws making jobs for musicians, artists, writers, and dancers. When children were seven, they were tested for creativity. If they showed some talent, they were encouraged to take special classes. When they were seniors in high school, they took a test in their ability which would determine which university they would attend.
After completing their university degree, creatives could apply for important government positions. Since the government paid the performers, citizens could attend concerts and performances for free. Anyone could apply for a mural to be painted on the wall of their home or a portrait done of their family.
Lola’s mother was a children’s book writer, and her father was a saxophone player. But ever since she could walk, Lola danced her way through life. She should choose dance for college.
After hanging up her toe shoes on the rack, she looked down at her computer. Maybe she should video call Becky, her cousin, who still lived on Earth. Becky and her mom, Lola’s dad’s sister, came out to visit every year. She’d known Becky her whole life and chatted with her frequently.
Lola checked the clocks over her desk. The one on the left was Pacific Standard Earth time. It was only 9:00 pm there. Becky would still be awake.
“Hey, Lola! What’s up?” On Lola’s screen, Becky’s hair was rolled up in a cap to keep her waves, and she was in her pink unicorn pajamas.
“I hope I didn’t wake you up,” Lola said. It wasn’t even dinner time yet on Mars.
“No, I was still working on my algebra homework,” Becky squinched up her nose to show what she thought about advanced mathematics. “What are you up to?”
“I have to fill out my test application,” Lola said with a groan. “I can’t decide whether to choose dance or art. What do you think I should do?”
Becky chewed her lip. “Wow! I only wish I had that problem. You are so lucky to live on a planet that lets you pursue creativity. As you know, I love dance as much as you do, but Mom can’t afford dance lessons for me. As soon as I graduate, I’m off to work at her dad’s office. No more dancing for me!”
Lola sighed. Not for the first time, she wished Becky and her mom had signed up for the Mars colony. Creatives on Earth had to work boring service jobs to support themselves. What little time they had left after work and family was all they had for their creative pursuits.
“I’m so sorry, Becky. But which one should I choose?”
Her cousin tipped her head, narrowed her eyes, and then opened them wide. “Dance, silly! Dance is your first love!”
“Thanks, Becky. I’ll let you go. I hear Mom calling me.”
After dinner, Lola went to the testing website and filled out the application for the Dance Aptitude Test. Then she took her shower and went to bed. She put on some Mozart to help her relax and nestled under her blankets. She fell asleep dreaming about her future.
#
Lola’s alarm went off and she rolled over to hit the snooze button. Was it the weekend yet? She still hadn’t finished her Advanced Writing assignment, and it was due first period. She groaned and rolled out of bed. She’d have to write it before she left for school.
As she grabbed her sweater and backpack, she glanced over at her toe shoes hanging on a hook by her desk and frowned. She missed ballet. It had been her life for five wonderful years.
When her dad left them, her mom put her foot down and insisted Lola stop dancing. She needed to start focusing on her grades so she could get a college scholarship. A business degree was the only acceptable path since most corporations that offered benefits and pensions required their managers to have at least a bachelor’s degree in business.
What would it be like to live in a world where dancers could work as dancers instead of receptionists?
She made herself a smoothie and sat down with her laptop. The prompt was to write about what she thought would make a perfect world. In the back of her mind, she felt the tickle of an idea. Something she had been dreaming about last night. Her fingers flew over the keyboard.
“It was difficult for Lola to decide whether she wanted to be a dancer or a painter when she graduated from college.”
Jodi Rizzotto 