THE THING ABOUT BEING A WRITER IS, YOU ACTUALLY HAVE TO WRITE
It is crucial to visit and nourish your words like a garden. Set aside time every day to read something you have written, whether it be a poem, short story, or chapter of a novel. Take at least 20 minutes to sit with your words, allowing them to bloom in your mind and heart. Sometimes writing is not just about putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard; it is also about reading, thinking, and imagining. If you are feeling stuck, try using a generative exercise such as creating lists. For example: What items are in your desk drawer or your character’s? What do you or your character frequently purchase on Amazon? What was the most memorable (or forgettable) birthday for you or your character?
To truly grow as a writer, it is essential to dedicate time and attention to your craft. Make writing a regular part of your schedule, treating it with the same importance as any other task on your to-do list. Find a time that works best for you, when you can write without being disturbed by external distractions. Maybe it's early in the morning before the sun rises, late at night under the stars, or during a midday break from work.
Set realistic goals for yourself. Determine how much time you can devote to writing each day and stick to that commitment. Whether it's 30 minutes or an hour, make sure it fits into your schedule without overwhelming other responsibilities. Some writers prefer setting a word count goal (i.e. 500 words per day), while others prefer a specific amount of time (such as 20 minutes). Find what works best for you and stick with it.
Establishing a writing ritual can also help get your creative juices flowing. This could be anything from making a cup of tea before sitting down to write or taking a walk around the block. By conditioning your body and mind with these actions, writing will start to come more naturally.
Having both long-term and short-term writing goals can provide motivation and direction for your work. Set an annual goal, such as completing 3-6 projects per year, to work towards. Additionally, have shorter term goals, like writing for at least 20 minutes every day or taking weekends off to recharge.
It can also be helpful to find accountability partners who will support and encourage your writing journey. These could be fellow writers, friends, or family members who will push you to reach your potential and achieve your goals.
Never stop seeking inspiration. Be on the lookout for it everywhere--in nature, in art, in everyday conversations. Remember that anything can spark an idea for your writing.
Finally, don't worry about editing as you write. The most important thing is to get words on the page and let them flow without judgment. There will always be time to edit and revise later on. Embrace the fact that you are giving yourself the time and space to create and share your words with the world.
And remember, if you have something to say, then someone out there needs to hear it. So visit your words every day, nurture them like a growing garden, and work on raising your profile as a writer. Your voice deserves to be heard
And now a fiction break
Jackie Gleason
By Liz Dubelman
Jenny stood in the kitchen feeling uneasy. She checked her glands to see if they were swollen. She was tired. Maybe she had Lyme disease. She had looked it up There was more Lyme disease in Connecticut than anywhere else. It was practically an epidemic. Wikipedia said, “Ticks become infected with the Lyme disease bacterium by feeding on infected animals, such as mice, chipmunks, and other wild rodents. Lyme disease is passed to humans and other animals when a tick infected with the bacterium bites the person or animal and stays attached long enough to take a blood meal.” Jenny didn’t remember seeing a tick on her but it didn’t stop her from wondering how many calories a tick needed.
It was Wednesday afternoon and Jenny had just come back from Pilates. Noah was at computer class. Beth was at Chess First (chess for first graders) and Laurel was at Eating For Tots.
Jenny’s father had had to find tutors or coaches for the various lessons that filled the after-school hours of her childhood, but these days there were organized classes. Daddy was ahead of his time, Jenny thought. Occasionally, when she was out for a run, she would wonder if the kids were missing something, something they couldn’t get from lessons. But that thought never stuck.
Joe, her husband, was in the house, isolated in his office. Jenny was alone with her barely controllable thoughts. Why didn’t anyone recognize her specialness? Why didn’t Joe love her? Why did Daddy have to die?
He was the only one who ever really appreciated her. Jenny believed that her father had loved her best of all, and now he was gone forever. She could feel the water pooling in the corners of her eyes.
She opened the refrigerator and let the cool air wash over her. She’d only had a rice cake and soy cheese for lunch, and she felt like she could devour everything. To stop herself, she conjured up the familiar image of her father in just his boxers, standing in front of the open fridge eating a container of cream cheese with his hands. Jenny closed the door.
She was still in her sweats from this morning’s workout. She grabbed her running shoes and headed to the basement. It was a cool space lined with green indoor-outdoor carpeting and littered with exercise equipment. Jenny set the treadmill to training mode and the timer to ninety minutes. She started at a slow jog with all her attention focused on the LED calorie monitor. The red luminescent numbers ticked up the number of calories burned, restoring order and freeing up Jenny’s mind.
Numbers were important. Jenny always thought of them as good luck charms. Numbers were points scored, players ranked, and miles run. Numbers could be controlled by will.
From the time Jenny had first started playing tennis, she’d developed a special relationship with numbers. Jenny felt her father’s love the most when she was twelve. When she was twelve she was ranked number one in the twelve-and-unders. Twelve was Jenny’s special number.
Everyone has her something, Jenny rationalized, and hers was harmless. Ellis, Jenny’s sister, had once confided to Jenny that she thought of recipes and food pairings when she had trouble sleeping. That was at least as weird as Jenny’s numbers thing.
Jenny wondered what their brother Ben’s thing was. Ben was a seeker. He probably meditated. Millions of people meditate, she thought. How was meditation that different from what Jenny did?
Her mother’s thing was listening to the radio. She had NPR on in every room. Jenny never pointed out the low din out of respect for her mother’s thing.
Jenny wiped the sweat from her forehead. She felt much better. She had hit her zone.
When Jenny was fourteen, she’d had a promising tennis career. Her family was staying in a bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel, her father loved her, and Jenny’s life was perfect.
She would get up in the morning in her own bedroom. Her dad made sure that Jenny had her own room so she could get “proper rest,” without Ellis bothering her. He would order her a special low-fat, high-carb breakfast. He would even mix a bit of his coffee in with her hot chocolate and call it a “mocha.”
Then she would go down to the tennis court and do drills for an hour with Alex Olmedo, the 1959 Wimbledon champ. She would run sideways, do forehands crosscourt, then backhands down the line, ending with buckets of serves, all to the accompaniment of Alex’s mantra, “Be mentally tough and always play with confidence.”
Jenny’s day would include lunch at the coffee shop, several more hours of tennis, and then laps at the pool. In the evening, her family would usually have dinner together in the bungalow but a couple of times Lester took Jenny, just Jenny, to the Polo Lounge. Those were the best days. “Nino,” he would call to the maitre’d, “this is my daughter Jennifer. Some day she’s going to win the Grand Slam.”
Sometimes her parents would have business-related dinners in the Polo Lounge. Jenny hated those times because she had to watch Ellis and Ben, which always cruelly reminded her that she wasn’t an only child. Once, when Ellis and Ben had been particularly bratty, Jenny snuck out after they were asleep. She knew it was irresponsible but she really needed to get out. She put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door as she left.
It was a Saturday night and everyone at the hotel was dressed up. They all looked thin and tan and glimmering in their gold, diamonds, and pearls. They all looked like celebrities. In fact, Jenny thought she saw Lee Majors.
She sat down in a pink and green upholstered chair outside the Polo Lounge. She envisioned herself having just won the Virginia Slims and wearing the new diamond necklace that Daddy would have given her for that victory. She would be holding his arm when they entered the restaurant. Nino would seat them in a special booth where everyone could see the proud father and his champion daughter. Someone might even try to send over champagne but Dad would wave it off. Jenny was in training.
A commotion sliced through her fantasy. She could smell intoxication very close by. When Jenny looked up, Nino and several other men were forcibly escorting a very large and very drunk man out of the Polo Lounge. Jenny recognized him instantly. It was Jackie Gleason.
Jenny had loved Jackie Gleason’s variety show, particularly the June Taylor Dancers. She thought those formation shots from the aerial camera were genius. How did they get their legs to look like flower petals opening and closing?
Jackie Gleason seemed to be in the company of four or five of those dancers, only they seemed different. Sluttier. Jackie Gleason, mumbling and stumbling, was scary. If he fell over, which seemed quite likely, Jenny thought he could break the floor. Her parents would surely come out to see what all the noise was about, and Jenny would get into trouble. She might never win the Grand Slam.
The lovely moment had turned to shit, and she went back to the room.
Now, Jenny looked down at the respectable number on the calorie counter. She slowed down the treadmill, wiped her brow and got off. She looked at her watch. If she didn’t shower, she could make it to a yoga class.
I love the way you leave ancient fact into present fiction. You put me to shame both with your lecture and your story as I have been a very bad girl and haven’t written much at all other than keeping up correspondence with friends all over and some new friends I just Made in Poland. But I promise there is going to be a story and you know what is going to be about. Keep up the wonderful work.❤️