There are only a handful of moments in life that define you, that you remember vividly years later. When you say, “Yep, that was when it happened.”  One of those moments came when I finally decided to take a writing class from Margie Lawson.

I had first heard about her on the RWA Yahoo loops I’d been using for critique, in a comment directed at another author.  “You would benefit from a Margie Lawson class.” Which broke down into a discussion of who Margie was and what she did, which disintegrated into a love fest.  It was the kind of devotion I’d only seen before in religious zealots or newly, reformed ex-smokers.

Curious, I looked up her stuff online.  She wasn’t writer turned teacher but a psychologist turned writing teacher which intrigued me more.  After watching Margie’s graduate blog post, the number of published author who listed her as a mentor, the boatload of contest winners who gave her credit, the crazy amount of NYT best sellers who used her techniques, drew me to explore farther. I circled her online for months not wanting to commit cash (wasting money to me is akin to spilling life’ s blood, so I hesitated).  I scoured the internet for references and found pages,  upon pages of glittering recommendations.

I finally caved and tried the first class.  In that moment, I knew. This is what my writing was missing. (I also met the one and only, super awesome Tina Gower in that class but that’s another story).

Some of the techniques where things I’d never heard of or tried, some I was familiar with, but the key for my learning was the assessable way the ideas were presented with examples. When I applied the ideas to my work the results proved astounding. Critique groups gave me positive feedback. I finaled in my first contest.  I saw, at last, what was wrong with my writing, and used Margie’s toolbox to fit the problems.  I was hooked.

And like a good junkie, I soon soaked up every class she had to offer except the big one—Immersion. This is the mecca of Margie’s classes which she usually teaches in her Colorado mountain home.  I worked my budget, I tried to find transportation, I crunched the numbers and considered not eating for a few weeks in order to subsidize, but I could find no way to get to the mountain.

One night I was stalking the Immersion page on Margie’s site, trying to come up a with a plan, and some magic happened.  Margie was scheduled to do Immersions offsite and one happened to be in Ohio within easy driving distance.  After doing a long and enthusiastic Snoopy happy dance across my living room, I claimed a spot and waited, edited, and reviewed my material.  That was five months ago.  I go to the Immersion in less a week and I’m beyond excited and open and willing to absorb all the great teaching she can impart during my four days.  I am not only geeked to see Margie but to meet my classmates who must be equally obsessed with perfecting their writing and perusing a writing career.

I feel this conference will be another huge step into the direction of publication, whether it be with a trad publisher or indie.  I know with a fabulous mentor and wonderful support, this will be one of those moments that I look back on in ten years and say. Yes, that was it. The moment that changed it all.  I will be reporting back with an afterglow blog post.

Please comment if you have had an aha moment in writing or life, a positive turning point, or just say hello.

I have been trying to do this blog post for a couple of weeks now. Faith. Good subject for writers. We all got to have it.  But where does it come from and how do we harness it.  In Steve Pressfield’s War of Art, he discusses how difficult it is to show up to the artistic battlefield every day.  He says that Resistance (capital R) is a force, an entity, that works against us, and we must fight back.

You will find a thousand, thousand reasons not to show up to the field.  Your kid is sick, your job is overwhelming, the dishes must be done, the cat just threw up on your feet, and unless you find that compelling reason to ignore the horde of distractions, you won’t sit down and do it.  The little voice tells you: give up, give in, it’s too hard.  No one will read your tripe anyway.  Why are you wasting time?

But that is your first clue. When this little voice makes some noise you know you are following your soul’s purpose, cause Resistance doesn’t push back unless you are about to break through to do something original, unique, maybe even dangerous. You are about to put your heart and soul out into the world for people to judge.

If you can get through Resistance, if you can have faith and write, you have already succeeded.  In moving forward and in creating, you conquer your fear and realize in the end the only judge that matters is you.

I judge myself more harshly for giving up than I ever will for trying.  So get out there, beat Resistance with a wire coat hanger and try having a bit’o faith.  That’s what I’m doing.

In 2005, I decided I wanted to see the ocean. After years of bad relationships and bad jobs and bad decisions, visiting the coast became a mecca for me, an escape, a quest for a holy grail that would reboot my life.  Changing my attitude by changing my latitude, as the old saying goes.

Problem was, I had no idea how to get there, and I am absolutely horrible with directions. I find reading maps challenging (I can refold them like nobody’s business though).  To put this in perspective, I’ve gotten lost driving to places I’ve been before, in straight lines, even in parking lots.  So, when I embarked on this trip on a spur of the moment, with no planning, in the days before GPS, I had a great deal of trepidation.

I ventured out on the dark turnpike, looking for signs that read south and east, occasionally

Ignore my hair!!

stopping for advice at gas stations and asking friendly looking pedestrians for directions. One elderly, sagelike, African-American gentleman, named Elvis, told me I was on the right track, “to just keep a’goin’ straight on through” (not as turn-by-turn as I would have hoped) but the saying became my trip mantra.  I ventured into a couple of sidetracked paths( Welcome to Maryland!)  until I reached my destination of Virginia Beach, Virginia.

I felt lost 98% of the time.  Caffeine, my Sheryl Crow CD, and my two headlights, were the only things keeping me awake and on the road as I drove all night.  A strange combination of excitement, determination, panic, fear and hope drove me to continue until I eventually found my ocean.  And it was worth all the stress when I walked barefoot on the empty beach with dolphins playing in the surf. I had grabbed my grail.  I had found my zen.

Lately, I have been plagued with a similar feeling of panic.  So many sources of information from friends, to internet gurus, to teachers, to social media proclaim different methods to reach the holy grail of publication, and not just publication, but publishing with an audience.

Traditionalist still hold firm that the old school Big 5 is the only way to get noticed, and if the writer hasn’t been picked up by them then the author obviously needs to work on their craft until they are good enough for an agent and a big deal with a publisher.

Indies advocates show me a golden road of freedom, more money, more immediate results. Many say that the big publishers are scrambling to just stay alive and are only contracting sure bets.  But independence comes with a price. They face a rocky road to finding an audience, of paying for editing, covers, and proofreaders, then have to spend a huge portion of writing time marketing. All these factors makes the golden road shine a bit less bright and makes me feel like I am driving in circles.

Small press publishers have a few onramps that they give free to writers, marketing, editing, proofs, and cover art.  Still discoverability is an issue, the lack of advance, and royalties are smaller than if the writer had self-published.

There are many potholes and dead end streets on the road to being published, but I’m here, panicked, afraid, but also hopeful and determined.  I still have my caffeine, my music (now it’s Alt J playing on YouTube), and the twin headlights of my research and hard work guiding me.  I have a feeling I will hit the coast any minute now, if I could ever get out of this parking lot.

Every comment provides another lamppost to guide my journey.  Post away.

The space between two projects yawns before me like a giant mouth gaping open between two steep, canyon walls.  I know I have to jump to get to the other side but the longer I wait and contemplate, the wider the abyss appears.  I feel my legs tremble at the thought of trying.  I may even retreat and begin to explore the walls behind me, endlessly editing my previous project until the old is all I can imagine. In the end what pulls me forward, what drives me to make the jump are the voices.

Clear as a lover’s whisper in my ear I hear.

“My mother caused all my angst and she’s why I don’t trust women.”

“The scene.  The Blue Coat School, Birmingham, England 1780, a boy rushes out the back entrance into the stifling alleyway.”

“She wanted to be sacrificed to the dragon. Fool.”

Snippets of stories, flash in vivid pictures.  I have to choose which voice to follow, which life is the most compelling. For it is only the most vibrant, the most compelling, the most twisted and fun story that will push me to make the leap from the comfort of project done, to the bone shaking terror of the blank page.

Some may consider me a candidate for some psych drugs and a week in a nice white room, but I know this is the path to my next character, my next project, my next alter to spill the contents of my head and heart. I’m almost there. All I need is that final push to make the leap. The piece of research, the tv show, the song that spears me forward and brings the story to life and fill the bottom of the canyon with fluffy pillows.

I need to immerse myself again in a creative bath of input, then I will be ready for the challenge.  Wish me luck. For every comment you leave the space between closes by 1.25 feet.  Please comment away!