The Write Transition

From One Life Chapter To The Next

Archive for the category “Self-doubt”

26 Apr 2012
112 Comments

Mr. Nasty Pants Vs. The Wannabe

Mr. Nasty Pants, my personality nemesis, spawned by Microsoft Clip Art.

Keeping my pantaloons-challenged personality fiend at bay is difficult. Like dead fish after an oil spill, he just keeps surfacing.

My most recent conversation with Mr. Nasty Pants went something like this:

Mr. NP, hiking up those dreadful trousers and puffing out his chest: “Hey Miss Wannabe Writer, thought you were supposed to be blogging about your transition from one life chapter to the next. Instead, you’re busy yacking about loogies on urinals and dog poop.”

Me, head lowered: “Variety is good. Besides, there’s not much to tell. I’m still waiting to hear from my editor.”

Mr. NP, eyes wide as frisbees: “What?! And your book is supposed to be released in September? Good Hades, you must be soiling yourself!”

Me: “Well, the author’s handbook said I wouldn’t hear back until three months before the release date.”

Mr. NP: “So blog about that. Tell those kiddies about your mounting panic on meeting the editing deadlines. How Mr. or Ms. Editor might throw so many changes your way, you won’t even recognize the material. Or how maybe,” Mr. Nasty Pants laughs, vanishing a bouquet of dead flowers up his sleeve, “poof, they’ll forget about you all together.”

Me, staring at his empty talons: “Um, I think I’d rather write about poop.”

Mr. NP: “Well at least tell the folks what you’ve accomplished during your agonizing wait. Surely, you’re halfway through a new work-in-progress by now.”

Me: “Um…”

Mr. NP: “Oh, come on, lady. Don’t tell me you’ve mucked that up, too? What in the heck are you doing all day? Visiting naughty blogs like Tales of a charm city chick  and The Mainland?”

Me, color infusing my melanin-deficient cheeks: “Now wait a second. I’ve written stuff. I finished an outline of my new novel and am now drafting it scene-by-scene. I’m up to scene six.”

Mr. NP, his tone mocking: “Oh, so you’re an outliner then? You know what your buddy Stephen King says about that, don’t you? He says outlines confine a writer. That ‘plotting and the spontaneity of real creation aren’t compatible.’ He’s a fly-by-the-seat sort of guy, or a pantster, as you wannabes like to call it. Seems to have worked just fine for that rich ass dude, wouldn’t you say?”

Me: “Well, I don’t want to fix plot problems after the fact, you know? But I’m also working on a short story. No outline with this one. Just open that baby up and see where the words take me.”

Mr. NP: “And how’s that working for you?”

Me, face brightening: “Not bad. Pretty fun, actually. I’ve written about 8,000 words and would like to make it 10,000. So almost done.”

Mr. NP, just when I—idiot me—thought we might be connecting: “Well, you know it’s going to suck butt, don’t you? Just like your novel—the new and the old. And then you’ll start sweating, start pacing the floor and rubbing your neck and devouring cashew caramel trail mix, because, well, because you QUIT YOUR FREAKING DAY JOB! What are you a fu—”

Me, shooting to full height, cashew bits flying from my mouth, mad woman in action: “Hey, you know what, sicko? Shut the hell up. For once in your life, shut your hideous hamburger hole. I’m doing all right. I’m having fun blogging. I’m having fun writing. I’m having fun just taking care of me and my family for a change. So crawl back into your cerebral foxhole, you self-doubt asswipe!”

Gee, I didn’t know I had it in me…

Image credit: icanhascheezburger.com

What about you? Got any personality fiends fueling your self-doubt? Or, if you’re a writer, are you an outliner or a pantster? Or maybe you prefer to write without any pants on at all…

Posted in Blogging, Self-doubt, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , ,
28 Mar 2012
90 Comments

Why I Will Never Have A Bestseller

There are two reasons I will never write a bestseller. Well, actually, there are more reasons than there are cockroaches, but there are only two I will mention today.

Failure #1

The first is, I cannot write about children killing children. Both the mother in me as well as my pediatric background preclude this. Now, a book about reality stars fighting to their deaths? That I could do, but you might be surprised by my chosen victor.

Not the gang from Survivor, though they are the obvious choice, what with all that back-stabbing and food-foraging experience.

Not the Kardashian women, because, well, I’ve promised never to devote more than twenty words biannually to them.

So who, then?

The Dancing with the Stars crew, of course.

Photo credit: dailyworldpress.com

Wait. Don’t be so quick to discredit them. First of all, those pretty fighters could douse their enemies in self-tanner. Not only does this yield brightly visible orange foes, but the dancers could smell the chemically-enhanced scoundrels a mile away (assuming the Argentinian-waltzers refrain from the oompa-loompa spray themselves). Plus, those three-inch stilettos could make for a lethal weapon. And the women’s shoes would be good, too.

Furthermore, on a sunny day, when one of those Kardashian girls sashays by (damn, 13 more words devoted to them), a properly positioned, sequined dancer could blind his opponent with the glare; fling his arms through a manly Port De Bras, thereby whipping the unsuspecting Kardashian in the chin; and land the final coup de grâce by cha cha-ing into a strong roundhouse kick, which, although technically not a ballroom dance move, would serve a useful purpose in my proposed novel, “The Quick-Steppin’ Cha Cha Games.”

Not going to happen, you say? I know. Thus concludes reason number one why I won’t be able to pen a bestseller.

Failure #2

The second reason will be self-explanatory shortly.

Recently, I was tagged for the Lucky 7 Meme by the lovely writer Sheila Pierson, who, by the way, happens to be one of nicest social medialites out there. The idea of this blogging game is to share a bit of your work-in-progress (WIP) for others to laugh a—er, I mean, enjoy. Then you pass it on to seven other writers to see how red-faced you can make them. It’s a game of wills, really. Kind of like “The Quick-Steppin’ Cha Cha Games.” (I’ll win you over yet.)

The rules:

1. Go to page 77 of your current MS/WIP
2. Go to line 7
3. Copy down the next 7 lines, sentences, or paragraphs, and post them as they’re written.
4. Tag 7 writers and let them know.

I cannot present seven paragraphs of my medical thriller, because page 77 of the manuscript reveals an important plot twist. I am not that much of an idiot. So I chose seven lines. Actually, it’s nine. Sue me. You will anyway if you pay for and read my book. Might as well get it over with now.

My selected bits…

Sydney licked her lips and steeled her nerves, reminding herself of what she might find, of the questions she would finally get answered. It wasn’t like these were normal times she was living in. People were dying all around her. She hadn’t had a full night sleep or an acceptable meal or a breath of fresh air for days. If Casper had an answer, Sydney was determined to find it. Desperate even.

Do it!

Sydney took a big breath, then knocked softly. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself, but she also didn’t want to find someone on the other side.

No response. She tried again, daring to tap a little louder.

…As I mentioned earlier, the above reason for lack of a bestseller is self-explanatory. Notice the use of passive tense. Guess I’ve got some tweeking to do.

Now, for the seven writers with whom I would like to share this horror (and if you’ve already experienced it, then just ignore me):*

JJ Kearbey

Moments of Clarity GM  Barlean

Audrey Kalman

JM McDowell

Joy in the Moments

Stacie Chadwick

Kourtney Heintz

And if any of you tagged would like to cha cha right up to my Gravatar face and slap me silly, feel free. Just be careful with the nose. It’s already been broken once.

A final note…

I need to conclude this post with an important message for whoever keeps landing on my site by searching for “Will Smith Nudo”. Listen up, weirdo:

You will not find him on this bloggo. I am not a perverto. Well, that is debatablo. But he’s still not hero. So go look somewhere elso.

That is all. Thank you for coming.

Cartoon images from Microsoft Clip Art

*The main issue I have with these blogger awards and tags is I feel bad if I leave someone out. It is never my intention, just my aging neurons that spark omissions. As for today, I included those bloggers I know have a work-in-progress. There may be others, and I’m sorry if I forgot you. On the other hand, you should probably be grateful.

Posted in Blogging, Publishing, Self-doubt, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , ,
09 Mar 2012
84 Comments

Blogging Is So Yesterday

Once again, I am the heavy-diapered, left-footed toddler struggling to keep up with the big boys and girls.

Photo credit: Microsoft Clip Art

In a recent post by the wonderful blogger Nathan Bransford, he explores whether there is a “Self-Publishing Bubble”. In other words, will self-publishing lose its appeal much like blogging has, a phenomenon whose fifteen minutes have come and gone.

Say what?

Oh, man! Just when I thought I was one of the gang.

Photo credit: guardiannews.com Anja Niedringhaus-AP

Does this make me a laggard?

If you don’t know what that means, get ready. I am about to impart knowledge. Sorry if you spit out your coffee in surprise. I’ll wait while you clean your screen.

The Diffusion of Innovations theory, coined by Everett Rogers in 1962, is a model used to understand the actions required to get a new product or idea accepted. It includes five categories of adopters: innovators, early adopters, early majority adopters, late majority adopters, and laggards. Being averse to change, laggards are the last to adopt.

But wait, is that me? Averse to change? I don’t think so. My array of electronic toys suggests otherwise. As does the title of my blog.

So, maybe the model needs a new category. A class for those of us who can’t keep up—not because of our own resistance, but because we didn’t know the innovation existed.

I propose “clueless”.

Photo credit: techipedia.com

Yes, I am clueless. Clueless to fashion. Clueless to gossip. Clueless to other’s perceptions. And now, apparently, clueless that blogging is passé.

Do I hear chuckling? Probably not, considering most of you reading are bloggers. And thank goodness for that, because guess what? I like the company I’m keeping.

Out of style or not.

What category of adopter are you?

Posted in Blogging, Marketing, Self-doubt and tagged , , , , , , , ,
16 Feb 2012
96 Comments

The Writer Who Wasn’t

I have a tough question for any aspiring and emerging writers. What’s that? You don’t like deep probing? Well, who besides a proctologist does?

Don’t worry; this question has nothing to do with your nether regions, though it might feel just as dark and dirty.

So, sit up. Clear your mind. Take a sip of your chosen potion. Now, let’s get started.

When do you call yourself a writer?

Who me? Credit: greylining.com

Do I sense head shaking and eye rolling at my built-up suspense? Not a hard question at all? Well, maybe I’m a wuss; no secret there. But if the act is so easy, I propose a challenge. The next time you are out in public, and somebody inquires as to your occupation, instead of merely responding “teacher” or “accountant” or—oh, what the heck—“fluffer”,* add “and writer” to your personal description. Not easy, is it? Not without sounding pretentious.

Of course, I’m not referring to those of you consistently published and making a literary living. (And yes, I am deluding myself you are reading this post. Various tinctures and concoctions see to that.) Rather, I’m referring to those of us dipping our first timid toe into the stream.

I always thought I would boast the title of writer once published.

Then again, I also used to think I’d marry Parker Stevenson.

Parker Stevenson, from: Totally Awesome Teen Pinups And Magazines

So here I am, contract in hand, leap made, day job a mere rearview dot, yet the word writer, at least as a self-described moniker, has not once graced my mumbling lips. Heck, it hasn’t even entered my psyche.

But guess what has? You got it. That petulant nemesis, good old self-doubt. A juicy role played by none other than my personality fiend, the ominous Mr. Nasty Pants.

Our verbal tag goes something like this:

Me: “Oh, wow, I did it! I took the leap, left my job, and am now writing full-time! Does that mean I can finally call myself, well, you know,” my voice dropping to a whisper, “a writer?”

Mr. Nasty Pants: “Ha! A writer! That’s a good one! Spitting out words on a blog doesn’t make you a writer. Seriously? You quit graduate school and whittled your job to mere hours? What kind of idiot are you?”

Me, clearing my throat: “Well, I am getting my first book published.”

Mr. Nasty Pants, face pinched, voice a vicious mock: “Well, I am getting my first book published. Yeah, who cares? You didn’t land a New York big house, did ya? Just some little publisher. You haven’t even heard from your assigned editor, and yet your book is supposed to come out in September? Dream on, Little Lady!”

Me, scratching my hiving neck: “But I have a contra—”

Mr. Nasty Pants: “Yeah, well I got a functioning crap detector. And it’s telling me your little book stinks.”

Me: “Well, it is true I could do better. I wrote it several years ago. I’ve had more practice now.”

Mr. Nasty Pants: “Please. Don’t kid yourself, Sweet Cheeks. You’ll always suck. Doesn’t matter, anyway. No one will buy your book. Well, not on purpose, though I suppose an unintended mouse click is always possible.”

Me, looking down at the floor, kicking a Cheerio under the fridge: “I’m okay with that. I just wanted to pass the threshold, you know? Step into the life and perfect my craft. To be, well, a writer.”

Mr. Nasty Pants: “Well, fat chance of that! Stephen King is a writer. Margaret Atwood is a writer. John Irving is a writer. You, my dear, are not a writer. At best, you’re a blogger. And that’s being generous.”

And there you have it. A glimpse of what I have to put up with. A glimpse I timidly proffer, because, after all, sharing my journey from one life to another is the very mission of this blog. Well, that and to be a ranting imbecile.

But surely, some of this must sound familiar. I cannot be the only one with acres of self-doubt.

So, for those of you who write, do you call yourself a writer? Not just to yourself or to your imaginary friend or in a hushed whisper to your naked bedmate (who may also be pure imagination), but for real, in true life, to actual people, for the whole world to hear, loud and proud, and with complete unabashed proclamation?

Credit: Microsoft Clip Art

If so, I respectfully request you let me in on your secret.

*My apologies to those who had to look up the word “fluffer”. I doubt you were pleased with your findings.

All cartoon images from, you guessed it, Microsoft Clip Art

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Posted in Self-doubt, Writing and tagged , , ,
02 Dec 2011
8 Comments

Who Am I Kidding?

I always said I would write a book. As a child, I would make up stories in my head, and as a teenager, I started my first ‘novel’, though admittedly never made it past chapter one. In fact, this became somewhat of a pattern. A great idea would sprout, and I’d draft an outline, convinced the end result would be wonderful. Again, not much beyond chapter one. Life always seemed to get in the way. It did not help that I pursued a lengthy education and then a career in health care. It was prudent. It was a safe bet. And I enjoyed the professional challenge. Yet that never-completed novel periodically poked my subconscious.

Finally, ten years ago, after a move to a new city, a decrease in my work hours (compliments of two beautiful babies), and a realization that the clock was not reversing, I dug my Doc Martens in and said enough with the excuses. Every night, from 7-10, I sat down in front of the computer and wrote. Oh, how the words flowed, how the creativity soared, how beautiful the prose. Or not. Sure, it was easy to create the story. At least in my head. Getting it down on paper and not having it sound like a high school English project was another story.

Bring on the self-doubt. And the myriad of writing and editing how-to manuals.

Fast forward two years, and the first book was finished. A 500-page medical thriller. Yes, a tad on the long side, a lot on the telling, and not much on the showing. And how about the overzealous use of adverbs? Let’s not even go there.

But my love of the process, the creating, the invention of characters so real to me I imagined them in real life, kept me going. Unfortunately, the process of rewriting was not quite as enthralling. As such, I tired of my first tome and decided to tuck it away and start anew. This time I would do better. More showing. Better dialog. Tighter plot.

And I did. At least enough so that I dared let others read it. The response was positive. Of course, they were family.

Seeking more objectivity, I hired an editor. She was good. I now had a better handle on my plot weaknesses and other technical mishaps. Finally, two years after its inception, my second medical thriller was ready for submission to agents.

Well, that was fun.

I actually had several who requested more chapters. Good sign, I thought. But then came the ever generic, ‘Sorry, but it’s just not what we’re looking for.’ Re-enter the self doubt. After dozens of rejections from agents and publishers alike, I asked myself whom I was kidding. I was not a writer. I worked in health care. Stick with what you know.

And so I did, for another three years. But the cerebral tug persisted, such that I hiked up my pants, puffed out my chest, and ‘dusted’ off the Microsoft Word file. I rewrote the novel in third person, which as a thriller I probably should have done from the start, tweaked, tightened, and trimmed. After six months I was ready again for the battlefield. But the wounds were no easier to bear. After more rejections, I halted the effort and said, ‘This book is crap.’ Back to the real world for me, which in itself was growing more tedious. I was ready for a change. But if the writing thing was not going to happen, what else was I going to do? I was too old to be starting from scratch, and yet that seemed to be just what I wanted. New job? More schooling? Become a poster child for how not to be content in life?

After much soul-searching, I decided on the second choice. But as I sent off my application materials for graduate school, I figured, what the heck, I’ll send that yellowing, worn novel off one more time. Just a small publisher, main focus on e-books but some print as well. No sooner had I submitted the manuscript than the act left my mind. I had other things to focus on. I was going back to school in 5 months!

Well, I suspect you can guess the ending to this story (or should I say the beginning?) As fate so often mocks us, one week after starting my very time-consuming, very demanding PhD program (not to mention, I was still raising a family and working part-time), I received an email congratulating me on the acceptance of my novel for publication.

Okaaay… Now what do I do?

Posted in Self-doubt and tagged , , , ,

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