Sandra Gail Lambert

Another Essay - Done.

Well, not done, done.  It doesn't have a title, one paragraph transition is so problematic that I'm thinking perhaps the whole section about gagging has to come out, I use the word "perhaps" way too many times, some of the sentences are overwrought, and I'm thinking perhaps (g) the tone jerks around too much.  But it has a beginning, middle, and what I right now think is a perfect end.  I got to have that surge of joyful completion as I smacked out the letters of the final word. (Which was "that."  You had to be there.)   

Thoughts While Essay Writing This Morning

"Why am I writing about my arm hurting?  It doesn't fit in anywhere."  "Is it okay to swear in an essay?"  "This part has to go - it'll make readers cringe in embarrassment for me."  "It might not even be true."  "I'll write it and then plan on deleting."  "Boring and stupid, boring and stupid, boring and stupid."  This won't ever come together into anything, ever."  "Maybe I'll make tuna fish for lunch."  "Ohhhhhh, that's a nice little transition."  "And what if I flip these paragraphs?"  "And then this cringy part would slip right in here." "Damn."  "I should walk the dog now."             

Writing in the "Real Florida"

A good part of my writing has been done at one or the other of the state parks of Florida, but it's been awhile. So I'm thrilled that this year I've tuned up, cleaned out, and packed my 1992 Ford Econoline Club Wagon that has the back seats ripped out to fit in a platform bed with six inches of foam mattress topped by an egg-crate and that topped with a quilt and five pillows - my writing bower.

The old gal of a van and I are off to Kissimmee Prairie Preserve State Park. Here's a landscape that epitomizes the "Visit the Real Florida" motto of our State Park System.

Turtle Agility

So, I'm a bit stressed these days.  An interest is being shown in my novel that-will-most-likely-not-turn-into-anything-but-right-now-I'm-both-hopeful-and-preparing-myself-against-the-sadness-of-a-rejection-by-making-a-plan-for-what's-next-and-watching-this-silly-video.  

Maybe it's because of the obsessing, but don't you think this turtle's journey is a metaphor for the writer's life?  The steadiness, the determined focus, the struggles - all for a nibble of lettuce.    

Writing Essays and Kissing Dogs

 
I woke up this morning with scribbled, almost illegible notes on my bedside yellow pad - "let it echo back and forth," "Juncus effusus? "get to be sad," "look up synonyms for inadequate," "relentless," "Florida redbelly cooters," "value in the world."

Sometimes I have a whole, polished, nicely done as far as I can tell essay written, and I still don't know what it's about.  But I poke and think and revise and highlight a word or phrase that has a certain energy to it and then wake up in the night with the answer.  Now, I can make the essay do its job. 

Thankfully, this time, with this essay, still at the it's-all-down-there-on-the-page early revisions stage, I have at least a clue.  I knew it was about being a swimmer, but "stuff" about disability and writing kept showing up.  Where was the thread, the deep meaning that connected it all?  Last night, as I, mostly asleep, wrote, I knew.  Today I decipher handwriting and translate the best I can into the imagery of the essay. 

If you're looking in my window all you see is me sitting propped up on my writing bed and bent over the computer on my lap.  Perhaps you notice how the little dog's sleeping breaths push into the small of my back.  It's a quiet scene.  But don't miss the jerks of excitement, the thrill of getting the right phrase that makes me stretch my arms high over my head, and the long blank looks out into the street and yard as I let a layer of understanding settle inside me.  Really, there's a party going on.  See, there's me grabbing up the little dog and kissing her head - which means I've come up with a lovely transition from one paragraph to another.       

Writing Aids

 
A box of recycled computer paper, twelve recycled yellow pads, three new pens (no, I didn't need new pens), and six pen ink refills - a truck delivered all this to my door today.  

As much as reading a good book or listening to another writer about their process or a day spent in the wilds of Florida, an (over?) abundance of office supplies bulging off my shelves can get me back to writing.  So, as soon as I find room for these ten reams of paper (5,000 blank sheets waiting to be filled - yikes) and decide between the blue, pink, or silver Pilot Dr. Grip Gel rollerball pen I'm good to go.  I hope.  Please. 

Ready. Set. Submit!

It's September, the start of another season of journal submissions. Here are some of my own statistics to bolster us.  The piece accepted into The North American Review - rejected 28 times by other places.  The Fourth River - previously rejected 22 times.  The Alaska Quarterly Review - only 2 times.  The essay in the anthology Something to Declare - 18 times.  Blue Crow Magazine - 17 times.  Right now I have a story floating around with twelve rejections and five of them have been a you-made-it-to-the-final-round or something similar.  (These are the ones where I yell "just publish the friggin' thing" at the e-mail.)  

So often other writers tell me "well, I sent my story out a couple of times, but it got rejected so I guess that's that."  And mostly, it's women who say this.  And they say it in a sad voice.  Screw sadness, I say to you and to myself.  Submit widely and often.            

My Secret Writing Technique - Showing Up

Sometimes, as you know, I whine, maybe too much, about how I'm not getting it done, the writing.  I show up every dang day to work and do nothing but claw my way through mud? jello? sand? (Something mushy that doesn't give me any traction.  Chocolate pudding?)  I get some words down, sure, but it doesn't feel good.  

Non-writer friends say things about how I should just give it a break, wait for inspiration, how it won't be any good unless I "find the passion" first.  They are very kind, but they are very wrong.  Writing is about showing up.  And I have been.  And today, all those sentences that I left bobbing around in the muck, they started to coalesce.  I wouldn't say that dry land has formed yet, but my hand touched a couple of nice firm paragraphs just under the surface.  And there, right there, I found the passion.  

And, for the rest of the day, I bobbed around to James Brown's "I Feel Good" playing in my head.