Happily Ever... after Being Your Weird & Wonder-filled Self!

An offering

Photo by engin akyurt on Unsplash

This post is a bit late. My goal in the past few weeks has been to post on Thursdays but that THING happened as it does when writing: we write into a piece and find new thoughts. And to fully explore takes time. I hope this piece is useful, and if so, please share.

First, a Thank you to writer/editor Stephanie Duncan Smith who pens Slant Letter. Do subscribe to her newsletter, words of a wise editor.

A Case for Owning Your Weird in Your Writing

I am in agreement—complete agreement—with the thoughts in her post. And in the conclusion of my own piece, you’ll see something similar to Stephanie’s closing thoughts. Ultimately it’s the work itself that is meaning-full.

But I began to think about the ‘what happens after’ sharing your work with the world. Like the fairy-tales—where does it end? How do they live after? I also took a look at the above title, at getting rid of the word “being” and replacing it with “offering.”

When we write from our “weird” and deeply personal place, we’re not holding back. We are offering, gifting, contributing. When such work resonates with others, it is gratifying in a similarly personal way.

Note: I’m not speaking to “memoir” work here. It might be memoir, but it might also be the voice you bring to the work—your perspective. That can mean taking risks. Or it might be not-so-popular subject matter; that can be particularly tricky and brave these days. Or it might mean approaching a story from an odd direction—or a direction that was considered ‘odd’ until you did it in your unique and memorable way.

When you send out work, there’s the possibility of:

Rejection

I deliberately stopped keeping track of rejection letters years ago, around about the time when the writing world switched from paper to email. When I down-sized my home six years ago, I tossed the multi-binder collection of paper rejections. A solid decision.

But tossing rejections does little for the stuff—dare I say ‘wounding’?—that can fester when this “weird” work is rejected. It isn’t merely a rejection of “work.” It becomes a rejection of some part of self, something deeper than “here is my lovely ashtray I made for you in pottery class.” It’s part of our being. We might resist naming it, and can only feel it: a certain kind of sharp prick lets us know it’s there.

Being asked to join

I have a clear memory of my oldest son, his red hair wild, skipping—yes, skipping—off to school in the morning on crisp fall days. We lived not even two blocks away, so off he’d go off on his own, so happily. And I’d think about how his day might be.

Over years with three boys there’d be days with friendship issues, the heart-breaking questions of making friends, playing together, being asked to join in. Or not.

The questions of does anyone, will anyone ever, like me? Will I make a friend? On the playground and between desks.

Sometimes, when I send out written works, I remember the feeling that comes with those questions. We’re grown up and maybe like to think it’s different. But that feeling is still there, exposed when we write from the deeper places. It’s risky—is how it feels.

I’m going to look at three parts of happily-ever-after-rejection:

First, the rather pragmatic business of self-care. Treat is as you do brushing your teeth and flossing.

Second, to separate the creator from the created, allow the work to detach from you once it is completed. And you detach from the work.

And third, perhaps most significant to this personal work and the writing, is to practice self-acceptance. Self-acceptance synonymous with non-judgement. Hear these words shouting within your self as you read on with all the practical suggestions. We can say “Don’t care what others think!” and talk about how to deal with rejections, but self-acceptance allows you to write and say what you want and need to, and to deal with the rejection of that work.

Really, there’s a part of me that wants to move on from times of rejection as quickly as possible. But there’s another part that knows I need to acknowledge before I pass along the path.

Let’s start with the practical of what you do to deal with rejection of own-your-weird writing…

Write

Write to remember why we do this thing. Rejection is when I most appreciate being mid-novel. There’s something about writing a long-term project that gives me something to sink into—or sulk and slink into—when the Outside is getting too close. With novel writing, I either know where I’m at, or I can work at some bit of re-writing, or scene extension, or something that will give me enough work for the day or week so that I don’t have to come up with something (which can lead to self doubt) or feel that dreadful emptiness that can wash over. A novel is a go-to place for months or more.

If you’re not in the middle of another project at that point-of-rejection however, you might find an older project for which you still feel a connection. Or write a short story that loosely connects with an earlier one; something that feels to be a continuation in some way, something that causes you not to feel adrift.

Or work on a piece you’ve wanted to write for some time—give yourself a sense of allowing. Gifting.

Or write something utterly fresh. If it’s overwhelming to think about a new project in entirety, trick your mind into seeing only one part of it: explore a character; revisit or create a new setting; take a line of another poet’s poem, and write around it. Try for a sense of play at such times.

Or write in your journal. But if you find yourself over-writing about the pain of the rejection, or any humiliation you might be feeling drop the journal-writing. Maybe go listen to live music and dance.

Note: sadness can need acknowledgement. If you feel a need to write in your journal, do. Just know when to “wrap it up,” as they say. Even write: I’m done with this. I’m going for a walk. And go smell some green stuff growing.

…or don’t write

After a rejection you might need to take a Break.

How long do you need? A day? A day of going out to spend time with people you love? (Nix chores and errands. That in itself might be a “day off.”) Several days? A week?

At the outset, decide on an amount of time. Don’t let this drag, or it can take over. And if you haven’t made the decision about it, if you are leaving it to some indeterminate time, then you lose a sense of control. This publishing piece that we have to do if we are going to exist as writers, already can feel very much out of your control. So take control where and when you can. Name a date to return to work, set it on your calendar, and get back to it after a break—please.

You know: don’t let Them grind you down.

Read—or not

Read work that uplifts. Read poetry, read ancient texts that have endured for centuries. Read forms and genres you don’t write. Read the work of a writer who truly speaks to you. Read works that challenge. Read works that don’t challenge but just allow you to float in them. Floating-Immersion books.

Note: if you read a book that causes you to say, “How did this get published?” snap it closed, and run to leave it in the nearest little neighborhood library.

Avoiding the bitter

The Bible speaks of being “troubled” by the “root of bitterness” which is a description that leaves me feeling shivery; bitterness does take root, wriggles in fiercely, and holds deeply. As an artist, there are emotions that my characters might live with, but I don’t want those same emotions to stain my work. Especially not in tone! Emotions and context have a way of leaking into my work; I know this.

Writing is hard. Even as I write about the ugly and real, the possibility of resentment and bitterness, I want to feel the joy, too. I want the energy going into the work to feel balanced and real and human and open, no matter what the content is; the energy is its own thing.

Mindfulness can be Body-ness, too

Our bodies have an amazing and innate way of sending messages to all the rest of us—the parts that need the messages. There’s research and advice on this out there in the world. But suffice to say this: spend time nurturing your body. Move it, stretch it. Walk, dance, do yoga.

Hatha gives a good stretch but Yin yoga (very slowed with poses for long minutes) and Kundalini are forms that you might find more soul-nourishing and -building than other forms.

Taking care of the physical has its own ways to heal. Take an inventory of your body throughout tough days: that is, straighten your spine, get those shoulders down into place. Get to know where you body harbours stress. For me it’s my jaw, and a mouth guard worn most nights really helps to alleviate that. Spend time noticing where stress manifests, and take care.

If your stomach is upset, sit on the floor like a child, with your legs stretched out in front of you, and rub your knees. Sounds strange, but it works. An ageing yoga teacher shared this. He also taught us to spend time with our feet each day, massaging and pressing, and stretching out each toe.

All practice of self-care has soothing properties. You don’t need to go to classes or strain. So often as writers, and often without any extra funds in our lives, we let these pieces go; we think we can’t afford, both in terms of money and time. But make time. If short on funds, there are library books and youtube yoga videos. Money is not a reason to miss this.

Do and self-soothing activity SLOWLY. There’s no point in rushing. Even if you don’t want to give the motion some kind of heightened thought, give up on any thought of speed. Move so slowly that contentment and joy can actually catch up to you and slip in between the cracks of sadness that is a part of the rejection process.

Eat well

Give your body some real vitamins and minerals. This doesn’t mean swallowing a handful of supplements—though maybe for you it does. Invest in a juicer and make yourself a pint of carrot, kale, with lemon and granny smith apple juice for flavor and sweet! (Such an injection of vitamins keeps me going.) Or just add fruit and vegetables to your diet—something to nibble that’ll leave you feeling happier through writing time. Don’t eat things that cause you to feel sluggish, of mind or body. Let your body know you love this thing that keeps us upright at the computer!

On to the inward—the separating of the writer and the writing

Note how I say above to do this separation work AFTER the work is completed. Or at least, as completed as can be. Until a thing is published and between covers, it’s not truly “done.”

But when you feel it’s “done” to the best of your capacity at the moment, that is the time to begin to separate.

Especially for a work that’s created with personal intensity there can be a period of post-partum. This is the separation that is forced on us; the thing is completed, but there is still our attachment to it.

Sending it out while this attachment is still in place is tough. (Even acceptance can have challenges at this point—but that might be another post or something for the comment thread.)

Allow enough time to let this separation begin and grow. Working on the next project is one natural way for this to happen. To be caught up into a new story, new characters, new setting, means a shift in priorities, attention, love even, in the way that artists are caught up at these points. (Of necessity!)

Add to this a conscious separating; if this piece is so deeply personal, prepare for this time. By that, I mean thinking about it. Making it deliberate.

Detachment? Lack of attachment? Is there a difference?

Suffering is about attachment. What is rejection if not suffering? If this is something you are struggling with, consider studying some Buddhist principles.

In reading about these principles, often the word used is “detachment.” For some it connotes being aloof or distanced. (Is “separated” the same?) I find myself resisting the word “detached.” Although some might feel a “lack of attachment” is the same thing! Find the words that are most meaningful for you so you can absorb.

Watching my son skip away to school was about being connected, about caring, and about letting go. We don’t “detach” from our work even when we separate.

We cannot not care about our work. Even as we let it go.

Self-acceptance

This piece of writing is a part of us, deserving our time and energy and self. It requires an editorial eye as well as a creative’s heart. All parts of our selves are caught up in the process. We are made up of many selves, including the naysayer who must be won over. (No, don’t leave Naysayer in a corner—do win him over. That’s the acceptance piece.)

I want to feel “this is me, this is the story I am telling,” and not feel a need to apologize or defend or explain. The work stands on its own, and if we’ve put in that effort and truth, if we’ve pushed to make it rich and deep and—mostly—what it needs to be—then we can both “own it” and let it go. These two are connected; it’s easier to let go when we’ve accepted that it’s ours, when we’ve arrived at a sense of peace about it. It might return with a friend(ly contract); it might return alone, tired, and in need of hot chocolate cheer.

Own it. And let it go. Paradoxically.

We learn to live with paradox.

Remembering the Why - back to that

My young adult son and I were invited to a neighbour’s 90th birthday party recently. For some years now, we’ve met up with this octogenarian for Saturday afternoons at our city’s historical jazz-music watering-hole. Sometimes he plays the piano, with his fingers that remember all the right notes.

Before the birthday party music got started, as he and I were talking, he pulled out an envelope filled with carefully illustrated, fold, and stapled chapbooks: Cane Man #11 was the title of this, the most recent in his ongoing series. He handed me one and reminded me not to fold it. Of course not!

What part of our writing is this? To hold our stories—our selves—in our hands, and give to another? And to accept.

As I reached for it, I had a sudden deep knowing—another kind of sharp inner prick—remembering what writing is, and an overwhelming sense of gratitude for this: for being able to write, and to be a writer. And the need to hold on to that, even as I know the sadness is part, too.

But how this writing thing feels in my gut, how it loosens my shoulders, lightens my feet—I need to hold tightly to that.

You?