Health hazards of being a writer

By PD Martin

Okay, so maybe you’re thinking this sounds like a bizarre blog title. And I guess it is something we don’t talk about much. So here it is, the health hazards of being a writer. Brought to you by PD Martin.

First off, I should talk about all the wonderful things about being a writer. Things like: creative freedom; working from home; working from cafes; working in your pyjamas; creating magical or scary or whatever types of worlds; creating in general; bringing our work to the masses (hopefully); yada, yada, yada. Okay, time to move on to the moaning part of the blog and the ‘beware’ section.

RSI
It’s true. Being a writer involves long chunks of time at a desk, typing. And we all know that can lead to repetitive strain injury. Thankfully, so far I’ve been spared from this particular hazard. However, I do have...

Carpal tunnel syndrome
If you don’t know what that is, it’s a nerve thing (yes, very technical) and it’s generally caused by typing. The main thing for me is I wake up in the middle of the night with painful pins and needles in my hands and also get that if I try to grip something for a while (e.g. a car steering wheel). Annoying more than anything else.

Eye sight problems
Another one I can tick, I’m afraid. I used to have perfect vision. Then in my 20s I was doing lots of hard-copy editing (okay, not exactly writing, but it’s still part of the same business). After a few months I realised I couldn’t read signs…everything in the distance was a little blurry. Yup, I’m now long-sighted.

Alcoholism
Okay, I’m happy to say I don’t suffer from this one! At least not yet. Although, that wine does look yummy.

But it’s true, many writers like to have a drink or two before they write. Or maybe it’s our creative brains. Who knows, but many authors do like to knock a few back. You?

Insomnia
I do get this one from time to time. Like a few weeks ago when I woke up in the middle of the night and starting thinking of opening lines for a book. Plot points, character arcs…two hours later I was still awake.

Back and neck problems
Oh dear…I’ve got this one too. Mind you, my husband does accuse me of being a hypochondriac (better not show him this list). Mostly it’s my right shoulder running up into the neck. Ouch.

Weight gain
Can I blame this on hours at my desk? Maybe. Although if I’m honest my metabolism seemed to know the minute I hit 40 (less than 2 years ago) and stood at the front of the room waving its finger at me with an ‘Uh huh…no way you going to eat that and not put on a few pounds.’ Blast it.

Stress
Okay, everyone’s stressed. And authors are no different. What do we stress about? Usually deadlines and lack of any cold hard cash. It’s a tough life, you know?

Sometimes we stress about writer’s block (thankfully I’ve never had that problem - touch wood) or about our careers shrivelling up like over-dried dried prunes (okay, I do stress about that).

Well, I think I’m done. Phew. Although no doubt I’ve missed an ailment or two.

What about you? Give it to me. Give us a laugh or unload your troubles :)

Theme week(s) at the ’Rati: Work space & writing process

by Pari

Oh, man, this is embarrassing . . .
When we decided to take two weeks for the ’Rati to write about our workspaces and processes, I thought it’d be nifty. What better way to learn how my cohorts work and how their home environments reflect their personalities and literary brilliance?

That was before I looked at my own office.

Crap sticks.

Gahhhhhhhh.

As you can see, there’s a certain amount of chaos in my life. I won’t defend it. I always have several projects going on at once and my workspace reflects that . . . rather painfully. Up until July 1, I wrote my fiction in this chaos too. That's why I still have posters and inspirational sayings on the wall behind my computer and to each side of it.

I managed to produce five manuscripts here along with several feature articles and short stories. So even if it seems horrific to the neater folks reading this post, it worked for me. But anyone who has been following Murderati for the last year knows I've been going through tremendous transformations in my career and self perception. The slapdash approach I had for the first decade -- mas o menos -- just stopped being effective for this new, improved Pari.

On July 1, when I made the vow to write fiction daily, I needed a workspace that mirrored that commitment. So I appropriated one wall in the mess of my office for free-rein creativity. No editing allowed. No self-criticism. No distractions (unless they feed my creativity). NO INTERNET.  And I came up with this:

Isn’t that better?

I know it may seem cluttered to you, but to me it's quiet -- easy on the eyes and mind. I keep my little notebook computer here; it's dedicated solely to fiction.

Every time I walk into my office, I consciously decide if I want my business or writing hat on. If it's the former, I head to the desk with the clutter (though to be honest, it's cleaner since I took those photos.) It's where I'm sitting right now writing this blog. It's where I write features, do my public relations work for clients, post anything on the internet and send emails.

It's where I edit my fiction too.

I use Open Office to write all of my stories/manuscripts now. When they're done, I put them on a flashdrive and bring them to the business computer. To make the distinction even more profound, I convert those docs to MS Word. The result is that my internal editor, and quite a few of my demons, now sit at the messy desk. They don't interfere with productivity, though they're causing a bit of a bottleneck in Heinlein's Rule #4. (You can see that in the third picture in this post.)

While it might seem hokey, by making the division between my business space and fiction space so pronounced, I can more easily protect my creative process. Self-doubt isn't permitted on the fiction side of my office. If it starts to creep in, I get up and move. Simple. And amazingly effective.

If I'm in need of positive inspiration while writing fiction, I look out the window. More often, I glance at the statue my friend sent me. It's the Hindu god Ganesha -- the god of success and remover of obstacles -- with additional talismans that mean something to me.

For those wondering about my schedule or methods, I can't say I have much of either -- and that's embarrassing too. I have the secret fear that ALL of my colleagues are far more together than I am in this regard. But the truth is that I've tried outlining, index cards, strips of paper, white boards . . . and none work well for me. Rather than tools, they seem like fetters.

So I just write my fiction every day. By doing so, I affirm the habit of creativity and put it in a place of honor in my life.

Well, that's it.
I hope the following two weeks are interesting for all of you. I know I can't wait to see and read what everyone else posts through Toni's round-up entry on Sept. 19.

Bonus Pictures: I just had to share this. It's a patty pan squash we grew that's about the size of both of my hands. Yummmm.

Slow

As you may or may not have noticed, I wasn’t around much last week, I was on vacation in the lovely mountains of North Carolina (folks from out West are asked to hold their “you call THOSE mountains?” remarks for the time being).

It was a bit of a departure for me, since vacations for the Rhoades clan have traditionally involved a lazy week at the beach.  But we had a free place to  stay at my folks’ condo on Beech Mountain, so we decided to seize the opportunity.

I've often observed that there are marked differences between the type of folks who like to vacation in the mountains and those who vacation at the beach. As I wrote a few years ago:

• Mountain people are on the move: up the trail, down the slope, across the rock face. Beach people have to be reminded to turn over periodically so that the sunburn is evenly distributed. When they do move, beach people prefer an aimless ramble along the shore rather than a brisk hike up a steep slope.
• Mountain people are into gear: backpacks, boots, bikes, skis, etc. Beach people tend to regard shirts and shoes as an imposition.
• Mountain people love the breathtaking vistas of peaks and valleys. The peaks and valleys that appeal to beach people are covered (barely) by Lycra and Spandex.
• Mountain people experiment to get the right ratio of nuts to raisins in the trail mix. Beach people argue over the perfect Margarita recipe.
• Mountain people like freshly caught trout grilled over an open campfire. Beach people like shrimp broiled in butter or deep fried, especially in Calabash, N.C. (aka Arteriosclerosis-by-the-Sea). And don’t forget the hushpuppies.
• Mountain people are exhilarated by the smell of clean, crisp air. Beach people get all misty-eyed at the scent of Hawaiian Tropic or Banana Boat.
• Mountain people throw logs on blazing fires. Beach people rub aloe vera on blazing sunburns.

This is not to say I didn’t have at least some time to be indolent. We spent a day lounging by (and swimming in)  lovely, cool Wildcat Lake in Banner Elk:

And I watched a few sunsets from the deck:

But there was also plenty of walking, to places like the Wilson’s Creek Overlook on the  Parkway, which you reach by a trail that closely resembles a stone staircase  3/4 of a mile long, but which rewards you with this view: 

 

Or the hike to Linville Gorge:

 All in all, though, it was a chance to live a little more slowly. I still did a lot of the things I do every day, like check e-mail, but with every one I made myself answer the question, “do I really need to respond to this today?” With a very few exceptions, the answer came back “nope,” as I closed the lid on the laptop. Very liberating, that. I recommend it.

I got less writing done than I’d planned. But that was okay. I wrote when I wanted, and I got a clearer vision of where I wanted the book to go in its last act. A long walk in the mountains  will do that, when you’re not gasping for breath and hoping those spots in front of your eyes don’t mean you’re about to have some sort of aneurysm.

I also got a lot less reading done than I usually do on vacation. I’m typically pretty cocky about the number of novels I can burn through while lying on the beach. This time, I got exactly two read (Brad Thor’s STATE OF THE UNION and Ian Rankin’s A QUESTION OF BLOOD, if you’re interested). But I thoroughly enjoyed them both.

Which caused me to reflect: what the heck is my hurry when it comes to reading, anyway? Even with books I like, I tend to be constantly checking where I am in relation to the last page, eager to get to the end and go on to the next book in the TBR pile. And why brag, as i've been known to do, about how many books I read in a week off? Since when did reading become competitive for me?

When considering the question I came across this article on the "Slow Reading" movement. Seems that I'm not the only one to ask the question, "what's your hurry?" when reading. "Mostly," the article says, "the 'movement'  is just a bunch of authors, schoolteachers, and college professors who think that just maybe we’re all reading too much too fast and that instead we should think more highly of those who take their time with a book or an article." The idea goes all the way back to philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche, "who in 1887 described himself as a 'teacher of slow reading.” Slow reading, the theory goes, increases comprehension and enjoyment of the text. It's hard to do in this high speed, hyperlinked world, but now that I'm back to that world  after a week of living slowly, I think I'll try a little slow reading. I know life's short and work often demands speed.... but what's the use of hurrying through your pleasures?

'Rati, what say you? Anyone for some slow reading? Or do you do that already?

IT'S ALIVE!!!!!

By J.D. Rhoades

We spend some time here talking about the pressures,  the challenges, and the frustrations of the writing life. True, it ain't all beer and skittles. But, to be fair, there's right much in the way of skittles. And lord, is there ever beer. Along with that, there are moments that feel so good, they remind me why  I still do this. Here's one.

I sat down one day last week  to write  a scene for my current WIP. This book is probably the one I've done the most extensive outlining and pre-planning for, so I knew what I wanted to do in the scene and how it advanced the story. There's a bit of exposition, a bit of revelation,  where the main character (a female FBI agent) is getting a teasing glimpse of exactly how big and how mean the monster is that she's up against.

As originally conceived,  the scene presented some challenges; it takes the form of an interview the agent and her partner are doing with the CEO of a big pharmaceutical corporation.

Two people interviewing a corporate suit and his lawyer runs a severe risk of being a boring info-dump:  lots of talking, lots of exposition while the reader's interest begins to wither and die. I sat and stared at the page for a long time, wondering how to keep that from happening. I started. I stopped. I checked my e-mail and Facebook. I went back to the document. I started again. I stopped. I picked up the guitar and played a bit. I petted the dog who was squirming around under the desk, trying to get my attention. I shooed the dog out and sat down again.

And  suddenly, as I began writing the CEO's lines, something happened. I could see him. I could see how he looked, how he spoke, even a particular annoying mannerism he has that illustrates that he's brilliant, but highly eccentric. His dialogue began to write itself. And as it did, the character of the partner also began to emerge. Previously, I'd known a couple of things about him: he's big, he's more than a little intimidating, and being FBI,  he's a little too cocky for what he's about to go up against. But he didn't have a face, nor did he have much of a personailty. 

But as the scene went on, he shouldered his way in and took a bigger role in the interrogation.  Suddenly there were dimensions to him I hadn't seen previously. He's actually a lot smarter than he looks, but he knows when playing the dumb jock can work for him, especially when dealing with an brilliant, eccentric nerd who likes to feel superior to someone who looks exactly like the kind of guy who used to harass him in grade school.

When it was over, two characters that originally were just shadows in my mind  were living and breathing and sparring with each other. I knew them. I knew what they looked like, I knew their respective backstories. Give me a couple of minutes, and I can tell you what they had for lunch.

Damn, it's fun when that happens. It doesn't actually feel like I'm the one creating. It feels like people are  leaping fully formed out of my head, like Athena.  I actually leaned back and went "where the hell did THAT come from?"

In moments like that, all the rejection, all the frustration, all the exasperation with this ridiculous busness seems very remote, and you remember why you do this.

So, writers and non-writers: Tell me about the moments that remind you of why you do what you do.

Rust Never Sleeps

I am supposed to be a writer, and unless I do a little writing everyday it’s hard to tell that’s what I am.

-Otis Twelve

I turned my latest work in to my agent a couple of weeks ago. And then I did...nothing.

Oh, I still did the newspaper column and the Murderati posts as they came due. Those tend to take about an evening to write and edit. 

But the thing is, I'm what I optimistically call "between publishers" right now. I don't have editor's notes to pore over,  or copy edits, or promo stuff to do. I'm waiting to see what happens next. While I wait, I haven't been doing any fiction writing. I've been reading, hanging out,  playing with the new puppy, picking up the guitar again...that's the good stuff. But I'm also watching a lot more TV and drinking a bit more than is really  good for me.

After a week or so, I began  feeling restless, like there was a tickle in the back of my brain. I know that feeling well...that's  stories and ideas in the back of my head, scratching to get out.

And I've written...nothing.

Because I'm waiting to see what happens next. Or so I tell myself. Sometimes I tell myself I'm just "recharging the batteries", which I suppose is at least partially true.  However I rationalize it,  I haven't been working on a fiction project for the first time in five or six years. Even  during the times I was goofing off and feeling guilty about not working on a project,  I was goofing off FROM something, if that makes sense.

It's ironic, because during this short hiatus,  I'd done a couple of appearances and classes in which I solemnly told aspiring authors  that in order to consider yourself a real writer, you have to write every day. And I meant it, too. Every time I said it, though. those  little mocking voices in the back of my head went "so what does that say about you, you fraud?"

Finally, the other day, I sat down and started to try to write a scene in a book I'd been sort of desultorily outlining while I was finishing up the last one. It's quite different from what I have out on submission, which in its turn was quite different from anything I'd done before. But I could see it, I could hear it, I could feel it. And if I could do  those things, I could get it written down.

Except I couldn't. Nothing came. I wrote a bit. I deleted it. I wrote a bit more. I checked my e-mail.  I checked Twitter and Facebook. I went back to what I'd written. It sucked. I deleted it.

I was rusty. After two friggin' weeks, I was rusty. I'd lost the rhythm  of working every day. It reminded me of picking up the guitar again after a long layoff. When you do that, all the calluses on your fretting hand  get soft and the  fingers don't leap  right to the notes with the assurance you only get when the memories are engraved into the nerves and muscles through practice. What I was putting down on the page was the literary equivalent of buzzing notes and blown chords.

I'm not worried. Not much. I'm keeping at it, because this new book can be really good.   I know, just like the guitar, I'll get it back. It'll start flowing again. But I'm here to warn you:

Rust never sleeps.

So...what's your longest layoff from writing, and what was the effect? How long did it take you to get your groove back? Readers, have you ever picked a skill up after a long layoff? How did it go?