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It’s a wild ride

Posted February 25 2009 by Barbara DeMarco-Barrett


A student who works for a corporation wrote to me, and said she was hurt by what a friend said to her. She had shared with the friend that she hoped to be a published author someday.

Rather than sharing her dreams, the friend said she just didn’t like to work hard.

This devastated my student, who has worked fulltime for years and years.

She asked me to talk about this on the blog.

All I can say is, so many non-writers just do not get it. I might expand that to say that people who are not in the arts don’t get that while your particular art may have its wonderfully fun side, it’s still work.

Hours upon hours go into practicing an instrument before you can play a song well. Artists put so many hours into art class before creating a beautiful painting.

And you spend so many years writing, taking writing classes, reading, studying craft and writing lots of crap, before a gem of a piece emerges, before your story or book or screenplay takes form and becomes something someone–an agent, an editor–wants to buy and publish.

Non-writers just do not understand.

In Pen on Fire, I talk about keeping quiet about what you’re working on because you let the air out of it. The energy for the project dissipates.

I would broaden this to say, don’t discuss your writing aspirations with your friends, especially if they’re co-workers who feel stuck in their jobs and do not see a way out. They will want you to remain stuck as well, and the thought of you leaving, of you making something of your life that’s more than they will ever see in their own lives, will fill them with dread and fear, and they will hurt you.

Share your writing dreams with other writers or artists, people who understand what it’s like to ram your head against a wall–until it falls. And it will fall, if you ram it long enough.

Take heart. It’s all about growing a thick skin. And it’s about having empathy for people who have no dreams, or whose dreams have failed, but protecting your own dreams and doing everything you can do to make your dreams come true.

Have empathy, but protect yourself. What’s that old, old saying: Don’t cast your pearls before swine….

Your writing self is a delicate, beautiful part of yourself. Don’t squander it. It takes so many hours of work and sacrifice to create works of art. The world needs art. Your sacrifice will pay off.

The creative life is a wild ride. Enjoy it (when you can).

Interesting talk on this Ash Wednesday.

Rainstorm

Posted February 18 2009 by Barbara DeMarco-Barrett

My friend Kim wanted me to post this here. I said, “But it’s not about writing.” She said, “It’s an example for people like me who need inspiration to write about something special immediately after it happens.” So here you are.
…

It’s been raining off and on for days—tres unusual for Southern California, even in winter. I love it. Everyone here lives for sunny days, and I do love sunny days, but I love rainy days more, perhaps because something is happening. I’m from back east where there’s lots of weather.

Still, because of the rain and cold, I haven’t been walking much. But this morning I decided I had to get out, so I put on my old tennis shoes in case they get wet —not the sparkling new ones I just bought—and my usual walking clothes. Because of the rain, I wear my purple windbreaker with hood and a hat. And fingerless gloves. I’m as prepared as I need to be—maybe even overdressed.

When I start out, it’s misting. I tuck the Netflix DVD I’m taking to the post office in my coat, under my arm, snug against my body. The sky is bright but it begins to rain harder. I pull up my hood. No one’s on the street except for an older woman and a little white dog. She holds a black and white striped umbrella over the dog so he doesn’t get wet doing his business. He sees me and barks. Few cars pass; even cars are staying in.

I head across the parking lot behind Coco’s. I love the sound of the rain. It sounds like hot oil sizzling in a cast iron pan. I close my eyes and walk, listening. At the post office a man says, “It’s wet.” “Sure is,” I say, “but I like it.” He doesn’t say anything, just watches the street and me going back out into it.

I’m wet now, and getting wetter. I decide I’d better go home. My shoes have water in them and it’s beginning to hail. I put out my hand and watch tiny mounds of ice pop onto my gloves and melt there. I laugh aloud, a little dizzy with happiness at being caught unexpectedly in a winter storm. I am so glad to be in it.

At crosswalks the water gushes by, ankle deep. I submerge my feet. My shoes are already wet so what’s it matter? The storm reminds me of El Nino when Travis was a small boy and from our window I’d watch rivers of water rush down the street, and Travis, on the porch bundled up, splashing in the rain.

By the time I return home, the rain has returned to mist. I step inside and de-clothe right in the doorway. I hang my coat on the doorknob and leave my sopping wet pants and socks and shoes on the floor by the rug. My legs are red from the cold but I don’t care.

It’s been lovely, and I feel lucky, wondering if the rain came so hard and heavy that little bit of time while I was out, just for me.