Eight-Week Europe Solo Travel 2011: Half Destroyed and Living History

Monday, May 30, 2011, Journal Excerpts

(The blog entry, Dany, occurs chronologically ahead of this entry, although it was posted to this blog earlier this year.)

I'm sitting in the sun on my friends' second story porch in Dresden, Germany. It is a gorgeous day. I took forever to get up: 9:45am. Woke a while before, but didn't roll out of bed right away. Started yoga and fell back to sleep. We stayed up late drinking again last night. We hit City Beach in Neustadt. What fun! More about that later. First, allow me to set the scene.

View of the surrounding mossy roofs from my friend's deck in Dresden, Germany.

Incredible place, Dresden. Full of very old memories and very new ones—both vivid. The blackened side of buildings and the traces of rubble now made into rubble monuments—a reconciliation of sorts for what went before. The Altstadt is so dark, heavy, gloomy, eerie. Ghosts everywhere. I feel like I'm not supposed to be here. This is something I'm not part of.  In addition to the old European feel of the place and the constant memorials (both formal and informal) to the devastation of World War II, the current social and economic structure of what was East Germany is also alien to me. It took 6 months for Dave and Lisa to get a car, and that's with active pestering. And by getting, I mean buying. My American can-do attitude makes me wonder: If they had done something—anything—differently, would they have gotten their car sooner? Did the owner of the car dealership or the government start a clock somewhere when my friends first approached a dealer to look at a car? I am not clear who was in charge. Someone has to be, right? “They don't know how to sell cars,” Dave says. The salespeople obviously don't, but what about the managers? The owners of the car dealerships? Doesn't show much business sense. Lisa says the government finally figured out that they needed to give the salesmen incentives to sell cars. Why had the owners of the companies not thought of it themselves before then? I don't understand, and it's not with the same non-understanding that I approach American politics or industry.

The entrance to the Markthall or grocery in Neustadt, Germany.

I feel like I understand the context in America, the forces at play, even if in simple terms: Politicians with red faces gesticulating and ranting about the ramifications of taking government money away from the oil industry and giving it to alternative energy companies, etc. Propped up by industry lobbyists, they are the “bad guys.” In the U.S. I'm am one of the “good guys,” and so are my family and friends. We are just trying to get by and be happy and not wreck the earth too much. And admittedly, I don't think about it all the time. But here I don't even understand the context. Here, where capitalism isn't the focus, it is too difficult for me to take a stand. No obvious good and bad guys, just confusion. How can I know if I'm a good guy if I can't figure out who the bad guys are?

Fountain in the courtyard of my friend's apartment building in Dresden, Germany.

Second cup of coffee. Feeling better and less melancholy. Had some OJ, but no breakfast in the house, so I'll be on my way after my shower to find something to eat. But no worries. I'm rarely hungry when I first get up and today is no exception. Clean breeze blowing and ruffling my shirt sleeves. Children laughing and playing – talking and yelling behind me across the street--probably at a nursery school or day care center. The fountain below in the courtyard spills water continuously. I can hear it below me. A small engine wines a block or so over. Someone is doing yard work. I move around the table as the sun moves.

The building where Lisa and Dave live is very old--18th century. It is in Neustadt or “new town.” It was once abandoned, dilapidated, with trees coming up from the foundation and growing out the roof above—just three or four years ago. The house next door is still in that shape, so I hope to get a picture of it later.

The still dilapidated villa next to my friend's apartment building in Neustadt, Dresden, Germany. My friend's building used to look like this a few years before.

After World War II, the communists left the city district of Neustadt to crumble on its own. Cheaper, nondescript apartment buildings were built to create new, cinder block cities. The revitalization of Neustadt is slow, but happening with wonderful results: shiny supermarkets (Markthalle) and luxury apartments and homes. The river paths have been there for centuries, and now the biergartens and wine gardens are re-opened and bustling, and drawing tourists. It may not be the most popular spot to visit in Germany, but it should be one of them. (Editor's Note: Since I first wrote this, Dresden has become one of the most visited cities in Dresden. See Wikipedia.)

Altstadt or “old town” is the city center dating from the 16th and 17th centuries. In Altstadt after the war, the communists left the destruction and rubble to make a point—here's what the capitalists have done to your city. Seeing the original cross from the top of the Frauenkirche now resting beside the rebuilt altar was wrenching for me. Blackened, the edges and the metal curled into a surrealistic art piece. Within it the clutch of despair. I understand better where these art movements come from now. The surrealism. The dystopian vision. My generation in the U.S., in its current position of relative peace and wealth, does not have the impetus to create dark matter such as this. But the movement has come to us from Europe and other war torn places. American GIs returning from WWII had it by the edge. It opened our Baby Boomer eyes.

The original cross from the top of the Freuenkirch after it had been melted by incindiary bombs dropped by the U.S. and Britain during World War II. By Wilhelmy (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Frauenkirche is beautifully restored to its exquisite baroque beauty—even if some of the marble is faux marble, it doesn't matter. It represents a past that the German people value and should be proud of--certainly should remember. But it did cost millions of euro to do it. The Zwinger – the pleasure palace of Augustus the Strong–is HUGE. The grounds, the buildings—multiple buildings, fountains, carvings on every balustrade and column and roof. Statuary all along the top walkway. Construction here and there. I was so moved, amazed. I wanted to stay outside and see the big picture, not go into the tiny exhibits. I did climb up to the top of the Dome of the church, then I sat at the cafe and had lunch: beef goulash and noodles—yum! I'll try going to the rose garden first this morning and see if the cafe is open. If not, I'll walk over to the “black market” cafe Lisa talked about. I'll get oriented with the maps she so kindly made for me. I'll write more about the details of my stay in Dresden at a later time.

Construction on the top of one of the walls of the Zwinger Palace, Dresden, Germany.

Later that morning

Sitting in the Rose Garden Cafe. I had a fruit and caprese salad with endive, lettuce, tomato, buffalo mozzarella, yellow onions, red pepper, carrots, corn, radishes, raspberries, strawberries, blueberries. The dressing was the classic combination of extra virgin olive oil, balsamic vinegar and fresh ground pepper. Now, do I stay here awhile and write, go on my merry way to another cafe, or go back to my friend's apartment? I think I will attempt to catch up with my blog. And write about my experiences with the mobile phone. (Editor's note: See blog entry, Dany.) Although I should have time on the train tomorrow to type up a bunch of stuff. Hmm. If I write here I'll have to retype it later. How easy will that be on the train? I'll do a bit of both. I still may end up back at the apartment fairly early.

My salad at the Rose Cafe, Dresden, Germany.

Meanwhile, I'll sketch out the rest of my train itinerary for France, with a list of the tickets I must purchase, in order, when I get back to Paris:

June 2 Thursday
Paris to Auxerre Train TGV6711 11:24am

June 6 Monday
Auxerre to Caen Noon?

June 8 Wednesday
Caen to Bayeaux 2:00ish

June 10 Wednesday
Bayeaux to Saumur after 3pm

June 14 Tuesday
Saumur to Angers morning

June 17 Friday
Angers to Le Mans morning

June 20 Monday
Le Mans to Poitier? noon-2pm

June 26 Sunday
Poitier to Zaragoza morning

Eight-Week Eruope Solo Travel: The Eleanor Vase! Geek Out!

Wednesday, 05/25/2011, Afternoon, Paris.

I arrived at the Louvre and went straight to the information desk to ask where the Eleanor Vase was. I wasn't going to fool around trying to find it and wind up looking at some other ancient relic or medieval craftsmanship and waste my precious time. I had a mission and I wanted to get in and out with minimal people interaction. I needed all my energy for the Eleanor of Aquitaine experience.

I asked the gentleman at the desk where Eleanor of Aquitaine's vase was. "What?" he said looking completely bewildered, and then mumbled something to his compatriot. I pronounced it as the English do. Was that not also how the French pronounce it? I knew that in French, Eleanor was “Alienor,” but I hadn't thought to find out how to pronounce “Aquitaine.” And being a self-centered American, I assumed even the French would know her by her English name. These assumptions suddenly seemed like a major failure on my part.

I rattled off a few more names: Henry the Second, her husband. Richard the Lionheart and King John, her sons. "Ah!" he said. "Ah! Alienor d'Aquitaine!" He pronounced the last part "ock-i-tane." OK. Let me write that down.

He pointed me to the Objets d'Art hall of the Richelieu arm of the museum. He even circled the exact case on the diagram that held the vase. Perfect. "Merci," I said and headed upstairs to the first floor (in Europe, as you may know, the street level is usually floor 0; the next floor up is the main floor).

I walked in.

Me at the Louvre examining the Eleanor Vase. I was lucky to get another museum visitor to take my picture.

I am now here, seeing the Eleanor Vase -- beautiful. She is just sitting there sharing a case with three other pieces as if they were of equivalent antiquity: A porcelain-like vase with platinum "wings." (Like that will impress me.) And an ornate silver tea pot like a press pot. (How pedestrian!)

A small charm hangs off the neck of the Eleanor vase. The gilded silver filigree and metal work are at odds with the simple honeycomb pattern of the crystal vase. The naked glass vase was the original gift given to Eleanor's grandfather, Duke William IX of Aquitaine, by the Berber ruler of Saragossa, a city state now in the Spanish region of Aragon, for helping defend the city from a new Berber invasion. On their wedding day in 1137 Eleanor gifted King Louis VII of France the samesimple crystal vase . The metalwork was added by Abott Sugar after Louis gave him the vase and he added it to his collection at St. Denis about 15 years later.

The back side of the vase has been smashed and sheared off, creating a new irregular glacial face. A small fissure appears at the top of the glass, like the tip of the iceberg, but it does not go completely through the material. The stones and jewels on the outside of the base are lovely -- amethyst, coral -- all about 1/4 inch by 1/2 inch. Then a pair of tiny pearls set in gold filigree stand one on top of the other. The writing at the bottom is square and Roman, some letters larger than others. And there is a flower pattern similar to the Fleur-de-lis.

One of the jewels is missing on the back side -- the same side of the crystal vase that is sheared off and glacial-looking -- the rest appear to be in place. This is where the vase must have hit the floor in the 18th century, damaging it for the first time. It seems someone lined up the damage to the vase to appear at the back, away from the viewer's first sighting. Around the space where the jewel had been is a pattern like a fine gilded rope woven around the shape of the missing jewel.

In the metal sleeve covering the neck there is a ring of stones. Above this is a space filled with ovals -- four of them, each with four Fleur-de-lis painted in gold over a blue stone in the center of the oval -- possibly lapis lazuli -- above this series of ovals is a circlet of small semi-precious stones & pearls.

Gorgeous. The vase shape itself is almost completely symmetrical. Incredible. The top of the vase – what I can see from under the metal collar, comes down at almost vertical, then rolls out into a curved arc, then curves back in smoothly into the base. The divots in the crystal—made by a master craftsman—are almost completely even. They meander up on just one side.

The inside of the metal at the lip of the neck shows the tiny indentations left by the hammer used to mold it. It reflects back the light in the case in blues and burnt orange and bronze and black.

Upon closer inspection, I find an additional mark like a backwards Zorro “Z” slash on the front of the vase. It doesn't appear to be a fissure in the crystal. If it is, someone did a tremendous mending job. Although they should have taken better care of this precious artifact in the first place. It is all we have left from the life of Eleanor.

The card reads, “Cristal. Iran(?) Unknown Origin.”

As I stare at the vase and scribble notes, it occurs to me to imagine what my novel's main character, Aihne, saw when she looked at this same vase in the fictional future of the story. There must be an odd mark at the base of the original crystal, almost invisible and obscured by the metal base. A thread that was not a crack. A groove that only Aihne's expert eyes could make out. No one else had noticed. And the kicker was that there was a matching groove on the other side! She is the first to discover that the vase in the story is an imposter and points it out to the guard. What did it mean? Aihne's purpose on traveling to the 12th century is to find out!

I am glad the vase I saw was the real deal.

A version of this blog entry appeared on electricrider.net on June 5, 2011.

Eight-Week Europe Solo Travel 2011: Don't Turn Right at the Left Bank

Tuesday, 5/24/2011, Paris France, Journal Excerpt

I'll be brief because I am tired. It's been a long day, and I have lost another hour in yet another time change from England to France. But today I was more energized than I have been in days. Got up at 5:00am and was at breakfast at 6:30am, and quite early for the Queen Mary 2's disembarkation call at Southampton. I vacated the cabin with my two small bags. In hindsight, I wished I'd stayed and done some yoga and Pilates. As it was, I was so early I had time to fill out my customs card for Eurostar and brush up on my French.

I sat outside the Royal Theater and did so until 7:45am. Then I went into the theater where all the other passengers heading to Paris on the train were to gather and was still flipping through my phrase book when Nicole arrived. We had a pleasant discussion about movies and television, then we got off the ship and unto a bus that took us, after 2 hours, to St. Pancras station. Nicole and I had a light lunch, then embarked on the EuroStar train. We were in two separate cars. Mine was Car 5. I got on and immediately set down my ticket. I stowed two bags above my head and sat down and then I realized I hadn't verified I was in the right seat. But now I couldn't find my ticket. A French man sat down next to me. I told him I might be getting up because I didn't have my ticket and I wasn't sure I was in the right seat. He assured me it happened all the time and not to worry. It was probably in my pocket somewhere. He was right. When I picked up my coat to stow it, the ticket was on the seat underneath. I had been sitting on it. What was strange was that I was in exactly the right seat!

Nicole and me eating our one meal in England (at St. Pancras station) before getting on the EuroStar train to Paris.

The ride was 2 1/2 hours of rolling countryside, several short tunnels, then the long Chunnel itself—25 minutes or so. I sipped the Guinness I'd bought at the station and read my phrase book. And I congratulated myself that things were going pretty well. I had been ahead of schedule all day and even my confusion with misplacing my ticket had not led to catastrophe. I went over in my head my plan to get my train ticket to Germany as soon as I got to the Paris Nord station. I was meeting friends in Dresden on Thursday.

I got to the Paris station, saw Nicole get off the train, and waved to her. We walked out to the taxi area together and she got in line for the taxi. I said goodbye to her and went back into the station to make a reservation for Dresden. I couldn't figure out what window was the one I wanted. The only one for tickets seemed to have a long line. I stood in it for 5 minutes then realized I didn't have time for this. I asked at a small shop across the way for a disposable phone, but the young man said, "It is not possible!" I think he was wrong, but I had no time to find out. I had a car and driver waiting for me outside.

I thought.

Turns out, he/she was nowhere in sight. I waited for 15 minutes at the taxi stand then asked some limo drivers who were standing in front of a sign that said "Limos and hired cars" and they said a driver would either be right there or around the front of the station. I thought I was already at the front of the station. I walked around to the “other” front and waited there for 25 minutes. No show. Then I went inside to try to call the emergency number for the tour group who set up the car and driver. I went to the phone and set down my small blue bag between my feet, hoping to use a credit card to charge the call, but I wasn't sure that was the right thing to do. So I went to the tobacconist nearby and I bought a telephone card. When I returned there were a couple of security guards standing around. I walked back to the phone and saw that my little blue bag was still sitting there. What a relief that no one had stolen it! A security guard came over and pointed at the bag with a question “Is yours?”

“Yes,” I said.

The other guard looked at me pointedly and said, “Be more careful!”

I have to admit that at this point I rolled my eyes in true French fashion. I had so much on my mind, how could I be more careful! What I wanted was their help dialing the phone, but they walked away and I decided that I could figure it out by myself. I dialed, but nothing. I probably dialed too many numbers—including the country code, but I couldn't see what I was doing because it was so dark in the corner where the phones were.

I went back outside. There were a million taxis, but no “limos” or other cars without taxi signs. I decided to just get into a taxi and get to my hotel. After two hours, I was finally at my hotel. (Actually I walked into the hotel next door by mistake first—they are all so close together. But I'd stopped counting these small problems at this point.)

One of the photos adorning the walls of my room at the Hotel Quartier Latin. I believe this shows Collette writing in bed, but I was not able to confirm this with the hoteliers. Anyone?

I was so relieved to be at this charming little place called the Hotel Quartier Latin, which is all about the Left Bank artist scene. Photographs of writers and artists, plus doodles and writings from some of them, are hung along the walls creating a little art gallery.

Once I hung up a handful of clothes I needed for the next day, I splashed water on my face and headed to the lobby in search of a Parisian dinner. I asked the concierge for a quiet place off the main street, but he didn't live there and didn't have a suggestion. A British woman standing behind me, however, said, "Excuse me," and described a street a couple blocks over where there were many tiny restaurants and it was very quiet.

My favorite restaurant on the Left Bank: Restaurant L'Etoile du Berger (roughly translated as the Shepherd's Star Restaurant). I did, indeed, come back here for the fondue after I returned from Dresden.

She was right: the street was cobbled and silent except for an occasional motor bike zooming by. I found a wonderful fondue place—tiny—with stone and mortar walls. Only one other couple was inside. I overheard them tell the owner/maitre'de that they were from South Africa and that a friend from the United States told them to eat there. Wow! How did I manage to stumble upon such a popular place? I ate a wonderful duck confit with roast potatoes and a pitcher of wine—“la pichet de vin rouge.” I wish to go back there when I return to Paris after visiting friends in Dresden and order the fondue—I must!

I walked nonchalantly back to the room and busied myself with social media for a while. It was late when I went to bed—about 2:00 in the morning. The time had changed ONCE AGAIN and it was one hour later than in England. I had wanted to be up the next morning in time to be at breakfast when it opened at 7:00 so I could get my train reservation for Dresden and find a disposable phone before hitting the Louvre. But with the new time, I decided to let myself sleep until 7:00. I was exhausted.

My room at the Hotel Quartier Latin, Paris.

To Be Continued.

This blog is based on a blog that appeared on the electricrider.net sit in May 2011.

Write Everywhere Portable Desk

For eighteen years, I have had this little rectangular writing desk with the white acrylic surface and the bean bag cushion base. And despite the chipping paint on the corners and the loss of the plastic pen holder at the bottom, it still works perfectly. I have used this desk to write in bed and on the couch and in lounge chairs. It has provided me the ability to write in cushiony places, places where I don't have to sit up rigidly straight and eventually wind up slumping over my keyboard with muscle fatigue. Places that allow me to dream. Early mornings staring out of the dawn-filled window and gathering my thoughts or late at night cuddled in a puddle by the door and taking one last look at a scene to see if inspiration would hit. Sometimes taking a plot dilemma to bed and letting my subconscious mull over it during the night.

Worn and battered, my writing desk has survived eighteen years of me lugging it around the house.

I bought the desk when I first moved to Boulder, Colorado in 1995. I wandered around town admiring all the independently-owned shops and fell in love with McGuckin's Hardware store. McGuckin's sits on the corner of Canyon Boulevard and Folsom Street, and it has been iconic of the character of older Boulder since the 1970's. In there, you can find anything from coloring books to patio furniture, seeds to humidifiers: Anything and everything that might make someone's life a little more comfortable and more. When I saw the little writing desk, I had to have it.

Interior of McGuckin Hardware in Boulder, Colorado. Photo by Ken and Allison of Spaces Real Estate

At that time, I wrote every morning before work, sitting on my futon couch, my feet up on a chair, my cats surrounding me. I wrote longhand in a notebook while one cat lay on my lap slightly off center to allow room for my notebook. Two other cats sat, one curled up on my lower legs, the other sleeping on the futon cushion next to me. The fourth would occasionally make an appearance, but never stayed for long. The writing desk was the perfect addition to this configuration because it gave me a stable flat surface atop my lap on which to rest my notebook and my writing hand, leaving my other hand free to sip coffee from and, occasionally, to scritch a cat. I couldn't move. I had cats! So I had to write, until my hubby brought me breakfast on his way to the office.

Me and the three cats during my first dive into National Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) in 2003. Notice the writing desk under the laptop.

I no longer have cats to keep me stuck in one place writing, but I still have this little desk. It allows me to write anywhere. Now that I am a full-time poet and novelist, I use the desk for writing on my laptop in bed. What an invention! My coffee pot goes off at 6am and I am up writing my novel with my writing desk and laptop and my husband (the stuffed one, not the breakfast-bringing one). I am cozy yet I am traveling through time to the twelfth century watching through my characters' eyes as they meet Eleanor of Aquitaine and observe the intrigues of palace life in Poitiers, France.

In the afternoons, I travel from one end of my house to the other, keeping my writing desk at my elbow yet staying focused in one place in my writing: from living room couch to stairwell landing, from Edith Bunker chair in the family room to outside in the garden under the birch trees and among the flowering thyme.

Thanks, McGuckin and whoever designed and made this beautiful little desk! I hope it lasts another twenty years. I have never seen another like it.

Escaping from the Self-Hating Negativity Jungle of Jealousy

“All writers who write about writing are not writers. They go on seminar, conference, and lecture circuits. They pose as adjunct faculty at small community colleges, teaching their writing insights. But they wouldn't be lecturing and writing about writing if they were actually writing anything worth publishing. They'd be writing, you know, BOOKS: Novels, short stories, essays, poetry, biography, memoir, and history, all of which would be displayed proudly in every bookstore window, their shiny covers full of light and color. These writers would be PUBLISHED by one of the big houses in New York City. They would be guests on NPR's Fresh Air, featured in the New York Review of Books, and everyone would be talking about them. But they aren't. Because they aren't PUBLISHED. And to make things worse, they hawk their how-to books and seminars shamelessly. They just want to make a buck off you and me. They really don't care about helping other writers. So why should I listen to what they have to say?”

Right? Wrong!

This snippy little voice inside me chant-ranted this myth in my ear for over twenty-five years. I never spoke these ideas aloud. They weren't part of my conscious attitude toward other writers. But like a small dog yapping at my heels, this mantra of negativity urged me forward in my desperation to become a writer worthy of being published. Blindly I wrote for years, rarely happy with the results. Meanwhile I was so jealous of ANYONE who claimed to be a writer, who seemed to know something about writing, and who had a book to show for it.  And I doubted I would ever be a writer. I was all those things I hated and more: writing and unpublished, but not writing self help books or teaching, either. I was thoroughly lost in a self-hating negativity jungle of jealousy (SHNJJ), complete with other naysayers, monkeys and ninjas. And―oh, yeah―small dogs. And I never admitted it to anyone until now.

As a writer you may have also ranted, criticizing other, seemingly more seasoned, writers. We can all be jealous from time to time. That's okay. Let off some steam. But if that rant takes over your life as it did mine, it is ripe for closer examination. I discovered that when I wrote down the words in my SHNJJ myth, the ideas fell apart. After years of struggle, I am no longer writing in the jungle. I now focus on the process of writing, and I am much happier.

How is it a myth? you may ask. When you unpack it, you get a series of claims, most of which are obviously false. First is “All writers who write about writing aren't writers.” This assumption is self-contradictory.  If you agree that writers are people who write, then the statement “writers who write about writing aren't writing” has to be false. Because writers write. A basic tenure of rhetorical argument is that “A” and “Not A” cannot be true at the same time. If writers are writing, they cannot be not writing.

Next is “All writers who write about writing aren't publishable.” Who are these writers being referred to here? This statement is obviously false. I can name several writers off the top of my head who are popular, published and prolific writers (the Three Ps) and who write about writing.

Two other assertions are hidden in the myth. One is “writers who teach cannot write.” The other is “writers who teach are not published.” These statements are clearly false. Here's a starter list for famous writers who have achieved the Three Ps AND teach or give writer advice regularly:

Stephen King, who has published 55 novels according to Wikipedia, not counting his hundreds of short stories, wrote a phenomenal book on writing which is part memoir. He also gives writer advice regularly when he speaks in public.

John Gardner wrote “Grendel” as well as other novels, stories, poems, and biography. He also wrote two books on writing (“The Art of Fiction” and “On Becoming a Novelist”) and several essays on writing. He even taught writing at Southern Illinois University and Binghamton University for many years.

Annie Dillard has published poetry, essays, prose, literary criticism, novels, and memoir. She won the 1975 Pulitzer Prize for General Nonfiction AND taught for 21 years in the English department of Wesleyan University, in Middletown, Connecticut.

I could list more names, but I have already proven to myself that the claim that “all writers who write and teach about writing can't write” is untrue. From deep inside my negativity jungle, I could pick on an individual, follow her around with a notebook like Harriet the Spy, and try to prove she wasn't writing wonderful stuff on the sly, but it would not matter. I have already proven that it is possible to be a terrific writer and also write and teach about writing. If I did prove one writing teacher didn't write magnificent works during the finite period of time that I happened to be paying attention, I would not be able to prove she wasn't also writing a Pulitzer-prize-winning book once I looked the other way.

The crippling idea in the SHNJJ myth that “Good writers are always published” has a long history of proving itself not to be true. How many years did Thomas Wolfe spend writing and not being published (aka, not being a “good” writer) before someone hooked him up with the great editor Max Perkins? The result was “Look Homeward Angel.” And how about John Kennedy Toole, whose mother published his manuscript for “A Confederacy of Dunces” after he died? That book went on to win a Pulitzer Prize.

Another couple of assumptions in my SHNJJ myth are, first, “Ifa writer is a great writer, she will be acknowledged by the powers that be and be picked up by a respectable press.” Next is, “The press will handle all of the business end of things so that the writer doesn't need to hawk her wares like a street paddler.” I have learned that even if your book is published by a large house, if you are not a million dollar seller already like Stephen King, you will be hawking your book. Even King has to go to book signings as part of a book contract. The great poet, novelist, activist, and entrepreneur, Margaret Atwood, has developed a remote writing pen, the LongPen, to aid herself and other great writers who can't make it to book signings to sign their books remotely. Every writer has to hawk her wares to sell books.

When writers publish our books and essays on writing to social media, or through self publishing or small writing organizations and associations, we help keep our names in front of the reading public. This effort often means that when, with luck, our epic hits the shelves at the local bookstore (or the virtual Amazon.com elist), we will probably have a ready-made audience because of our e-verse efforts. This isn't cowardly or duplicitous, as I wanted to think to justify my not doing it myself for years. It isn't “small” and “mean.” It is smart business. And it is work. Hard work. This practical nature of writers does not negate our ability to hone our craft and create our art.

Since leaving the SHNJJ and the other naysayers, monkeys, ninjas, and small dogs behind, I can focus more on the writing process itself rather than on its results. Focusing on my writing process helps me relax about my own writing and be less jealous of others. When I was writing, I began to feel like a “real” writer. Once I rid myself of hate for a fictitious person pretending to be a writer, I stopped hating myself for the same reason.

Why did I have to go through all that to get to where I am now? I don't have a ready answer, but I think it has something to do with unintended consequences and a very sensitive young writer: me.

My mother was a teacher, writer and devoted reader. She instilled in me and my siblings a love of great writing. My mother supplemented our school reading with her favorite authors. Some of these became my own favorites: Dr. Seuss, A. A. Milne, C.S. Lewis, and Charles Dickens. As I got older, I moved onto Jane Austen, Isaac Asimov, Ursula K. Le Guin, Stephen King, Margaret Atwood, and Stephen Donaldson. In school, we studied Theodore Dreiser, Henry Adams, John Steinbeck, and Mark Twain. I remember a life-changing class on Emily Dickinson in college. I found most 19th-century poetry impenetrable, but by the end of the semester, Mrs. Graham had converted me to a Dickinson-phile through her insights and clearly articulated understanding of what appears to be simple lines of verse.  I now knew what great writing looked like, but how to do it? In studying these great writers, I understood that only certain writers get to be great and the only writing worth doing had to meet an ill-defined level of perfection.

About the same time, my mother wrote a wonderful manuscript for a children's book and got some interest from publishers. When they wanted to make changes, she didn't pursue it. Years later she told me that she was “not a writer, but a reader.”  Her experience underlined for me that writing worth publishing was something above the norm, hard to reach, and not every one who tried for it made it. If my mother wasn't published, then few others should be.  Experiences later on fed this idea. When I told people I was a writer, their first question often was, “Where would I have seen your work?” If I admitted that I was writing novels, I heard the more generous “Where can I buy your book?” I was pleased that they wanted to support me by buying my book, but crestfallen that I have a shiny book to give them. It seemed that I was not a real writer after all.

One thing I missed in the writing and literature classes was the understanding that learning how to write is an art in itself.  It was not until I was mid-process on a novel with several other novels drafted, and an active member of a critique group, that I began to see where I was: in the middle of a journey and on my way through a learning experience that I couldn't get in any class on writing or in a critique group. Classes teach craft. Critique groups give you different feedback based on the individuals present, including style and mechanics. They cannot teach you how to write―how you write. Craft, mechanics and style are very important. The how-to's for these elements of good writing are everywhere. The art of writing is harder to know.

I am now learning the art of writing. I am learning how to glean wisdom from others and how to incorporate that wisdom into my own process. Instead of thinking something is wrong because what I am doing doesn't match what another writer is doing, I acknowledge that my writing process is unique, as is true for each writer. I acknowledge how important it is to the growth and development of a writer to understand her own process.

Learning about my process made me realize that sometimes I am not ready to hear the words of other writers speaking about the craft. There are times when I am in a place in which any advice, whether pointed directly at me or focused more generally, makes me anxious and I hide. This is my cycle. But when I do come out of my cave I am ready to listen. Ironically, it was while I was listening that I heard the stories writers tell about trying to protect their process and their art, and I gradually saw the fallacies I based my writing career on.

Only I can say what I want or need to be doing to be a writer. Only I can say whether I am successful or not. I do not define success by whether my writing pays my bills or not. Getting paid regularly for writing is a harder job, and I bow to those who do it. It often means working a 9-to-5 job and writing in your spare time. Sometimes you get lucky and find a writing niche which turns out to be a money maker. Some writers find two niches: a money-maker niche and a heart niche and balance both. For myself, I must focus on the heart niche.

The heart niche is all you, all the time, one that you write in because you have to. It's the one you can nestle right into in the morning, afternoon, evening or night and feel at home with. But it is also the one you must fiercely protect. Fight off any demons, monkeys, ninjas, or small yapping dogs that try to change or take away your heart niche. Keep that niche work safe in a lock box while you do whatever else you have to do to survive. Then open that lock box and take out your work when it is safe and quiet (or loud if that's how you work), and when you can feel free to work it the way you feel it. If you look around you, you'll see that you are not alone. There's a bunch of us other heart-niche writers writing and living all around you, keepin' the faith, any which way we can. And there is always the possibility that your heart-niche is also a money-maker niche. Just don't count on it!

Protecting your heart niche is also important in countering naysayers like I used to be (and I can still fall into the SHNJJ―nobody's perfect). Even well-meaning people can crowd your niche. You gotta be tough to be a writer. You have to get used to critics of all kinds. And you have to watch yourself to keep from falling into and staying in that self-hating negativity jungle of jealousy.

Remember: There is no one-size-fits-all for how to write. If you write, you are a writer.

I know so much more now than when I started -- most of it acquired by doing it (“it” being WRITING not getting PUBLISHED) But if it weren't for the advice and feedback of other writers-- some in person, some through their books or essays on writing, some through their blogs–I wouldn't have gotten here. I had to come out of my cave, but it was worth it. These are amazing people and amazing writers. They are so smart about writing–who knows why some don't have a BOOK PUBLISHED, let alone a bestseller. Some are published with small presses or self-published.  Some have professional web sites and blogs which they update regularly with canny insights and news about the writing and publishing industry. These people are serious professionals. Some are published through major publishing houses. But most importantly, they are writing every day and sharing the wealth of their knowledge. These folks are working writers. And I'd like to count myself among their ranks as I share this blog with you. Not every writer has something to say to each individual writer, but so many of us are out there sharing our experiences that you stand a good chance of making a connection.

These ideas aren't new. Many others have discovered and shared them in the past. I hope my particular story of escaping the SHNJJ and the analysis of the illogic that held me in there for so long connects with you. I hope it helps you see where you are in your writing life and how you can leave any demons, monkeys, ninjas, or small yapping dogs behind.

Here is a list of some of the writers and writings that have helped me. There are so many more that I can't possibly list them all. My apologies to those left out:

Stephen King, On Writing
Jodi Calkins
Marj Hahne
Debbie Ridpath Ohi (@inkyelbows)
Becky Black (junkfoodmonkey)
John Vorhaus, Creativity Rules
Jennifer Cruisie
Holly Lisle
Jami Gold
Julia Cameron, The Artist's Way

Updated from Writer, Heal Thyself: Emerging from the Myth That Those Who Aren't PUBLISHED Can't Write originally published on electricrider.net on 08/11/2011.

Addicted to Spider Solitaire

Even if I'm not playing it, I'm thinking about it. Thinking about not playing it. And how I want to play it but I shouldn't be playing it. That I thought of it but want to forget I thought of it. That it keeps coming back so I will let myself play a little later if I can just finish this sentence. Or finish up my hour of writing. But then I'm playing it and not wanting to stop.

Just want to try one more trick to solve this game. I can do this and then stop. But that didn't work and now I see something else that I think will work. Yes. But no, wait. Let me go back to the beginning of the game and start again and see if I can geta different pattern and have more options at this point in the game. Damn no. That didn't work. Let me back up a little and try again a different way.

Shit. It's been an hour and I'm still staring at these cards. I need to get breakfast. Oh and I haven't gotten very far in my writing yet. I still have chunk to do. And there are my morning pages that I haven't done yet. And there is my reading. I have three book going I want to finish. And I have errands to run and now I probably won't get to all of them before lunch. Damn.