Good Sense

Melissa Dereberry's Blog

Archive for the category “Writing Life”

Shall We Dance?

When I was in college, my friend Heather and I used to go dancing. We’d get all dressed up in our frightful, early nineties color-block dresses, heels—and pantyhose, mind you—and go hit the local club. One night, we were tearing up a crowded dance floor when somehow, I got my feet tangled up (perhaps one drink too many?) and promptly tripped, falling flat on my bum amidst a throng of fellow folks getting their groove on. Unfazed, I simply got up and continued dancing, laughing it off. My friend commented later that she was amazed at my boldness, admitting that, had she done the same, she would have ducked and run, mortified beyond belief. But I just wanted to dance. Dancing was the goal, and my eyes were on the goal.

Oh that we could retain that youthful audacity in the face of life’s trip wires—invisible, self-created or otherwise. Most of us go through life afraid to fail, afraid to attempt something that will not garner praise and accolades from our peers—and, more importantly, from those who are seasoned members of whatever “club” we are wanting to break into—whether it’s writing a book, running a marathon, building a stellar investment portfolio, or knitting a sweater. We want recognition for all our hard work, don’t we? Some validation that yes, we have done this—but not only that, it’s good.

Well, it’s more than probable that I wasn’t the best dancer of my generation, or of that particular dance floor, for that matter. In fact, it’s a 100% certainty. But it didn’t stop me from doing it. I can still dance badly in my living room and somehow, experience the exuberance of having just performed on a stage, in front of an enormous, adoring crowd. Isn’t is a miraculous gift that God gives us, to love ourselves, to love what we do?

I ran across the following question once—I can’t remember where: “What would you attempt for God if you knew you would not fail?”

Indeed. What would you attempt—period—in life, if you knew you would not fail? What would you attempt for God? For others? For yourself? For the world? Sit down and make a list. It might surprise you. Yours might contain silly, frivolous things like, say, changing your hair color. It might be to sing an entire song in front of an audience of people–Or, maybe things like starting a business without fear of failure, donating a large sum of money without fear of financial strain, telling someone you love how you feel without fear of rejection. What would you do if failure was simply not an option?

Is it possible to live our lives with such a mentality? Can we set out to attain our goals and dreams without, ultimately, fear of failure? Most certainly, yes. We can have faith in our abilities, our resources, our resolve. Will those things eliminate failure? No. Failures will always happen. Sometimes we will win and sometimes, we won’t. The difference is what we do with those failures.

As a writer, I have experienced hundreds of failures—some small, some that made me want to haul my computer, all my files and the contents of desk out to the end of the driveway and set it on fire. My latest project was rejected by small press publishers, major publishers, and agents probably close to 100 times—in the form of either no reply, a form letter, or a nice note simply stating “doesn’t suit our needs at this time.” I understand failure. I get it.

But there are some little words hanging out in the back of my mind. They are my dad’s words. I will never forget them, as long as I live. “You’ve got the world by the tail with a downhill drag.” In other words, you’ve got this. You can do this. And it’s going to be easier than you think.

Maybe. But maybe my dad never tried to walk behind a 50 pound dog, pulling a leash ahead of you, down a hill. Sometimes, the darn thing can take on a life of its own, and suddenly—how did this happen, exactly?—it’s pulling you instead of the other way around. Suddenly, your dream has taken the lead. Good—or bad? Well, that depends. If you want a little bit of exercise, a little challenge, keeping up with the dog is great. But if you’re just not in the mood, well, you’re going to feel exactly as you’d suspect: Pulled. Maybe the dog is someone else’s dream and it seriously needs to heel. Going downhill is easier, of course, but if it’s not your dream, then it’s still going to feel like a struggle.

Did I become a dancer? No. Did I enjoy it, on the journey to discovering what I really needed to do in life? Yes. But, if I’d not tried—if I’d lacked the fundamental courage in life to attempt things—to stare down failure in the face and have words with it, I might not have discovered my true talents. They would have stayed back there, a sad heap on a dance floor. I am reminded of one of my dad’s other truisms: “You always were a bit mischievious.” In other words, I have an agenda, and it may or may not fit in with what you want me to do, or even what you believe I am capable of doing. Yes, under this seemingly serious, quiet facade, lies a stubborn, sometimes defiant kid who just wants to dance, dang it. Leave me alone, already!

Nearly everything in life deserves another stab—or two, or three, or a thousand. Pick your dream. Make sure it’s what you want to do. Don’t let anyone tell you no. See it realized, in your mind, and never stray from it. Put God first. He already knows what you were designed to do anyway. If you’re good at something, that probably means he thinks so, too. I believe that everyone is gifted in something. Some of us find out what that something is, and some of us don’t–because we fall and simply give up. You can’t learn how to dance if you give up. The point is this: Jump up and start dancing again. It will prepare you for what is to come.

Commit to the Lord whatever you do, and he will establish your plans. Proverbs 16:3.
In their hearts, humans plan their course, but the Lord established their steps. Proverbs 16:9.

The Morning Hater Ponders Conversion

Here is the track I sometimes play in my head after I’ve sat staring at the screen for twenty minutes, at 11:00, on any given night:  This is when I do my best work.  I am not–nor will ever be–a morning person.  I absolutely hate to get up early. Seriously, the only time I ever saw a sunrise was when I’d pulled a college all-nighter and managed to drag my butt home at dawn.  I mean really, what the heck do the birds have to trill about at 6:00 a.m.?  Shut up, already!

I have to admit, I’m a little curious about early risers-they intrigue me like hoarders and base jumpers, moms of twenty kids and politicians–sort of a wow, that’s fascinating, but seriously, why?  Are they crazy, or are they normal–or, heaven forbid–even better?  Are early risers any more productive, on average, than someone who stays up late, sleeps in?  Are they more energetic?  Less anxious?  Happier?  Do they live longer?  Important questions, for someone who is considering–though not very seriously at all–converting.

I need only remind myself that people throughout history have done strange things to do what they love–in my case, to write.  English poet Edith Sitwell is rumored to have lain in an open coffin each morning before writing.  Weird?  Yes.  Interesting?  Yes.  Heck, she could have been her own reality show.   On this episode of My Mad Habit….

Do I need to be converted?  Maybe.

Maybe staring at a blank screen for twenty minutes is what I need.  On the other hand, maybe I need to explore my options, see what’s outside this comfy box.  This dilemma might even make a good blog series–the self-proclaimed night owl turned early bird, an experiment.  Just how powerful are alarm clocks and coffee?  Will I ever find out?  Or will I break under the pressure, as nap cravings set in, as I stare longingly at a warm sunlit couch that holds a curled up cat and a promise of joy such that not even a full page of prose, perfectly crafted, could rival it?  Stay tuned for the answers to these riveting questions…

Rebel Without A Cause

I’m trying to decide if this comment is going to come off judgmental, self-righteous, extremist, whiny— but I’m just gonna say it anyway.  I would already be a published author if I were:

  1.  Gay
  2. Minority
  3. Celebrity
  4. Someone with an obvious political agenda
  5. Someone with ANY agenda

I feel I’m somewhat qualified to say this because I’ve spent the past several months educating myself about the book publishing industry. Having gone through the Writer’s Market three times now, I’ve found myself continually skipping entries because of their rigid editorial requirements.  I’m not a political activist or gay.  I’m not from North Carolina.  I don’t write about Eskimos.  I don’t have a particular religious slant.  I don’t have an agent.  I don’t write stories about bodies of water or roads or sailing.  SKIP, SKIP, SKIP, SKIP.  I don’t do any of these things.  I’m an outsider, a rebel without a cause.  I just write.  Where’s the market for that?

Authors with agendas—that’s nothing new.  There are plenty of authors throughout history who’ve spoken out against the political and cultural conventions of their day via their art.  But there were also plenty of authors whose work got distributed simply because it was interesting or good, not because he or she wanted to change the world.  Emily Dickinson scarcely left her little home in Amherst, Massachusetts and yet she is considered one of our greatest and most published poets of all time.  She was essentially a recluse, with a lot of imagination, and talent.

I’ve spent the past sixmonths or so educating myself about the world of publishing, and I’ve come to realize that the industry itself is in a state of transition that, sadly, will leave a lot of authors perplexed, if not completely baffled (myself among the latter).  While snagging a publisher for a book has never been considered easy, authors are now up against a number of roadblocks that previous generations would have never imagined.  Technology and cultural diversity are impacting the prospects of traditional publishing. Publishers have become so specialized and exclusive that it’s nearly impossible to find mainstream outlets.

Authorship is no longer the quiet, solitary profession it once was—gone are the days when words were carefully crafted, slowly digested, and quietly discovered.  We now live in a world that literally runs on communication.  We think faster than we can get words onto paper.  We launch lightning fast emails and comments on social networking sites, often without even thinking about  what we are saying. We have to think fast, know what we want, and be ever-ready for the next turn in the conversation.  I think this constant barrage of communication is one of the reasons we have difficulty finding time to read or focusing on what we’re reading. I have personally found myself skimming books lately.  In ten years, we will probably all be speed readers, and it’s a lot easier to scan pages on a touch screen than it is to flip pages in a book.

Electronic publishing, for some, remains the only alternative.  While e-book sales are currently only about 10 percent of actual book sales, some say that eventually, books will join eight track tapes, albums, cassettes, floppy disks, and CDs in the catacombs of antiquated media.  Part of me absolutely believes this.  It just makes sense.  Digital media is faster, most cost effective—it’s environmentally and economically forward thinking.  And yet—part of me isn’t sold yet.  Books have been around a heck of a lot longer than CDs.  The only predecessors to the book are the spoken word and scribed documents.  Maybe books are just late bloomers when it comes to keeping up with their media cousins.  But then again, maybe there’s something in our collective psyche that just isn’t ready to give up the dream—the feel, the smell of a real book in our hands, the hard evidence of knowledge, belief and thought.  There’s something inalterably authentic about a book. Digital media can be copied, pasted, mass produced in a matter of minutes.  Does instant and far-reaching access only serve to cheapen the content?  Should the form of access even matter?  It’s still the same content—there’s just more and more of it, every day.  Perhaps what will ultimately cheapen literature is this endless variety.

So I’m hanging on—rather loosely at this point.  It’s a dream, but sometimes, a dream is better than a thousand empty realities.

I Oughta Start Shouting

When I was in college, there was this guy who used to roam through the mall, shouting at the top of his lungs—he was sort of a notorious local figure.  My friend told me about him, and I didn’t believe it until one day, I saw him myself.  There he was, this ragged long haired thing, hurling Lord knows what out to no one in particular.  It was impossible to tell what he was rambling about.  He could have been ranting about shooting someone or reciting the words to his latest poem, for all I know, desperate for someone to listen.  Was he a mad man?  A criminal in the making?  Or just a poor, misunderstood sap, a forgotten artist, whose time was long overdue?

A couple of weeks ago, an Ohio homeless man named Ted Williams got national attention after a homemade video of him showcasing his radio voice went viral.  Within a day or two, the man was bombarded with job offers from everyone from Kraft foods to the Cleveland Cavaliers.  He was haggled by every major news network for a spot, appeared on the Today show, was interview by Dr. Phil, and was reunited on national television with his mother, whom he hadn’t seen in 20 years.  The media stuck their tails between their legs when the man went into rehab and was allegedly involved in some sort of altercation with his kids.  He was the classic overnight success—but his five minutes of fame was just that.  Or maybe not.  He will probably come back in a year or two, write a bestseller, and go down in history.  After all, we live in a time when shock value sells.

After the terrible tragedy in Arizona recently, I caught a news story on cnn.com that had published some of gunman Jared Loughner’s poetry.  A madman, turned poet.  Not only that, but a mad man, published.  For all eternity.  An instant audience because he decided to go haywire and shoot people.

Why?   In an age where Snooki can write a bestseller, the rest of us writers—or anyone with a serious, viable skill—might be in trouble. 

As a writer, I deal with rejection and the lack of measurable reward or feedback on my work every single day.   It doesn’t really bother me, any more, if people don’t read my stuff, or if a publisher says, “No thanks.”  But what does bother me is indifference—or worse, complete disregard.  An agent, for example, who doesn’t even bother with so much as a form letter, in response.  An editor who won’t even acknowledge receipt.  It’s a tough business, I know—not for the thin-skinned.  But seriously.  What do I have to do to get noticed?

Can I have my five minutes, please?  Without doing anything crazy, illegal, or stupid? 

 There’s a song I like on the album Pablo Honey by Radiohead that goes,

And the wise man say, I don’t want to hear your voice

And the thin man say, I don’t want to hear your voice

And they’re cursing me and they won’t let me be

And there’s nothing to say, nothing to do

Stop whispering, start shouting

Stop whispering, start shouting

 

Don’t want to hear my voice?  Maybe I oughta start shouting.

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