Faith in oneself that one is not a shite writer.

Full disclosure, dear reader. One of the risks I run by keeping a committed 5-day-a-week blog is the most heinous crime of shite writing…”She meant well,” or, “It’s the thought that counts,” do not apply to writing.

And sitting here with my editor’s cap on, poised to edit last night’s offering to you today, I acknowledge that we are almost always our own worst critics, but this, I fear…is not good writing.

All that’s left is to ask you for your forgiveness, and remember that tomorrow is a new day.

Yours, Natalie

I’ve just finished editing day 10 of the 12 day-long poetry video series I’ve been sharing online to market my new poetry book. In today’s recording, like the other 9 days before it, I talk about insights, tactics and tricks I’ve picked up in the writer’s trade, merely by putting in the time, showing up to the page, and walking the path, word by word.

And it’s moments like this when I feel a little bit like a hot air balloon, (all full of hot air and talk) because there don’t seem to be enough hours in the day to do what I need to be doing. At least, that’s my excuse.

And though I’m not here to rant, nor am I here to complain, it is my blog, after all; my cavernous domain of triumph and insecurities, alike.

All day long I’ve been doing this flip-flop dance in my head: will I meet my next deadline, or won’t I? Is this really my “big break”, or is it just another paid gig? Am I trying to impress people, or am I freaking myself out unnecessarily?

Two things come to mind here.

The first is a film. (But of course.) Maybe you’ve seen it? The Man Who Invented Christmas. Not what I would call a “perfect film,” but an enjoyable one, nonetheless. The film follows the fictionalized (I’m sure) telling of Charles Dickens’ experience and circumstances surrounding the writing of A Christmas Carol. We often follow Dickens into his writers study as he undergoes the painstaking trials and tribulations that is laying down with ink a new story.

I’m a sucker for films that portray writers (it’s a writer whose writing the film, after all. We love a good, long gaze in the mirror, it seems), and this one doesn’t disappoint. When Dickens is in his study and the door is closed, it’s an enter at your own risk situation. Again and again, he is interrupted in his process, and the anguish is so real and relatable. To be pulled out of flow when the words are coming through is like a small kind of a death. I’ve found it’s very, very difficult to pick up where you left off, after such a disturbance as that.

Which brings me to my next point.

Many months ago, I was confiding in two (male, problem solving) friends about not having enough hours in the day to make any real headway in my writing because I work a day job in a shop. (And oy vey, when I put it like that, I see that this has been a persistent theme, and thank God, what a dose of perspective this gives me, like a fire under my ass). The problem, as I was relaying it to them, is that while, yes, there are quiet moments in the shop at times, and that, in theory, I could use those quiet moments to write, the threat of interruption is too great to get any real work done. One of my friends said something like this:

“Don’t you think you would be an even stronger writer if you were able to write in spite of any interruptions you might encounter? Don’t you think it’s a good idea to diversify your skills so that you can write anywhere and under any circumstances?”

His questions ruffled my feathers enough (I didn’t want to make lemons into lemonade, I wanted champagne, you see) to stick with me many months later. And truthfully, I did start (somewhat resentfully) practicing what he suggested, negotiating with my coworkers to steal away for a bit during the quiet moments; using instrumental music to build up a protective sound barrier around me, for example.

And even though I know I’m getting stronger, and that most of the battle is in conquering my own self-imposed fears, this suddenly feels like a significant moment in time: Sitting here at a makeshift desk on the western coast of Florida, finally being paid to write about things and people that truly interest me, teetering between weakness and strength, just getting by but standing at the entrance to a lush new kingdom after years of trekking through what seemed  an endless field of hopes and dreams.

And as an editor, maybe I should have a little more faith in myself, for in the end I find that this wasn’t the shite I remembered it to be, after all.

Be well today, dear reader.