When Your Writing Mountain Is My Writing Molehill (and Vice Versa)
By Jan O'Hara | March 21, 2016 |
When her husband was hospitalized in the ICU a few years back, Ann Aguirre composed a blog post for Writer Unboxed about how she wrote great gobs of a novel at his bedside. (Happily, he made a full recovery.) I remember it because I always marveled at Ann’s output and was fascinated by anything to do with her process, hoping if I studied it I’d gain more insight into mine.
From what I could tell, her productivity formula was fairly simple: associate eating with writing, breathing with writing, contentment with writing, crankiness with writing, and view sleep as the means to recover enough energy for another bout of writing. In other words, given her favorite modus operandi, it made perfect sense that Ann would seek control in an uncontrollable situation by writing.
Ann’s bedside actions became a point of curiosity for me.
My entire medical career was a wasteland when it came to fiction. I hadn’t written a word, barely read any, if the truth be known. Since picking up the pen again, I’d written in odd places and times, sure, but during a vigil? Would I be capable? With so much going on and my old conditioning, would writing even occur to me?
As it turns out, we lost my mother-in-law last month to an aggressive brain tumor, so I now have answers to these questions and many others. Not only did I think of writing, Unboxeders, but if you can forgive me for calling you forth metaphorically into the room, I thought a great deal of you.
Before talking about what those bedside moments meant, let me nullify any potential guilt we might feel about benefiting from such a scenario. While the ending might have come suddenly, my mother-in-law’s passing was the culmination of a year-long series of letting-goes. She suffered from step-wise declines that robbed her of dignity, serenity, and independence. In contrast, her actual death was one of peace and comfort, surrounded by members of her large and loving family. We did right by her—I take great satisfaction in this. Also, at her core and to the end, she was a consummate caregiver and philanthropist. If her passing could benefit one person, I’m convinced she’d be greatly pleased.
If you’ve spent any time in the hospital—or in this case, a nursing home which rapidly turned into a hospice—you’ll know that there are moments of high drama and stress interspersed with eons of watchful passivity. One never can predict their relative proportion or exactly how they’ll be arranged.
I was prepared for this push-pull of stress-boredom and brought an arsenal of supplies in my backpack: laptop with charger, pen and paper, my journal, a work-in-progress, and several novels I was reading/studying.
My intention was to be available in the room for my “shifts,” writing if things were peaceful. When relieved by family members, I’d relocate to a quiet room on the same floor where I could work but be nearby in case of trouble.
It took all of an hour to discover a series of obstacles to my plan.
The physical setting— At the bedside, most of the time I was crowded behind a hospital curtain, cheek-to-jowl with my husband and in-laws. We perched on stools or on the cushion of my mother-in-law’s walker, trading places to provide care. Between the lack of privacy, tenuous position and constant jostling, there was no way to comfortably manage a laptop. Pen and paper weren’t any more practical.
As for the quiet room, it was separated from the main dining hall by a row of windows, effectively putting me on display for the residents as they ate. Guess which nursing home rule I discovered? Solitary visitors act like catnip to lonely patients with dementia.
My role as de facto consultant—Though I wasn’t my mother-in-law’s health agent, my experience in palliative care was obviously considered a boon to the family. I was asked to be present during doctors’ visits and help translate and guide the course of treatment. While this was my great privilege and honor, it meant revisiting my days on call in that I could never quite turn off the medical part of my brain.
Tonal whiplash—Finally, there was a big emotional gap between what was going on under my nose and my writing. I was living a drama while writing a rom-com. Passages in my WIP that felt delightful and pleasingly diversionary before now seemed trivial and joyless. I couldn’t enter my fictive world. Couldn’t enter one of the novels I’d brought, either. (The Accidental Tourist worked because of its synchronous blend of humor and pathos and because it was about a grief-stricken protagonist.)
The path forward
Unboxeders, given all the above, and that at my heart I am a committed caregiver as well, it should have been an easy decision to back-burner my writing and become fully immersed in the present, yes? Better to forgo a few weeks of fiction than deal with months or years of regret. Yet when I made the only choice possible for me, the moment was accompanied by surprising resistance, rather like when you go to open a jar of pickles, mouth salivating, and discover a seal that might have been set by Superman.
Once I’d thought things through, though, and began to fully attend to the present, did I leave my writer-self behind? Paradoxically, not at all.
I’d forgotten this, but there is something about the combination of sleep deprivation, stress, and the emotionality of a deathbed which provide for piercing moments of insight. It’s almost like a wormhole into a place of deeper meaning and purpose, which is where you come in.
This is one part of what I yearned to say to you in the moment, Unboxeders: That tangible pop when I opened the pickle jar? That unexpected resistance? It pointed to a thinking error I wasn’t conscious of beforehand—one which I suspect a few of you share.
When Ann wrote her article, would you agree her motive was likely to inspire? To teach fledgling writers what was possible and acceptable, even in the heated pitch of illness? Somehow I converted that intention from inspiration, to challenge, to yardstick, to cudgel of expectation.
Professional writers are people who write in hospital rooms, my thinking said. I cannot write. Therefore, I do not have a professional attitude toward my craft.
See the error(s) in logic? You might recognize the pattern if you catch yourself thinking something like this:
- Writer X composed her debut novel while nursing twins. Ergo, I’m not a proper writer if I’m not able to finish this book while raising a solitary babe.
- Writer Y wrote a short story every day for a year. Therefore, I’m not a real writer if I can’t complete a story a month.
- Writer Z pitched her agent during a bungee jump. There’s something wrong with me if I struggle to present coherently during a conference appointment.
You get the idea.
Thing is, Unboxeders, and I appreciate this is a simple message but it’s one a few of us might need to relearn, Ann and I are different writers.
Our illness-facing selves were at different stages of life, anticipating different outcomes for our loved-ones.
We existed in different times in different rooms in different countries.
We write different genres, use different laptops, cultivate different themes.
We face different writerly mountains.
Different writerly molehills.
Even different writerly pickle jars.
Different writer.
Different writer.
Different writer.
As are you!
So…if you should need it, and if you’ll permit me another act of caregiving in the name of my late mother-in-law, this post is your permission to let go of any insidious comparisons you might be harboring. Be a human being you can be proud of. Trust that will be your shortest path to becoming your own, authentic brand of artist.
I believe Ann herself would agree.
And if you have spare time and are in need of a sense of purpose, volunteer in your nearest nursing home where I guarantee you’ll be an instant hit.
Now to you, Unboxeders. Have you transformed another writer’s accomplishment from inspiration to yardstick to dogma? If so, what allowed you to seize your freedom?
[coffee]
A USA Today bestselling author, former family physician and academic, Jan O’Hara (she/her) left the world of medicine behind to follow her dreams of becoming a writer. She writes love stories that zoom from wackadoodle to heartfelt in six seconds flat: (Opposite of Frozen; Cold and Hottie; Desperate Times, Desperate Pleasures). Her latest Christmas novella, The Cowboy’s Comeback Christmas, is part of a 9-author-strong anthology (A Cowboy This Christmas: A Sweet Romance Anthology). She also contributed to Author in Progress, a Writer’s Digest Book edited by Therese Walsh.
Jan, I’ve been at the bedside you describe more than once. You’re right in that it demands your full engagement for all the sorrow and the beauty it brings. We don’t always have to be writing. But I love your post, Jan, because you have hit a real nerve. What writer doesn’t compare his or her work or successes with other writers at least once or twice. Me? It’s more than once or twice. And I often do it over book promo issues too, so it’s a double whammie. A friend of mine sold dozens of his books from a Facebook post boost by only spending about $25. When I tried it, I sold zero. I might as well have thrown my $25 into the street and made somebody’s lucky day. Author Brenda Ueland (If You Want To Write) says to keep in mind that “you are incomparable.” She’s big on following your own path or as you suggest ‘become your own brand of artist.’ Your post is a reminder of the cliche, which is so true: apples and oranges.
Paula, the goalposts always move, don’t they? At one point, many of imagine ourselves to be content if we’re published. Then we are but want more readers, more awards, and, if we’re inclined, a sign that our business acumen has been fully realized.
For what it’s worth, I think you should be proud that you’re experimenting to find what works for you. I suspect you’d have gladly handed a tax-deductible $25 over to a teacher for a lesson on marketing. Well this was a self-education expense.
And yes, apples and oranges–a big ol’ fruit salad. :)
So agree with you on the mixed beauty and sorrow of the deathbed vigil.
Hi Jan–
As I read your post today–as always, well-written and clear–I experienced a growing sense of impatience.
You start with a story about a writer you respect, Ann Aguirre, someone who apparently writes while sky-diving, snorkeling, etc. Forgive me for saying so, but the story put me in mind of a moment not long ago, when I was using the men’s room at my college. As I stood at the urinal taking care of business, I had no choice but to hear a disquieting blend of sounds emanating from a toilet stall, as the occupant chatted up his girlfriend on his cell phone. Multi-tasking goes to Higher Ed, I thought.
In your story, though, you tell us Aquirre wrote continuously during a vigil she kept next to her husband while he was in a hospital’s ICU. “She wrote great gobs of a novel at his bedside,” and also turned the vigil itself into fodder for a Writer Unboxed post. You lament not having the same kind of driven, not to say compulsive work ethic.
But failing to emulate this regimen when your mother-in-law was dying, you describe the conclusions you arrived at. You decided that we’re all different as writers, and that it makes no sense to beat up on ourselves by making pointless comparisons with others.
There is nothing wrong with this, and I agree with your conclusion–but it seems pretty obvious. Of necessity, writers think of themselves and their work in relation to other writers. As do lawyers, doctors, etc., in relation to their counterparts. But anyone who can’t accept the differences isn’t likely to do very much or very well.
And here’s something else that bothers me. Other than their being married, do we know anything certain about Aguirre’s relationship with her husband, or with other people? How about the husband, looking over to always see his wife writing feverishly, knowing she would be doing the same thing on Krypton, in a restroom, or anywhere else?
With you, all kinds of real-world responsibilities and roadblocks made writing in a hospital setting out of the question. Do you think Aquirre would have allowed those same impediments to deter her? If the answer is no, then without doubt she is the poster child for productivity. And I would almost certainly prefer to know you, not her.
Barry, what a complicated and thoughtful comment. Thank you for giving me a chance to address a misconception I inadvertently created. If you’re wondering about it, most likely others are, too.
I’ve met Ann briefly and have every confidence that she would have set aside her writing to be available as needed for her loved-ones. If I gave you an impression otherwise, I regret I wasn’t clearer. Also, unlike me, Ann supports her family through her writing. Once her husband was known to be on the mend, by writing at the bedside and meeting her deadline, she was contributing toward his health.
As to your caution against multi-tasking, I couldn’t agree more. But there are times in a hospital setting when the patient is asleep and peaceful, and caregivers can turn their minds elsewhere. I just wasn’t successful at finding enough of them, and that’s okay.
Do you have any thoughts of coming to the UnCon this year? Would be lovely to meet you in person.
Jan, lots to think about here. I think it’s a human trait to compare ourselves to others. Your bullit-list of writers who pitch while sky-diving and compose short stories while giving birth reminded me of an old SNL skit about the housewife on pep pills. I think she was ironing paper grocery bags while making a chocolate souffle…anyway, you get the picture! I think we do this comparing thing until it puts us in so much pain that we break through to a new understanding (and acceptance) of ourselves. But the truth is, as Barry mentioned, above, the reality of those we compare ourselves to is never as glossy as we imagine! I had a spell of sitting in hospitals with one parent or the other over a two year period. Seems that when I went prepared with paper and pen, nothing popped. But one day, while my Dad was snoozing after surgery and I was hanging out, not trying to work, a whole chapter crept up on me out of nowhere. I had to scramble, but I got it down. I think for me, the key was in the release of expectations. Meanwhile, I think the experience you described, your bearing witness to your mother-in-law’s passing, will inform your work in ways you might not be able to imagine now. Thanks for sharing the experience with us.
Susan, I saw that SNL skit. Loved it, too. :)
Yes on the self-acceptance and releasing expectations as two of the fastest ways to doing our best work.
“Meanwhile, I think the experience you described, your bearing witness to your mother-in-law’s passing, will inform your work in ways you might not be able to imagine now. ”
Thank you so much. I believe you’re right but it’s nice to have that reinforced by someone who’s come out the other side of a similar experience.
Thanks Jan, for the reminder that every writer is unique, and comparisons poison the psyche.
We are writers even when we are not writing. While our hands and minds are busy caring for others, the boys in the basement are working furiously.
My weekly visits to an elderly neighbour in a nursing home, while they afford me no time to write, give me ample fodder for character study and dialogue. Keep that notebook handy, lock yourself in the bathroom if you have to, and scribble it all down.
Rita, bless you for visiting your neighbor. One thing I saw firsthand, because we were a large and boisterous family and omnipresent, was how lonely and bored many residents were. Some had no visitors at all in the month we were there. They wanted us to adopt them.
And yes, I need to capture those details while they are fresh in my mind. Thank you for the reminder.
Ahhh, the terrible urge to compare. Always rears it’s ugly head. I recently sat at my dying mother’s bedside for weeks. Couldn’t write a word. But that’s ok. I know that later after the cobwebs are blown out of my head from the ordeal, I will write. Have faith and do your own thing.
Lorraine, hugs on your recent loss. Sounds like you knew exactly how to be kind to yourself in a tough circumstance by not piling on another expectation. Good for you.
Hey Boss, First off, so sorry for your loss. My condolences to the ToolMaster and the kids, as well.
I think Susan’s right – this will likely continue to serve your work in unforeseen ways. I know the post is about needless comparison, but I can’t help thinking about my own mother-in-law’s passing. Her declining health was part of Mo’s and my adoption of our “Life’s too short” mantra, and our life-change (the sale of our business and our move back to the Mighty Mitten). The days leading up to it really cemented us as a family, and I know my MIL would heartily approve (and may well have orchestrated it, if I know her). My first jottings of my first novel came just weeks afterward. There’s such a powerful connection between the outlet of writing and her passing, I suppose I could write an entire post of my own about it. It’s filled me right up with decade-old emotions this morning.
So how’s that for being off the point? I suppose my supplemental point is that there is beauty, even if it’s a poignant beauty, to be found in these moments. It seems like you found yours, too. Which makes me glad. Thanks for sharing it, Jan.
V, thank you for the kind wishes.
You’re not remotely off point. That kind of profundity is exactly what is awakened in me at such pivotal moments. Would be nice to get there without the antecedent cause, but there is no arguing with reality.
I suspect your mother-in-law would take great joy in knowing she was instrumental in you and Mo stepping off the treadmill and pursuing your bliss. In a way, she helped us meet, so I can be grateful to her too.
That’s a good question. I haven’t paid much attention to how other writers write. I don’t much care, honestly.
What I do take inspiration from is how they think. If I feel envy it’s because they discover stories in place I would never have looked. They take those stories in directions I would never have imagined.
I learn craft from others, that’s easy, but I dearly wish I could learn how to have other writers’ minds. Then again, my goal perhaps ought to be inspiring a similar envy in them. That requires that I discover stories in my own places and direct them in the ways that only I can.
So my answer is this: Other writers inspire me to be more me.
Love your posts, Jan. They’re so you.
Thank you, dear Benjamin.
I always look forward to your comments because you are a unique thinker. I can be assured of a different perspective and often a challenge. So I ask you, how can that not show up in your work? ;)
Lovely post Jan. First let me express my sympathies on the loss of your mother-in-law. As she would wish, may you and all her loved ones be consoled.
I am unpublished. Truth be told, I have two and two-thirds novels written, but have put nearly no effort into trying to sell the manuscripts. It isn’t that I don’t want to; it’s the fear of my work not measuring up, not being upmarket enough, or smart enough.
The things is, I write commercial fiction meant to entertain, to be a beach read, an escape. I’m not even making appropriate comparisons.
No more! As Rita (above) says: Comparisons poison the psyche. And Susan (also above) says: The key is in the release of expectations.
Thank you ladies. I feel unburdened.
Stephanie, thank you kindly.
The world needs entertaining beach reads. Or at least I need entertaining beach reads. (I happen to be writing one, too.)
I’m glad if the post made sense to you and that the commenters cemented the deal. Now go forth and detrunk those novels.
Jan, I’m sorry about your MIL, that it was a hard battle. May she rest in peace. I’ve sat at many a bedside and must confess that I’m not a multi-tasker. I can concentrate on scribbling a few thoughts in my notebook if the person I’m caring for finally falls asleep. For me, it’s a release, but more often than not, I stare out the window.
Jane Yolen wrote sonnets while at her husband’s bedside as he battled cancer and eventually died. A friend of mine sat with her husband during his thrice weekly dialysis in the hospital. She too wrote if he snoozed. Their time together was too short …
I don’t really know what my point is … only that there’s a season for everything, and sometimes writing isn’t it.
Vijaya, I agree wholeheartedly on the wholehearted pursuit of one thing at a time. It’s how I function best, though we each have to find our way.
I read your post, Jan–and the comments it generated–with interest. I’ve fallen into this particular sticky goo of self doubt. And I wondered what was wrong with me. Now I realize that there’s nothing wrong.
(I sat at my mom, and then my dad’s, death bed. It was a life changing experience. Though I never picked up the pen then, it has shaped my writing.)
Leanne, methinks it’s time to clean the soles of your shoes. ;)
Hugs on the loss of your parents. It sounds like you’ve come out the other side okay, but I’m sorry for your loss.
Jan,
I am so sorry for your loss.
I used to cringe from that big ol’ scary Stephen King meme that shows up in my FB feed every now and again. I’m sure know the one I am referring to… it states in no nonsense terms that a “true writer” must read zillions of books and write every day.
Recently I’ve become tired of cringing. I decided to rebel against the writerly status quo.
As a child I had a writerly yardstick. Created by me, for me, to measure my personal writerly journey. I never paid attention to other people’s measurements. I had my influences, my learning experiences, my evolution, but I understood organically that yardsticks were not one-size-fit-all, and had to be custom made.
In this grown up world of so much writerly advice, I’ve begun to listen to the wisdom of that child again, and to discern for me, my personal wheat from chaff.
No one can write the stories that I write, and I can’t write the stories of another writer. This is my golden nugget of personal truth, and when I discovered it where it had always been waiting at my feet, on the path of my personal writerly journey, I realized my entire path has eternally been made of this very same gold, and the only part that had changed about this was me. I was able to see again, for the first time, in a very long time.
And everything I have said above, may sound like rubbish to another writer, but that paradoxically proves my point.
Now when that big ol’ Stephen King meme shows up on my FB about how I must write and read every day, I can scan past it without a twinge of a cringe. Because what works for Stephen King and may work for other writers, doesn’t define my personal artistic process.
There are millions of footprints imprinted in the sand of the writerly path, and they belong to all the writers who travelled this treacherous and beautiful road, before me. But I’ve learned that these sands shift according to the eye of the beholder of the pen. And as the sand shifts before me, certain footprints on certain points of my journey, remain to guide me. But these too, are only imprinted in sand. And as I evolve, the sands on my path will shift and change again and again.
For inevitably, the route I am fated to follow, is the one I choose, on the artistic journey that belongs to, and creates, and is created, by me.
B, don’t feel obliged to respond, but I’m curious if you had parents in the arts or entrepreneurship to have had such an intrinsic, instinctive trust in yourself from a young age. (Whatever the cause, it’s marvelous.)
Bernadette,
Your reply to this post was so beautiful and true, that I wish I could share it publicly. This realization is so hard for me to grasp, myself. Those Stephen King and other writerly memes make me cringe, every time. But writing is not above life; writing is part of life. We may use it to process and interpret the events in our lives, but there’s a lot to be said for allowing ourselves to put down the pen and just be sometimes, too. Thank you all for writerly encouragement that truly is, instead of a guilt trip wrapped in a pretty package, as so much writing advice seems to be.
A consummate caregiver and philanthropist. What wonderful ‘praise at the city gates.’ I’m sorry for your family’s loss.
Carmel, thank you. And yes, I think she’d be very pleased by that description.
Jan, as always the article was lovely and thoughtful. My condolences on your loss.
I do think there’s something to be said for “single-tasking”–especially at such a difficult time. And it seems like you were excellent at doing just that. Eventually the single-tasking will apply to the writing, too–but later, after the important moments in the hospital are over. And isn’t that the whole point of moving away from multi-tasking?–to focus on everything with your whole heart and mind, whether it be the writing or the life? Blessings to you.
Heather, yes, single-tasking is the writerly verion of serial monogamy. ;)
And thank you so much on the kind words and the condolences.
What a lovely, poignant, and honest post, Jan. Thank you.
David, thank you so much. Coming from you, that’s high praise. Hope I didn’t raise too many ghosts for you.
Jan, you do so many things for Writer Unboxed and being a caregiver/doctor for your MIL was so you. Wishing you fond memories and know she appreciated everything you did. I have sat with my husband while he was getting chemo and taken notes for a novel; also reread sections of Marilynne Robinson’s GILEAD to probe some amazing ideas about belief and spirituality. But when my mother was dying, I wrote away from the bedside. And I wrote about losing her. Every experience flows off a writer’s pen. As your did here. Thank you.
Beth, you’re very kind. Thank you.
And you’ve been through a lot yourself! My goodness. I hope everything is okay with your husband.
Jan, this is beautiful. And so true.
Aw, thank you, Al! Hugs.
Jan,
Thank you so much for writing this post. Though it hasn’t involved bedside vigils, my own life has been pretty topsy-turvy this past year. I had to take a near-total hiatus from writing advice, because even the “encouragement” just feels like a guilt trip most days. We writers really do that to ourselves, and I so appreciate that you named and acknowledged that tendency in this post. Also, hugs to you. Saying goodbye to family members is never easy, no matter how prepared you think you are.
Meagan, I’ll take that hug, thank you, and offer one in kind. It’s all to easy to fall into the all-or-nothing mindset which says we have to be doing it perfectly or the effort isn’t worthwhile. One resource which has helped me to be kinder to myself is https://hillaryrettig.com. Someday, when you’re ready, you might check it out.
Thank you for this breath of fresh, freeing air! I can’t count the number of such comparisons I’ve whacked myself with. The motherhood one, certainly. And the last several years have been difficult in a number of ways, but since that’s been the case for so long, it’s hard to trust it will ever end, that I don’t need to do better NOW. (Or, of course, I’m not a “real writer.” You know what the voices say.)
All that in spite of the fact I’ve attained my first publication credit recently, a personal essay in a print anthology. Yet I haven’t finished any of the novels I dream of… Well. THANK YOU.
Marcy, one common trait of perfectionists is that we don’t give ourselves enough time to celebrate our achievements before we’re asking more of ourselves. It’s harder to do challenging work when you’re never allowed to rest. On that note, congratulations on your essay! (Paradoxically, the celebration makes us more likely to reengage with our work.)
I understand the impatience. But you’re obviously able and willing to set time aside to write when it’s truly available. Someday, when your priorities can be different, you’ll be able to take the skills that allowed you to be published in non-fiction and turn them to your fiction. In other words, you’re closer than you think.
Oh, how I want to hug you right now, Jan. First, for your giving so much of yourself for your mother-in-law and your family this past year. What a wonderful gift. You should feel good for embracing the transition we all have to face eventually, in our loved ones and in ourselves.
Secondly, I want to hug you for saying what we all face, that recognition that we don’t write like everyone else, or anyone else. Each of us is wired differently. I’m still coming to terms with the fact that this writing thing, which I want more than anything in my life and which I set aside for so many years, may never be a natural fit. And yet I’m going it anyhow because it’s important to me. It took so many years to be able to say that, and yet I still feel twinges of guilt when I sense I’m falling short, not sufficiently embracing the opportunity.
But I’m learning, and I am taking strides. That’s all any of us can do, and you never know how far you’ve come, how much you’ve grown, until you look back. Until then you just have to take one step at a time, and write from your heart.
You’re going to get there, Jan. And I know it’ll be fantastic. Hugs from our home to yours.
John, well thank you so much–for the hugs and the confidence and the kind words. They are all much appreciated.
I wonder what percentage of writers feel like their fiction is a natural fit. What do you think? 50%? I’m going to go with the Pareto Principle and say it’s no more than 20%. Anyway, I’m not one of that blessed number so your second paragraph resonated with me. ;)
And yes, one step forward at a time, my friend. That’s all that’s in our control.