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11 Things Being an Author Taught Me About Life

Posted on February 9, 2016 by Heloise Jones
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I like stories where women save themselves.
~ Neil Gaimen

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Writer

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I remember the first time I learned fiction writers research. A surprise though I was writing a book set in mid-century Appalachia, a time and place very different from my experience. 2006. I was at the Taos Writing Salon, far from my home. There from an ad in a local magazine. I’d turned the page, but went back, gazed a long time at the ad before folding the page open to mark it. I’d written to prompts every week with a core group of eight women for four years. Attended three weeklong retreats with the same facilitator-teacher, members of the circle at all of them. New writers came and went, but I always sat safely in familiarity. In New Mexico I was on my own.

Once through the door, the excitement of a test and insecurity of new wings took over. Sharing raw work in response to exercises not my fear, but stepping out of the shadow of affirmation from people who knew me. Into a group that included men (so different!), and published authors. Three things occurred in Taos that changed my life forever.

Allegra Huston critiqued a short story of mine, the seed for my novel. An author from England asked if I wrote professionally, responded ‘why not, you oughta be’ when I said no. And an author I respect, whose style and skill I admire, said yes when I asked if she’d edit my book. I became a writer in my mind.

If you read blogs or articles on writing, listen to interviews, you hear writing is a small part of being an author. What surprised me is how being an author shores me through the rough patches in life. Not in the work-thru-it sense as in journaling, but in the ‘this is true’ guideposts sense. My guess, it’ll surprise you, too.

1. First draft is never the final draft.

I trained two years on systems therapy with the Satir Institute of the Southeast. The one thing I knew for sure at the end of that training is life’s not about how often we fall down, it’s about how fast we get up. But I’d also grown up a perfectionist. Writing and rewriting, editing and revising finally taught me to let go. Forgive mistakes. Move on. Practice and do it better next time.

2) Rejection happens. Cheer the triumphs.

The level of rejection authors experience would astonish most people. Sometimes (often) hundreds of rejections, sometimes year after year. Stephen King spiked his rejections on a nail over his desk for years until Carrie launched his career. You read about the big winners. Rarely do you read they are less than 1% of published authors. That the average sales for self-published books are 150-250 copies. That good writers are not immune to rejection. And the reasons for rejection often have nothing to do with the work. Publishing is a subjective business. Perseverance and adopting an attitude of inspiration from the triumphs of others, learning and moving on all key to success as a writer and in life.

3) You define success.

The word ‘success’ is everywhere. Media. Descriptors for individuals. Books are written about it. Blogs discuss the attributes of successful people. A writing teacher once described me as successful. She viewed my publications, my completed novel, my literary agent, my teaching, my long list of professional retreats and workshops attended as setting me apart. Her assessment was a shock, because I didn’t see myself as a successful author. Because my goals and intentions hadn’t been fully realized, yet. And the quality of my life didn’t spell success to me. In that moment I understood only we can define success for ourselves.

4) What you do can be great even if no one sees.

Thousands of fine sentences no one will read. Hundreds of kindnesses and actions no one knows. It all matters. Another’s eyes do not make it more or less than it is.

5) Connection is alchemical.

For a writer, it’s that space between the written words and reader. When words turn into something new in a reader’s mind. Same as between people, when relationship and impact grow from the place they meet. It starts with me, ends with us.

6) Comparison is deadly.

It can stunt a life. You’ll always find someone or something better or worse than where you are now. Use comparisons as benchmarks for where you stand today, and where you aspire to be or go. The present is the only place where you can start to move forward.

7) No new stories, only new ways of telling them.

Pay attention to the people in the stories and the ones telling the tales. They show us what it is to be human. Can teach, open our mind, broaden our perspectives.

8) Every person has a story we don’t know.

Thirty years ago I read a story by Stephen Covey. A man enters the subway with his out-of-control children bouncing off walls, bothering passengers, including Stephen. The man sits next to Stephen, apologizes for his kids. “We just left the hospital. Their mother just died,” he says. I never forgot that story. In moments when I’m irritated or hurt, it helps me gain perspective, not internalize what’s happening as only about me. I may not forgive or forget, but I can be more objective. As an author developing characters and story lines, I’m thrown back into this again and again.

9) Let go of dead-end distractions.

In writing it’s the sidebars, distracting ‘smoking gun’ exposition in a scene. It’s the subplots that don’t tie-in, the rambling. It’s the backstory that slogs down a story, what leaves a reader asking ‘so what?’ In life, it’s the things that take us away from what we believe we want. And the things we ignore that help us feel whole. So, if a neat clean home is important, find a way to have it without costing you time on your goal. If time with friends is important, schedule it. There are threads that guide our lives same as threads that guide a book.

10) Do what answers Yes.

I’ve shared I believe each of us has an abiding question at the heart of everything we do. Mine is Am I Okay? Not ‘safe’ okay, but the okay meaning acceptance as I am. Nothing puts me against my abiding question more than my writing does. It forces me to answer ‘Yes’ for myself so I can continue my craft, reach toward that immaculate creation of work and my best self I’ll never achieve. It’s the Yes that moves me forward.

11) You are the author.

Others can give feedback, state their opinion, give you educated advice. In the end, the author writes the story.

Author (from Merrium-Webster dictionary)
1. a :  one that originates or creates
    b : capitalized :  GOD
2. the writer of a literary work (as a book)

What story are you writing?  Tell me in the comments.

Another small journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.

A favorite: All things writerly, which I didn’t know until I started writing.
A secret: All this dumped into my head in the kitchen the other day.

Photo: Free share by Joanna Kosinska

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Posted in life, spirit, writers, writing | 3 Replies

Stuff Piled Up. Face the Sun.

Posted on February 2, 2016 by Heloise Jones
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That place is different for everyone – that place where you can breathe easy,
be yourself, feel spacious both inside inside and out. That place where you feel enormously grateful for all that you have and excited for everything yet to come.
Only you can know where that place is.
Only you can swim there.
~ Amy Tingle (118: Paradise, or How to Breathe)

fresh water west*

This morning, 6:15, off to the bay for sunrise I left the radio on as I backed the car out. I usually turn it off. But Saturday I accidentally caught the tail end of On Being. It was wonderful. This morning, older Arab men buying young Egyptian girls as throw-away brides. The girls sold by family and brokers. It was two blocks before I switched it away. I wasn’t even listening. I’d sunk into wondering how it must feel to be that girl. How trapped she must feel inside. The violation of her body penetrated. At the end of my drive, I walked the long way to the water, saying Gratitudes aloud the whole time. Because Gratitude under the last fade of stars feels especially holy and heard, especially when things feel hard.

I know my problems are first-world problems. A former landlord’s plans to steal $800 from us, with travesties as justification – $24 for mismatched lightbulbs, $39 for shipping charges we could’ve driven five min. to avoid, rent charged for days after we vacated, silly pictures and blatant lies. Someone said to let his pettiness go. $800 and being abused don’t feel petty to us, though. There’s always something worse or better to compare. And my husband and I are arguing, in ways we’ve not argued in thirty years marriage, for the third time in as many days, in ways that make me want to run away or fly high into space. And my hard drive crashing to dark screen tonight, the laptop with my creative files. This after a stressful move. After months of other stuff. I’m calm – call the lawyer, drive off for errands, close the lid – but the truth is I’m swimming like crazy these days.

And I have a choice which direction to go, even as I say ‘this sucks.’

I’m pulling out my artifacts of better things. Things I do, like from two weeks ago when I sat in the chiropractor’s office, early for my appointment, and a man waited with me. His expression strange. I wondered if something was wrong with him. He rose, went to the counter. ‘This is a complimentary visit, right?’ No, and she showed him what it would cost. He turned to leave without the adjustment and without thought, I rose, ‘I’ll pay his visit.’ He wanted my address to repay me. I wanted to give him a gift, asked if that was okay. I learned he’s lived with severe chronic back pain for years. They caught me a week later at the door, handed me the sweetest Thank You card in the most beautiful handwriting. It had stickers of a sunflower and butterfly on it, and that touched me deeply.

Things others do, like the little cards made of construction paper I discovered in my mailbox in Asheville, twice. One says ‘U R AWESOME.’ The other, ‘Dear you, hope you have a GREAT easter. from, me.’ Someone teaching their child to spread love was my guess at the time. I loved that. Kept those cards on my desk where I could see them. I’ve moved 3 times since then, but some things are rout in my organizational mind. I can find them.

Gratitude helps, too. With Gratitude I can remember how it felt to breathe easy. Can remember that feeling of spaciousness inside and out. Remember I have books to write, and I love writing. That the birds have returned to the bay. Hundreds from all the water tribes. Remember after I climb into bed my AppleCare’s still active. Remember moment by moment to carry me thru. And as the main character in The Orchid Thief by Susan Orlean said, “We’ll just go straight and eventually we’ll get there. What I mean is that we’ll get somewhere. Out of here. I mean, logically, we have to get out as long as we walk straight. I’ve done this millions of times. Whenever everything’s killing me I just say to myself, Screw it, and go straight ahead.” Yep, I’ve done this millions of times. Straight ahead. Facing the sun. Like the sunflower on the card.

Tell me. How do you face the sun when hard stuff piles up?

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Nasa shotThe Australian coast, from space.
Far away.
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Another small journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.

All I ever wanted in life was to make a difference, conquer the universe,
travel the world, meet interesting people, find the missing link, fight the good fight,
live for the moment, seize each day, make a fortune, know what really matters,
end world hunger, vanquish the dragon, be super popular but too cool to care,
be master of my own fate, embrace my destiny, feel as much as I can feel,
give too much, and love everything.
~ Tatsuya Ishida

A secret:  Be Here Now.
A favorite:  My organizational mind…I found the little construction paper cards.

Photos:
Jonathan Bean – freshwater west, United Kingdom
NASA – Australian coast

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Posted in events, family, life, spirit | 2 Replies

Rewind to Center

Posted on January 26, 2016 by Heloise Jones
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. . .This morning, waking before dawn, a litany of lists pulling at your sleeve,
you wandered through the quiet rooms of your house, waiting for the coffee to brew,
for something to take shape in the dark. You realize, often, how your movements look
a little on the shifty side, your path fashioned by a compass few can recognize or follow.
And yet here you are, covering ground nevertheless, leaning into the instrument of your heart,
building the map song by song, even when the notes toss you somewhere you never intended.
Especially when they do.
~ Maya Stein (from Tuning In)

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Birds flying*

My word for 2016 is Balance. In fact, Balance and Success (my definition, my terms), if I can have two. Because my life’s been seriously out of balance, and I am over it. fine. done. no more. whew.

I wrote those words Sunday. I have not been enjoying life. It doesn’t matter the place we moved into Jan. 2 has nearly everything on my List for Next Home, including a responsive landlord who cares about our experience here. Or that I call my own hours, can drive when traffic’s light, love what I do. I see the good stuff, acknowledge it, but I’d tunneled into the space between my Ideal Life vision and where we are now re. work and income. I churned to fix things, fill in the holes. Felt behind, that perhaps the work I’d done the past months was useless. The wheels inside screeched in their spinning. Fear crept to my edges. Truth is I look so normal, and I don’t feel normal. My husband shared an article. I have the classic symptoms of a body overly stressed. Exactly how I was when I went to Santa Fe.

Saturday at the post office a small woman with no teeth walked toward me. You’re so pretty, she called, her smile big. I didn’t want to deal with her. Didn’t want to reach into my bag, pull bills from the wad of one’s and five’s I carry for people who ask. I questioned my coldness a mere nano-second. Not today, I said. And yet she came, stood 12 inches from me. Not now, I said. She opened her mouth to speak. Don’t beg, I said. We stood a full minute, maybe longer, looking at each other. I noticed her mouth heavily ringed with white crust, how thin she was. That her skin was clear. Don’t beg, I said again. I was in despair. Once in the car I grabbed a dollar, went after her as she left the parking lot. Buckling up, I saw she stood with another woman at the next car. The woman’s expression looked like mine. I was bothered. I knew what happened was something about me I had to figure out. It came right after I’d just spontaneously paid for a stranger’s chiropractic visit. Driving home I heard 38* that night. I thought, her out in it, me all warm. Gratitude. I’d forgotten Gratitude. I’d gone to where I had no room for another person.

The Universe was nudging me. A Facebook friend offered help to retrieve pics of Hawaii and little boy grandson lost in my iphone upgrade. A message to my mind I am not alone. A neighborhood newsletter I’ve never seen online got in front of me. A friend’s response to the prompt ‘Using one word, name something significant about your life today,’ her answer Balance. The word stuck in my chest. I’d been looking at people making art with the thought I’d once felt joy in creating art, felt no guilt of time wasted. I’d been looking at people in other places thinking I once traveled. As if all that was over. I’d forgotten there was still room for me. That night I dreamt a policeman carried me to his house in a car, gave me tiny bottles of liquid medicines – Bs, and one called Kwan Yin that was leaking into a plastic bag. I have to get back to my husband, I said. Stay, rest, heal, he said.

Next morning I did not turn on the computer upon rising. I cradled my teacup in my palms, tasted the tea instead of mindlessly sipping as I sat online. I read an article in print instead of on-screen. I decided mornings I wasn’t out before 6:30 traffic, I’d walk the streets here for sunrise. I’d miss the heart-stopping color and light and birds on the bay, but I’d hold meditation and first breath with the day close rather than distract in a car. I decided I’ll retire earlier, too. Read before sleep like I do when I’m alone, like I did before my husband and I started living together full-time four years ago. Read like a writer. And I’ll still take a chance on doing things by my terms rather than succumb to what I can’t imagine me doing. I’m changing my word from Balance to Center, though. That’s where I need to be. Rewinding to center.
How do you find balance when you need to?

Another small journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.
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A secret: Same spiral, different place. We can only begin where we are in the moment.
A favorite: I can see the full moon clearly, for a very long time, from our upstairs bedroom window. It took a few nights to realize the reason the room looked brighter was her fault.

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The Magic Between Writer & Reader

Posted on January 19, 2016 by Heloise Jones
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Morning glories are one of my favorite flowers.
Considered a weed and nuisance for their vining that entwines anything near.
But the flowers! So gloriously rich in color. Such a greeting for a new day.
I like the metaphor, including the vining.
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morning glories*

I’m starting my New Year two weeks late. One might say swirling new energy in a new space is a start, in which case I’m not really late. That late’s in my head, tied with expectations, plans, arbitrary things, because after all, I’m healthy. True. But I feel as if I’ve been away on a far-off journey. And you know how that is. It takes time to regain everyday rhythms, even if you’re glad you’re home. I’m still clearing mental dust on the Heloise Jones 2016 track, which includes you.

Here I am….Piles of orphan stuff tucked away. Pictures on walls are all that’s left to claim home. My ideals are written down. Outline for my first non-fiction book’s printed out. I’m asking who are my readers, who do they think I am, what can I give that anyone wants which also lets me write what I write.

Four days into our new digs, I read a facebook post by author Christine Hale that stuck in my bones: ‘Upside down in yoga class today, looking at my (unlovely) toes and the utterly utilitarian ceiling joists way up above them, I found myself thinking about how much tedious, close-focus work goes into the production of a book. Work that readers never notice, unless you don’t do it well. I’d spent the morning proofing spacing and fonts in the publisher’s galley of my memoir. The book deviates in its typography from prose conventions, and getting the typeface and spacing right is about to kill me and the publisher. Upside down, tiring, sweating, but holding the pose, inhabiting its discomfort fully, nothing before me, temporarily, but those toes and those joists, I thought about how you gotta love it: the tedium, the sweat, the fierce quiet satisfaction of a commitment to GETTING IT RIGHT’. . .

Yes! I thought. The tedium of every edit, decision on every word, comma, space. How it sometimes feels like my brain’s melting, and how much I love it. Especially the moment I get it right, knowing there’s no perfection. And yes, I think about writing all the time.

Virginia Wolf wrote, ‘Style is a very simple matter: it is all rhythm. Once you get that, you can’t use the wrong words. But on the other hand here am I <she> sitting after half the morning, crammed with ideas, and visions, and so on, and can’t dislodge them, for lack of the right rhythm…profound, what rhythm is, goes far deeper than words. A sight, an emotion, creates this wave in the mind, long before it makes words to fit it; and in writing…one has to recapture this, and set this working (which has nothing apparently to do with words) and then, as it breaks and tumbles in the mind, it makes words to fit it’. . .

And again I thought Yes!  Rhythm. Exactly. And it transforms into something inside me, and the reader.

After David Bowie died, I read about him. Watched videos. Here he says the work’s not finished or complete until the audience comes to it. And I read this by publishing media specialist Jane Friedman: ‘The real magic of a book happens when an author’s words and a reader’s mind make something new: page as telepathic intermediary. .  . ‘

Yes! Yes! I thought, again. I write not because I must, as many seem to express. Or because I have something to say. Or because a story burns inside. I write because I love the journey, the process, the challenge. The beauty of the moments when I can answer Yes to my abiding question (Am I okay?) in my choice of a word, completion of a sentence, a paragraph, a page. Feeling that rhythm, finally imagining that space between me and reader. What happens when we feel something, think something new. The connection. It starts with me, ends with us. Because we’re always tumbling somewhere into something.

I want to make this year intentional tumbling. Intentional requires conscious awareness. I can do that. I’m a writer who believes in magic, including the magic that happens in that middle space between you and me. Join me.

Where and how do you feel the magic of connection?

Another small journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.
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A secret:  David Bowie, Alan Rickman, Glynn Frye. I remember the moments I ‘met’ each one. Like I remember the moments I heard Kennedy and John Lennon were shot.
A favorite:  Sunshine and big skies.

Photo: Jamie K. Reaser

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Hearing Angel Messengers

Posted on January 12, 2016 by Heloise Jones
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Put on your red shoes and dance the blues.
~ David Bowie (Let’s Dance)

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wings-angelsm

Last week was the first time I didn’t write since I started this blog in March. Endless bending over boxes packing and unpacking, puzzling to fit both in and out, my brain melted in ways deciding words and commas never causes. My bones ached. I sat down last Monday thinking I’d be there a moment, woke two hours later from a dream I still ponder. One where I completely spaced my flight to Santa Fe, so hopped a plane sans bags, clothes, money, anything. Landed with thoughts I’d find my friends. And people familiar to me I’m not sure I know pull up, know me, and my best friend changed her name to Cathy. I woke knowing neither Art nor I will let go our winter clothes because we’ll go back to the mountains, but I wasn’t clear enough to blog.

This week I planned to tell you how I loved my two kitchens in Asheville. The one I designed I worked with granite fabricators cutting counters so the garnet-studded crystal quartz arms splayed from the center, ran diagonally across surfaces. And after four years, this third home in FL, I finally love my kitchen again. We both love it, in fact. Express joyful pleasure twelve times a day. Was gonna tell you how 2016 is the year I reclaim my writer’s life. How once I spent 7 months clearing obligations and commitments to create the life I envisioned full of psychic space, writing, and reading. How I lived it 7 weeks before my husband was run down by a car 48 hours after our return from a research trip in Yosemite for my second novel. How all that space I carved dissolved.

But this morning I learned, long after others knew, that David Bowie died yesterday. And something socked me in the chest when I read it. His passing felt like an embodiment of so much passing these days in the world. I can mark my decades by Bowie, all the way back to the 70s. And  when I read Elizabeth Gilbert’s words, I felt the middle of the earth move…

“For the last 18 months (we learn only today) David Bowie has known that he was dying. He kept that information private, while spending his final months doing what he’d done his whole life — making outrageously original, beautiful, complicated art. He made a gorgeous album. He created a show, playing right now in New York. And then he released his final video just a few days before he died — on his 69th birthday.

‘Look up here,’ he sings, “I’m in heaven.’

Can you imagine, to be making art like this (fearless art that both comforts and challenges) right up to the moment of your death? How do you do that? How do you BE that? To work with your death so imaginatively, in order to perfectly time out the last beats of your life? What a magnificent creature of creation, right to the end.

I am sad today, but mostly I am overwhelmed by awe. This is what it means to be a great artist…Inspiration, to me, is THIS.”

…because the truth is I’m courageous, sometimes bold, but I’ve rejected myself as flawed every time someone’s said I’m weird, different, particular, raised their eyebrow when they said artist. I internalized the blank stares at my Wonder and Awe as evidence I clearly see things with alternative perspectives, ones that exclude me. I interpreted messages of me being too much as meaning not good enough. Because I don’t stand out on the street, have no flag that says I’m artist or out there, I thought it must be about me. With Liz’s words of fearless art timing the beats of one’s life, on the heels of two people saying they missed my blog last week, I finally get I was wrong. I loved Bowie and other originals for courage I thought I’d never have. I listened to others’ voices instead of seeing messenger angels in kindred spirits like Bowie, Yoko, O’Keeffe. Messengers who told me to simply BE, and embrace what the BE of Me is. Now I claim that kind of courage. Claim my assets.
Who’ve been your angel messengers?

And the stars look very different today…
~ David Bowie (Major Tom)
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Another small journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.

A secret:  My Bowie markers were early yrs. – Major Tom, Heroes, Cat People (Putting Out the Fire), China Girl, the film “The Man Who Fell to Earth.”
A Favorite:  Angels. I seem to have one in every room.

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