Today is November 1st.  It’s not just a new month or the day after Halloween, it’s the first day of National Novel Writing Month, or as it is more affectionately known by writers, NaNoWriMo.

I participated five years ago and a novel came from it, but it wasn’t the best work I’ve done and so it remains buried.  But this year I am excited about the novel I am writing because it’s just a really neat idea.

So, I wanted to share some thoughts with my fellow writers who may be struggling with the thought of getting through an entire month of writing.  I am reading a wonderful book by Wayne Dyer.  In it he suggests that the reason we have failed at things that we have tried to accomplish before is not because “it wasn’t meant to be” or because “things just didn’t work out” but because we lacked one thing: being willing.  

He goes on to say that when we have a dream or a goal in our mind it’s already here in the now.  We just have to go about doing the steps to bring the thing to pass.  But we have to be willing to do whatever it takes, no matter what that means.  He also said that if we find ourselves hesitant to be willing to do whatever it takes, then we should reexamine that particular goal or dream because that hesitancy is your spirit self telling you that this isn’t the right path for you.

Wow.

That was such a moment of clarity for me.  Here’s another one.  He said there is no failure only results.  When you set out to do something you get a result and you keep working at what it is that you want until you get the result you want.

So I was kicking myself for failing at other things when really two things were happening: I wasn’t failing, I was getting results, just not the one I wanted; and I wasn’t completely willing to put myself out there because it wasn’t really my path.

With writing, I had put myself out there, but then I let the rejections I received (a result) keep me from working until I got the result I wanted (publication).

Here’s another gem I read in a book called Becoming a Writer by Dorothea Brande.  She said to look at myself as two individuals.  There is the pragmatic, logical person.  This person handles the rejection letters, the editor’s notes, the critiques from those we let read our work.  In effect, this person handles the “business” side of writing and creates a productive environment for the writing to take place.

Then there’s the creative person.  This is the person who lives in your mind and gives you the ideas.  This person has all the awe and wonder of a tiny child who sees everything in the world as new and fantastic.  This person is rather whimsical and doesn’t like to be given a routine by which to share his/her ideas, but when given a set time every day in which to write, will come around and eventually learn to give of him/herself freely.

The book goes on to say that the trick to being a successful writer is to build a wall behind which the creative person can grow at his/her own pace.  The pragmatic person deals with the day-to-day of the world and responds to it, while the creative person is allowed to stand behind the wall and look out on the world and observe it freely and use what it sees to create stories.

Another wow.

These two pieces of advice have really changed the way I not only approach my writing career but how I handle the hurdles that pop up from day to day.

So…am I overwhelmed by the thought of 50,000 words in 30 days? Not at all.  Why? Because my goal is to become a published author — a national best-selling published author — and I am willing to do whatever it takes to get there.

I’m not in over my head, I’m out of my comfort zone.  And that’s where the good stuff happens. 

So you may not be a writer like me but I’m sure you have a dream or a goal.  So I’m sharing this with you hoping that you will see your goal from a different perspective.  Speak kindly to yourself. Forgive your past failures. And remember there is no failure only results and you need only keep persevering until you get the results you want.

I write every day without fail.

I also argue with myself about writing.

I am a writer.

I’m not a writer.

I have what it takes.

My writing sucks.

I compare myself to published authors. I sigh. I get discouraged. I wake up in the morning hopeful. Some days end in triumph. Other days end in abject failure. I wonder if it is too late. I’ve given up on so many things but writing is my one constant through it all.

If I fail at this, what’s next? Have I no gift to contribute to the world? I didn’t choose to be a writer. It chose me. I have to be successful at this. There is no other choice. This is the gift bestowed upon me. I will use it. It will make room for me here. I will show the world my soul. I will not be ashamed.

I AM a writer.

I bleed words.

I am a child of the 1970s who grew up in a blue collar section of a New Jersey suburb.

I clearly recall the first time I realized that the world saw me as different, as less than, because of the color of my skin.

I remember how that one comment snatched me viciously out of my childhood bubble. I remember questioning my worth, even though my parents told me over and over again that nothing anyone says changes my worth, unless I let it.

I didn’t know how to process this. I had so many emotions. So I sat down and wrote as fast as my little eight-year-old hands would let me. I remember how my rage poured out onto the page. I threw the paper aside and cried and then I went outside to play.

A few days later I happened to read what I wrote and I couldn’t believe those words came from me. That’s when I realized that there is this well of love and wisdom and acceptance deep inside me that knows exactly what to say to when I am hurting or sad or just can’t seem to make sense of what is going on, but I can only hear what it wants to tell me when I write.

So, I write to share my well with the world and that’s all there is to it.

There’s something inspiring about the arrival of fall. There’s irony in the beauty of it all. The trees push out fall foliage filled with vibrant yellows, burnt oranges, blazing reds, and warm browns as they bid us adieu until spring. You can hear the scraping of fallen leaves as the wind pushes them along the sidewalk.

Acorns fall and hit roofs of garages tink plink plunk. Fireplaces burning arrest your senses and spark the desire to curl up on the couch with a good book and a cup of coffee.

Wardrobes shift from bright neon colors and pastels that beckon you to beaches to warm inviting colors that call to the comfort of indoors. Flowers are fading and grass growth grinds to a halt signaling the hibernation season for the much-used lawnmower.

Squirrels scamper to and fro storing nuts for the winter. Food seeds sown have produced their last crops. The final curtain call for warm weather has come and gone. Halloween treats — but never tricks — stand at the ready to give sugar highs to all who adorn themselves in creepy and cute costumes.

Fall wreaths hang on doors and cornucopias sit centered on fireplace mantles and dining room tables. Plans for the holidays are on the horizon as television stations fill the airwaves with commercials that tell us Christmas is just around the corner making children all too eager to begin the constant count down of the days left until Santa shooshes down chimneys with sacks full of surprises.

Pies of pumpkin and sweet potato appear on store shelves. Nutmeg and cinnamon spices stand at the ready. Turkeys take their places in the meat aisles awaiting selection by mothers who complain of all they have to do but who secretly love all the hustle and bustle that this time of year brings.

Ah, yes, fall. And it all begins with the turning of the leaves.

As a writer I’m always in tune to what is going on around me.  That can be a good thing and a bad thing.  Right now, it’s a bad thing.  The racial climate of this country is the worst it’s ever been, and its forcing its way into my writing uninvited.

I don’t like that.

I just wrote three short stories and two of them had race as the issue.  I had to let the stories go where they needed because as writers we have to remain true to ourselves.

But….

When I envision my success as a writer, I don’t see myself as a writer who is popular only in Black circles.  I see myself as a writer who is as widely read as Stephen King or Jane Austen.  I see my books filed alphabetically on the shelves, and not limited to the “African American Authors” section in libraries and bookstores.

Does that mean I’m not proud to be black?

Absolutely not. 

But it does mean that I want my talent to stand on its own.  I don’t write well “for a black girl,” I write well. Period.

Yet the thought still crosses my mind of where my book will land when it is finally published: alphabetized on the shelves along side all other writers or placed into the African American Authors section in libraries and bookstores.

You may be wondering what’s wrong with being in the African American Authors section?  Well, nothing, in theory.  I mean it certainly cuts down on the search when I am looking for a book written by someone who’s black.  But I guess I’m just bothered by the hint of segregation it provides.  Or maybe I feel like a person who isn’t black may make judgments about the book before they even open it.

I want someone to pick up my book and read the story and be so moved by it that they don’t want it to end.  I want my skin color not to matter.  So I guess that’s why I’m angry that race keeps rearing its ugly head in my stories.  I just want to write good stories.  And if they happen to have race in them, I want it to be because I CHOOSE it, not because my heart is so overwhelmed by the utter lack of disrespect for black people that I can’t help but use my writing as a platform to bring attention to it.

And there is another huge issue.  Am I to be yet another black writer to use my gift to champion the plight of black people?  Is it a betrayal to my race if I don’t? Hell, I feel like a hypocrite even writing this post because I use #blackauthorsrock and #readsoullit as hashtags when I am posting my current read on Instagram (if the book happens to be by a black author).   Am I sticking black authors in the “African American Authors” sections in the proverbial sense when I do that? 

I really wish I could sit down with other black authors and have this discussion.

So…this is where my head is today.

I have two undergraduate degrees in journalism.  I tell you that to say I never thought I would see myself enrolling in another writing class.  But last week I began a five-course creative writing series to learn the mechanics of writing stories and novels and hone my skills in those areas.

Coursera is a great place to go to take online courses in just about any topic you can imagine.  If you go to Coursera.org, you can search their website by keywords.  It’s pretty amazing.  I was especially happy to find an email stating that my request to have the course fee waived was approved.

The first week of class was about plot and ended with me having to write a 250-350 word scene about a character with one want and one weakness. Every other sentence had to be a rising action (an event) and there were 12 words that had to be used in the story.

Whoa.

I consider myself a pretty strong writer, but that was packing quite a punch into a small space. I’m now on week two, and my assignment is to write a 200-word short story about a trip to the doctor using an ABDCE structure (yes, the D comes before the C) from a book called Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott.  I read it some years ago, I may have to dust it off.

These courses will definitely keep me busy from now through February of next year.  In the midst of all this, I am still writing one short story every week and submitting it to online literary journals and magazines that I have found, and I’m also still writing my novel.

Am I busy? Sure. Do I love what I’m doing? Without a doubt. When you finally step into your purpose, the hard work you are doing doesn’t feel like work at all.

Until I write again….