Losing Your North Star
By John J Kelley | July 31, 2018 |
In what now seems another lifetime, back when I first began to share my desire to be a novelist, a dear friend made a powerful observation. She lamented that writing must be extremely hard, citing not publishing perils or the financial challenge, as one might expect. Instead, she suggested writers had to possess supreme confidence, a pure faith that their stories were deserving of attention. At the time, the sentiment surprised me. Though I had many concerns, it had never occurred to me to question the worth of my writing. I simply had a story, at least the kernel of one, and wanted to see it through. What propelled me was a desire to convey the tale well and in a manner truthful to the inspiration behind it. That felt like enough at the time, and indeed it was.
Recently, however, my friend’s words have come back to haunt me. For I no longer carry within me the confidence to which she alluded. I didn’t grasp her meaning then because, at the time, I understood the world I was crafting. More precisely, I trusted my own world view. Secure in my knowledge, characters arcs and plot lines within the tale came into focus naturally because, ultimately, the fictional world on some level reflected my own. Sadly, this is no longer the case. These days I sit down at my desk with more questions than answers, vigilantly suspicious, like a man hovering over a puzzle while convinced a third of the pieces are missing, or from another set entirely.
Even this post reflects this turmoil. Normally a topic comes to mind, and accepting my own contribution as a given, I research what writers both past and present have to say on the matter. Then I open the doors to the WU community, eager to engage, encourage or even argue points of view. Given my current trepidation, I thought it best to take another tack, seeking input from the community at the start. The thoughtful, and in some cases heart-wrenching, responses opened my eyes to the fact we all face crises in our lives, which at times short-circuit our creative efforts. And while I must caution the insights do not provide clear answers, I hope they offer comfort and perhaps pointers for those facing doubts, even as you seek new stars to guide your way forward.
Divorce
Over 40% of US marriages end in divorce, so it came as no surprise that the majority of responses related to the tumult that follows the disintegration of one’s home life. Writer and Editor Jean Jenkins was working on a number of projects when her marriage of 16 years collapsed. To this day she has never resurrected a single one, though she sometimes draws from their ideas. Still, she says the experience ultimately deepened her writing. “I’m better able to imagine perspectives and nuances now. Part is age, yes, and life experience; but most is due to that rattling, blinders-off, who-do-you-trust-when-you-can’t-trust-anyone summer.”
Natalie Hart hasn’t yet reached that point. Plans to publish her nearly completed manuscript were set aside three years ago as she dealt with the emotional, financial and legal repercussions of a shocking and sudden divorce. Though she has since rebuilt the lives of herself and her children, and has even found some writing-for-pay projects, her personal works remain a struggle. As she describes, “I circle around my writing, doing little bits, but not much real forward momentum.” She knows the decision lies within her on when to begin again; but knows also it will only come when the time is right, when she is ready to make the commitment.
R James Turley, conversely, discovered writing as a result of his divorce. “It helped me get through it. Some of my early poems were angry,” he explained. “Eventually, after I made it through that rough time, I started writing stories.”
Grief
Ellen Appleby Keim stopped writing altogether when her father died, even in personal journals. She found words wholly inadequate at capturing her emotions. That is, she did until the dam burst, resulting in an essay on grief that was eventually published and remains one of her favorite pieces. Her advice from the experience is clear. “You can’t force your writing when something cataclysmic has happened to you … give yourself time to process.” But she is quick to add that “the act of writing can help you to process the event. Just don’t expect too much of yourself, and be aware that your voice may have changed irrevocably, and that’s okay too.”
Illness
For nearly two years, Dee Wilson has undergone surgeries and therapy to treat a previously undiagnosed disease. And though her desire to write is strong, stronger than ever in some ways, she finds herself unable to open her work in progress. Fear prevents her — fear she will love the work but struggle to find new words, fear she will hate it and not have words to fix it, and an encompassing fear that the effort will take time from friends and family who have stood by her side for these many months.
While she hasn’t yet found an answer, she suspects the key is perhaps learning to work within the fine line between the positive thinking she can rally on good days and the bad days which steal her momentum.
Violence
Charlotte Mielziner also faced an arduous road to recovery, though not from disease. After a physical assault left her traumatized, she first needed therapy to gain perspective. From there, she took on several things to conquer her fear — finding a good horse, taking up karate, working on a rape hotline and, eventually, returning to writing. She says her recovery is ongoing, but makes clear the journey began with one key decision. As she puts it, “I could choose to change to be what he left me, a victim, or by refusing to bend, find my voice again.”
These are insights of just a few members of our broad and diverse WU community. And now I turn the mic to you. Have you ever lost your voice or your faith in your writing? Can you offer lessons on how to find your way back when shadows in life dim the path? If so, please share your thoughts in the comments. I, and other members, will no doubt benefit from your experience.
[coffee]
John J Kelley crafts tales of individuals at a crossroads, exploring themes of growth, reconciliation and community. His debut novel, The Fallen Snow, about a young soldier’s homecoming at the close of WWI, received a Publishers Weekly starred review and earned an Honorable Mention nod at the 2012 Foreword Reviews Book-of-the-Year Awards.
Born and raised in the Florida panhandle, John graduated from Virginia Tech and for a time served as a military officer. Today he lives with his partner in Washington, DC.
John, what a powerful and moving post. I’m grateful to you and everyone who shared their story here, and blown away by the generosity of spirit it takes to be vulnerable in this way. Each of us responds to grief, betrayal, and illness in our own way. And on top of personal ordeals, we must now grapple daily with the uncertainty of a dysfunctional world. Balance can be very illusive. I had a crazy time in my younger years, which left me very little energy for writing or painting (my two loves), but now I’m drawing heavily on those hard years to help me understand myself and my fellow humans. I am grateful for the lessons, but certainly don’t wish for a repeat. When I feel myself getting shaken off the path, I go outside and surround myself with as much beauty as I can find because it reminds me of what is real and enduring. Again, thank you for a moving and beautiful post.
Thank you for the kind words, Susan. My biggest fear with this post was that it was taking on too much. Even viewing it with fresh eyes this morning, I know it scarcely scratches the surface.
A loss of faith, whether in a religious context or involving one’s trust in an individual or a family or an entire community, has no easy solution. What I gained from the experiences shared so openly was twofold. First, the act of sharing is itself a step toward healing. And, secondly, rising each day with a willingness to face the matter is key to finding a way forward.
It isn’t easy, but making the daily effort is the journey. And I believe that journey makes for stronger writing down the road.
I think you’ve taken that to heart, drawing from your past as you do. And I think your advice to go out and find beauty when you need nourishment is the wisest – and quickest – path to a reset. Hikes, or even a stroll around the neighborhood, are indeed good for the soul.
Be well, Susan, and thanks for commenting on what I know is a rather somber read.
I didn’t find this somber, John. Nor do I think you took on too much. It’s honest and raw, yes, but trauma and loss of faith are very real. Suffering is real. You’ve created a space to talk about it, which, believe me, is no small thing.
Thanks, Susan. I suppose it’s a new voice for me, saying it aloud anyhow. Normally it just sneaks into my writing. Those lines are blurring as of late, and perhaps that’s a good thing.
Dear John,
Your words opened a door in me: and some tears. Some three decades ago I suffered a major trauma, losing a former husband to suicide. I had PTSD for years following. In the aftermath I heard a voice saying “Words make no difference at all”. Up until then I had confidence in words and stories to magically heal the world’s hurts. I have yet to regain that confidence. Thank you for putting all this into….ah…words.
Patty M.
A like button doesn’t seem to fit here – at all. But thank you for your willingness to share. I am so sorry for your loss, the kind that leaves scars that never fully heal.
I do hope you are writing. Words may not offer a magical salve, but they do, as you point out, sometimes open doors. At least that’s a start, and maybe, sometimes, that’s all we need. Take care, Patty, and have a wonderful day.
Thanks for your post, John. Visiting with you the crash sites of other Writer Unboxed community members is both chastening and humbling. Divorce, grief, illness, violence–with the exception of grieving over the loss of friends, none of these disasters has figured with me. As a writer, the threat of capsizing mostly comes in other terms.
I’ve said here before that if money is the mother’s milk of politics (and, unfortunately, it is), then hope is the mother’s milk for writers. To lose hope–of finding one’s voice, or an audience, an agent, or someone to help you navigate the shoals of book marketing–is to start questioning the point of what you’re doing. That kind of self-doubt is Hemlock for writers. When it happens, each writer must navigate her/his way back to hope. And it can be quite a rough passage.
But thanks for reminding me of what obscures the North Star for many other writers. It helps put my own, lesser concerns in much-needed perspective.
Such wisdom, Barry, and a timely reminder. I think a post devoted to hope should follow this one. Maybe I’ll be equipped to write it if someone doesn’t put it together first (and just from your describing it above, you have my vote).
Reading the challenges of our fellow writers noted in this post certainly gave my concerns perspective, and no matter how I tried to put the message together, adding my perspective atop their already powerful stories just seemed to clutter the honesty.
I do see this as a first step, the part we all face at one time or another, the part where we acknowledges the break. But the next – and necessary – step is putting it back together and emerging stronger for the detour.
I now have an image of navigating back off of the shoals into the open waters, and that’s one I’ll carry with me the rest of the day. I don’t paint, but I can write. So perhaps I’ll try to capture the scene, figuratively if not literally. Thanks!
There’s an interesting theme here, in that some of us find words are the only channel out of a bad place, while others find them wholly inadequate. And some of the people you cited felt both at different times.
I think it’s probably impossible to predict ahead whether words will be useful to you or not, when the world slams you in the head with a brick. But one thing seems true. If you work at your craft enough that words are there for you, at your fingertips, it can only be helpful when you need them to come to your rescue.
I think you’re right, Jodi. Starting writing later in life – but not too late in life ;) – I don’t think I developed the skills, the motor memory of how to keep plugging, like remembering the keys of a keyboard from typing class (which fortunately I do). So I stumble more easily, and imagine I’m not alone in that.
But the idea of just writing, even if you don’t have think you have anything to say, or fear your words won’t be adequate, remains valid. And none of us should ever forget that. Perhaps the caveat to that idea, which I’m now learning, is not to be too hard on yourself when you do. To mix metaphors (horribly), sometimes you just have to dust yourself off and get back on the bike
The fact that I could take my love of reading, and eventual plan to write, and turn myself into a novelist despite a major illness, is what keeps me sane. The illness cost me continuing my career in research physics, but the writing has kept me from falling apart. It takes me a lot longer than others take to write with a damaged brain, but I can write, so I’m still me.
My fears were of not being able to become good enough to do what I wanted. Turns out, it just took me a whole lot longer because I can only work for a short time every day. I don’t even have many entries in the Fear Journal any more – though the earlier writing years are filled with doubt.
Writers are not exempt from life.
You are an inspiration, Alicia. And your words about still being you strike a chord with me. Part of my current struggle is facing my mother’s dementia, which at this point is relatively mild though far enough along that she had to move into a home this past year.
When I am able to visit, and when I speak with her on the phone, I am always thankful she is still Mom. But one of the hardest things I’ve ever faced is to recognize she may not always be. Issues branch out from there, as they tend to do. But I know it’s at the root of a lot of my thinking these days. She still reads, with more time than she’s had in recent years actually. So I always bring a couple of books with me when I go.
At any rate, I am so glad to hear you discovered writing, and found it a saving grace in your life. That is how it should be, no matter the bumps along the way. As you say, we are not exempt from life. Thank you, Alicia.
John, I went through dementia with my mother. She died in 2013 at the age of 97. If I can ever help in any way, I am here for you, Beth
Thank you, Beth! I will.
My mother and husband’s mom both battled dementia, and were ‘still there’ in small ways until the end, but it was very hard seeing vibrant women who had run households and done so much for us succumb to something that should have been fixed, as my disease should have been, a long time ago. How many more generations will we lose of the accumulated wisdom of a lifetime?
Remember: even if your mom isn’t communicating, she’s still in there, and should be treated that way; and you never know when you will get through. So keep the effort up, because she knows you and loves you.
I had to chuckle at your comment, ‘discovered writing,’ since I’ve been writing novels since 1995. Published in 2015. It takes a while for me, and there was a lot to learn. I tucked a full-length play into that time-frame, and short stories, to develop certain facilities: there is nothing like a play to improve your dialogue.
On a literary note, an author friend of mine – Susan Coll – taught a novel-writing class here in the DC area some years back. And one of the lessons she gave us was to read a play – Rabbit Hole. The purpose was to show how one could be an entire world via only dialogue and sparse stage instruction. It was an enlightening exercise.
Thank you for this post, which helps me know that I am not alone. I am still trying to find my way back to writing. Too many health issues and other family stresses. I know that the words will come back to me eventually…. Thanks, again.
You’re most welcome, Kay. I wish for you room to breathe. I also wish for you the time and space to write, when you’re ready. Be well.
Like Patty, I read this in tears.
I have really struggled in recent years. Formerly, I could hardly keep from writing… words flowed with ease on my works in progress (whatever they were). Then… my husband suffered a depression, and I lost my North Star (that’s exactly how I’ve thought of it, John). I felt/feel helpless and (sometimes) alone personally but also stymied in writing. It’s been a huge loss. I wake up early, as I have always done, anxious to get started writing, but I can’t always, sometimes never. Not with ease or effectiveness. And I question everything I think of writing… constantly.
It sounds trite and odd and massive and so many feelings all rolled into one, but I JUST WANT TO WRITE. It is enormously frustrating and also devastating. So if anyone CAN offer “lessons on how to find your way back when shadows in life dim the path,” please sign me up.
I’m so sorry, Julia. And I wish I had an antidote I could wrap and deliver to you. Believe me, I would, after taking a sample for me.
Just know that we are all in this together, even if we may occupy offices miles and miles apart. It’s sounds corny, but is is true. Keep plugging, and find inspiration where you can, in your photography and in the stories of others, and in your friends. And trust that you still have the stories in you, because you do.
Thank you for this post. I fall into the second camp and delving into my feelings through writing has liberated me. I decided that secrets are toxic and to just put myself out there, in the hopes that my experience might help someone else to see inside themselves.
Keep writing and may the truth set you free.
Yes! Many, many yesses in fact. I know that some of my current block is a a result of holding back in my daily life, which of course flows into the writing as well.
Thank you for reiterating that lesson, one which I have had to learn repeatedly but which is slowly getting through.
While reading this wonderful posting, I was reminded of a story by the late Wayne Dyer, in which his uncle once advised him: “Don’t die with your dream still hidden inside of you.” I tell myself this quite often when I don’t know how the manuscript I’m working on will ever see the light of day.
Sage advice, Daniel. I do one way through is to allow the story to be larger than you, and all the issues around us. For me, that takes a while but I’ve been there before, and I have to believe I’ll get back there again, with a little help from my friends, both literary and otherwise.
“These days I sit down at my desk with more questions than answers, vigilantly suspicious, like a man hovering over a puzzle while convinced a third of the pieces are missing, or from another set entirely.”
This is exactly what’s been happening to me for the last few years as I keep outlining the same novel, over and over. I’ve started first drafts multiple times, but I always go back to the drawing board. The book has a home waiting for it with my publisher, so this has been pretty frustrating.
Overall, I’ve been in a time of transition, which has been difficult (I left my teaching job at a school I had worked at for almost my entire carer). And I’ve also found the current political situation in our country to be an enormous distraction.
I’ve been thinking about whether finding some sort of accountability/writing support group would be helpful, though I haven’t yet come across anything like that. As someone said above, regular doses of Nature definitely help, and I also find that a trip to a museum can give me a much needed jolt of inspiration.
Thank you, John, for this courageous and encouraging post!
Thank you, S.K. If it helps, I do think you’re on the right track … even if it feels slow, or is slow. Finding inspiration. I keep going back to that too.
Finding the balance of staying woke and aware, yet not letting it consume you – that’s where I struggle (mightily).
Not sure if it will help, but I fall back often these days on a quote from Armistead Maupin from his novel Tales of the City — “Your days are numbered, Babycakes. Are you living them for yourself and the people you love, or are you living them for the people you fear.” It’s been a slow grind, but viewing the world from that perspective has helped me clear out some long-overdue clutter.
Have a good day, S.K. And happy writing!
John, your words speak both truth and hope. The responses of our fellow writers speak of so much humanity. Maybe one of my road blocks was naïveté–my thinking I could write a novel because I loved literature and read constantly. Years later, I am still learning the craft. In between, there were diversions, the desire to reinvent myself as a maternity nurse–years of learning and an experience that has enriched my writing. Then sorrow when my husband was diagnosed with cancer (he is still with us and doing well) but it’s been years of struggle that at times flowed into my life and sent me to the keyboard to write an entire novel about it. That novel? Still in a box. As others have written here, writing can fuel the soul, move one away from sorrow. But it does take courage and dedication. Reading all the responses today, makes me even more aware of the power and good of this community. Thanks for your post, John. Thanks for you.
Thank you, Beth. Your words gave me a big smile, and a healthy dose of encouragement.
And thank you, WU community, for giving us a platform on which to grow together.
John, I read your post with a heavy heart—it’s difficult to hear of fellow writers suffering, and in these varied ways. Even with the existence of chocolate brownies, a requisite serving of life seems to be in being bruised, or in recovering from the bruising.
There’s an Anne Morrow Lindbergh quote that goes:
“I do not believe that sheer suffering teaches. If suffering alone taught, all the world would be wise since everyone suffers. To suffering must be added mourning, understanding, patience, love, openness and the willingness to remain vulnerable.”
Writers do seem to have that vulnerability part down. Clouds do get in front of that North Star, but I’m banking on it still being there, and coming back into sight.
“Clouds do get in front of that North Star, but I’m banking on it still being there, and coming back into sight.”
And there, my friends, are the words that should have served as the closing passage of the post. Where were you, Tom, when I was struggling to put this together late (late) last evening?
If you had come, I would have made brownies. Lots of them ;). Next time perhaps. In the meantime, thanks for providing another hopeful image for my afternoon walk.
I had no tragedy fall upon me. It was simply a matter of a guy who hit 50 (maybe that was the tragedy) wondering if any of this is worth it. I’d come very close to getting a contract with a major publisher, only to see it collapse. This after a year re-writing and editing to meet their needs. Yes, I was a little bitter. But after some time to go and do weird things like flyfishing in Alaska and woodturning, I seem to have regrouped and found my perspective. I find myself working from home now, an empty-nester, and someone who prefers to drink alone. If that’s not the makings of a successful writing career, I don’t know what is. So here I sit, happily “wasting” my time conjuring up new stories. And probably only moments before my agent gave up on me.
Thanks for the post. We will rebuild.
You have that right, Ron. The writing itself can sometimes lead you astray, and to drink, so watch that.
Kidding aside, you bring up good points. Sometimes stepping outside your normal routines can give you the perspective you need, or fresh ideas, to find a new direction.
I’m glad your agent didn’t set you free, and good to hear you are back on track, perhaps a new and better one.
Write On!
This really hit home. I’ve lost that star several times. I guess my navigation or spotting skills are lacking, but when I find it I seem to stick with it until the next calamity that derails me. For the past three months, the star seems to have hidden itself behind clouds. I asked the Universe for financial help and I’ve been swamped with work. So that’s a positive, but in the past I’ve had to deal with the late partner’s alcoholism, and then a cancer scare, followed by his death. The writing limped along as the starlight began to dim until it stopped altogether and the only thought in my head was, “Who the hell am I kidding? I don’t have a book in me.” But I’m stubborn and I plug away at it. I’m stuck again, but last night I started coming up with ways to find that star, but instead of blindly searching for it this time I’m investing in a telescope.
Life is a journey, and not always a pleasant one. I like the idea of getting a telescope, for real. In DC it might not do all that much; but in Vermont, I’d bet you be dazzled by the bedazzlement … is that even a word? Take care, Rebeca. And go find that star!
Thank you for your openness here, John, and all the commenters for theirs. There’s so much value for everyone here in expressing their baffled pain and for all of us to hear it. Yet the images–stars and shoals and clouds–are helpful, as though just describing it might ease the pain a little.
Two things that helped me during my darkest time were working my way through Julia Cameron’s _The Artist’s Way_ (a workbook on creativity) and this quote from Jane Smiley’s _The Age of Grief_ which I held onto as the possibility of hope no matter how hopeless I felt:
“I am thirty-five years old, and it seems to me that I have arrived at the age of grief. Others arrive there sooner. Almost no one arrives much later. I don’t think it is years themselves, or the disintegration of the body. Most of our bodies are better taken care of and better-looking than ever. What it is, is what we know, now that in spite of ourselves we have stopped to think about it. It is not only that we know that love ends, children are stolen, parents die feeling that their lives have been meaningless. It is not only that, by this time, a lot of acquaintances and friends have died and all the others are getting ready to sooner or later. It is more that the barriers between the circumstances of oneself and of the rest of the world have broken down, after all—after all that schooling, all that care. Lord, if it be thy will, let this cup pass from me. But when you are thirty-three, or thirty-five, the cup must come around, cannot pass from you, and it is the same cup of pain that every mortal drinks from. Dana cried over Mrs. Hilton. My eyes filled during the nightly news. Obviously we were grieving for ourselves, but we were also thinking that if they were feeling what we were feeling, how could they stand it? We were grieving for them, too. I understand that later you come to an age of hope, or at least resignation. I suspect it takes a long time to get there.”
That is such a beautiful quote, describing a whole body of emotions that come upon you, or rise within you, slowly – at least they did with me in middle age. I think we need new words – or need to mainstream old ones – to capture the blending of grief and bewilderment and fear, even a slow-burning anger, that hovers beneath the busyness of life as one proceeds through middle age.
Small confession here. I have a copy of The Artist’s Way that a friend bought for me years before I finally began writing, and other than reading the intro and first chapter in the week or so after receiving it, I’ve never pulled it out since. I’m going to change that today. Thanks for the nudge.
Be well, Barbara.
Thank you for this post, John. Sharing is caring, as my daughter says. And it is.
Hugs
Dee
Hugs back, Dee, and thank you!. Hope you’re having a good day.
Thanks to you, John, and the others at WU who shared their stories. For a number of years, I’ve struggled to get back to my former routine of writing daily and feeling the same passion for my work as I used to. I experienced several major loses within a few years, my father, my husband, and then my mother. Shortly afterward, I was laid low with Ramsay Hunt Syndrome, and am still dealing with painful side effects. One of which involves the optic nerve in my right eye, so reading and writing time is often quite short. The frustration from that has left me almost emotionally limp at times. I struggle to get the creative energy back to what it used to be.
Reading the stories shared in this blog post has helped me believe that I will get that energy back as long as I don’t give up altogether.
Thanks!
Thank you for your openness as well, Maryann. What this post, particularly the responses to it, have helped me to see is even the act of saying out loud the very real (too real) challenges that hold us back is helpful. I’ve felt more myself this week with regard to my writing than I have in months.
I’ve never considered myself poetically inclined, and perhaps you haven’t either. But in reading your comment, an image came to me of you putting your energy into poems, capturing your feelings and observations abstractly. It might be a way to give you the joy of creativity, as a path back to writing or perhaps a destination in itself.
However you are able, I do hope you can take small steps to return to your writing, for your own joy and for the benefit of others.
Be well, and have a great day.
Poems? Really? Only on rare occasions have I managed to write a poem, and that was when one just started writing itself in my head and waited long enough for me to grab pen and paper. In my lifetime, which spans more than a few years, I have written three poems. That’s all. The first one was quite awful. The second and third were good enough that some singer/songwriter friends asked if they could put music to them. So far, the muse has not stirred them. :-)
During these years of struggle, I was able to work on my novel, Evelyn Evolving, which is based on my mother’s life, as well as writing a couple of short stories. Not the book a year I’d done previously, but certainly better than nothing.
Thanks for the kind words of support, John. I think you are right that just laying things out here is helpful. I’m not sure I had ever gathered every recent trauma that I’ve experienced in recent years all together in one post. Somehow I feel a little less burdened.
I’m glad, Maryann. This evening I was able to take a look at the amazing quantity of writing you’ve done over the years. No poems are necessary, and given the first chapter of your thriller Stalking Season, I’m hoping you’ll resolve to write additional ones. That is, unless you choose to apply your formidable talents to taking on something new, that fits where you are now.
The point is I hope you do write again. You clearly have stories in you, and the talent to tell them.
Take care of yourself.