A Little Tip for the Perfectionist Trying to Kill My Book

I walk this line between incoherent creative overflow and paralyzing perfectionism. More accurately, I seem to hop back and forth over line. I don't actually get much contact with it. I believe that would be called balance. Yeah. Don't have much of that right now.

As a writer of both non-fiction and fiction, I find that I use different skills for different projects. I fight myself into structure and plotting in my fiction, jump into the story and watch it blow up around me as I run pell-mell through things and throw out my plans as some new angle appears. It's a wild ride when I abandon all editing techniques because if I stop to even fix stuff like spelling, I get stuck. My feet sink into that other side of the line. Perfectionism. Even a sentence can turn into an hour long project. I can't risk getting there or I will NEVER FINISH my first drafts.

Usually with non-fiction, this isn't such a struggle. I make an outline and then write it out. Until this time.

I'm being sucked down this drain in to the darkness of anxiety and perfectionism. What if I write the wrong thing?

I know I need to write! I've felt inspiration, the pulling tug of God telling me this is something He would like me to do. It will make a difference to someone.

But instead of writing I binge watch Chinese romantic dramas.

Last week I told myself I had to get on top of this. Instead of writing, I grabbed my scriptures, searching for inspiration.

The book fell open to Jeremiah 18:2-6.

"Arise, and go down to the potter's house, and there I will cause thee to hear my words. 
Then I went down to the potter's house, and, behold, he wrought a work on the wheels. 
And the vessel that he made of clay was marred in the hand of the potter: so he made it again, another vessel, as seemed good to the potter to make it. 
Then the word of the Lord came unto me saying, 
O house of Israel, cannot I do with you as this potter? saith the Lord. Behold, as the clay is in the potter's hand, so are ye in mine hand, O house of Israel."

Okay. It was almost funny in a way.

Regardless of what this was originally intended to mean, for me, that night, it was suddenly clear that the Lord was telling me to stop being afraid of doing the wrong thing and to just write! I needed to get something down and then, like the potter, couldn't I fix my mistakes later? Wasn't I in the Lord's hands? Couldn't he show me how to fix things too? But not if I didn't put something down first. I had to write.

That's my goal now. I tell myself: "Put something down. We can fix it later." And honestly, if God is going to be one of my editors, things will work out just fine.

Hospital Waiting Room

               Television always plays more commercials than entertainment. At least that’s what it feels like in the hospital waiting room.
               My husband had been back in surgery for thirty minutes before I finally felt comfortable looking around the room. My straight spine relaxed into the chair and I turned my neck this way and that, clicking as I rotated it around on my shoulders.

                The CT scans had come back clear, the best news of today. So if the irregularity was cancerous, at least it was contained, for now.  But for thirty minutes, I could not shake the agitation of expecting the worst. What if my husband contributed to the small percentage of people who had severe complications? What if he added to the mortality rate? Those statistics were a reality for someone.

                I remembered our last kiss. Was it the last time I would feel his lips respond to mine? My fingers had wrapped around the back of his head, pulling his face closer, pressing with more strength, lingering even though the anesthesiologist waited.

A good man, our pain doctor, cheery. A family friend. When he texted that he changed his day’s schedule so that he could take care of Dustin, I brushed away the tears. Such a kind gesture.

He gave Dustin a short-term amnesia-causing drug. But my fun husband wanted to remember. So I chuckled, as his face twisted in concentration, an effort to imprint his journey to the operating room, determined to beat the meds. Comforted by my spouse’s never-ending good nature, my heart warmed as he rolled down the hallway.

                Good memories to turn over and around in my mind now that I sat here waiting. Much better than the what-if questions that plague me in the middle of the night. Better than discussing our life insurance plans and making contingency preparations. He would live. He knew it. I knew it. But I worried about complications.

                My comfort in the waiting room increased enough that I began to study my fellow wait-ers. People who would never normally be together, brought to share the same space in difficult circumstances, we participated together in sometimes trying news. As each doctor arrived to share the results of surgery, the rest of us pretended we didn’t hear the prognosis. But it was difficult to ignore, “If he smokes again, even one more pack, he will die.” Or the “I’ve done all I can. At this point, we watch and wait and hope for the best.”

                When our friend-anesthesiologist stepped in to greet me, gone were the clinical patient/doctor lines. He embraced me. “It looked great. He’s doing well. They will call you back as soon as they get him out of recovery.” And he explained a couple important details.

Relief filled me.

Life might be different than we’ve ever known it to be from here on out, but it was life. And life could be lived, adapted, tried, failed, conquered, but most importantly, lived.

               

               

Breaking a revision rut

Me, "cutting" my cake at The Spanish Exile book launch

Lately, I have been reveling in a whirlwind of creativity. Since November 2016, I have published two books -- about as different from each other as you could get. The first is a political memoir called Soapbox: How I landed & lost a columnist gig, fought a prison, and got elected. The second is the first of a 4-book swashbuckling historical series, The Spanish Exile, which I launched last week.

The Spanish Exile started as a glimmer of an idea clear back a decade ago. Before its publication, I started a memoir publishing company (Treasured Stories), self-published my first novel (Ghost Moon Night), got elected to city council, and put out my memoir. Finally this year, I decided, no more digressions; it was high time I got this series off the ground.

However, in the past, my publishing process stalled at revision. I just couldn't muscle my way through a hot manuscript mess. I decided to overhaul my process, so I could overcome that I-can't-revise psychological hurdle. Here are some things that helped me through that revision rut:

1. Write a synopsis and blurb. I wrote a 7-page chapter by chapter synopsis then hired someone to write an exciting blurb...and revised to that. Some people detest synopses. Relax. It doesn't have to be literary or even pretty. You are just cataloguing your plot, to test it for holes and give you the lay of the land. As for a blurb, I could have muddled my way through it, or, for the price of a nice dinner for two, I hired a talented blurb writer.

2. Recruit cheerleaders. These are readers and writers who like the kind of stories you write. If you get a fantasy reader for your nonfiction, most likely, their feedback will be a downer. I had a cheerleader, my 16 year old voracious reader daughter, who brainstormed solutions to my plot holes. She kept me going and kept my pace exciting. Which meant my story was less boring, making it more exciting to work on. This recharged my creativity.

3. Set specific and challenging goals and track your progress. Sure, I could have revised an hour here and there. Instead, I revised in marathon sessions with specific page number goals that I announced to an accountability group. If midnight rolled around, I stuck to my guns until I finished into the wee hours just to say I did it.

4. Minimize distractions. I transformed my office into a writing "cave", closing my blinds, immersing in instrumental cello music, wrapping myself in blankets, closing my door if need be. Kind of writing in a cocoon, turning into a butterfly later.

5. Get a print copy of the book. I formatted my draft into a Createspace book which inspired me, then made corrections on the book. Oh my, that was a little disheartening seeing all those scribbles on every single page...

6. Keep going. But I persisted one page at a time and revised it in the final format, so it felt like progress. The book will eventually end, so hang in there.

7. Focus. I resisted signing up for conferences and contests and focused on getting my book done. I kept my schedule as open as possible for writing in long stretches. I asked my already sweet helpful family to pitch in on household chores and to cook dinner if they wanted to eat.

8. Acknowledge difficulties but don't wallow. I allowed myself to cry a little, "Wah, this is tough!" then went back to work. I asked more expert writers for help with specific problem spots. I watched YouTube videos on revising and writing.

9. Pray. I prayed for help. A lot.

Now that momentum is on my side, I intend to capitalize on it. I am revising Book 3 and plan to complete the series by September.

Jewel Allen is an award-winning journalist, author and ghostwriter. She is the author of The Spanish Exile and The Last Princess, the first two books in a swashbuckling historical series, Islands of the Crown. Visit her at www.jewelallen.com.