30 DoF #6~ Unplugged.

Apologies for the late post, but it’s been a very strange day.

In any case, I bought myself a bit of a break today, due to my double dose of fearlessness yesterday. But everyone knows that being a good writer is only 3 percent talent- the other 97 percent is not being distracted by the Internet. So I eliminated the distraction factor by pulling the Ethernet cord out of my computer and engaged in some back-to-basics, cleaned-up writing.

After disconnecting from the Internet and disabling my computer’s wireless connection, I sat and wrote for an hour. While it doesn’t seem like much, it’s easier said than done- I was suddenly very aware of seemingly-obvious things (“I’m thirsty”), as well as the not-so-obvious (“who invented the Internet, and why is the sky blue?”). But I challenged myself to stay the course, and I did.

Needless to say, I got a lot done and the results of this experiment are well worth repeating.

30 Days of Fearlessness #5~ One Day, Two Fearless Feats.

I actually did two brave things today.

#1) About 6 years ago, I worked at a bookstore during the Christmas season. As with most retail positions, the pay wasn’t great, and I had to get up at 5 a.m every day… But, to this day, it remains the best job I have ever had.

When my seasonal term ended, we had just gotten a new manager who decided to clean house. She wanted a new staff that she could train her way, and several of my former colleagues told me that they’d been made “unrehirable”- in other words, they could never work for the company again. So, rather than risk the embarrassment of being shot down if I asked, I just left and found full-time work elsewhere.

Yesterday, I went to that bookstore and spoke with the new manager on duty. I asked her what I needed to do to get my old job back. She told me that their summer hiring would start soon and gave me her card, encouraging me to apply as soon as the posting appears online. I mentioned that I had worked there previously, and she didn’t bat an eyelash.

(I also bought a copy of the Writer’s Market Guide 2016, which will hopefully assist with future fearless adventuring!)

#2) Since my boyfriend was at work, visiting the bookstore also meant leaving the house alone for the first time in many months. I can’t remember the last time I went anywhere by myself (that wasn’t the bathroom), so it was very strange.

Of course, the hardest part of having anxiety is… well, having anxiety. I was so nervous that my heart felt like it was going to explode out of my chest and I’d be the first-ever case of spontaneous human combustion. But I stuck it out, just put my earbuds in and ignored everyone, until my energy reserves were depleted and I called it a day; when I finally got home, I hid in my room and read books or napped until my man got in from work. And it was glorious.

Me: 2
Anxiety: 0

30 Days of Fearlessness #4~ Our Father, Who Art In Florida…

As I’m sure I’ve mentioned in a previous post somewhere, the relationship between my biological father (hereafter referred to as B.F.) and I is very strange and complex. But, since I would run out of Internet space before I could list all the reasons why, I’ll attempt to summarize as best I can.

To start, B.F. and I aren’t close and have never been, likely because we have about as much in common as Donald Trump  and Bernie Sanders. My open-mindedness and liberal mindset drive him absolutely nuts, and there’s a part of me that finds ruffling his ultra-conservative feathers to be deeply satisfying. But, in spite of everything, I am not an uber-feminist with daddy issues.

Ever since I was a kid, this was just the way it was.  Even now, things between us are cordial at best, volatile at worst, and our relationship probably has more holes than the hull of the Titanic did after the iceberg hit it- as a kid, he disowned me many times, and I now refer to him by his first name when I talk about him (I’ve called my stepdad Dad since I was 13). Suffice to say, we’re not the type to keep in touch for the hell of it. In fact, we haven’t talked in more than a year. But, today, I called him up just to chat.

During our 15-minute conversation, we wished each other a happy Easter and he asked me about my life. I simply told him that I’ve been working through some issues but that things are getting better and I’ve applied to college in the fall; we promised to keep in contact more often, though it will be interesting to see whether or not that actually happens.

In these past 4 days, I’ve accomplished more than I ever did in the 4 years that preceded them and, as with the previous 3 challenges, making that call took courage and strength that I didn’t know I had. But perhaps it helps that, this time, I did it for my own peace of mind- I’m no longer the little girl seeking her father’s approval; I’m a woman who’s finally getting her life together and, of that, I am proud.

30 Days of Fearlessness #3: Room To Breathe.

Today, I tackled the guestroom in my house. Perhaps not scary or unnerving, as with the previous two experiences, but definitely overwhelming and a lot of work.

To this point, the guestroom has been used mostly for storage, though to say that it was organized chaos in there would be an understatement. Boxes and clothes covered every visible surface, and the floor? It wasn’t even visible under everything else. But, 4 hours later, and I had it looking somewhat livable again.

Now, you may think that this is not writing related, as is most of this blog. But I can assure you that it is- I plan to turn that room into my library cave- a little nook where I can write, read, do homework (if that college application I sent gets accepted)… I’ve already started collecting stuff to put on the walls as well- awards, newspaper clippings, anything that will keep me productive a.f., long after this challenge ends.

I’m exhausted, and I’m in pain. But I did it. I’m no domestic goddess, but it’s one less thing for my poor boyfriend to do when he gets home.

Mission accomplished.

30 Days of Fearlessness #2: Submission Manoeuver.

Today, I submitted a short story to a literary review for publication. It’s an old microfiction piece that I wrote about 3 years ago, different from a lot of other stuff I’ve written, though I’ve always been proud of it.

Still, I’m apprehensive about sending my stuff anywhere, due to all the waiting and the drawn-out specifics of the submissions process. Twelve-point font; Times New Roman; last name and category in the subject line; no response for upwards of 6 weeks… Patience is a virtue, though I am far from virtuous.

Perhaps waiting is the worst part of all, because that’s when courage gives way to fear and self-doubt creeps in, the way every bad decision I’ve ever made does while I lie awake staring at the ceiling through burning eyes, even though it’s 4 a.m. and all  I want to do is sleep. If I fail, then this experience will surely confirm what I’ve always believed- that I’m not good enough, and that I should never submit anything again because there will always someone better, more experienced…

But what if I don’t fail? What if someone reads the story I wrote and loves the hell out of it as I do? What if my self-proclaimed labour of love goes on to be received as such?

And that, friends, is what this exercise is all about.

Courage is a muscle, no different than the ones in your body. And, as with its corporeal counterparts, if you don’t use it regularly, it will surely wither and die. But let it never be said that I died on my knees.

I’m immortal, and I’m just getting started.

30 Days of Fearlessness #1: I Did A Thing Today.

Exactly what’s on the tin.

Somehow, I followed an odd train of thought (and Google) to the website of a university I’ve been considering for the better part of 2 years. I wrote a letter of intent and, before I could talk myself out of it, submitted my application (English Lit major, with a specialty in creative writing).

It’s not my first trip to this rodeo. Far from it. In fact, I attended university before, on 3 separate occasions, before finally dropping out. But I like to think that I never abandoned my education; it was just on hold.

As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, the adults in my life told me that writing was just a hobby and that I should major in something practical. Since I was a 4-time honours student and reasonably skilled in language studies, translation seemed a pretty safe choice: graduate, work for the government, get paid.

That said, the path isn’t always so clear-cut, and I quickly learned that I wasn’t ready for the university experience- specifically, my newfound freedom, and the responsibility that came with it. I had too little real-world knowledge and was overly concerned with the expectations of others; midterm season found me depressed, miserable, and failing all 3 classes I was still enrolled in. It was the first time I’d ever failed, not to mention on such a grand scale and at something as big as my education. The future I’d invested so much of myself in, up to that point, fell apart, and it was devastating, in a way that I had never known anything could be.

After a brief hiatus, I tried returning, but the outcome was the same. By definition, repeating the pattern and expecting a different result is an exercise in futility, and I realized that my work was cut out for me: identify what was causing the problem and fix it before making the commitment again.

Now that I’m an adult, my perspective has changed, and it seems so obvious that my love of books and words was the logical choice all along. I’m working on a lot of the issues that caused me to fail before, and I’m confident that I’ve made the “write” choice this time.

The point of me sharing this story is not to frighten anyone, but to empower you all. So maybe your first draft in the great novel of life is not perfect; maybe you went off on a tangent that has no relation to the plot, made a mistake somewhere, or took too long to reach the main objective… But you made it, and doesn’t matter how- only that you did.

For the next month, I’ve decided to challenge myself to do at least one thing per day that scares the shit out of me. The me that was sad and defensive and hurt is dying, and I won’t mourn her in the slightest; too long have I walked in her shadow.

If you decide to join me (and I hope you will), feel free to post your own courageous feats in the comments section. You can also drop me a line on Facebook or Twitter (@lauravbwrites), and share the brave things you’ve done. I’d love to hear from you!

Every Post You Make, I’ll Be Stalking You.

First of all, let me preface the following entry by stating that I am totally not stalking anyone IRL. Since this is the Internet, and a lot of people take everything literally, I’m just going to clarify that you shouldn’t stalk people because it doesn’t make sense/is creepy/reasons I shouldn’t have to list but just did anyway. Hooray for disclaimers!

So I just found out that the literary agency  whose website I’ve stalked since 2011 is now accepting submissions. And, even though my novel is nowhere near done, I felt that giddy, nervous sensation in my stomach at the thought of pitching to them~ of accomplishing something that’s been #1 on my bucket list since I was just a kid writing stories of questionable quality on the back of old faxes at my parents’ office (the weird paper with the perforated sides, because I’m old).

See, there’s one agent in particular (let’s call her Agent X) that I’m interested in querying because I knew she’d be the perfect fit for my labour of love, from the minute I read her biography 4 years ago. She likes strong characters with real, human qualities, and is seeking fresh voices in YA; she’s also interested in working with debut authors, something that not many agencies are willing to take a chance on (most agents seem to want an established fanbase, which translates to a proven track record, equals guaranteed sales, equals mucho dinero), and that’s huge.

In my many years of research (and stalkerish hobbies), I’ve never been so convinced that someone is “the one”. And, just as I did with my old online-dating profile, I’ll pitch my little black heart out, until she can’t possibly say no. Then, as with online dating, hopefully it’ll be the start of a long and beautiful relationship!

Do You Even Crit (ique)?

Recently, someone on a lifestyle website I frequent asked for feedback on a poem she’d written. I always get nervous when people ask for constructive or critical feedback because, nine times out of ten, they can’t take it and would rather be fed a line about how “omg ur soooo brilliant”.

My honest opinion was that it was absolutely dreadful~ your stereotypical whiny emo “br0k3n hartz” poem, totally unoriginal and complete with terrible rhyme, that makes me want to punch myself in the face with a 50-pound weight strapped to my hand. And, while I didn’t phrase my critique in those exact terms, I did tell her that it was unoriginal and made some suggestions for what she could do better next time.

Naturally, this was not well-received, and the would-be writer seemed to take offense to my feedback. Granted, putting your work out there is not easy- you’re probably apprehensive or nervous, because it’s the emotional equivalent of being strip-searched by hundreds of people, since you’re revealing a part of yourself previously hidden to the world. But it’s important to remember that people who offer constructive feedback are critiquing the work itself, not you.

I’ve had people tell me that I suck as a writer, and I challenge them by asking why. If they can’t tell me specifically what they didn’t like (for example, “I prefer sunshine and rainbows”) or offer any suggestions for what I can do better next time, I know to take their comments for what they are worth- absolutely nothing.

The thing is, no piece of writing is perfect, and suggesting that the first draft of your magnum opus is less than publishable is not a personal attack. If anything, it’s a hand up, because (at least in my opinion) lying to someone about her abilities is the truest disservice.

Where There’s A Wil(son), There’s A Way.

(The title of this blog post is inspired by my dad, who used to say this all the time when I was young. He’s my hero, and a total badass.)

Ever had one of those days when even getting out of bed seems like too much work? Well, that would be me today. And yet I’m forcing myself to write this because I promised that I would.

I’m past the I-can-do-it stage; that train left without me ages ago, and so I find myself firmly planted in the I-*will*-do-it camp. Why? Because it’s the only thing about me that’s never changed, in nearly 30 years on this earth.

Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve known only that I wanted to write. It seemed like such an obvious path. But, as time went on, I became too concerned with what other people thought, as well as the practical considerations (needing to live and eat and hold a job, among other essential functions).

For example, my (well-meaning) parents told me that writing was strictly a hobby and that I should major in  something that would pay the bills. My best friend of 12 years says that I should just move home and go back to college. And I once had a boyfriend (ex now, thankfully), a physics major, who told me that I had no future because I wasn’t a scientist. There was even the guy who threatened to take half of my stuff, if I ever published anything. But I’m not doing this for (or because of) anyone else. This is for me now.

(Fun fact: my parents are now practically begging me to do something with my writing. Likely because they’ve realized that I’m possibly the worst fit ever for the corporate world and that giving into the man sucks the life out of me.)

I’m done with people telling me that I can’t, or trying to scare me into silence. I will not be shut up, or shut down; I don’t fear confrontation and, for the first time in my life, I’m doing what’s best for me. As the saying goes, I was born to do more than simply pay bills and die~ I’m a firm believer in that.

Practical considerations be damned.

Work In Progress.

Nothing like spending an entire day staring at a blank screen, wishing that this damn manuscript would just write itself. Wishful thinking, of course. But a girl can dream, no?

I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about this project, and what I’m hoping to accomplish by writing it. And, honestly, the only thing I can think of, off the top of my head, is that the message is one that we don’t hear nearly enough in real life.

When I say that this is a love story, I don’t mean that it’s a Harlequin-esque smutfest filled with graphic descriptions of what went where (although I *have* written those too). Still, I consider it to be a love story in the truest sense, because it teaches love in its many forms~ familial, romantic, between best friends, and (most importantly) self-love.

Even after all these years, I still find my characters and their struggle an inspiration on those days that the words in my head won’t translate to paper. Watching my MMC transform from an emotionally-stunted loner into an empowered adult is one of the most beautiful metamorphoses I’ve ever seen; ditto my FMC, who changes from an arrogant teenager into a confident, compassionate young woman who cares about others.

Both of their stories remind me, even on the days that my life is more rough draft than polished manuscript, that my story is worth telling.