Category: Writing

(Im)perfectionism

March 26, 2018 / Ariane / 0 Comments

My novel, my baby, is with beta readers. I’ve had a trickle of comments so far, but I’ve still got a few weeks to wait before I receive their full feedback. The first few days killed me. I opened up Google Docs more times than I should have only to see no one had started. Instant gratification this was not.

And then, as comments started coming in, the negative comments killed me. I wanted to get defensive, wanted to argue with them, wanted to protect my baby novel that I’d worked so hard on. How could these words I’d slaved over be anything but perfect? I wanted to tell them they were wrong.

Only, they weren’t wrong. I was.

I had to remind myself this is what the beta process is all about. That each of their opinions is valid and valuable. That their feedback is only going to make my book stronger. I was thinking of any suggestions as “negative.” But how could they be anything but positive? These “negative” suggestions are going to make my story even better than it was before. I could see the effort and thought these wonderful betas had put into my story, that they wouldn’t be providing this feedback if they weren’t invested.

And as soon as I made myself believe that (which took some effort), I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Taking this next step in my writing was terrifying, and I think that fear of letting other people see my work seeped into my initial response to feedback. But I don’t want to let fear define my writing journey. I want to be better than my anxiety.

Being an anxious perfectionist makes writing a particularly bittersweet passion. In the past, I’ve seen any negative results or feedback as confirmation to not continue. If I wasn’t the best, why bother?

But perfect is an ever-moving goalpost that I’m never going to reach. I can keep moving, even if I’m not perfect, even if I sometimes get negative results. I can keep moving towards seeing my words in print. Because even if they aren’t perfect, they will be mine.

Betas are Scary. Everything is Scary.

March 19, 2018 / Ariane / 0 Comments

Last week, I sent my novel to my first ever beta readers. I knew that this was part of the process. I knew, as churned through revisions, that someone would eventually have to read what I’d slaved over. And still, I dragged my feet. I dragged my feet for weeks as I fiddled with commas and rearranged sentences.

I was scared of turning my novel loose. I was scared because what if this thing that I’d poured my heart and soul into was no good? What if the readers hated it and I’d wasted months and years working on this one story?

But I knew it was time. I knew if I didn’t do this, my writing would stagnate. And it still took my therapist imposing an arbitrary deadline on me to push me over the edge and press the send button.

I chose one person, a person I trusted not to break my heart, and sent it to them. I didn’t really sleep that night. How could I? I’d put all my dreams in one basket.

But a funny thing happened the morning after. I woke up, and suddenly betas didn’t seem so scary anymore. It was like diving into the deep end. When you’ve done it once, the subsequent attempts aren’t nearly as terrifying.

So I posted on Twitter that I needed beta readers. If I say that it was one of the scariest things I’ve done, don’t laugh. Putting yourself out there, especially if you have anxiety, is no joke.

And then I started getting responses. And hitting that send button was a lot easier the second, and the third, and the fourth time.

I’m not sure what all of the feedback will look like. I’m not sure how I’ll handle the negatives. But I’m so, so glad that I did it. I know this was an important step in my writing journey.

So if, like I did, you’re contemplating the send button with anxiety, close your eyes. Take a deep breath. And send it.

Because the worst that will happen is, yes, you’ll get bad feedback. But guess what? All feedback makes you stronger. It doesn’t mean that what you’ve written is no good. It just means that it can get better. There is no wasted time with writing. Everything you write, everything you read, everything you edit, makes you a stronger writer.

Everything about this crazy writing dream can be scary. Every story you read about making it to publication is different, every blog and website wants to tell you the absolute dos and don’ts of the process, every person wants to tell you how difficult getting published will be. But I think there’s a secret no one tells you: nobody really knows what they’re doing.

I don’t really know what I’m doing.

But that’s okay. Because I’m determined to figure it out.

Chapter 8: Goodbye, 2017

December 20, 2017 / Ariane / 0 Comments

2017 barreled into me with a vengeance. If you had told me this time last year everything that would happen, I probably would have spent the year hidden under the covers.

My work stress and unhappiness outgrew my fear of unemployment and lack of income, and I quit my job. Of course, the universe then thought it would be funny to throw the rest of the year at me so I could really hone in on that money anxiety.

My personal stress also outgrew my body’s ability to handle it and I ended up in the ER for a panic attack. That was a fun bill.

And then the panic attacks continued so now I have what I like to call my crazy pills.

We also adopted a new puppy with medical issues, and I basically didn’t sleep for the month of October while we tried to figure out why he had diarrhea every two hours. New puppy plus vet visits every week made for more wonderful money stress.

Between the panic attacks, the anxiety dreams, and the nonstop dog potty outings, my writing (my purpose for quitting my job) took a hit. As in, I didn’t write for a month. And I beat myself up about it every day even as I was too exhausted to do anything more mentally draining than laundry.

I had my first ever car accident, which totaled the car I’d been relying on as a constant through my unemployment, and I faced the prospect of trying to buy another car.

You would think, since my boyfriend has two cars, we would have been able to manage. But a week after my car was put down, he also got in a car accident. So for the week it was in the shop, we were down to one car. And then the remaining car started acting up. So the anxiety of being car-less propelled me to deal with the awfulness that is car buying.

I feel like all of this made for a pretty awful year for me. When I think about it like that.

And yet.

I quit a job that I had grown to loathe. On my last day, I felt such a weight lifted off of my shoulders. I had never been able to do anything like that before. I had always just endured things. But this really felt like the first time I was making a difference in my own life.

I realized my anxiety wasn’t something that I could just wave off as a daily nuisance. That it was taking a physical toll on my health (ask my dentist-she could tell from one look in my mouth that I’d been both grinding my teeth and dealing with stomach acid). Going to the ER made me realize I needed to take control. And it’s still a work in progress, but I don’t want anxiety ruling my every day of my life.

I’ve always had a fear of taking pills, especially for mental issues. Like it was admitting weakness, or that it would change me. But not having every waking minute and every dream laden with little anxieties is a strange novelty that I never thought was possible.

Oh, Gambit. The first week we had him, I wanted to take him back. And now I don’t know how I would live without him. Through all the vet visits and late night vomit sessions, he’s never lost his sweetness. I need that sweetness in my life. Even as I’m writing this, his head is in my lap, keeping me warm against the cold.

The car accident did suck. I didn’t even see it coming, stopped at a light and hit so hard from behind that my car was squished between two others. It sent me into an immediate panic attack and I was still hyperventilating as the cops were trying to see if I was OK. But I was OK. Aside from a little whiplash, I was fine. Nobody got hurt.

And car buying, as draining and patience-testing as it was, turned out to be pretty fortunate. I’m actually saving money on my monthly payments, even with a newer car. Take that, money anxiety!

With the dog, the car, and the panic attacks (mostly) settled, I’ve refocused my energy on a novel that’s been begging for an edit since I finished the first draft a few years ago. It was so far from where I envisioned the final product that I used to think it was going to die a slow death on my hard drive. And yet, going through piece by piece, I’m really starting to see how I can make it the story I wanted it to be when I first started writing it. That, coupled with my first short story published in print (!!) and starting this very sporadic blog, has made me think that maybe, just maybe, this writing thing is for me.

Last but certainly not least, the love of my life and now-fiancé has stood by my side through all of my crazy and he hasn’t run for the hills yet. I couldn’t have survived the changes this year has brought without him. Love you, J.

So maybe it’s the pills talking, but it’s getting easier to see the silver lining of things. I’m going to try and continue that into 2018. Whatever it may bring.

Chapter 6: Blood, Sweat, and Fears

October 17, 2017 / Ariane / 0 Comments

(I wrote this post two months ago but I was nervous about posting it. Here it is anyway.)

I’ve spent the last four years, two months and five days pouring myself into something that I didn’t love.

In retrospect, that seems like a lot of time. In the grand scheme of things, maybe not so much. Still, I’ve always dreamed bigger, wanted more. But all my life I’ve been too afraid to change course. Change is scary. Better to stay on the path you know and tolerate than to leap into the unknown.

I had to prove that I was strong, that I could stay the course set beneath my feet, stretching on and on before me. Twisting it in my head so that staying wasn’t about fear, wasn’t about the million anxieties needling in every decision. There was strength in staying.

That’s what I’d tell myself crying in the bathroom when life was too overwhelming even though it wasn’t supposed to be. Life was supposed to be the path, and the path was supposed to be safe.

That’s what I’d tell myself driving home and wondering if I could crash the car just right to put me out of commission for a few months so I’d have time to just breathe. There was no space for breathing on the path.

That’s what I’d tell myself when weekends stretched into endless periods of dread and depression, and it was all I could do to drag myself out of bed. But I did, because this was the path, and the path was security.

That’s what I’d tell myself when the doctors did tests and said there was nothing wrong so the logical conclusion was that the pain was just in my head but I knew for a fact that my chest was about to rip open with how much it hurt every morning. This was the path, though, and the path was comfortably familiar underneath the pain.

Until it wasn’t anymore.

I wish there was some sweeping, cinematic moment that I decided this, something with lightning sparking in the background and the wind blowing through my hair. But there wasn’t. It just happened. One day, the path wasn’t enough for me anymore. I’d given literal blood, sweat, and tears to something I didn’t love for the last four years, two months, and five days, and suddenly, that was unbearable.

I used to think there was strength in staying where I was supposed to.

But now I know the strength is in leaving.

Chapter 3: The Motivation

August 29, 2017 / Ariane / 0 Comments

Yesterday, I received a paycheck. Not a day job paycheck, but a check for writing. It’s not enough to cover the rent. It’s not enough to cover my car payment. I could splurge on a nice dinner with this paycheck. But somebody paid me for something I wrote, and that’s worth more than the number on the check.

It’s almost too pretty to cash. I want to hug the check but that might be weird. I want to laminate it and wear it on my chest. Again, weird. But the check means something to me, something visceral and so important.

See, I wrote this short story. Like every short story I’ve written, I cranked it out like my fingers were on fire, and then immediately hated it when I was done. But I wrote it, so I had to do something with it. I edited it, and submitted it, and got rejected. Over and over, more than a few times. I put a very personal piece of me out into the universe and the universe kept saying “no thank you.”

The first rejection always stings. It washes away the the delusion that the story is so amazing that someone will buy it on the first try, a delusion my brain tries to convince me of every time I submit a story for the first time. Stupid brain. The subsequent rejections sting less, but feel heavier. Each one in the pile another weight on the scale towards likely failure, away from improbable success. That’s the kicker, though. There is no scale. There are no rules to this. Failure and success are always equally possible, no matter how many rejections you rack up.

Still, after a handful of rejections, I told myself this story wouldn’t sell. It was weird and complicated. It was too personal. Too female. Too ugly. Too other. I was ready to give up on it, let it collect figurative dust on my hard drive while I moved on to something better.

I sent the story out one more time, more as a final hurrah than anything else. I didn’t expect more than the “thanks, but no thanks” messages that fill my inbox. I let myself forget about it in the months after I submitted.

So I’m pretty sure I screamed when I opened up my email to see “Dear Ariane, we are delighted to let you know…”

My dog was very concerned, but in that moment I was so fucking happy.

Because this will be my second published story, and it’s more tangible than the first. One publication could be a fluke, a flash in the pan. Ariane, the one story wonder.

But two published stories means something. Two means everything.

And I have the check to prove it.

(If you’re curious about the story I’m writing about, it’ll be available in the upcoming issue of Room Magazine, out by the end of September. http://roommagazine.com/issues/migration )

Chapter 2: The Objective

August 22, 2017 / Ariane / 1 Comment

I always leave a little bit of soda in the bottom of the can. The last piece of cheese in the fridge will sit unless someone else grabs it. My inbox is filled with reminders for month-long exercise programs I’ve signed up for, followed religiously for four days, and then never looked at again. I started an online introduction to Japanese course that’s been stuck on “Telling Time and Counting!” for several months now. I should go back and finish. But I haven’t.

I have a problem finishing things. I’m not sure when it started. Maybe it’s always been there, another facet of my daily anxieties. My brain doesn’t like to stay focused on one thing for too long, because then the insecurities, the doubts, the worst-case-scenarios come creeping in. Better to move on before they take root. The grass is always greener with the next idea.

On a related note, I have eleven partially written novels on my computer.

Eleven.

Nobody ever made it big with partially written novels.

The pattern is always the same. New idea! Write furiously because this is obviously the next great American novel and nothing’s going to stop me now. Have another story idea, this one shiny and new and ripe for explosive writing. Abandon previous idea because that one was stupid anyway. Rinse. Repeat.

Only, I don’t think any of the ideas are stupid. They just need work. Work I wasn’t willing to put in before. But I’m determined to make it happen this time, shiny new ideas be damned (just kidding please don’t stop popping into my head I’ll just work on you later).

So this blog is to keep me writing. Keep me accountable. Keep me on track because there’s no going back now.

Chapter 1: The Delusion

August 16, 2017 / Ariane / 2 Comments

So you want to be an author.

What you need is an idea. An idea can be anything. Only it can’t be anything someone’s already done. Or maybe it can, only you’ll do it better. Or maybe you’ll do the next Star Wars meets Harry Potter meets Batman and you can already picture the record-breaking movie they’ll make out of it.

And then you’ll throw that idea out and start fresh because that sounds terrible.

Then you’ll need characters. They’ll crawl around your head like maggots, begging to be seen, but still formless, still waiting for you to bring them to life. When you do bring them to life, they’ll keep changing on you. Can’t decided if they want to be butterflies or moths or ninja pirate samurai. You try to force them into boxes but they won’t go, so you carry on in the hopes that they’ll settle down eventually.

When you start to write, it’ll feel like fire from your fingertips. The words will spill out and you’re the next Stephen King and this is your destiny.

Ten thousand words later, you realize everything you’ve written is shit and maybe you should start over, but ten thousand words seems like too much to waste – 10% of the way there! – so you soldier on even though you’re really starting to hate Character B, and subplot #3 doesn’t make sense anymore.

You’ll get halfway through your novel and think: wow, there’s nothing else I can possibly write about this how did I think I could get a full book out of this idea. Simultaneously, you’ll think: wow, there’s so much more that I neglected to think about when I was outlining this thing that the amount I have left to write seems insurmountable. The juxtaposition of the two will drive you a little batty. But that’s OK. Authors are supposed to be quirky, right? Write.

So that’s where I am. Deep in the delusion that I want to be an author.