Death By Revision. (A rainy Sunday rant).

I’m in revision HELL. It’s a moist 200 degrees Fahrenheit, humidity is around 300%, and I’m trapped in a down parka with a broken zipper.

Here’s my problem: the rules.

The short story is written. Current stage: revision. The “low hanging fruit” is a thing of the past; the redundant words, over-use of the word “I” and all of the other beginner boo-boos, gone.

No sentence escapes my scrutiny - every word, each nugget of punctuation, the silent rhythm hanging out in the white space behind the typed words - all of it - is subject to my red pen.

But I’m completely paralyzed by the rules.

On the one hand, it's the nuts & bolts rules, such as not beginning a sentence with "I", "It", "And" or "But"; avoiding "to be" verbs at all cost; and, for those verbs making the cut, ensuring use of the most engaging, active form. Each line is run through my interpretation of these rules. However, while one part of my brain is busy analyzing, the other (way more amped up part) is second-guessing. Challenging not only my knowledge/application of the rules, but the credentials of those responsible for crafting them in the first place. Well, that's being nice. At certain times, I call them names and feel quite certain they were just having a laugh with some of this crap.

Possibly my favorite part of the books these rules call home is the exception clause. Why do these handbooks all include at least one caveat along the lines of ". . . but sometimes, it's ok to do [whatever they just told you not to]". I want to know. . . WHEN? When you're Mark fucking Twain?

That's just nuts & bolts. I’m also suffocated by the other rules, the rules which address more of the “art” element of writing (voice/plot development/character development/blah). Is my character round? Does every sentence move my story forward? Overall, is the story believable? Engaging? Is my character’s voice consistent? Would he say the word "stuff"? Wait, is it ok to use that word? One of rules advises against using the word stuff, or just, or . . .

So I read every freaking sentence over and over with all of these things (plus some) in mind. And I make changes and then I change things back and then I delete some of it.

In the back of my mind, a small voice warns: You're killing your story.

It's true. I'm afraid that somewhere along this path of revision, the original oomph of the story, the thing that has me all jazzed up about it, will sneak out the bedroom window.

No revision today. The story will remain snug and warm in the glowing memory stick latched to my laptop.

Hopefully, tomorrow will reveal a new outlook on revision, and my next blog will describe the details.

Fingers crossed. Rant complete. Wine breathing.

Write? Oh. Right.

It sits on the table, motionless. A thick paper rectangle protected on the top, bottom and one edge by a heavier, shinier, type of paper. It’s not unique; others exist although perhaps in a different size, shape, color and/or odor. But they all have one brilliant attribute in common: they offer anyone who possesses the inclination to open it up, an escape from this moment. And the moments directly thereafter. The escape is perhaps an outer space adventure, a romantic tale, a bittersweet memoir, or a bloody thriller. Or maybe it’s something else entirely.

They look so innocent, these books. Standing in my library brings me a sense of relief; given the vast number of books on the shelves, I feel certain that having the ability to complete one is not limited to just a few people. Surely.

I’m one year into my Wall St departure and do not have a finished book. I do not have perfect writing skills. I do not have a lot of confidence as a writer. More importantly, though, I do not have a lot of time for the “do nots” in my life.

I’m grateful for the past year, despite those things I do not have. I’m grateful because the journey of the last year brought me to today, where I am now in possession of what I believe to be the most important writing skill. Here it is (and be warned, it seems ridiculously basic):

Write. Just get over yourself and all of the doubt and bullshit running on a constant soundtrack in your head, and write. Write. Write. Write! Embrace the crappy first draft as much as fantastic finished work!

I won’t go into detail about the twisty and sometimes frightening journey of the past year. I will say, though, that I embarked on my career change with a plan, which involved taking writing workshops and classes. The classes were helpful, as far as refreshing my awareness of the nuts and bolts of good fiction (vs. bad). But at the end of the day, I did very little actual writing.

My workshops and classes ultimately led me to one person, a writing teacher, who listened to me moan about not making writing progress despite the classes, blah blah blah. This person then calmly explained that perhaps if I write often, without judging myself, it would help. Huh? Judging myself? The next time I sat to write, I realized exactly how much judging took place. Crikey. Loads. So I tried writing without the judgement. Woah.

When applied, that advice is liberating. I’m so grateful to him, and am REALLY looking forward to learning more.

It’s such a simple concept, but not so obvious. I think of it like when you have a house full of guests for a party, and one cranky child needs ketchup – stat! You fling the fridge door open and look everywhere for the red bottle: under the lettuce, behind the milk, and – in desperation – even in the little egg container cubby. But no luck, the ketchup is gone or (insert name here) must have used it all and didn’t tell you! Just as you contemplate a search in the freezer, a friend comes up from behind and reaches around you to snag the ketchup from its position, front and center, on the middle shelf.

It’s a lesson in what happens when you allow the fear of being a bad writer prevent you from being a writer at all.

Today I write without worrying what anyone will think. Whether or not I’m writing the next great piece of literary fiction is irrelevant. I’m just happy to be a writer, who writes. Even if it's not perfect. Yet.

A Long Story Short.

I just wrote a LONG blog about why I left finance. It was primarily about two key events that bookended my “wall street” career. These events were very different from each other, yet profound (to me). They were described in great detail; what happened, when, who was there, how I felt. But the thing is, once I finished the blog, I realized the reason I left finance is actually pretty straight-forward. So I scrapped the long blog. Here’s the short and to-the-point version:

I left finance because I finally admitted to myself that I wasn’t following my heart. I was following a paycheck. Ever since I was a child, I felt like I was meant to write. I left banking so I could prove or disprove that belief. If I end up a successful writer, I’ll be endlessly grateful. If it turns out that I was wrong, that’s ok too. I’m attached to the process of discovering; any outcome is fine.

I’d rather know for sure. It’s as simple as that.

Gravity.

I fell out of a yoga pose the other day. It wasn’t a particularly complicated asana. I managed to ascend a mountain of balance, and while I was peeking over the edge from my sweet view at the top, gravity snuck up from behind and gave me a tiny nudge. I just closed my eyes and enjoyed the ride down. I briefly imagined my mat watching my ass heading toward it, sticking out invisible hands in protest, groaning the word “no” in baritone slow motion. It was, without a doubt, my loudest and most blatant fall in yoga. Ever.

My instructor made a joke about it being a fun pose to fall out of. I wanted to agree with that statement.

On a different day, I would have. My more familiar reaction to flubbing a pose usually involved laughing and moving on. Not that day though, it felt different. Instead of trying the position again, I surrendered into child’s pose. Then the strangest thing happened. My eyes filled with tears and I couldn’t stop a few from running down my cheeks. I didn’t feel sad, or embarrassed, or angry; the tears were the result of an emotion I hadn't felt before, one I couldn't describe in words.

I spent the subsequent days thinking about my tumble. I thought about how, on that day, I had been feeling grateful for a few people who deeply inspired me. These were people who believed in their messages and were brave enough to declare them publicly, with seemingly endless energy. I was feeling so grateful in fact, I had dedicated that practice to them. This made it even harder for me to get my head around my unfamiliar reaction to the failed asana. Why, when I was overflowing with naked gratitude, did I take a yogic slap in the kisser? And why was I even looking at it that way? The answer came a few days later, in the shower at the gym.

I created this blog over a year ago. I did so with the intention that once I left my Wall Street job for a writing career, I’d blog about my experience. I’d blog about it because leaving my job was a huge risk. I'd blog about it because I was stoked to (finally) be following my heart and a path more connected to creativity. However despite the fact that I left my job, this blog remained untouched. Sure, I had excuses. Life happened. But the fact remained I wasn’t writing enough. I wasn’t blogging (at all). My focus was out of focus.

But then I realized, in the shower at the gym, that I didn’t just fall out of a pose. Rather, I was the recipient of a gentle message from the universe, one perhaps co-signed by those inspirational people to whom I had dedicated that practice. The message was telling me to stop planning and intending, and actually start “doing". It was a wonderful, cosmic shove forward. It’s funny how sometimes it takes getting knocked on your ass to get you off it.

So here I am, ass in gear. Grateful, humbled, and energized.

And away we go. . .