What Do You Want?

When we're young, we're asked this question a lot. What do you want for breakfast? What do you want to do this weekend? What time do you want to leave for your soccer game? We have little control over our environment and our world, so we rely on our parents and guardians. We even rely on them to think of these questions, because the concept of creating our own world isn't feasible.

Eventually we move out. We get a job or go to college. We start our careers. And as life passes, we never think to ask ourselves, except vaguely, the one question that dominated our childhood. Perhaps we find someone, a partner, who is willing to ask us. Perhaps we're motivated enough to go on a retreat or vacation and ask it ourselves.

But most of us forget. Most of us get caught up in the routines of daily life, that unending cycle of busy-ness and business, and what once seemed so important now seems like the question from a children's story. It never strikes us that it's the one question that will dictate who we become.

The Most Important Person in Your Life

Who is the most important person in your life? I'm a Christian, and I know some friends who will say 'Jesus.' Others will point to their spouse, their children, or one of their parents. All of these answers are selfless. All of them speak to generosity and kindness.

And all of them are wrong.

The most important person in your life is you, if only because it is the only life that you control, and it is the only life you can change. Yes, you can have great impact on people around you, whether its your kids or your partner or your friends, but you can't make their decisions for them. You can't create their world, no matter how hard you try.

In psychology they call this 'self-care,' this notion that you have to look after yourself before you can be of use to anyone else. If you don't take care of yourself, if you're miserable, everyone else is going to feel it. That said, most of us don't identify as 'miserable.' If I asked fifty people how they felt about their life, I'd guess that about eighty per cent would say that they're "doing okay." That life was just... life. Most people would consider their complaints 'common' or 'part of life.'

If I were to rephrase the question, however, and ask if their was one thing they wanted. One thing that they could have, all things being equal, I would get a very different response. Why? Because everyone can think of one thing they want -- whether its a vacation to a certain place or a skill they never learned or just more time to themselves -- and when its asked without impinging on what they do for others, its easy to find something. In some ways, it's like asking for a dream, and everyone has a dream or two that never quite panned out.

We Have To Be Practical 

If you had asked me six months ago what I wanted, my answers would have been vague. A healthy marriage. To manage my depression in a positive manner. To be happy. If you had pressed me, I would have said something like selling a lot of books, though I doubted such a thing was possible. (I would have said it apologetically, with a smirk and a shrug, like someone who buys a lottery ticket.)

If you had pressed me further, I would have said that I couldn't control these things, and that I had to be practical.

I would have been wrong.

That is, I would have taken an important truth (I couldn't control certain things) and turned it into a lie. Which is exactly what I did. In turn, it sowed the seeds for the worst year of my life.

Dead In The Alley

I spent most of last year lying prone in a back alley. My depression had kicked me to the ground in a way I'd never experienced. My relationships eroded, some of them souring so badly the damage was permanent. A month ago, I experienced a loss so great, so unexpected, I was no longer certain of anything. If I'd spent the previous year lying in a back alley, this event was the equivalent of someone sticking a knife in my side while I was face down in a puddle.

It was like waking up into a nightmare, where one plus one no longer equaled two. A place where the sun rose in the West, and when it did rise, it burned like gasoline over an open wound. And in this scorched earth, I was forced to re-examine everything. Well, either that, or just give up. However kind I had tried to be, however generous I'd wanted to be, and however concerned I'd been for other humans, none of that seemed to matter.

Life Doesn't Keep Score

Sometimes life hands good people a lot of pain and sometimes it doesn't. Believing that life was unfair was probably true, but it was also unhelpful. I had a choice, made stark by my circumstances. That choice was to get up, find a different approach and do things differently, or wallow in self-pity.

The first week I wallowed. Much as I had the year before, when I didn't understand why the world seemed so dark. I complained bitterly to God about my circumstances, about how it wasn't fair. Why bother being a good person when life was just going to crush me anyway? And yet, somewhere in this vague haze, I heard a single question, over and over.

What Do You Want?

At first, the question enraged me. I wanted what everyone wanted! I wanted to be happy! I wanted a healthy marriage. A job that I liked. A life I could be proud of. The question refused to let go, probing my mind, goading me, angering me.

What Do You Want?

I told you what I want, dammit! I want the same shit everyone else around me already has! All my friends have these incredible lives with great families and nice homes. I want what they have! The voice refused to relent. Refused to leave me alone.

What Do You Want?

Like a child after a tantrum, I remember mentally slumping against the wall of the alley, too tired to fight anymore. And so I thought about it. No more lazy answers. No more vague niceties. Nothing to do but answer the question. And so I did.

The answer was surprisingly simple. I wanted kids, and I wanted to own my own house. Yeah, I know. That doesn't seem like much of a revelation, does it? But my path was unlike that of my friends. I'd been a writer for the past twenty years, an aspiring novelist. My day job was working with special needs kids. I'd never made very much money. Not enough to consider buying a house. Not in one of the most expensive cities in Canada. As for kids, it had always been a dream, but never practical. I didn't make enough money to consider having them. And so much of my life seemed wrapped up in my writing. And yet, as soon as I said, out loud, what I really wanted, the voice left.

We Must Be Practical

The lie I'd believed earlier, that we only controlled certain things, was only a lie in the wrong context. Yes, we only controlled certain things, but we had far more control over our life than we imagined. This was, again, a revelation. By stating aloud (and writing it down) what I really wanted, these two simple goals that were deeply embedded in my subconscious, I felt a weight lift off my shoulders.

Pointing Our Life Towards the Solution

Those two simple goals, difficult but not unattainable, created something I hadn't seen before: a map. They were markers on a board I didn't know existed. Whatever else I wanted -- selling a lot of books, good friendships, a life of giving back -- revolved around those two locations. And with those two goals in place, I was able to start placing other markers. If I wanted a house, especially in this market, I would need to work. A lot. I would need to squeeze out TV and mindless surfing to be able to keep writing. My writing would have to become more efficient. If I wanted a family, I would have to switch my priorities, be willing to make the sacrifices necessary to put children first.

For the first time in a long while, I stopped worrying about the questions and unfairness and complaints about my life and started seeking solutions. Something vague and hopeless had just become a math problem. A challenge. One plus one suddenly equaled two again, and if I didn't have all the answers right away, that was okay. I could do this. It wasn't going to be easy, but I could do it.




First Steps

As I chewed on the end of my pen, poised over my recently acquired "goal" notebook, I realized the first question I needed to address was that of my mental health.This meant understanding what my depression meant, how it worked, and what I needed to do to manage it in a healthy way. Last year I'd been blindsided, but mostly because I lacked the tools to see what was happening. If I was going to stay healthy, I would need those tools, which included professional help, accountability from my friends, and other resources. I could not have a family and go AWOL for a year.

The first thing to go was alcohol. No more drinking. I'd used it to manage my depression, to take the edge off, for the past few years, but the more I drank, the less it worked. Depression makes it difficult to control your emotions, and alcohol is a depressant. It can fool you for an hour or two, but it's an illusion. And it only makes things worse.

So I stopped drinking.

I'd also learned the past year the importance of regular exercise. The endorphins and physiological benefits helped counter my depression and gave me confidence. So I set a goal to work out thirty to sixty minutes every day.

I haven't been in this kind of shape for nearly two decades.

I needed to be more efficient about it, but I still needed to write. I thought about my regular schedule. I tended to be a night owl, but never really accomplished anything after 10:30pm. So I would need to go to bed earlier and get up earlier.

I'm up by 6:30am every day now.

One by one, I was able to draw branches from my two goals and create smaller branches needed to support them. I'd expected the process to be hard. Instead, I found myself motivated. Excited even. The pain of recent events had not diminished, but I was doing the only thing I could do; I was taking control of my life. I couldn't control the people around me. I couldn't control how they responded in certain situations or what they thought about me or the way some would react to this "new"me. And frankly, I didn't care. I was more excited about the possibility of something great than anything anyone might say or do. I had, if unwittingly, created purpose in my life. Something for my compass to point to. I wasn't about to give that up.

There were, and still remain, other questions. Other challenges. I have a new job, and it will be challenging. I will be expected to work in some difficult environments. I will be expected to do some things that make me uncomfortable.

Even that creates one thought: bring it on.

Fear was no longer part of the equation. I could handle it. I'd taken the hardest blows the past year, and I was not only standing, I was creating a new life. If I had learned one thing, it was this: the choices we made dictated our life.

Movie Moments

I've always loved inspirational sports movies. (Rudy is at  the top of the list) I love the scenes that show the hero or heroine getting knocked down and getting back up again. Of course, in a movie, those scenes depicting weeks and months of hard work only last for twenty or thirty minutes. But they inspire me just the same.

Why? Because we have the ability to do that! Because we have more say in our life and who we become and what we attain then we realize. Because we are the ones who determine our life.

E + R = O. Event + Response = Outcome. 

We cannot change the events in our life, but we can change our response. That is what determines the outcome.

What Do YOU Want?

So let me ask you this. What do you want? Take a look at your life, really look, and tell me what it is that's missing. Maybe you're one of the lucky ones. Maybe you have everything you ever wanted. Maybe you can't fathom losing everything or feeling like you were dumped in an alley. Chances are, however, that there is part of your life that feels incomplete. Relationship issues? Familial difficulties? Job problems? Or maybe you want to try that new hobby. Maybe, if you're honest with yourself, you realize that you're just going through the motions. that you 'lost control' of your life a few months ago or a few years ago and have no idea how to get it back.

I know that feeling. I've been there. Hell, I feel like I spent too much of my life there. But if I've learned anything, I've learned that we CAN control our world. We CAN create a new life. New habits. New routines. And yes, it may be painful. It may require more falls, overcoming fears we didn't realize we even had, and thinking about ourselves in a completely new way.

But you can do it. We can do it. We are all so much more than we realize. We are not just a mother or a husband or a friend. We are not just a son or an accountant or a deacon. We are more than a profile on a page. We are beautiful and boundless and limited only by our own expectations. We are unique and special and gifted. And we are all here, together, sharing time and space and relationships, for one purpose: to make this world a little bit better.

I don't have it all figured out, and I'm not writing this to suggest that my new life, my new approach, is easy. It's not. There are days when I am torn about the past year, days I wish I could go back and scream at myself to get off the floor and do something. And there are nights when it is hard to fall asleep, because the goals I've set seem so very far away. Nights when I feel very much alone, as if the whole universe has gone quiet. As if I've set some impossible tasks for myself that won't make a difference.

But those are lies. To get to where we want to go, we have to create new patterns of thought, and consequently new habits, that refute those lies. Dwelling on them does nothing but bring us down, however difficult that is at times. We have no say over our past, all we can control is our future.

So today, before you get into your daily routine, before you set your weekly schedule, might I suggest something? Look in a mirror, look at that beautiful person staring back at you, the one who has been with you through every heartache, every sorrow, and every storm, and ask them this one question.

What do you want?

-Steve

A Ghost From Christmas Future

            I stared at the walls of my apartment and checked my email again. Nothing. How had it gone bad so quickly? Just six months ago, I’d received the phone call I’d been waiting for the past decade. An agent had called – a highly successful agent who had worked with best-selling authors – to tell me he was interested in representing my work. But it had been two months now, and I hadn’t heard from him. I’d tried calling and emailing him, but he hadn’t responded. I glanced up at the calendar above my desk. 2005. I was thirty-two years old. Young by a writer’s standards, but after ten years of hard work, and with the hope of the expected breakthrough, this felt different than the earlier rejections.

            I wandered out onto the balcony. I was a writer, but only by night. During the day I worked at a local high school helping kids with special needs. I loved the kids, but the school life wore me down. I didn’t know if it was the florescent lights or the tediousness of the routine or what it was, but every day I went to school  it felt like my soul was dying. I loved the kids, but my hope of getting off the merry-go-round seemed lost.

            The door to the balcony creaked open, and a man stepped onto it. He looked vaguely familiar. He had a shaved head, and tucked his hands into his pockets as he looked at me.

            “I remember this place,” he said, smiling softly. “Are you still at Florida Fitness?”

            “I, um, yeah.” I probably should have reacted more strongly to a stranger, but as I studied the older man, he looked, well, he looked like me.

            “Who are you?” I said.

            “I’m the ghost from Christmas future, dummy.”

            “You’re me!”

            “Good to see that I was so bright at thirty-two.”

            “I’m thirty-three.”

            “Well, the extra year hasn’t made a difference.”

            “If I’m you…” I paused. It felt like a dream, and I was having a hard time getting my tongue to work properly. “So, I stopped working out, then?”

            “I work out. Just not as often,” he said with a sniff. “I’m busy.”

            “Doing what?”

            He smiled for the first time. “Living the dream. Writing. Happily married. Just published my first book. Three more next year.”

            I slumped down on one of the chairs on my porch. Happily married? I’d married when I was twenty-five, but it had barely lasted a year, though we’d tried to make it last. We’d ended up as friends, but marriage seemed as remote as getting a book deal.

            “So is this a dream?”

            He smiled. It was unnerving to watch your future self smile the same way you did. “Yes. Something like that. Tell me, how are you doing?”

            I didn’t know what to say. “Well, my agent has apparently dropped me. I’m stuck in a job that is mostly soul-sucking. I’m single. I have a few great friends, but…”

            “How are you doing with the depression?” he said.

            “It comes and goes. Some days are harder than others. I thought that this agent might be a way to something better, you know? But…” I shrugged.

            “What are you going to do?” he asked.

            “I-I don’t know. Keep writing, I guess. I don't have much else.”

            He smiled, and I longed for the peace of that smile. My life wasn’t horrible. I had a steady job. I was able to coach. I had a few terrific friends. But I couldn’t replicate that smile. It suggested that more was possible.

            “Keep writing,” he said. “It gets better.”

            “So you’re me?” I asked. “In the future?”

            “Yes.”

            “How old are you? Err, how old am I?”

            “Forty three.”

            I whistled softly.

            “I’m not old, pal,” he said.

            “Yeah, well.” I stopped, not wanting to offend the older version of myself. “Do we have kids?”

            “No.”

            “Why not? Doesn’t everyone your age, well, my age, have kids.”

            “Maybe soon.”

            “But we’re married.” I bit my lip. My ex-wife was a wonderful person, but we’d been bad together. It was not a good memory. “And… and it’s good?”

            He laughed. “Yes. We met the girl of our dreams. We’ve been married for seven years. She’s kind and smart and beautiful.”

            “All right!” I felt a jolt of exhilaration rush through me, only to crash as I thought about my current prospects. “You’re here to tease me, aren’t you?”

            He scrubbed his shaved head. “No. My purpose is to encourage you. Ask me your questions.”

            “I, well, okay. I’m still writing, right?”

            “Yes! You just published your first book. People love it. You have three more due for release this year.”

            “Do I have an agent?”

            He shook his head. “No. Erin recommended that we publish it on our own. The industry has changed, Steve.”

            “Erin Healy?”

            “Yes. We got back in touch with her this year. She still works as an editor, but she’s also a best-selling author now. She read our work and that was her suggestion.”

            “I don’t get it. So we have boxes of books downstairs—”

            “No!” He chortled. “The world has changed. Everything is done digitally now. We publish them ourselves.”

            I struggled to grasp this new idea. Everyone knew that if you published books on your own you were a phony. A charlatan. “So now—”

            “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “What matters is that you have talent. And that people like your work.”

            I still didn’t understand what he was saying, not exactly, but I couldn’t ignore the peace that emanated from him in fresh waves.

From me, I reminded myself.

            “Why are you here?” I asked.

            “For a bit of wisdom. You’re hurting right now. You think that life will always be this difficult. That you will always be alone. That your writing will never be good enough.” He moved forward and rested a hand on my shoulder. “We cannot see the future, and no one knows why certain things happen to us. It will be a while before you find success as a writer, but you must not stop. Everything you learn will one day pay off. The same is true of your quest for love. Stay humble. Be aware of your failings. Never believe you have it all figured out, and love will you. Find us.”

            “What about my job? I love the kids—”

            “We have worked many jobs, but you were born to write. Do what you must to pay the bills, but remember your calling. Things are never as they seem. In two years, you will move and find yourself surrounded by people from all over the world. You will experience a re-birth, and within a short time, you will meet the woman of your dreams. Your career will change. Your life will change. And through it all, you will write. And when you are ready, you will do the one thing that has called to you since you were a small boy.”

            I swallowed. “It’s just… it’s just so hard to accept.”

            He rubbed my shoulder. “I know. Our future is always shrouded. If it were not, we would not stay humble. But don’t worry, things are going to get better. Better than you ever imagined.”

            I sighed and shook my head. “My wife, she’s—”

            “The best thing that ever happened to us.” He closed his eyes briefly before opening them. “Whatever you imagine about being with someone, she is the treasure. And no, we did not earn it, just like we have not earned the praise from people who like our writing. Yes, we have mended the soil, but God has managed the till.”

            I frowned, confused. “So if it isn’t us, then—”

            “It is us!” he said, placing his hands on the wooden balcony. “But it is us and so many other things, things we can’t identify, things that will one day infuse the series that allows you to write in your own voice for the first time.”

            “I… I do not know what to do.”

            My older self smiled. “Just keep writing. Continue to pursue kindness. Do not let those around you dictate who you are or what you will be. Accept criticism. Do not be afraid to look in the mirror. None of these things will give you money, but they will guide you. One day soon, you will be asked about these choices and they will inspire people, much like your work will inspire them.

            “Writing is not about the books you sell, but the vision you give to people. The vision you have for humanity. A vision that reminds us we can be better. That we can be loving and kind and empathetic. Never forget that.”

            “But, my depression—”

            “Will always be there. It will never leave. God gives us all burdens, and this one is ours. Be honest about it. Tell others about your struggles. Weakness is strength, and vulnerability is everything. Let it shine through your work.” He paused. “Most importantly, do not write in fear. Fear of what others will think. Fear of what they may say. Fear that you may expose yourself too much. Conquering fear is the pathway to your voice. And it is your voice that will affect others in ways you cannot comprehend.”

            The vision of my older self slowly began to fade.

            “Wait! I have so many questions! Don’t go!”

            The image flickered. “Remember what I said. Stay true to yourself. Things get better.”

            “What book should I write next? I don’t know what I’m doing!”

            The image faded away and I leaned on the balcony, unsure what I’d just seen. Had it been a dream? A daydream to help me take my mind off my troubles? I wasn’t sure. I stood and headed inside. Whatever it was, my resolve was clear.

            I sat down at my desk and opened my laptop. That the agent had dropped me didn’t matter, neither did anything else. It was time to write.

The Last Angel Is Here!

At last!

After twenty years, my first novel officially hit the shelves this past week. It has been a whirlwind these past two months, and I can't decide if I'm excited or exhausted or both. Phew! And the work has just begun. I've spent most of the day working on the latest newsletter, which should be done by tonight. (If you're interested in signing up for it, just shoot me your email in the top right part of this page. I only send one out every two months or so, so I won't spam your email.) I have three more novels, already completed (all in the Desolate Kingdom Series) due out this coming year. (April 6th, September 2nd, and December 4th) And I'm currently at work on the first draft of WINTER, which is due for release in the Spring of 2017.

Click this cover for Kindle e-book.

                             Click this cover for the Trade Paperback.






I mentioned this in my newsletter, but the lifeblood of any authour is a book review. The more you collect, the more prominent your book becomes for the search engines. If you've read one of my ARC's (Advanced Reader Copies) or if you are interested in reading it in the future (Goodreads, mark as "to-Read") please take five minutes and write a couple sentences for me at Goodreads and Amazon. I cannot overstate the importance of reviews. Thank you SO MUCH for doing that!

The next step will be three book signings in the next two months. I'll be honest, I'm a bit nervous about that, having heard some horror stories from my fellow writers. But hey, it's an adventure, right? And even if no one stops to talk to me, I'll be in a bookstore for a few hours, and that's NEVER a bad thing.

There will be more news to come, and I'll keep everyone posted as it happens. Eventually there will be a new website as well. (Though you'll still be able to access it through www.stephenburns.ca) Thanks again for all your support this past year. It's been a wild ride, and the journey has just begun!

-Stephen

An Unlikely Road to a Dream

           

I read the viability report three times before I showed it to my wife. I’d worked with Erin Healy, my editor and now best-selling author, in the past. But that had been more than a decade ago. Back when becoming an accomplished writer had seemed so much more attainable. The years had passed, and I was no closer to accomplishing my dream. I’d written three books and spent five years working on a failed fantasy novel, believing I needed to spend years working on a single project for it to be worthwhile.

The three books I’d sent to Erin to review, however, had been written over the course of a single year. I’d accepted a writing challenge, and the result was a new fantasy series, one I was very excited about. I’d hired Erin to look at the prospects for the series, a birthday gift from my wife. Erin had gone miles beyond in her review of my books, and I struggled with her final suggestion.

“I don’t think she likes my stuff,” I said, involuntarily wincing as I grabbed my stomach.

“Is it bad today?” My wife asked.

I smiled and sighed. “Like every day. I’m okay.”

I’d experienced chronic stomach pain the past year. Most days I ate only once. I’d finally gone to see the doctor a month earlier. She was convinced my ailments were a product of anxiety. As were most of the other symptoms, all of which had worsened after I’d lost my job back in May. My stomach hurt constantly, but there were also days when my hands refused to stop shaking. And for nearly three months after I was fired, I’d been battered by hives.  

            Bethany took her time reading Erin’s notes. When she was finished, she shook her head. “She likes them. You just have to make some adjustments.”

            “It feels like a lot of work.”

            My wife laughed. “It’s not. You can do it.”

            As she moved to walk away, I cleared my throat. “Erin also thinks I should self-publish. She says that the publishing world has changed.”

            Bethany smiled. “Yes. And she also says that you produce a high volume of quality work. That you’re ideal for it.”

            “It’s not the dream.”

            She leaned down and kissed me on the forehead. “Times change. Dreams change, too.”

            I grunted as she walked away. I’d dreamed my entire life of “the call.” Of the agent phoning me to tell me that they’d sold my book to a publisher. A great part of this, obviously, was about acceptance. About becoming part of an exclusive club. If I published the books myself, was I not simply saying that I wasn’t good enough to be part of the club? Or was that simply my pride talking? I understood that the publishing industry was at a crossroads. Self-publishing was smashing old barriers. Technology had splintered everything from TV shows to movies to music. Nothing was at it once was.

            With some reluctance, I decided to take my editor’s advice. Unfortunately, I had no idea what I was doing. I was suddenly being asked to start my own publishing company and figure out not only how to publish my novel, but do everything else that came with it.

            It was, in a word, overwhelming. So I started in the place I knew best; my manuscripts. I attacked the holes and questions that Erin had addressed. And before I could change my mind, asked some friends if they’d be willing to critique my work. To my surprise, people jumped in, willing to help. Within a short time, my manuscript changed. It became more polished. The holes filled. And still, I was nervous.

            Even those published traditionally were required to do their own promotions, but what did I know about that? And what about the cover? I was artistic, but visually, I had the skills of a first grader. It wasn’t going to work.

Old Ways Made New

            THE LAST ANGEL had arisen from a challenge. I’d been writing for twenty years, but when I’d discovered the NaNoWriMo (National Novelist Writing Month) challenge to write fifty thousand words in thirty days, I decided to give it a try. For the first time in years, I didn’t worry about censors or what people would think. I didn’t have time for that. All I had time for was to complete the challenge. And so I did. THE LAST ANGEL was unlike anything I’d ever written, but even though I recognized its need for serious editing, I felt the beat of something special in it, something different.

            I’d written two sequels by the time I sent it to Erin, and when she told me what I needed to do, I was ready. Even now, I find it staggering how many people volunteered to help. Emily Thiessen volunteered to design the cover, something that was beyond me, and created a work that captured the world perfectly. Others read advanced copies of the book, and their response and suggestions made it even better. At some point, THE LAST ANGEL ceased being a solo effort and began to feel collaborative.

            That was the moment I realized that Erin was right.

A Very Merry Christmas 

            “How’s your stomach?” Bethany said.

            It was a week before Christmas. Two months had passed, and I was waiting for the first physical copies of my novel. I’d managed to sort through the maze with the help of friends like best-selling author Steena Holmes, who had forged an ultra-successful career in self-publishing. She was, in every way, a star, and yet she took time to walk me through the path, again and again, even when my questions must have surely become irritating.

            “Good. Well, better,” I said. “Just anxious about the book. What if it looks amateurish? What if people don’t like it?”

            My wife kissed me. She’d read the first two books in the series. “They’re good. Erin likes them. So do your other readers. Trust the process.”

            I nodded, grateful for the reassurance, but still unsure. The person you love is supposed to support you. It was true that my beta-readers had nothing but high praise for it, but even that felt slippery. I’d been writing for more than two decades, and this was the first time I’d exposed my work to the public. It was difficult to accept that perhaps I’d accomplished something. That people might enjoy my work.

            On Christmas Eve, shortly before my wife and I left to do some last minute shopping, a UPS truck stopped outside our house. The man handed me two small boxes. I hustled inside and tore them open.

            As much as I’d always waited for that phone call from an agent, I choked up as I flipped through the pages. It was everything I’d ever imagined and more. By the time we left to do our shopping, I could hardly speak.

            Things hadn’t happened the way I’d imagined them so many years ago. And yet, the force of what I‘d gone through, and what was happening now, was still overwhelming. The dream had become a reality.

            “Are you okay?” Bethany said.

            “I’m good.” I paused, trying to find the right words. “I just… I just never imagined it would be like this. I know there’s a lot to do, but…”

            My wife smiled and kissed me when we pulled into the mall. “You did it, love. You did it.”

            I shook my head, felt tears crowd my eyes. Felt the weight of twenty years of writing in solitude. Felt the weight of my depression and anxiety and pain and everything else I’d fought through to write the story I’d always wanted to write. I thought about all of my friends who’d supported me, encouraged me. And I thought about all those who had volunteered to help me do the things that needed to be done. The people who had not only helped me with my writing, but helped me continue when the dream seemed so far.

            “Yeah,” I said, smiling, thinking about my friends and the people who had invested, without hesitation, in changing my life. It wasn’t a solo effort, and I guessed it never would be, “Yeah,” I said again. “We did it.”

             

Find Your Voice

The National Novel Writing Month is an organization (website) dedicated to presenting writers with a monthly challenge, once a year, to complete fifty thousand words in thirty days, or roughly seventeen hundred words a day. It's fair to say that this site changed my life. No doubt about it.

Although I've been writing fiction for the better part of twenty years, and despite having read (and loved) Stephen King's book, On Writing, where he admonished writers for not producing more work, I had somehow fallen into the deep well that believed more time meant better quality. I thought the only way I was going to produce a classic fantasy novel was to spend years on it. The book was called Second Blood. (I spent ten months alone on the world.)
Month after month, year after year, I edited and cut, edited and cut, and edited and cut some more. I wrote well over a million words in various forms, never quite feeling like it was right, though I did send it out to agents a few times. With every new iteration of the book, it seemed a little bit better, and a little more incomplete. It was like playing writer Whack-A-Mole. And with all the time, the edits began to seize my brain, and my internal censors would not let go.
If you use coarse language, you limit your audience.

If you make it too religious, you’ll scare people away.

If you make the writing or world too complex, people won’t be interested.

How can you call this a classic? Everything has been done before.

What will your parents think if they read this? What will your friends think?

Questions rained down on me, and every day I slogged through them like a school kid holding a binder above his head to protect himself from a downpour. Discouraged, worried that I’d never finish the book, I came across the NaNoWriMo site and made a decision.

I would do the hardest thing that a writer, that any artist, must do. I would cut the line to nearly six years of work and begin a new project. A project that I would write in just over a month.

As daunting as it was, I felt something loose from my shoulders. Felt myself relax for the first time. At that pace, I would not self-edit. I would not hear the inner censor. It was too much work, too fast, for any of those concerns to bother me. More, I would have to live the story. Be absolutely absorbed into it. (Two thousand words a day is like a daily three hour gym workout. It is exhausting. It is also thrilling.)
When I began The Last Angel, I started with two images. The cover of Hugh Howey’s, Sand (the picture of a desert), and the notion of angels in the TV show, Dominion. That’s it.

A month later, my story was done. It needed a few more edits, but unlike Second Blood, I had finally found my voice, the most important, most crucial aspect of being a writer.
Over the next year, I wrote two more novels in the same world. I started a fourth, didn’t like it, and started a fifth. Turns out, Stephen King had been right. And with the help of the NaNoWriMo challenge, I learned that my tendency is not slow work (much of which is excellent, but it just isn’t me) but that I need to be prolific to be good.
Whether you’re a writer or a business owner or an entrepreneur, you must find what works best for you. That is, you must figure out who you are and how you work to maximum efficiency. For me, speed helped me get out of my head. It worked better that a story was ripped from me than for me to spend months and years on the same work.

Obviously, the years at honing the craft were necessary. Writing is not magic, it is a learned craft that takes thousands of hours to perfect. But I’d already put in the time, I just needed something to help me find my voice.
Whatever you’re doing, especially for my fellow artists, if things aren’t progressing the way you’d like. Perhaps it is better for you to slow down. In my case, the best path was to speed up.
Remember, everyone is different. Part of the problem in being “slow” for me was that there were too many voices, both around me and in my head. In writing, as in life, the more clear we become about who we are and our limitations, the better chance we have to be successful. The mirror is our friend, even when it tells us that we are not the fairest of them all.

-Steve

My Ten Greatest Inspirational Movies of All Time (Part II)

When we talk about inspirational movies, we're usually talking about sports films. However, there's a wide range of movies that didn't involve sports that were also inspiring. For my list, the rules are simple.

One, I have to have seen the film.

Two, the film needs to have have an impact on me in a visceral way. I know that sounds strange when you're making a list of inspirational films, It's just, how many times do you see movies like Brian's Song, released in 1971, on that list, and the writer is under thirty. Not that it isn't a good story, but come on.

Like most lists, this is completely subjective. And I'd love for your feedback as to movies I missed and ones that I should have included.

One final note. A movie doesn't have to be about someone achieving something, whether they become champions or famous, to be inspirational. That needs to be said, because I'm sure a number of people will look at some of these choices and may wonder how they're inspirational. That's why a list like this is subjective.

These films inspired me, and as such, have probably been watched multiple times.

If you're looking for films that didn't make the list, but might interest you, check out my Friend's Suggestions on yesterday's post. 

So here they are, my top five inspirational films of all time!

#5 A Knight's Tale

Paul Bettany makes every movie he's in a good place to go, and (the departed) Heath Ledger is wonderful here, too. So is the rest of the cast. Call this movie "airy" or "silly" if you like, but if you want to be inspired, throw this one on. You won' regret it.

Favourite Moment: As with alll these films, there are so many. But I particularly love when the Black Prince exonerates William and knights him. Great stuff.

#4 SHAKESPEARE IN LOVE



This film won best picture, and then was criticized as being "an idealist's choice." Nonsense. It's clever and accessible, and both Joseph Fienes and Gwyneth Paltrow do their best work here. There just isn't anything that isn't inspiring here for me. Wonderful, wonderful film.

Favourite Moment: The final play, when Paltrow plays the role of Juliet. The ending is fantastic as well.

#3 IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE



It has stood the test of time. Surprisingly, it wasn't nearly as popular when it was released. But the basic question is one that can't help but get you, and Stewart's performance may me be his best. A Christmas tradition, and a movie that never does anything but inspire you.

Favourite Moment: Auld Lang Syne. Nothing else needs to be said. Oh, and pass the Kleenex.



#2 ROCKY




I was going to include the trailer, but the trailers they made forty years ago were garbage. Anyway, this film still holds up after so many years. For me, it's one of the best romantic films in the past forty years. (Both I and II) After that, the films devolve into entertainment. But this film won eight Academy awards for a reason.

I watch this film a few times a year, sometimes more. With its low budget and gritty framing and terrific writing (by Stallone), it never feels "untrue." I can't think of a better compliment. Forget how Stallone became a caricature of himself and watch Rocky again. He was great, and so is this is this film.

#1 RUDY




When I first started compiling this list, I thought the race for Number One would be complicated. Difficult.

It wasn't.

Without question, this is the greatest inspirational movie of all time. It's based on a true story, and while the film takes some fictitious license, that license is limited.

I grew up a Catholic, a third-generation Notre Dame fan, but what makes this film work is the earnestness of a true underdog trying to do something that no one believed he could possibly achieve. More, he didn't win a championship, this isn't that kind of film. It's focus remains solely on an underdog who does everything he can to attain his dream. Glorious.

Favourite Moment: When he sits on the rock and finally opens that acceptance letter from Notre Dame. Tears. Every. Single. Time.

And THIS is my greatest inspirational film of all time.

The Best Feeling in the World

Okay, so the title might be a bit hyperbolic. I'm sure there are better feelings. Like having a baby. (I haven't had one, so i don't know.) Getting married was okay. (Just kidding, that was probably the best day of my life.)

But in terms of dreams, the best feeling in the world is seeing your work go out and knowing something is about to happen, good or bad. I suppose getting a call from a publisher that you'd just sold your novel or a call from your agent that you'd just made the NYT bestseller list would be amazing. But those are things outside your control.

Today I sent the three manuscripts I wrote this year to a professional editor. I did this at the prompting of a friend. Sometimes you have to take a risk, and you always have to be willing to let your work go.

You can't be a dreamer on an island. It doesn't work like that.

Malcom Gladwell has some good things to say about that in his book, Outliers. This notion that people "pick themselves up by their bootstraps" and just do it is a myth. We need help to achieve our goals. We need to be humble when we are offered correction. And no matter how good we think we are, we can always get better.

Sure, those sound like cliches. but I've talked with so many young people, particularly young artists, who believe they have to make it on their own.

You can't.

The greatest myth in the world of art is that people achieve great success on their own.

This plays to the individualism of our culture and the mythology that many artists are prone to absorb. But it just isn't true.

And now, with my work sent out, I will wait until October 19th before I hear back from my editor. She will give me an idea of what works in my books and what doesn't, and where to go from here. Even thinking about it causes my stomach to flutter a bit. I'm certain the weeks will pass slowly.

In the meantime, its on to the next book. Two thousand words a day, regardless of how I feel, as well as a a blog five days a week to see if I can encourage all you fellow dreamers.

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe sending your work out isn't the greatest feeling in the world. But man, it's up there. The key is control.

If you control your life, if you put in the effort and then do whatever is necessary to see your dream through, it makes life exciting.

I don't know what my editor will say. And even if she likes my work, there's no guarantee that the books will be published.

But I've put myself out there. First with my beta-readers, and now with an editor.

Don't rely on someone else to give you your dream. Go get it yourself. You won't regret it.




  

Prayer Circle Anyone?

I worked with someone (Kathy) a couple of years ago who was, without question, one of the most positive people I'd ever met. Ever time i said hello, she would shake my hand, her eyes going wide like she'd just won the lottery.

"Steve! How are you?" Kathy would ask me, her face glowing. "Isn't this a wonderful day?"

She was very nice, and everything she said needed exclamation marks. While I appreciated her love for life, I did find it difficult at times. Every day wasn't a great day for me. Not just because of my mental health issues, but because. like many writers and artists, I find life upsetting. It bothers me how we factory farm animals. It bothers me that we're more interested in Kim Kardashian's belly ring than the treatment of refugees. It bothers me that we don't care about single moms in this country.

And so there were a number of days when I would avoid Kathy. It wasn't a wonderful day, and as an artist, some days were particularly horrible. All I wanted to do was get through the next eight hours and commiserate about the state of humanity with a friend or a bottle of wine or both.

That hasn't changed. And there are days, like this this week, that life feels particularly hard. I'm sure a psychologist may have a better idea why this is so, but since I'm poor and can't afford one, I don't fully understand the rhythm to it. I only know that waking up today was tough. Just like yesterday. Am I still writing? Yes. Did I still write a blog and two thousand words on my new novel last night. Yes. Do I feel like sunshine and meadows? No.

REDOING THE WEBSITE

When I reconfigured this website a week ago to write about the thing that mattered most to me, people pursuing their dreams, I resolved to give you, whatever reader happened to stop by, some level of encouragement. Something to take with you tomorrow that would give you strength going forward. I resolved that this wouldn't be another writer's vanity site. It wasn't about me. It was about you, as much as I could manage.

Today, I don't have any happy stories to tell. I still have two thousand words to write, and I'm guessing the only reason I'm here is that I'm married to such an amazing person. Bethany not only understands me, but takes the sting out of my misanthropy, when I feel like humanity is nothing but a failure. When I feel like I'm nothing but a failure.

This has been a difficult year. I was fired from my job as a youth worker in June, three weeks before the school year ended. I was fired by someone I thought was my friend, and it was done in a way that left me a nervous wreck. The entire year had been stressful, so much so that I developed IBS. It became difficult for me to eat, and even now, I generally eat only once a day. After I was fired, I started to get the shakes. I wasn't working, so I took over house duties, and when I did the groceries, I'd pull out the bills before the cashier finished so she wouldn't see my hands shake.

I remember one incident at the grocery store where I'd failed to prepare the bills ahead of time. When I reached into the wallet, I couldn't control my shaking hands, and it took about ten seconds for me to pull out the appropriate bills. The cashier was very nice, but her expression was such that I felt my face flush with embarrassment.

Oddly, my writing has flourished the past six months. Depression and sadness are not a hindrance when it comes to art, though it is a hindrance in other ways.

I seldom go out now. And while things have started to improve, there are weeks, like this one, when it is all I can do to get up.

I don't say this to elicit some sort of "touchy-feely" commiseration, I say it because I know some of you are going through the same thing. And while we all want to be encouraged by people who "have it all together," I'd much rather listen to someone who struggles with the same shit that I do.

Artists like to hide their brushstrokes. Unfortunately, fellow dreamers become discouraged when these heroes, who have done such great things, achieve one success after another without understanding that pain is part of the process.

PRAYER CIRCLE?

When I was a teenager, I was part of an active youth group in my church. Once a week we would hold prayer meetings. About twenty of us would gather into a circle and talk about our struggles and then pray together. Sometimes (too often) the meetings would dissolve into gossip. ("I need help with Diana, because she's been flirting with Tom and he doesn't know that God has promised him to me." Or, "I really like Jean, but her family doesn't go to church enough for us to be together, and I saw her hanging out with Jim, who's not a Christian.")

But generally speaking, it was a pretty amazing thing. It was good to share, and even if it went off the rails at times, there was a sense of togetherness, of everyone leaning in together. Leaning on one another.

I thought about posting something else today, because I really didn't want to write about the noise in my life. But if I want this to be a place where we can gather and be open together, we need to feel one another's pain. We need to see that we're not alone. That the dream we chase isn't just meadows and sunshine.

We need to see the brushstrokes.

These are mine.

Yes, I expect things to get better. And no, I understand that as a writer I will probably never think of the world in terms of sunshine and rainbows. There is too much pain for that.

But I remember how I felt in that circle. I remember how privileged I felt when one of my friends shared a private struggle. How connected I felt because I shared that same struggle.

We work towards our dreams, and we want to be encouraged. But we can't forget that part of our journey is to rally around those who are struggling. That we're all human. That we're all going to go through times when everything feels wrong.

My hope today is that this place can be part of your Prayer Circle, whether you're religious or not. I don't have all the answers. No one does. But what I do know is that there is a place for all of us, and that so long as we focus on pursuing that which makes us feel most alive, we have a chance to pull out of any tailspin.

You are loved. You will fail. Together, we can pick each other up again.

The Battle of Every Day

Some days you don't feel it. Some days it's all you can do to get up in the morning, let alone push towards some far off dream that may or may not happen, one that numerous people have told you to forget about.

I know this because I'm having one of those days. I threw out my back a couple days ago (sleeping on my stomach). Every position is painful, and if I sit too long, I can barely stand.

Sigh.

So the the thought of editing fifty pages and writing a blog and editing some other work (we're talking about seven or eight hours in a chair) makes my entire body want to groan. Aside from the that, it's also gloomy outside, and my normal energy and excitement to write just isn't there.

But as you can see, I'm writing anyway.

One thing I've learned over the years is that there's no correlation between how we feel and the work we produce. This isn't just true of writing. There can be a myriad of reasons why we feel the way we do on certain days, and it will have no impact on our work. If anything, these are the days that I know I should be writing because I'll be more likely to take a few chances and be more honest. Gloominess hides the censor button.

None of this matters if you don't get to work, though. And pretty soon, we start making excuses on other days. Suddenly what was a dream has become a hobby. And then, before you can blink, the hobby is gone, too, and you find yourself doing what everyone else is doing. Going to work at a job you can't stand and complaining about your boss to your co-workers.

Last year, I worked at a place that caused me nothing but stress, and by the end of the year, that's exactly what I was doing. I was sitting around with my co-workers complaining about my boss.

But I was still pursuing my dream. I still had this crazy idea that I could make it as a full-time writer. That meant coming home from my paying job only to spend hours more writing, doing the job I considered to be my REAL job.

And it made everything about my life different. Society wasn't going to dictate who or what I became. Yeah, I still had to pay the rent, but after that?

My life was my own.

It's not too late to try something new. Go for it! Maybe you wrote stories back in university but gave it up when you had kids. Or maybe you used to sing in a band, but stopped because work was too busy. Whatever it was that caused you to "be normal," (A Myth. I wrote about this last week.) why not let that go and move to something more exciting.

That's not to say every day will be all glory and sun-filled meadows. I love to write, but there are days like today when, quite frankly, I want to tell my keyboard to stuff it. These are also the days that provide the greatest reward, when you see what you've overcome to get the work done.

Remember, whatever you want to achieve in life, its mostly about "the every day." And on the days you don't feel it, when you're tired and sore and are fairly certain that your brain isn't working properly, just show up. Do what you can and see what happens. Dreamers like you and I persist through all seasons, not just the nice days.

Go run in the rain, and then get back to work. You can do it.

Try Something New

It seems like a long time ago, but in August of 2013 I'd just finished yet another draft of Second Blood, my fantasy novel already six years in the making. I'd cut it and trimmed it and re-edited it numerous times. Three times I'd sent it to agents without so much as a sniff. And yet I was certain that this was how it was done. Patrick Rothfuss had taken ten years to write The Name of The Wind. Brandon Sanderson spoke of the ten year period it took him to get Way of Kings, his best-selling epic fantasy series, the way he liked. Hell, Jefferey Eugenides took nine years to write Middlesex, and Pulitzer prize winning authour Donna Tartt says that she only expects to write five books in her lifetime.

I'd absorbed these success stories. Believed that they applied to me without ever thinking about me. About what I was as a writer and a person. I was forty-one years old. I'd sniffed the hem of publishing's robe with a literary agent in my early thirties, but that hadn't gone anywhere. Whatever I was doing wasn't working. After twenty years, my writing career was going nowhere.

I happened, after much searching, upon a website called NaNoWriMo. National Novelist Writing Month. A supportive and interactive website that encouraged writers to take up the challenge of writing fifty thousand words in thirty days. That's right. Fifty thousand.

Having hewed to the concept of years to produce a good book, and being extremely critical of those who didn't, I was mildly appalled by the idea that a writer could produce good work in such a short  time.

However, I hadn't met with any success, so I registered (free) and took the challenge.

If you're not a writer, it is hard to explain how much fifty thousand words in thirty days is. Suffice to say, you're buried in work. Buried in your story. It is hard to think of anything else.

I persevered, and within that month, The Last Angel was born. Everything changed after that. I realized that I worked better, that my stories were more complete, when I wrote them at hyperspeed. I wrote the sequel the next year. And now, two years later, i have three complete novels and two that are already half-done.

Agents have shown interest. My beta-readers love the work. And next month a professional editor will be looking at those first three books.

None of this would have happened if I had stuck with my original idea of just re-writing the same book over and over. I don't lay any special claim to this other than frustration, which led me to attempt something I thought was impossible, but it ended up freeing my gifts to tell the stories and write the books that I was born to write.

The key is this: whatever dream you're pursuing, if it hasn't happened, maybe it's time to change things up.

Keep the dream, but change the methodology.

Tony Robbins, our erstwhile guru of motivation, says that doing the same thing over and over to get a different result is a definition of insanity.

He's annoying, but the message is right.

How can we expect different when the methodology is the same.

Change it up. Approach things differently.

As a rule, we don't like the change because we fear it.

So don't be afraid. Figure out what you need to do to "upset the applecart."

Scatter the apples to the ground. Throw them against the wall. Burn the cart. Whatever you do, don't use the same strategies that led to failure.

You're better and smarter than people think.

Just don't be afraid. If you're afraid, you won't succeed. No matter how good you are.

The Necessity of Humour

Every dreamer,as I've mentioned before, will be met with resistance.

Why? Because we are taught as a society to conform, to do things "the right way." This often means doing things the way everyone else is doing them. Or the way your family has done them. Or the way your colleagues and friends do them.

It's disheartening.There's is nothing more discouraging than telling your dream to a loved one or friend or family member and have them shoot it down.

If you aren't willing to face this kind of criticism and ignore it, you'll never get there. One reason I admire actors in Hollywood so much is that (If you do enough background reading), you see how often they are rejected for roles before they "make it," and how persistent they are in the face of so much negativity. It doesn't excuse the shallowness of some of them, but it helps you understand that you need something of an ego to endure the countless people who tell you that you're just a pretty waiter.

Which is why all dreamers need humour in their life. As a kid growing up in a small town, I was the youngest of three. My family is great, but there was often tension within it. As the youngest (and undoubtedly the most spoiled, as the only boy), I quickly learned that my role was to break that tension. To make people laugh.

And so I did.

I'm over forty now, and I still try to make people laugh. (Which is a really good skill for picking up hot women, like my wife, FYI) The tension is no longer there, but the habit remains. And waht I still appreciate, when it comes to dealing with my daily harangues, whether its depression or rejection or just getting my work done, is the solace of laughter.

We adults, as a rule, take ourselves to seriously. Everything is serious. Every life moment is crucial. Our votes. Our ideas. Our work environments.

We get so wound up in "being adults" we forget that the most joy we had came when we were kids. When we were allowed to play. And playing is dreaming. There is a direct correlation between the two. I take my writing seriously, but if there's no joy in it, it isn't a dream.

I've spoken with a number of successful people who believe the only "real" pressure comes when you work a high corporate position where you make lots of money and work intense overtime. And oh yeah, your salary is $500,000 a year.

Hogwash.

I'd suggest that there is far greater pressure when you're not sure how you're going to pay rent and you're writing at 2am to finish a short story that may or may not ever be sold. I'm not suggesting that the high-powered executive isn't facing pressure. They are. (I've had a number of clients like this) But to suggest that such pressure is greater than that of the starving artist is bull. A single year of a salary like that is worth eight years of the life of a starving artist.

This is where the importance of humour enters. I've met numerous artists who are just as sad-faced and delirious as my high powered lawyer clients.(I'm a personal trainer. We see LOTS of rich clients.)

This is unacceptable.

If we lose our sense of humour, we lose our sense of place. This is death to any dreamer. It practically guarantees that we will become a self-important jerk.

And we have enough of those.

My suggestion? Find a way to laugh again.

Don't strain yourself to tell your partner that you're working on "your career." Don't roll your eyes at them when they ask you how it's going and don't quite understand. Of course they don't understand. Explain it to them, even if you've done it before. And most importantly, find things that make you laugh.

Laughter heals us. It makes us better. It helps artists to lose their narcissistic strain, (Yes, it's in you, too, no matter what you think.)

Tonight, I've posted a few videos that I find hilarious. I suggest you find people (John Oliver?) that speak profoundly but make you laugh. Never underestimate the power of a smile.

We need you to dream, but you need to laugh to follow through.

So let's find things to laugh about.

Together.



As a trainer, I have to include this one from Regan.




And one more from the great Louis C.K. (Swearing in this one, if that bothers you, but minimal) This is probably my favourite comedy bit of all time. Yeah, it's that good.)



Smiling now? Good!

Now get back to work, and forget about those dream killers and doubters and dummies who can't be bothered!

We need you!

In Search of Normal

When I was a kid, I assumed that my family was normal. That we were just like everyone else, and that everyone else was just like us.

This is how kids see the world, because its the only thing they've known. So regardless of how odd their childhood situation may be, and mine wasn't that different than most of my friends, things always feel normal.

It isn't until you're an adult that you realize normal doesn't exist, that as a place, it's as mythical as Atlantis. And yet, unless you're one of the few people in the world who have somehow managed to moved from childhood to adulthood to parenthood without any difficulties along the way, (And yes, I know a few people like this. They aren't writers.:) ) part of us is always searching for it.

We think that our life is not what it should be.

We think that our kids aren't as well equipped as they should be, that we failed them as parents.

We wonder how our parents managed to give us this amazing, healthy, NORMAL, life, and our lives feel like we put our pants on backwards. How did this happen?

This is especially true for artists. I can tell you that I never considered this life when I was a teenager. I'm a bit of late bloomer, but when I think back through the years, everything from my divorce to my battle with depression to my career changes, none of that was planned. And yet, every time I wrestled with something new, I longed for those childhood days when everything was simple.

When everything was normal.

Why do think you hear people longing for the "good ole days." They're searching for normal.

STOP SEARCHING AND START LIVING

What I'm saying is that your life isn't normal, and never will be. And for my fellow writers, this is a very good thing. It allows you to dig into your character's lives without judgement. And nothing turns off a reader more quickly than writers who judge their characters. You can have distasteful characters, but you have to at least understand where they're coming from.

And for the rest of you fellow dreamers, I would suggest you avoid 'normal' at all costs. Like a siren calling from shore, it will pull you off your path. People are going to tell you that your dream is ridiculous. They will. They will push you to be more like them. I suggest you answer them this way.

Be different.

Embrace it.

Don't worry if someone says "you're weird." You don't want to hang out with that person anyway, because they're probably a jerk. (And jealous)

The greatest memories in this life are the ones that come unexpectedly. And the only way that happens is if you're willing to take a few chances.

Be bold.

Stop searching for normal and start living.

Go get 'em, tiger.

The Space Between Lines

Every novelist, every artist, knows this space. It's the one between creating, the necessary break. I wrote three novels this past year, along with half of another one. I promised myself that I would rest. that I would take a week to recuperate, to read, to listen.

Holy crap, it's been a long week.

I've never truly understood writer's block, though best-selling writer Ted Dekker suggest that it's base in fear. I'd agree with that. I think most human hesitation is based in fear, and that it's especially true for artists.

We worry about who we may please. Worse, we worry who we may upset. Perhaps its our language (a constant anxiety for me) or our themes or our understanding that a sex scene, however tasteful, is necessary to the story.

We fret and worry and gnaw our fingernails.

And yet, this is so much better than not working. Not writing. Not dreaming.

All dreamers live in a space between lines. Sometimes those lines are family, with their rigid codes of what is acceptable and what isn't. Sometimes those lines are of our own making, be they personal or professional. And sometimes those lines are of our imagination. We expect certain things from others, and when we can't deliver, we deride our own abilities.

Don't do that.

The most important voice in any society is the ones that writes between the lines.

Do your work.

See the lines.

And forget about them.

We need you. 

The Power of Ridiculous

The whole notion of making it as a writer, or any kind of artist, is ridiculous.

Look at the stats. Unless you know someone or meet a person at a conference,literary agents reject nearly 99% of all queries. (The number is actually higher than that) You may have written a perfectly good manuscript with a great hook after years of working on your craft. You send it out, hoping to draw interest, and... crickets.

The publishing industry is somewhat in chaos now, what with the advent of self-publishing. Some of these books are really good. Michael Sullivan got a deal based on his sales, and Hugh Howey got a seven figure deal that protected his digital rights, which is completely absurd.

More, writers are finding that they can earn a decent living by simply developing their brand, being prolific, and publishing their own work, which allows them a MUCH larger percentage of dollars from their books.

All of this is true, but a writer, an artist, must still be... ridiculous. They must believe in their work when no one else does. they must believe they're getting better even when it feels like they aren't. They must believe they have important things to say even when their family members or friends think such notions are silly or stupid or egotistical.

But the writer isn't wrong. They MUST be ridiculous to be successful. This is true of all dreamers. (Dreamers come in different categories, but the one truth that unites all of us is that at one time many people told us to stop. Told us that we weren't good enough. Told us that our dreams were foolish.) Whatever quirks we may possess (and we tend to have a lot of them. When my wife puts her cell phone down, I immediately move it to its "Spot" on the shelf by the kitchen.), the attitude of "whatever" needs to be dominant.

If you listen to successful actors and actresses, they often sound extremely vain, and their explanations for their success is simplistic. Of course it is. "Making it," in anything, but particularly the arts, requires luck.

Now, we artists don't like to talk about it much, because its out of our control, but it's always there. Hitting the agent at the right moment. Getting the editor who is looking for a book with your themes. Hell, they have stats that show people being prosecuted are as affected by the time they face the judge (just before lunch, late in the day) that matter as nearly as much as the evidence against them.

It is completely ridiculous (and arrogant) to assume that the world needs to hear what you're saying. But if you don't have this attitude, you'll never make it. Those stars I mentioned earlier? Most of them faced rejection over and over. Being RIDICULOUS allowed them to get through their failed auditions and helped them forge ahead.

All dreamers need to understand this. And if you develop a few quirks, a few neuroses, along the way, don't worry about it.

They're necessary.

Now get back to your dream and get to work.The world NEEDS to hear you.

Everything else is nonsense.

Even if you're being ridiculous.