Writer's Block

Yep. I’m having it this week.  Since I don’t seem able to write around it, I thought I’d write about it.

When writer’s block strikes, I, of course, panic. “Oh my God, three days and all I’ve eked out are a few lousy paragraphs- and not even good ones. I have friends who write books in a month! I’ll never finish this book!”

Then I decide to spend the time editing my book instead, and suddenly, what I felt great about a few weeks ago, now reads like crap that no one will ever buy.

That’s when I know it’s time to “step away from the manuscript.” Seriously, just slowly back away…

I have good days - yes I do - those oh-so-sweet days when my mind is bursting with poetic phrases and deep insight. And on those days, I write. I do not answer the phone. I do not answer the door. I let the dustbunnies pile up. If the cat pukes, I leave it there until the muse passes. I reap that harvest, baby.

And then comes the dry season, when there is no harvest left to reap. Not that I don’t beat that dusty barren land for any sign of life…until I regain my sense and recognize it as an exercise in futility. At that point, I turn the proverbial soil (do laundry), chop wood (clean out my closet), fertilize the fields (read great books, have a long inspiring conversations with friends) and trust that the rains will come and something will take root and eventually, yes, I’ll write again. And the funny thing is…all of that is part of the writing process. Some of my best ideas have come to me while vacuuming, driving, hiking. Someone once asked Arthur Miller if he was currently writing a play. His response was, “Probably.”

The point is, I can’t treat my creative muse like an old work mule, cracking the whip over its head. I have to give it time to rest, ruminate, dream, reflect. And there are some chapters in my book I haven’t been able to write because, honestly, I’m just not evolved enough as a human yet. I have more growing up to do, more insight to gain.

I have to wait.

And trust.

And seriously…who likes either of those options? 

But just because I can’t see it, doesn’t mean a seed isn’t taking root underground right now. I can’t force inspired writing any more than I can force a flower to bloom. It unfolds in its own time.

That’s really a pisser, isn’t it?

The Magic of San Miguel de Allende

The sun was just rising as we rumbled over dusty desert roads, finally pulling into the historic town of San Miguel de Allende. Uniformed children stood in the hazy fog of dawn, huddled along deserted roadsides, as they waited for the schoolbus.

The desires of my heart had brought us here. Amy and I had the good fortune to be on staff for the San Miguel Writer’s Conference, teaching writing workshops throughout the week- something I had always loved to do, something I knew I would come back to one day. And now, I felt I was home.

The van rattled down a narrow lane, coming to a stop in front of a rustic wooden door. We rang the bell, having no idea what to expect. When the door opened, we had to catch our breath. This palace would be our home for the next seven days, and Troy and I would have our own four-bedroom, two-bath guesthouse.

After unpacking, I stepped out onto our second story terrace just as a brightly colored hot air balloon floated overhead. The sky above was pinkish, dotted with gray clouds. The air was cool and balmy. I surveyed the magnificent courtyard below.

I had to pinch myself.

Every morning in San Miguel de Allende, Troy and I awoke to the soft, resonant chiming of church bells. We met our host, Leslie, in her cozy kitchen, where she served us hot coffee and fresh Mexican papaya with yogurt and honey, her dog Hector snoozing nearby.  We’d chat over breakfast and plan our day, while hummingbirds and a particularly industrious vermillion flycatcher flitted about in the garden.

We walked to “work” every day. The cobblestone streets were so narrow you brushed shoulders with people you passed - not like Los Angeles or Manhattan, where you avoid eye contact at all cost. In San Miguel, everyone smiles and says Buenos Dias. I have never been in a place that felt happier. All the locals told me, “San Miguel is magic.” I believe them.

The days were spent swimming in a sea of brilliance. Amy and I taught workshops in the early part of the day, then were free to attend the classes and workshops of our colleagues, or perhaps attend a lecture with Naomi Wolf, Margaret Atwood or Joy Harjo. In the evening we were treated to a play (That Dorothy Parker, written by and starring my new friend Carol Lempert) or comedy with Second City’s Scotty Watkins, or Naomi’s film Protest 101. The conference was awash with opportunities to nourish my mind.

Everyone I met in San Miguel was a writer, artist, philanthropist, musician, therapist, filmmaker, winemaker, wine-drinker – the point is, all following their calling in life. The energy is palpable in a town filled with happy people. It is alive, sparkling, vibrant.

La Parrochia

As faculty, we were hosted at lavish brunches, nightly fiestas, and an enchanted cocktail party that I will always remember. Walking up the long candle-lit staircase of the historic Sierra Nevada Hotel, my knees buckled when we got to the top. The rooftop was lit by hundreds of candles, and overlooked the soft yellow light of the twinkling town. The gleaming spires of La Parrochia stretched upward like a beacon into the inky black sky. A sultry seniorita sang passionate Spanish lovesongs accompanied by flamenco guitar. I danced under the stars with my husband, deliriously happy. And just when I thought it couldn’t be any more perfect, fireworks spontaneously lit up the sky.

Other nights were spent at Jody’s table. Jody Faegan first envisioned this writer’s conference years ago, and brought her dream to life (Later, she moved back to the states, turning it over to the very lovely and capable Susan Page). Each evening, Jody extended us the invitation for margaritas and home cooking in her beautiful historic house, which 400 years before, had been the town orphanage. There was a group of 10-12 of us who’d gather each night, to fill our bellies and replenish our souls with great food, sweet wine, and the world’s finest tequila.

Around Jody’s table, you’d hear laughter, stories, confessions, political discussion, music, hopes, plans for the future. Souls were bared, dreams were encouraged, even a few tears were shed here and there.

Late at night, Troy and I would walk hand-in-hand back to our palace along the glistening cobblestone streets, through the Jardin, past the softly glowing spires of La Parrochia. True San-Miguelians now, we smiled, saying Buenos Noches to all the people we passed along the way.

On the eighth day, we loaded our baggage in a van and headed for the airport. As if on cue, the skies over San Miguel flushed a dramatic blood-orange red over heather grey clouds. How appropriate, that we would be ushered in by dawn, and carried home under this magnificent sunset.

My week in San Miguel was filled with synchronicities and tiny miracles. Life changing events occurred that may take me some time to unravel. My soul was replenished, my heart transformed by the people I met, and every experience I had.

Troy and I will be counting the days until we return again to this beautiful treasure- this jewel in the crown of Mexico. Until then, I carry a piece of it with me – en mi Corazon.

Fraud Protection

Last week, as I was the visiting writer for a UCLA online writing class, one student told me how difficult it was for her to let others read her work, and asked me how to get over the fear of judgment. This is what I love about doing this class- writers ask such probing questions, forcing me to face my own issues, and this is certainly one of them.

So many of us live with that sneaky dragon that lurks behind the subconscious, whispering that we’re not good enough, that if we take a chance and put ourselves out there, we’ll be exposed as a fraud.

Boy oh boy, do I know that dragon. I can get on stage in sequins and sing to a crowd of hundreds, but my voice shakes with fear reading one of my personal essays in front of a few. Speaking our deepest truth is a scary prospect. But here is what I told her:

Through my experience both as a performer and a writer, I've learned a lot about this "fraud" issue. What I know for sure: I am only fearful of being exposed when I am holding in a secret. I cannot tell you what a relief it has been to tell the truth about myself, who I am, where I come from. In my performing career, I have been around a lot of celebrities and "important" people all my life. I thought I'd die if they all knew that I grew up a welfare kid, daughter of a convict. But what I've found is that most people (the right people for me) actually have embraced me and become closer to me since I began living in my truth.

I would say that most of us, on some level, feel like a fraud about to be exposed. I once saw Johnny Mathis perform a flawless show. I was starstruck. Afterward, I went backstage, so excited to meet this pop icon.

"You were wonderful," I said.

He looked at me worried, "Really? Did you really think I was okay?"

Suddenly I found myself in a completely surreal moment, pep-talking Johnny Mathis, ensuring this legend that he was good enough. That's when I knew - we all suffer from the same affliction.

For years, as a singer, I suffered terrible stagefright until one day I realized...wait a minute. No one came to this event to sit in judgment of me as a singer. They came to have a good time and forget about their troubles for a night. When I stop thinking about myself, and come from a place of giving or service, I sing with joy. 

The same goes with writing. People read stories to escape, or to feel connected, not to scrutinize. Every human being has a story. Our past societies are built on storytelling (The Bible for one). I am just a human telling my unique story like no one else can. Why should I fear anyone’s judgment?

I have learned that when I am living in truth, fear evaporates. When I own my story, the good, the bad and the ugly, my faults, my mistakes, my fallibility as a human, there is no judgment to fear.

I think ultimately what we fear is not judgment, but the truth that may come in that judgment - a truth we aren’t ready to face. My experience has been that facing it is much easier than running from it, and requires much less energy than suppressing it.

My final advice to the student: The only true fraud protection we have is to live authentically. Tell your truth, live in your truth, and watch what happens...