Mailbox Pages, Pressure, and the Writing Seesaw

listeningI try to be a disciplined writer. That is to say, I try to write something daily.  Something on a story page. Blog posts don’t count.

That part works most of the time. When I’m in danger of falling off the discipline wagon is when I’m near the middle of a large project and my self-doubt is reaching tsunami proportions. In recognition of this seemingly inevitable stage, a colleague and I agreed to serve as each other’s “mailboxes” for pages from a work in progress.

We decided on an arbitrary deadline (the 5th of each month) by which to send each other approximately 30 pages apiece. If we didn’t receive pages in any given month, we’d send gently nagging emails.

When a mailbox sender’s working draft got completed, we agreed, it was completely optional for the mailbox recipient to  read it and offer comments. No pressure at all, right?

Six months later, my colleague, who is obviously more disciplined than I am, completed her draft. I read it. It was wonderful. Not finished but filled with good energy and story and brimming with character. I wrote my comments, sent them off and got back to work. She said I was right on track–she might not necessarily agree with all my suggestions but my reading of the draft gave her lots to work with, which is the whole point. I felt validated as a reader which is always good for my writing confidence.

As for my draft, travel intervened. And teaching. I went to Kindling Words East, which kindled the fire for my novel right back up. I longed to get back to this work. What I didn’t have were enough hours in the day. Then, predictably, the doubts began to creep in. Had I packed too much into the novel? Should I go back and take out a subplot or two? Was it even a middle grade? This is a slippery slope.

My semester began. The picture book intensive kicked in. My reading started piling up. I’d sent in my February 5 mailbox pages in January, anticipating the crunch, but March 5 now loomed. It felt impossible.

I wrote a picture book draft. That’s always a nice break from a novel.  But somehow, I couldn’t go back to my mailbox pages.

I asked my kindly mailbox for a hiatus. A couple of months, I said. I’ll have to set the novel aside. How about I resume in May? She agreed. This is a no-pressure agreement, right? All about mutual support and respect for our work.

Then something odd happened. Right after I’d hung up the phone, I fired up Scrivener and got right back into the novel. Right into the messy middle. That evening, I wrote a couple of new scenes. Not 30 pages, granted. More like 10. But I was off and running again. Just the thought of not having to meet this (completely flexible, erasable, voluntary) deadline unfettered my creative impulse and allowed me to move ahead. And so the seesaw goes.

Remembering Barbara Brooks Wallace

Barbara Brooks Wallace, author of children’s books and two-time Edgar Award winner, passed away November 27, 2018, of natural causes.  It’s a term she would have liked–Natural Causes. I imagine I can hear her saying, “That could be a title.”

Back when the Internet was young, I was on a blue board lovingly titled The Pub, where a bunch of us chatted, rejoiced in each others’ publications and awards and commiserated when someone skidded on the inevitable peanut-shells the industry sometimes threw our way.  Barbara Brooks Wallace was our resident link to the history of the field. She’d worked with Jean Karl, which made the rest of us feel we were touching the hem of a goddess. Here’s Bobbie talking to me about receiving her first contract from Jean.

barbara_brooks_wallace.jpgBobbie was remarkable–full of ideas and questions and determined to stay connected. Here’s a 2013 post she wrote for Cynsations.

When Bobbie turned 90, we Pubbies put a birthday package together for her. It was my privilege to mail it, along with the scarf and matching blue socks I’d knitted. She’d been grumpy about that birthday and when the package arrived, she called me. I picked up the phone and there was Bobbie, laughing so hard she could barely talk. “You weren’t going to let me be cranky, were you?” she said.

Here’s what fellow Pubster Dian Curtis Regan says in remembrance:

Every time Bobbie posted to the Pub, her words made me smile. At the time, she was pushing 90 (!) yet was still ‘in the game,’ writing and publishing and wanting to talk about both.
To learn that she published a new book at the age of 95, Seeking Nip and Tuck, makes me happy, and also makes me want to be just like her.  What a wonderful role model for all of us writers.
Excerpt from the book description:
We’re in the dangerous streets of the New York tenements at the close of the 19th century, with two young boys who have escaped their vicious stepfather by faking their own drowning in the river. Matt and Mickey Deacon disguise themselves by changing their names to Nip and Tuck. But just changing names for two proverbial peas in a pod is hardly enough to save them from the determined evil predators who are seeking them…

And this from Fred Bortz:

On a trip to the DC area a few years ago, I met Bobbie at her assisted living place and took her out to dinner–Chinese, of course. Her sparkling personality was exactly as expected from our online interactions.

I am certain that as she passed away, the twinkle in her eye was the last thing to fade.

Go, Bobbie! If there’s an afterlife, you’re in some celestial Pub, still in the game, writing up a storm.