We’ve all heard of cougars, those 40-something female predators who stalk bars, hoping to sink their finely sharpened claws into the tender flesh of innocent young men. Luckily, these modern-day Mrs. Robinsons—who’ve exchanged their garter belts for Spanx—have been exposed by the media and are now easily avoided. But young men, don’t breathe a sigh of relief just yet because there is a new danger out there, lurking in cafes and restaurants, preying on your naiveté, dining out on your trust. They’re called leopards.
Recently I was struck by an essay idea. I reached into my purse for my writing-ideas notebook, and couldn’t find it. Next, I searched my totebag, and still nothing. Then my car, hoping it had spilled out. It hadn’t. Like most of us, our ideas are such a part of who we are, that without them I felt bereft and oddly empty.
That notebook contained the outlines of a dozen new essays, hundreds of thoughts and insights that would one day wheedle their way into my writing. In other words—my literary life. And it was gone. I knew I must have left it at the library, but when I called, they said they hadn’t seen it.
That’s when I went into panic mode. Continue reading “Island of Lost Ideas”
I’m writing a cookbook and in it I never use that mysterious phrase—Cook Until Done. Those three words always baffled me. What does done mean, anyway? Is it when the brownies no longer jiggle in the middle or when the edges look dry or is it done when the smoke alarm goes off? Over the years, though, I decided that, Done is a range from slightly under-baked to slightly over-baked. My brownies will never be perfect; will never look like they belong on the pages of Bon Appetite. (Spoiler Alert: Magazines use Photoshop.) Sometimes my brownies come out a little too hard on the edges or a little too soft in the middle, but they are still really good and enjoyed by all.
This question of doneness got me thinking. As writers, how do we know when our book is done? A book has no pop-up timer; you can’t stick a fork in it or insert a toothpick to see if it comes out clean. So how do we Write Until Done?
Many writers have a hard time knowing when they’re finished. To them, it’s finished when it’s perfect. And I mean . . . Perfect. They tweek and futz for years, never sending their creation out into the world. Even successful writers don’t know when their book is done. One said, “It’s done when my agents rips it out of my clutched fingers.”
Part of the problem is perception. As little baby writers we start out writing garbage and think it’s good, then we get better and start writing good stuff and think it’s garbage. The better we become, the more we strive for perfection, and as Voltaire said, “Perfect is the enemy of good.” You can polish your book until your chapters shine like the Pieta, but you’ll never finish because it still won’t be perfect. What your unfinished work will be is a drag on your psyche. As Bruce Holland Rogers says in Ten Tips for Psychological Survival in Writing, “Take finished over polished. It’s better to have your story done, imperfect and in the mail than to have a highly polished and fragmentary manuscript in a file drawer.”
Except for a few egotists with a God complex, if writers only submitted their books when they were perfect, library shelves would be very empty and agents would have to find a different line of work. Striving for perfection is the reason so many writers are their own worst enemy. As they sit at their desks flailing themselves, agonizing over what color to call a rock, I want to yell at them, “It’s brown. It doesn’t need to be perfect—it needs to be done.”
“The beautiful thing about writing,” Robert Cormer said, “is that you don’t have to get it right the first time, unlike, say, a brain surgeon.” But after twelve or thirteen drafts, it’s probably not going to get any better. And that’s okay. Really. If you don’t believe me, just ask a reader how she liked the last book she read and you’ll probably hear, “It was a really good book.” And really good, though not perfect, is good enough.
It’s said that March comes in like a lion and out like a lamb, and that’s the perfect metaphor for my writing. March, or a new writing project, begins with blustery confidence, but that bold self-assurance rarely lasts until the words: The End. Somewhere along the voyage I’m blown off course, my sails in tatters from a storm of criticism and self-doubt. That’s when I lose belief in myself and drift away like a whimpering lamb. (Okay, I’ve officially over used the metaphor.)
But why does this scenario happen? Why do I lose my confidence?
Confidence is the foundation of all great success and achievement, yet we as writers often struggle to maintain our conviction in the face of rejection and negative criticism. Motivational writer Zig Ziglar said, “Confidence is going after Moby Dick in a rowboat and taking the tartar sauce with you.” What I want to know is: How can we writers cultivate the confidence to bring the tartar sauce?
Lost, that’s how I started life. Lost wax, that is. Liquefied and poured into a mold that my molten presence melted away. I’m a gold wedding band, circa 1974, a hippie design with flowers around my circumference. Continue reading “Lost Wax”
Last night when I tried to open a plastic bubble pack, my scissors slipped and instead of opening up the package, I opened up my finger. Over the bathroom sink, as my blood recreated the shower scene in Psycho, I fumbled with a Band-Aid wrapper. “Where’s the string you pull?” I asked my husband. Continue reading “No Strings Attached”
I don’t know about you, but I’m really tired of seeing people’s underwear. News flash! It’s called underwear for a reason. I don’t care if it’s Calvin Klein; cover it up. Underwear is supposed to be private, not paraded around like the Stars and Stripes on the 4th of July. Continue reading “I See Paris, I See France”
During the half-time show on Superbowl Sunday I kept thinking about the infamous wardrobe malfunction, and all I could say was, “You call that a wardrobe malfunction?” Next to my malfunction that fleeting glimpse looked like a Little Miss Sunshine Pageant. Continue reading “Give the Little Lady Another Hand”
I let my friend Andrea drag me to a singles mixer. Bad idea.
The Marriott ballroom, decorated in early bordello, was filled with men in dark suits who sported enough ear hair to knit sweaters for the entire US Olympic ski team. It looked like a convention of retired undertakers. I whispered to Andrea, “When I said I wanted to start dating again, I didn’t mean carbon dating.”
Disaster seems to follow me like its a hungry stray and I’m dangling a hot dog. My latest disaster resulted from a chain of events that started with a nasty cold and ended, well—I’ll get to that. Continue reading “Fuzzy Thinking”
Every woman needs a really mean cat who adores her. The kind of cat that when the vet sees him coming, he pulls on elbow length leather gloves like he’s about to wrestle an alligator. The kind of cat who has a big red sticker on his medical file that says, “Caution: I bite.” Continue reading “One Mean Cat”