Baking While Blocked

The eternal question of a writer is how to cope with writer’s block. Do you let it take its course, and fill your life with other activities or artistic pursuits? Or is it better to continue to stare at that screen every day for your allotted two hours, hoping that determination and persistence will reward you with the return of creative inspiration?

The truth is, I don’t have an answer to this question. I’ve read plenty of essays and heard a lot of advice about the topic. All of these wise and experienced well-wishers are very likely telling me the truth about what works for them. The challenge is that it doesn’t seem to work for me, or at least, not all of the time.

As a result, I have taken to dealing with writer’s block in a different way every time, hoping to find my personal cure. These various attempts have not lead to more writing or a shortened period of writer’s block yet, but I have learned more about the world external to the written word. In short, writer’s block has turned into an adventure of sorts for me.

This week’s adventure was a culinary one. I have read that writers find themselves in bread dough and saucepans of melted chocolate. Over the course of the last week I have made three pans of dessert, two loaves of bread, a stir fry with caramelized chicken, and baked, breaded drum sticks. For someone who considers a cheese sandwich a satisfying dinner, this is a ridiculous amount of baking. It is amazing how much time I have when I’m not writing. When I devote my two hours a day when I normally write to something else, it becomes clear just how much one can accomplish in that amount of time. If I ever manage to be as productive as a writer as I am as a baker, I might actually finish something someday.

I have come to the conclusion that I actually enjoy cooking. While mixing the batter for my third dessert (whiskey brownies), I reached that peaceful elation I sometimes feel during a long walk or while folding laundry. It is that indefinable satisfaction that comes from a mechanical action so automatic that it frees your mind.

As my second week of writers block drags on, I understand why cooking relieves writer’s block for some. However, it doesn’t seem to be working for me. This is unfortunate, but I can’t help but feel that my exploration into baking has left me with a lasting fondness for cooking that will serve me well. After all, if I hope to be a mother someday, should I not learn how to feed myself before I become responsible for feeding my children?

In the end, the experience makes me think of a conversation I had with Stephanie Horlacher the other night, when we discussed how our different artistic expressions help us be better people. She is an actress, and has come to the realization that in order to take on any role, she must empathize with her character. This forces her to try to understand a myriad of different personalities. I would like to postulate that it is the methods that we resort to in order to accomplish art that lead us to explore aspects of the world and other people we wouldn’t normally traverse. For this reason, art will always challenge us and improve us through the nontraditional education of curiosity. This is why, if I could go back and choose between a week of artistic productivity, and a week of artistic frustration that came with a new love for cooking, I would choose the latter.

Thus ends another week as a writer ends, while the next begins.

First Rejection Letter

I submitted the first ten pages of Chalk to a literary development company named "Paper Lantern Lit." Based on what I have read (from sources external to their website), they seem to be a great company for writers who are just beginning their careers. Yesterday I got a form rejection e-mail from them. Here it is:

Subject: Your Submission

Thank you so much for your interest in Paper Lantern Lit! Your work stood out among our other submissions, but unfortunately we don’t see a fit for any of our projects at this time. We think your work has merit and potential, and urge you to keep writing.

Best of luck,
The Editorial Staff
Paper Lantern Lit

As my first form rejection, it was very polite, maybe even kind. The people at Paper Lantern Lit clearly know what it is like to be rejected, and have written their form rejection accordingly. I'm extremely grateful for this. After all, it always hurts the most the first time, right?

I'm proud to report that last night I stayed the course. I wrote my daily two hours, spending most of the time on a new beginning to my Untitled novel. I'm okay. I'm moving on. And it's not in spite of Paper Lantern Lit. They gave me their time and consideration. I appreciate that. I wish them success in their endeavors. I returned to my writing desk yesterday because someday I hope to be worthy of getting an entire novel published. Maybe I'm not today, and that's okay. After all, art is a journey, and I have just taken another step.

Untitled

I have begun writing a new novel that does not have a title yet. It is the story of Tana, who has been born to the life of a Diviner. She can see the future when she flips over the cards of her tarot deck, but she has come to an impasse. Her mother and the other Diviners get much of their power from sexual energy, and Tana cannot find any desire within herself to take a lover the way her mother has done.

After a painful sexual experiment with a boy from her hometown, Tana runs away to work in boutique far away from home. It is there that she meets a girl named Rachel with a wily sense of a humor and a smile that, much to Tana's surprise, makes her heart race.

Working on this novel has been fascinating, exhilarating, and sometimes heart wrenching. Dear friends and other writers have agreed to read it and have offered help and feedback that has made my daily grind much easier and productive. I have ventured on the daunting task of researching the reactions of other women who have had similar emotional experiences to those I write about in this novel. The women who have agreed to talk to me have shared such deeply personal and difficult memories with me. I am continually in awe of their bravery.

Every day this project reminds me of why I identify myself as a writer. I love this story and I love working on it. I hope that I will be able to finish it and maintain the same perspective. I think writing is such a journey, and moving on to another project is extremely affirming and interesting for me.

The most pressing part of this project as of late is to think up a title. Wish me luck.

Becca Becca Becca

The title of this blog is a good representation of my thoughts these last few days. As a result, every time I sit down to write, I am having a hard time focusing.

I shrug my shoulders at this development. How wonderful to be so happy with someone that you can't stop thinking about them.

Becca, Becca, Becca.

A Different Sort of Pride

There are a few moments in life when the truth of something overcomes you, changes you, consumes you so completely that everything makes sense, if only for a few days. I have only experienced this sense of epiphany twice before—when I realized I was attracted to women, and when I knew I no longer believed in God.

I have identified myself as bisexual for nearly six years now. Having only experienced a limited amount of sexual contact with women, I believed this to be true. I do enjoy having sex with some men, and I thought that this meant I was attracted to both men and women. I have never felt my gender role inappropriate, other than when my father taught me that a woman’s true calling was housewifery. But once I left his home for the big, beautiful world of people who all had different ideas about what being a woman meant, I had no qualms with what was expected of me due to my gender. I had no reason to question or doubt my attraction or compatibility to men. Even when my marriage to a man failed, partially because of our sexual incongruity, I continued to date men, assuming that the problem with my attraction to him was due to issues external to my sexuality.

I spent the next year of my life with another man. I understood that I enjoyed his androgyny, but the relationship was not sexually dysfunctional. I took this as a sign that I was indeed bisexual. When Alex finally left for the last time a few months ago, I re-entered the dating world via men once again.

It wasn’t until recently that I sought women out. Online, actually. I felt that as a bisexual, I should experiment more with women. So, I met Becca. We e-mailed back and forth for a while, and I enjoyed her wit and personality. When she sent me a picture, I thought she was really cute. I was excited to meet her. The first night we went out it was exhilarating. We talked and talked, gushing about the amazing food we were eating, and sharing our interest in dogs and art. I had a great time. I found myself thinking about her a lot the next few days.

When Tuesday night happened, and I won’t go into details for those blushing violets who might read this, I wasn’t prepared for my emotional and physical reaction. It was the first time I had ever gone that far with a girl before, and the result shook to me to my core. Yes, I enjoyed being physically close to men, but it wasn’t anything like being with a girl. As the night progressed everything felt natural and right. My body felt like it fit with hers. It was so beautiful, and I was overwhelmed by this crazy, life-changing peace that I can’t really explain. If I believed in fate, I would say that I was meant to be with women. If I believed in God, I would say that I was made to be with women. But because I am neither, I will say that due to genetics, my environment, or some other reason, I am a lesbian.

As I type that last sentence, I feel strange. All of this is foreign and new. Some of it is terrifying, some of it is wonderful. But there is no going back. Consider this post, on a blog I have not bothered to tell many of my friends about, and of which I only have two readers, as my announcement to the world that I am gay. Tell who you will, for this weekend I am excited and proud to join Salt Lake’s community of women in celebrating who we are, and who we love.

I have always been proud of being bisexual, but this pride, this year, will be a different sort of pride. I am so grateful to all of the friends and family members who enable me to be out and proud. Thank you for your love and support.

A Foray into Fantasy

While at a graduation party last Saturday, I had an encounter with the man who inspired my character, Daschall. He's the kind, academic Uncle who raised my protagonist by himself in an enchanting old bungalow.

Lauren is the father of my friend Elaine (the happy graduate). He doesn't have a college degree, and he doesn't speak Latin, but he is truly one of the most intelligent and curious men I have ever met. At fifteen, I regarded him with a distant sort of awe. He was the only adult I knew who had a room designated for writing. He had earrings, and he didn't go to church. I found this completely fascinating! And now, I hope he will fascinate other teens through my novel.

We were talking fantasy books because I told him about a particular teen who I was forever trying to find more books for at the library I work at. He recommended an author named Gene Wolfe. We were wikipedia-ing him (yes, that is now a verb), and we came across this wonderful quote:

"All novels are fantasies. Some are just more honest about it."

That is the thought I leave with you today.

Real

There is this cute blond junior high school student who comes into the library I work at. She recommends me books, I recommend her books, and we chat. When I write, girls like her are my audience, and being able to talk about books with her while getting paid for it is nothing short of a miracle.

I'll call her Jenna, as an homage to the Sara Zarr character I quoted incorrectly last time. Jenna is a voracious reader from a religious family who is currently flirting with paganism. How do I know this? I hesitantly recommended The Golden Compass by Phillip Pullman to her, and she whispered her stories of frustration and skepticism to me in the stacks. I told her I had come from the same place, and she opened up to me more.

I gave her a few books that would satisfy her voracious curiosity and love of escapism fiction. I understood all too well why she needed to escape. I told her about the religious themes in the books, and why I thought them a good read.

When she left I considered my young adult characters. Would Jenna find them realistic, engaging? Would Jenna get respite from her zealous family by hanging out with them for a while? It is good to be reminded of the real people I am trying to reflect through my fiction. And it is good to be reminded how difficult it really is to be a teenager in this world.